#eomer x you

[sotwk]

Taken (Eomer x femReader )

Part 1 of 3

Part 2 / Part 3

Love Confession feat. Eomer Eadig

Valentine 2023 Event by @sotwk

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

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]

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

“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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#lord of the rings fanfiction #lord of the rings #lord of the rings fanfic #lord of the rings fluff #lord of the rings fic #lotr fic #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lotr fluff #eomer #eomer of rohan #eomer eadig #eomer fanfiction #eomer x reader #eomer x you #eomer fic #eomer fanfic #eomer x female reader #eomer x f!reader #eomer x fem!reader #lotr eomer #lotr #the lord of the rings #eomer fluff

[minaturefics]

Alive & Alight

Request/prompt from @tolkien-fantasy: Aragorn or Eomer x Reader but the reader is a disabled girl who can't ride horses because of her illnesses, so she becomes a leatherworker who makes saddles instead because that's the closest she can get to working with horses. She gets commissioned by Elrond/Theoden to make Brego or Hasufel a saddle and they fall head over heels for her.

A/N: It's... finally here... idk why I even try to limit myself to <3k words when things just always overflow. I tried to keep the disability vague, and based it on my understanding from a relation of mine. If anything comes off as problematic, please lmk. Hope you all enjoy it!

Eomer x disabled!Reader

Fem reader

Content warnings: Non-graphic/detailed mentions of chronic pain

5.5k words

---

The evening sun streamed through the windows into the workshop, casting long rectangles of orange across the workbenches. The sweet, earthy scent of leather lingered in the air above the sharp tang of metal. You rocked the head knife, slicing through the buttery leather. Pain shot through your body and the blade clattered to the table. 

Across the room, Deormund looked up from his work, a frown on his face. His dark blonde hair was pulled up in a haphazard bun and stray strands brushed the top of his shoulders. He was burly and stout, but his brown eyes were gentle. “Girl, are you hurting again?”

“I’m alright, sir.” You stretched and shifted in your seat. “I just want to get started on this saddle before we finish for today.”

He narrowed his eyes at you and shook his head. “You’ve had enough.”

“But—”

“There is no nobility in unnecessary suffering, girl.” He laid his awl down and crossed the room. “Come, you should rest.” He ushered you over to a small table in the corner and lifted the cloth covering a basket of bread. “I’ll finish up the cutting.”

You tore off a piece of bread and stared out the window. Horses trotted by, their heads bobbing and their tails flicking. How beautiful they were, with their braided manes and glossy coats. You eyed the riders, just some simple merchants riding back to their villages, and your chest tightened. If only you were able to ride, if only your body did not ache so. 

Your eyes wandered to the plains just visible through the thatched roofs. Oh, to ride unhindered through the grass, to feel the sting of the wind, to go wherever your heart desired. You sighed and comforted yourself with the knowledge that you still had the pleasure of working with horses in your craft. You could make them beautiful saddles, comfortable for both animal and rider, could see your work on the backs of the most noble horses.

Voices approached the workshop and your eyes drifted to the entrance.

“Uncle, this is unnecessary.”

“Eomer, it is time for a new saddle.”

“I do not see what is wrong with my own.”

“It is… plain. Future kings do not ride on unadorned saddles.”

Your eyes met your mentor’s and your heart sped up. The prince and the king? You tossed the half eaten bread back in the basket and replaced the cloth just as they entered the workshop. They were dressed in their formal tunics, the gold embellishments glinting against the rich green velvet. Theoden was grinning, but Eomer’s lips were pressed in a hard line. 

“Your highness,” Deormund tugged his dirty apron off and bowed deeply. 

You forced yourself to stand, wincing as you did so. You managed a short curtsey before the dull throb of pain began to grow. 

Theoden gestured at the rickety chair. “Please, sit. I understand that you suffer from an illness.”

Eomer’s eyes drifted over to you and your breath hitched in your throat. He seemed to fill the room in a way that was not evident when you saw him from afar. He was tall, taller than his uncle, and his broad frame seemed to make the room smaller. His gaze fixed you where you stood and for a moment all you could do was stare back into his hazel eyes.

You glanced away, willing your heart to slow, as you lowered yourself back down.

What were they doing at the workshop? It was rare of the king and his family to personally visit merchants and craftsmen. Was it the saddle you had made for one of the Marshals of the Riddermark? Were they dissatisfied? Your fingers twitched on your lap, wishing you had one of your tools to fiddle with. 

“I’ve come to convince my nephew to have a new saddle made.” Theoden shot a look at Eomer. “I thought perhaps if he saw the level of craftsmanship that went into the saddles you make he would be won over.”

Deormund nodded and walked over to the bench where the half-finished saddles sat. “These are all hand-carved by our young lady over there.”

Eomer’s eyes met yours again, intense but with a spark of curiosity in them. He joined Deormund by the bench and cast his eyes over the saddles. You fidgeted with your thin apron. Would they be to his liking? To have one of your saddles on the horse of the prince, the future king of Rohan… It would be an honour of the highest regard, one of the greatest compliments to your work and skill. You swallowed as you watched his face. 

His brows slowly relaxed and his jaw loosened. He reached a hand out and traced the ridges and grooves of the pattern. “These tell a story,” he muttered, voice full of wonder. “A woman’s journey across the plains, an encounter with another, injured. Caring, healing, building a home together.” He looked at the next one. “And this, of a young boy and his father, from travelling merchants to wealthy shop owners.”

His eyes cut to yours and you nodded. “Horses are the centre of our people. I wanted to pay homage to the way they serve us, the way we work with them. They carry more than just our bodies on their backs, they carry our lives, our stories.”

He held your gaze, his hazel eyes alight with something you could not name. 

“Alright,” he said, eyes never wavering from you. “A new saddle, I’ll agree to it. But only if it’s you.”

-

Eomer paced his rooms, a frown on his face and his hands behind his back. Candles burned around the space, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The air was filled with Eowyn’s perfume, lavender and some Gondorian flower he could not place, and under that, something familiar and comforting that reminded him of their parents.

The last few days had brought back memories he did not know he had.

He had spoken to you about his life as part of your work for the saddle. The memories and stories had come slow and stilted at first, but encouraged by your soft eyes and smiles, they began to unspool and unfurl. His mother’s hands covering his as they stroked the horse, his father’s booming voice as he acted bedtime stories out, racing Eowyn on ponies across the fields. 

You had sat there, hands folded on your lap, still and attentive, listening. Once again, he had been struck by how beautiful you were. When he had walked into the workshop and set eyes on you, his stomach had fluttered and flipped. Framed by the window, illuminated by the evening sun, you looked glorious, at home among the leather and tools. 

“Daydreaming again, brother?” Eowyn said as she walked into the room and settled on the cushioned bench. 

He clicked his tongue at her. “Do not tease me so. I was not daydreaming, I was… thinking.”

Eowyn snickered. “About the young lady who makes the saddles?”

His cheeks burned and he turned away from his sister. “She is… intriguing.”

“How so?”

“Have you seen her work? It is a marvel how she manages to bring stories to life on the leather. Her carving is so intricate, it is nearly unbelievable.” He spun to face her. “And when she speaks of her work, she comes alive, shines almost, like the Entwash on a summer’s day. And when she smiles, I —”

His sister laughed. “Brother, I dare say you are smitten.”

He grumbled and looked out of the window. Could anyone fault him, truly? He was surprised there was not a line of suitors lingering outside the workshop or your home. 

Homes and shops dotted the hill of Edoras, flowing down from Meduseld. Little squares of light vanished into the distance and darkness and he gazed out wondering which one of those squares might have been yours. Were you whiling your evening away on your own, or was there another beside you, holding your hand, enjoying your smiles?

His stomach clenched strangely at that thought and he whirled around to face Eowyn. “How goes your project with the healing houses?”

“Well enough. The building you have allotted us is more than sufficient. Our apothecaries are not as well stocked, but the women are well trained.” Her eyes softened with understanding. “Uncle has told me she suffers from a chronic hurt. There is not much we can do, but I will be able to brew a tonic to ease the pain a little.”

“I would be most grateful,” he muttered. He sighed and joined his sister on the bench. “I am seeing her again in a few days. She has sketched out a design, I think. She wishes for me to look over it.” 

“Are you nervous to see her?”

He scowled at her. “I am not nervous. I am simply… eager to see what she has come up with.”

“And I suppose your now regularly washed and oiled hair has no relation to your meetings with her?” Eowyn bit back a smile.

Eomer’s eyes darted back to the window. “Nothing at all.”

-

The late afternoon sun poured over Edoras and the thatched roofs below you gleamed gold. A cool wind swept through the small garden, tossing your hair and tickling the back of your neck. You leaned back against the cushions spread on the stone bench, idly playing with the glass vial he had given you, while he looked over your sketch.

“I feel as though something is missing,” he muttered. “Here, in the later sections.”

You leaned over and peered at the sheets of paper. It depicted the victory at the Black Gate, his reunion with a healed Eowyn, his return back to Edoras. The last panel showed him with his uncle and sister, standing in front of The Golden Hall.“I have never been to Gondor or seen Minas Tirith. Is there something wrong with the way I’ve drawn them?”

“I am not sure. Perhaps there is some part else that also needs to be included.” He handed the parchment back to you. “But the earlier panels are perfect. My parents, my family… you have brought their memory alive.”

You gave him a smile as your fingers tightened around the paper. You looked at the figurines, at the vistas and buildings you had drawn. “I can start on the first few sections. Then perhaps in time what is missing will come to you.”

“May I keep them? Reviewing them might help, I think. And I can show Eowyn as well.” You nodded and he rolled the papers up.

He hummed and looked out at the fields. You followed his gaze and tried not to focus on how his knee was pressed against yours. You could feel the warmth coming off him, could smell his scent of leather and sandalwood.

You thought back to the last couple of weeks, to the hours spent talking to him. There was a fire to Eomer, a passion that seemed to overflow from him, and when he told his stories, he told them with a fervour that roused your spirit. It was no wonder then, that he was one of the Marshals of the Riddermark, no wonder how so many were willing to leave with him when he was exiled. 

But there was also a softness to him, a tenderness underneath it all. In the quiet of the evening, by the light of the fire, he had told you stories of his parents and his sister. How they used to terrorise the servants in the house, how they would spend time braiding each other’s hair, how their parents would take them around the villages and towns, acquainting them with their people.

It seemed that he drifted closer to you with each visit. The first time he had sat opposite you, his heavy desk like a wall between the both of you. But soon he sat in the next armchair over, and then some visits later he chose to share the cushioned bench by the window with you. The front of his knees would graze yours, or his hand would rest just a reach away.

You had heard from the gossiping maids at Meduseld that he was yet to find a partner. How was it possible that a man like him did not have countless betrothal offers and arrangements? For a time it seemed as though there were always princesses or noble ladies coming to visit Edoras, especially after Eowyn’s marriage to Faramir.

They were all regal and graceful and soft.

Eomer cleared his throat and turned back to you. “My lady, I was wondering if you had some time to spare after this.”

“I do. Would you like to discuss the design more? Or maybe look over the different leathers that we have?”

“No, ah, I was hoping you’d like to join me for dinner.” His cheeks tinged pink. 

“Dinner?” Your finger tightened around the vial. What a strange thing to ask of you. It was not very common for the royal family to invite mere craftsmen and merchants for dinner. Perhaps he was just being polite since the evening was drawing near and he had taken up any time you would have had to prepare a meal.

It had been a long day; carving in the morning and sketching in the afternoon. Your body ached, and you longed for some rest. But Eomer’s eyes were so wide and hopeful, his slight smile so shy and boyish. “I… Um…”

“I understand if perhaps, I am aware you have been quite busy today, if another evening, or morning, would suit you better…”

You smiled at him. “Perhaps in a day or two? I am quite weary today.”

“Of course, of course.” He nodded, a smile growing on his face. “Simply let me know and I shall clear my schedule.”

-

Eomer fiddled with the reins in his hand as the carriage moved towards the small grove by the Snowbourn. There was still an hour or two before sunset and the river glittered in the strong sun. The air was cool and carried the fresh scent of dirt and grass, and subtly, from you just beside him, a smell of cloves from the balm you used on your muscles and joints.

It had been over a week since he last saw you. Your message had come the day after he saw you, deferring the dinner invitation, citing some urgent work that had come up, and he had been left anxious that you had changed your mind. He nearly drove Eowyn mad with his questions and doubts, and more than once she had chased him out of Edoras, telling him to go for a long ride. 

But then your message had come a few mornings later, and he was left scrambling to prepare what he had envisioned in his mind. You had mentioned before how much you adored horses and how much you wished you could ride. It had been some months since you were last out of the city, when you and Deormund went to source some leather from the neighbouring town. 

He had made certain to load the carriage seat with cushions, to bring a basket of fresh berries and cheese, to plan a path near enough to the city should you wish to return, but far enough that his horse could run unhindered. Everything to make you comfortable, everything just so he could spend some time with you away from the chatter and noise of Edoras.

Just you and him, alone. 

He froze in his seat. Was it not proper to do such a thing? Was there some parent he needed to ask permission from? Or even then, were you willing to be alone with him in such a setting? Bema, he should have thought about it more, but from the moment you had accepted his invitation that afternoon his mind had run away with plans and ideas. 

He fought the urge to glance at you beside him. Did you simply accept his plan because he was a prince? Perhaps you did not actually wish to come out with him, perhaps you simply felt obliged. Eowyn has berated him more than once about his forwardness and rashness. Perhaps he had overstepped without even realising. 

“My lord?” you asked, and he allowed his eyes to dart to you. “Is anything the matter? You have gone stiff and quiet.”

“I was simply thinking.”

“What troubles you?”

He tugged on the reins and slowed the carriage to a halt. He turned in the narrow seat to face you. “My lady, do you truly wish to be here?” You frowned but he continued. “I do not wish for you to feel obligated to… to… accept my invitations simply because I am a prince. I would not wish to —”

You reached for his hand but your fingers curled away. You shook your head. “I feel no such thing. I assure you, I… I do wish to be here.”

His heart sped up. “Well, I am… yes, I… I am glad to hear it.”

“Now, let us go. I wish to stop by the river.” You grinned at him and his chest loosened. “But perhaps… we could go faster?” Your smile turned shy and you glanced away. “I relish the rush of wind in my face, the sight of the land hurtling by.”

“Then perhaps you should take the reins.” The worn leather sat in his open palm. 

You reached out, your fingertips grazing his skin, delicate and feather-light. Your hand curled around the reigns and your smile turned sly. “Are you certain? Deormund never lets me with the reins for fear of his life.”

He laughed. “My lady, I have much experience with Eowyn’s wild steering. I beg you, do not hold back. Go as fast as you please.”

You tugged on the reins and clicked your tongue, and before he knew it, he was thrown back in his seat as you laughed above the roaring wind. 

-

You knocked the mallet against the decorative stamp, shifting ever so slightly across the smooth leather. Mountains materialised over the plains, rising above the ocean of grass. You sighed, thinking about the evening out with Eomer racing wild across the fields. It had been exhilarating, the trundle of the carriage, nearly flying with the speed of Firefoot. And afterwards, windswept and giddy, he had taken you home. 

You thought of how he lingered in the low light of the lantern hanging by your front door, his hair a mess and his cheeks flushed. How he wished you goodnight, his voice low and his gaze alight with something you had not seen in his eyes before.

“Girl,” Deormund said, and you looked up. He glanced away and down at the piece of leather he was working on and fiddled with his knife. “It might not be my place to ask, but that boy…”

“You mean… the prince?”

“Yes. That boy.” He grumbled something under his breath. “Listen child, I am not one for gossip and rumours but even I cannot escape the words flying around Edoras at the moment.”

You flushed a little and glanced away. Deormund was the closest thing you had to a parent, and the weight of his words caused your stomach to turn. Did he disapprove in some way? Was it perhaps affecting the business? “Is something the matter?”

He cleared his throat and you hazarded a glance at him. His face was impassive but his eyes were concerned. “Do you truly care for him?”

Your fingers traced the outlines on the leather idly. “Yes. He is a good friend to me.”

“A friend…?”

You sighed and threw your hands up. “Yes, a friend. I do not know why you prod and poke me so. You are a practical man, sir. Of all people I’m certain that you understand that he and I will be nothing more than friends.”

Your chest tightened as the words left your mouth, the reality of it suddenly tangible in the air. You deflated in your chair, body protesting at the sudden movement from before. 

“Girl —”

You shook your head. “There is no use in it. I know the work we do is important, held in high esteem even, but we are still craftsmen. And craftsmen are not equal to princes. Eomer will find another, and she will make a fine queen for him one day.”

You looked at the panel you were working on. It was one of the last ones, and after the saddle was finished, there was no reason for you and him to keep meeting. Yes, Eomer will find someone else, and all that will be left for you will be the ghost of the memories. Would he bring her into the workshop and commission a saddle for her? Will you have to watch as he gazed upon her with love in his eyes?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to push you. It is just… You have seen happier these past few weeks. I thought perhaps I would have to find a new apprentice.”

A new apprentice, of course. Even if Eomer did return your feelings, what of your work? Leather carving was not the work of a queen; there would be no doubt that you would have to give it up. But to sit in hallowed rooms, silent and still, forever staring out at the plains, what sort of life would that be? 

You looked around the workshop. It was home, was it not? The worn wooden work tables, the comforting scent of leather, the tools that fit so perfectly in the palm of your hand. 

Tears stung at your eyes and you blinked them away. “Do not worry, sir. There will be no need for that.”

-

Firefoot galloped at full speed. The grass underneath Eomer was nothing but a blur of green. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck and dampened the collar of his tunic. His heart pounded in time with his ragged breaths and he tensed his thighs, urging Firefoot to go faster. 

“Enough!” Eowyn shouted as she caught up to him. “Brother, enough!”

He glanced at her. Her hair was wild, streaming with the wind, and her eyes were cold and angry. She was braced on her saddle and he knew she was ready to speed ahead and round her horse to cut him off if he did not heed her words. 

He tugged on the reins and Firefoot began to slow.

“You’re going to run the horses ragged.” She huffed and shook her head. “What is the matter with you?” The horses slowed to a comfortable trot and she drew close to him. “You have been ill-tempered this whole week. Even uncle does not dare to be near you.”

“It is nothing.” He let out a sharp exhale.

“It is that carver, is it not?”

Eomer glanced at his sister. Her gaze had warmed into something soft and sympathetic. He sagged in his saddle and sighed. “Yes. I had thought perhaps… She seemed to like my company, even said so herself. And yet this whole week all of my invitations have been declined.

“She is well within her rights to do so. I am aware she does not owe me anything, but it does… sting somewhat. I do not know if I did anything wrong, if at all. I know there has been gossip circulating. Perhaps she became aware of my feelings and was frightened away? I do not know, and it drives me to madness.”

“Maybe her pain has worsened this week. She simply may not have the capacity to see you.”

“I know,” he groaned. “But in the past she has told me if that is the case. More than once she had rescheduled our earlier meetings. It is unlike her to be so reticent. Maybe I have just been mistaken about her feelings towards me.”

He stared at the horizon wishing he could just ride and ride and ride.

He had never been in love before, not properly at least. There had been little infatuations, charming women who turned his head, but nothing like the feeling that had now rooted itself inside his heart. How was he to love another when you existed in the world? 

Despite himself, he had wandered down to the workshop the day before, just to catch a glimpse of you. He saw you through the window, hunched over the table, working on the saddle. How beautiful you were, your brows creased in concentration, your hands steady and skilled. And when you had laughed at something Deormund said, it took all his willpower not to sweep into the workshop and pull you into his arms. 

He sighed and tipped his head back to catch the cool wind. “The saddle will be finished soon. I will not have any excuses to see her anymore, and perhaps that is for the best. It would be too painful to be by her side and not have her. And she does not need to be burdened with my unwanted feelings.”

Eowyn arched an eyebrow. “Are you certain your feelings are unwanted?”

“I think this past week is evidence of it.”

“It is evidence that perhaps she is… avoiding you. But maybe not for the reasons you think.” She gave a laugh, slightly pained and embarrassed. “When The Ring was destroyed and the sky cleared, there were a few days where Faramir kept his distance from me. He… He thought I would ride out to Cormallen to see Aragorn.”

He blinked at her. “You are suggesting that she is acting in a similar way? But I have not shown interest in anyone but her.”

“I am simply saying that you do not know her reasons for sure. It would do you both good, I think, to speak plainly.”

He nudged her foot with his and gave her a small smile. “I will miss you, sister, when you leave.”

She grinned at him. “We still have a couple weeks yet.”

-

You laid your tools down and swiped at the bead of sweat on your forehead. The second last panel was finished. It showed Eomer’s return to Edoras with his uncle and Eowyn, happy and victorious. You ran your fingers over his carved face and form, unable to stop the small smile from tugging at your lips even as your heart twinged.

Deormund walked over from his station and nodded at the saddle. “You did good work today, girl. Take the rest of the day off.”

You stretched and silently thanked Eowyn for her concoction; your muscles would certainly have been more achy without it. “Thank you, sir. Perhaps I will —”

A shadow darkened the entrance and both of you looked up. 

Eomer stood in the doorway, flushed and slightly out of breath. “Forgive my sudden intrusion. My lady, I wish to speak to you if you can spare the time.”

Your eyes darted from him to Deormund who simply inclined his head. “Is it important, my lord?”

“I would say so, yes. Perhaps we could walk just outside the city gates? But if you are not feeling up to it then —”

“I will go with you.” You stood and tried to slow your heart. It seemed that a week apart from him did not abate your feelings for him. If anything, the sight of him just made you long to be by his side even more. 

You bid Deormund farewell and followed Eomer out of the workshop. The walk down to the city gates was silent, though many openly stared as the both of you passed. You twisted your hands together and kept your gaze fixed on the plains beyond. 

As you passed through the gates, Eomer let out a breath and glanced at you. “Forgive me for taking you out here. I wished to speak to you without the risk of being overheard.” 

You nodded and the both of you paused a few paces from the main road. Simbelmynë waved in the breeze, the delicate blooms rippling where they dotted the barrows. The sun was low in the sky and orange spilled across the land. The end of day bustle and the neigh of horses was just audible through the open gate.

You cleared your throat. “What is it that warrants such a precaution?” You took a breath and readied yourself. Was he unhappy with the saddle so far? Had something terrible happened? Was he being sent away?

“My lady, I hope you will forgive me for being forward, but I simply must know.” He looked into your eyes, beseeching. “Have I offended you in some way? It has not escaped my notice how you have been avoiding me.”

You opened your mouth and then snapped it shut. How could you possibly tell him the truth? It would ruin what friendship you had with him. “I… You have not offended me, I assure you.”

“Then what is it?” He looked askance at you before his eyes trailed over to the barrows. “I know I have not hidden my affection for you well. That much is evident by all the rumours circulating. But if I have made you uncomfortable in any way, please let me know. I shall endeavour to rein myself in better.”

“Affection?” You gaped at him. “You…”

He gave an awkward chuckle. “Perhaps I have not been as blatant as I thought I was. Yes, I am quite fond of you. When you started declining my invitations I thought… Well, if you do not feel the same, please tell me now. I will bear you no grudge and we will never speak of it again.”

Eomer returned your feelings? Your heart fluttered but dropped the next moment. “No, I…” Your voice came out strangled. “I can’t.”

His head snapped up, his hazel eyes intense. “You cannot? I do not understand.”

“My lord, I cannot give up my work.” You clenched your skirts in your fists. “I cannot, I will not sit idle and lonely in Meduseld forever removed from what I love so dearly. Not even for you.”

His frown deepened before his face cleared into what looked like relief. “Is that your only reservation?” 

You nodded and straightened, ready to counter any argument he may have. “It pains me to be apart from you, but it would hurt more should I never carve again.”

A wide grin split his face and he laughed. “I would ask no such thing of you. I have seen my own sister trapped in a gilded cage, withering and wilting. I would not place that on another.” His smile softened and he reached up, cupping your cheek. 

Blood rushed to your face and your eyes fluttered shut. Did you hear correctly? That you could have both Eomer and your work? You felt him step closer and his scent filled your nose. You peered up at him, nearly unable to bear the weight of his gaze. “But… I am not suited to be a princess, let alone a future queen.”

“I could not think of anyone better suited than you. It would be fitting, would it not? That the Queen of Rohan herself saddles the very horses of her people. I know your heart, I have seen it in your work. Your love and respect for our land, our stories, our people.”

“Eomer, I am not… But I am… But what if…”

“Peace,” he whispered, dipping his head as he tipped your chin back. “I will stop your mouth.” His lips hovered a hair’s breadth away from yours, waiting for your permission. 

You gave in to the pull of your heart and surged forward. His lips were soft and warm, and he kissed with a passion that left you lightheaded. He tugged you closer, pulling your body flushed against his, and sighed a little when your hand found its place on his firm chest. 

He drew back to catch his breath and he laughed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “By my troth, I love you as I live and breathe.”

You giggled, giddy and delighted. “Are you glad your uncle brought you to the workshop now?”

“I was glad the moment I laid eyes on you. Ah yes, this reminds me.” He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a creased piece of paper. He unfolded it to reveal the slightly smudged sketch of the final panel you had given him weeks ago. “I think I have discovered what was missing.”

“Hm?” You glanced at him then back at the paper, a little confused. The scene looked perfect, even Meduseld was accurate down to the patterns that decorated the arches.

“You, of course.” He gave you a fond exasperated look. “Bema, I have never met another so oblivious.”

“Oh.” You laughed and pressed your face into his chest. Your feet ached and you leaned a little bit harder on him. “Eomer, may we return now? I am quite weary.”

“Of course.” His smile turned mischievous. “Shall I carry you back?”

“Eomer, there is no need, I—” You shrieked and laughed as he picked you up, his arm under your knees and the other looped around your back. “People will talk.”

He kissed your cheek and started up the road. “Let them talk, then, and let news of their future queen spread.” 

---

The line Eomer says before he kisses you is from Much Ado About Nothing

Taglist: @sotwk

#eomer x reader #eomer x y/n #eomer x you #lotr fic #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic #eomer #request

[hottpinkpenguin]

Blessing: Eomer (LoTR) X Fem!Reader

A/n: this got super sappy super fast, sorry y'all. originally requested by @blabladuh Warnings: mentions of battle, gore, blood; implied smut; slight messing with the timeline; sappy fluff; not proofread Word Count: 4045

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…

#eomer #eomer x reader #eomer x you #eomer imagine #eomer fluff #eomer lord of the rings #eomer lotr #lotr imagine #lord of the rings imagine

[laneynoir]

Can you do “the hesitation for any physical contact” with literally any LOTR/TH character? :D

It is 4:11 am and thia should NOT have taken this long.

My first attempt a a 4+1 fic.

4 times you dodge away, and one time you don't.

Èomer/You

Word count: 2803

1.

The first time he noticed was the Eve of your mother's wake.

As was tradition, members of the Royal family would attend the in the circumstance of a noble's death. You sit int the corner of the room, staring dazed at the covered body on the bed.

Èomer quietly makes his way over, though you don't raise your eyes you speak, the words suprising him.

"I didn't like her all that much."

He is jolted by your tone, the same as one might use when discussing an ill fitting horse shoe, or a dry season that creates such agitating dust in a mane.

You glance to him with an odd smile. "I suppose that is a dreadful thing to say, my prince. But really, she was always such a stickler for etequite and how a 'proper lady' should act that I think I'm owed it."

You take a gulp of your whiskey, the burning feeling not registering in your facial expression, a feat that causes a half smile to quirk at Èomer's mouth. "You are allowed honesty, I think, My lady."

You shake your head, "My mother's died, yet still she's pushing me. Lovely isn't it? I'll finally have to be the Lady of the court she allways wanted me to." You let out a small breath of laughter. "Wouldn't she be appalled if she saw me, tipsy and chatting with the prince as if i were a pig farmer haggling over a price..."

You sit up straight and stare at the bed again, so suddenly that Èomer startles. "Yet somehow I think I will miss her,she was all I had left." Another sip passes you lips -lips that Èomer really shouldn't be thinking about with such detale as he is- and you sigh. "They all leave."

Èomer fears for the faraway look in your eye, and seeks to comfort you. "I know I am not so great with words as prehaps my cousin, the crown prince is, but I do remeber the dispare I felt when I was told of my mother's death. And though our circumstances are not the same, and I would not dare assume to know your thoughts, I would have you know this,"

He places a hand comfortingly on your shoulder, but you jerk back with an almost terrified expression.

"Forgive me Lady Y/n, I meant not-"

You shake your head furiously. "No, no my prince. You offer me no insult." You give another halfhearted smile. "I just... I've never liked being touched."

His expression is doubtful, but he gives an nod of agreement regardless.

Before he can say aught else, a paige whispers that the king is looking for him and he departs. Hearing you mutter to yourself as he leaves.

"They always leave."

2.

The second came not for a while, indeed it was not until two years later.

On this day he watches as you are locked in a mock-fight with Èowyn, though with the ferocity of of the strikes it hardly has more fight than mock.

Still he can tell that you are lightening your blows, cautious of Èowyn's recent illnesse. Your opponent is disarmed, and you send her for a rest. Her fatigue must indeed have been great, Èomer realizes, for she departs without (much) hesitation.

The small crowd begins to disperce, befire you call to the remaining training Rohiram for another match.

None seam elated at the prospect, though one calls out a "I'll show you my sword, just name the time."

This of course gains a hearty laugh from his friends, and, to Èomer's shock, a smile from you. Though is does have a-

"I do belive it is more or a dagger, and would shatter dear Êliott."

-malicouse look. His thoughts finish, as the smirk on his face grows, whilst the red shade of the man increases.

Before the debate can escalate, Èomer steps forward. "I will spar with you, Lady Y/n."

The sharp nod is all he needs to begin shedding the outer wearof his cloth, leaving himself in a (rather thin) tunic. One of Êlott's friends gives an apriciative whistle, and Èomer hopes he isn't imagining the flustered manner, and aversion of eyes from yourself.

Taking the ready stance the two of you make eye contact, just before you begin weaving patterns through the air with your swords. You vaguely take note of the numbers being called around you, bets to be won or lost, all depending on the outcome of two people... A power play that has you grinning.

Èomer twists his swords arm, causing your grip to loosen slightly. The scowl you send him only causing a smile to grace his distractingly handsome- wait no.

No no no.

That is not the direction you thoughts need to go.

Although he is one of the most sought after man in Rohan, and the gosip around the pubs could fill three rowdy drinking songs.

A loud yell comes from the, now much larger, circle of people, and you jerk at the close proximity, giving Èomer the chance to semd you sword to the ground. On instinct, you reach for the weapon while it is still in the air, successfuly catching it, but sending yourself to the ground.

Imeadiatly Èomer offers you a hand up, and as there are far to many people watching to deny the prince, you accept; but jerk back as soon as you stand.

Offering Èomer a bow, you gather your gear and exit the courtyard, leaving a befuddled blond in your wake, staring after you with an expression later to be described with some rather unsavoury words.

3.

He watches from the corner of his eye, as he always does, as you take another swig of your drink at the bar.

A group of the Rohiram had decided to stick around the pub in the closest town during patrol, and as his sense of honour dictated, he stayed with them. All around the crowded room people were being spun around by their partners. 

Except for you, your rarely danced, and as far as Èomer has seen, never accepted such wanton attention as what the man leaning altogether to close to you is obviously offering.

Still Èomer waits a few minutes, knowing all to well from a preper veiw of a particular captain (the poor man never did have children...) how well you can handle the situation.

Yet he can tell that you are tired and wish bot to make a scene, so swiftly navigating the dance floor he arives at you side amd places a comforting, and slightly territorial, hand on your back.

You stiffen, before realizing who he is and his purpose. The moment you relax into his touch is one Èomer drinks up in the manner of a hard pressed horse after water, all the while glaring at the audacious man in front of him.

Said man's face travels through multiple expression before landing on a smirk. "Oh forgive me lord, I did not realize that this pretty lady had a man to look after her. If I may, and no offense meant, you might want to stick closer to your lass." He rakes another glance over you that unnerves you so that you push into Eomer's half embrace. "Though I've a cold bed that could use some warming if you'd care..."

"I do not share. Come, let us walk y/n." The ice in the tone of your prince shocks you, but still you nod and allow Èomer to lead to from the tavern, after turning a corner he releases you and steps to the distamce you usually keep him at.

The lack of his comfort sends a pang through your body, a pang that you shouldn't have. Upset by this your frown, yet say to him, "I can take care of myself. My Prince." The last bit is tagged on, almost separately.

The spice in your voice doesnt seem to bother him, for he just smiles as usual, a strange fondness in his eye. "I know, I do remember captain Hork."

You chuckle at the mention. "Yes, i supose I made rather a spectacle with that one. I usually try to be more dis-" having begun walking, you freez again, having not meant to add on the latter part of your sentance.

Èomer also freezes, his face dark he turns to you. "Usually? How often are you..." Suddenly his face pales. "In the name of- have you been-? Is that why you shy from touch constantly? Tell me who-"

Eye wide you shake your head. "No! No, my prince. It has never gotten so far as that."

He eyes you doubfully, worry so evident that it sends a pang of guilt through you. "I swear Èomer."

The sound of his name on your lips snaps him away. "You've never called my by my name before."

Your cheeks flush and you shift from one foot to the other. "I apologize,"

"No no," he is quick to interrupt. "I am relieved that you have done so."

His smile is contagious, so that it would take a much colder hearted woman that yourself not to mirror the expression.

You chat amicably while walking, and when you reach the outskirts of town Èomer pauses, taking in view of the stars, while you watch the wind softly lift his golden hair. He breaks the silence at last by saying, "Will you tell me why you do not wish to be touched?" His gaze still is locked on the horseshoe constellation, shining its good luck as always.

You are quiet before answering. "I don't think so."

He nods and meets your gaze. "I figured. Do you wish to return?"

You shake your head, "No the air here is nice, and the view is beautiful."

He nods in agreement. "The most lovely I've 'ere seen."

Neither of you look away from the other.

4.

It was suposed to be a regular patrol of the southern borders. Rumors of a small band of orcs had travled to the king, you, having spent far to much time in Edoras, voulentiered to assist.

You have been missinformed and woefully under prepaired for the ambush that awaites you.

The orces are all around you before anyone can react, much less run for the nearest village, which lies a good hours ride away.

The orcs are to close, and doing more harm thab can be returned by horseback. So, reluctantly, Èomer orders for the comapy to dismount. Continuing on foot, you find yourself back to back with Èomer, fighting savagely. You decapitate the large orc, and notice the scroll sticking out of his vest. You shilove it into your own as quickly as you can, and spin around to see an orc aiming its bow, at Èomer.

With a cry you leap in front of the projectile, feeling a pain in your stomach imeadiatly after.

Èyou stare down at the weapon, which has lodged itself in your person and focouse on not falling over.

You hear a strangled cry, later to be heard again on the Pelennor Fields, when Èomer, for that was who cried out, would find the supposed corpse of his sister.

In the thick battle though he cannot run to you, instead his eyes with a vengeful fire that Sauron can only dream about, and with berserk rage the rest of the orcs are soon demolished or running for their lives.

One man has died, and your wound is the worst of those left, so Èomer barke out orders the the others, putting four in charge of retrieving the horses, and three for the dead. All of this he says while om his knees next to you,(when had you laid down?) Assessing your injury.

He reaches to you, and your instincts jerk you away, causing the pain to double and your vision to go white.

"Y/n, please?" He sounds heartbroken, or maybe thats the pain talking, at any rate you reach for the scroll from your vest.

"Hey, I'm fine! T-" you wince. "Tell me what this is? It seems important."

Èomer is understandably Indecrulious at this request, but at your insistence enrolls it and scans the words. He stuffs it into a discarded travelling bag, one you recognize as your own, amd slings it over your shoulder. "Me. They were targeting me, and you decide to be the hero."

"They what!?" You sit up ignoring the pain, "How dare they-"

Èomer is at your side. "No, not them. How dare you take an arrow meant for me, how could you do this." The words are harsh, but the tear on his face hits you harder. "I care not uf you hate me more for this, the arrow is to far in to pull out safely. I am going to snap the extra off, badage your other woumds and take you to the town."

"Èomer, I-"

He jerks his head. "No, sorry but I cannot let you suffer further." Swiftly he takes hold of the shaft, and there is a cracking sound. Brief moments are all he takes for the bandaging, working quickly. Gently he lifts you up, before telling the 3rd in command to take charge.

After walking a while you uncleanch your teeth, and speak, only partly conscious.

"I don't hate you, I'm just... Scared."

+5.

The time after you injury is rushed, with the Kings mind over thrown, and the death of the crown prince. Closly followed by Èomer's banishment, you have no time to seek the prince out. Not mentioning that he seems to be avoiding you.

In fact, you do not manage to get close to him until the council following the battle of Pelennor Fields, and then that is a war council, still he does not meet your eyes.

To your room you march, hope resting only on two hobbits wandering evil lands where no one else dared to step, you run through strokes in your head, for no other reason but to stop thinking.

The quaking starts, and the enemy is running.

You wake in the halls of healing with the king of Gondor over you. When your eyes meet he nods sharply and moves on to the next bed.

A green tuniced woman clears you to leave, but when you ask her the whereabouts of Èomer she shaoes her head sadly. "Sorry ma'am, he the one what died in the battle."

She directs you out of the room, patting your soulder kindly after your broken thanks.

A deserted and half destroyed courtyard is where you find yourself, sinking into a bench you stare at the path until it blurs, oblivious to anuthing else.

Until you hear a voice call your name, a voice you know all to well. Neck nearly snapingvat the speed with which you look up, you lock eyes with Èomer. Secondslater you put a hand against his chest, sobing in relief when you find he is solid you grip the fabric and burry your head in it. "Dead. They said you wrre dead."

Èomer seems to snap out of his shock, slightly, "I'm here, I've not died." Hesitantly he wraps his arms around you, allowing you to go limp. You shift to the bench again furiously scrubing at yiur eyes. "Oh dear, I am sorry my Prince, i know your hatred of me-"

"What?" His voice is a growl, sounding just as furious as the day you were shot. "Who has led you to belive this? For no longer will they draw breath,"

You jerk you head back. "You- youve been avoiding me so steadfastly that I..."

"No, no y/n I never could. No matger what you could do, it is not in me to hate you. You said you were afraid, and I never wish for that even if that means leaving you."

You nearly falls over in shock. "Oh Valar, not you. I was never afraid of you and that is what scares me. I feel safe around you, and thats what scares me." You run a hand through your matted hair. "All of the walls I put up... You break them down. I never wanted to touch, to feel, or even be near someone. Or rather I didnt need it."

"Y/n..."

You look back to him and he reaches hesitantly out. You sigh shakelly. "All I want is you, and I dont have the willpower any longer to hold that inside, I'm far to selfish for that."

"Let me be selfish as well then."

He folds you in an embrace, and for the first time in your recollection, you dont dodge away.

#eomer #eomer x you #eomer x reader #lotr #touch starved #my fic #now im going to sleep #and pretending this is acceptable.

[kiritella]

Why, in the darkest parts of this hellsite, can I NOT FiNd fanfiction for Eomer of Rohan?! We have fanfiction for EVERYTHING! All the side characters, all the ones with THREE LINES, We create elaborate 100k+ stories for freaking Bucky “I have Two lines” Barnes, to the point we have fics about the ACTOR who PLAYS HIM. Hell, the amount of AU’s we have made for them all! But, when I look into the depth of Tumblr for the dearest Eomer of Rohan, from one of the BEST SERIES ON THE PLANET BOTH MOVIE AND BOOK, I find a VOID!!!

My heart is BROKEN!!! I have read the few that exist, where may I find more?! Recommendations! I need Recommendations! Not even AO3 is helping!!!

#ellatalks #lotr trilogy #lotr fanfic #lotr shitpost #lord of the rings #the lord of the rings #Eomer #eomer x oc #eomer x lothiriel #eomer eadig #eomer imagine #eomer of rohan #Eomer x reader #Eomer x you

[adeliniel]

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.

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

#lord of the rings #LOTR #eomer #eomer imagine #eomer x reader #eomer x oc #eomer x you #eomer x y/n #eomer alphabet #eomer fluff #eomer fanfiction #eomer headcanon #eomer of rohan

[essenceofarda]

Of Blessed Thyme and Thistle - Chapter 1 | Page 1

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 😏

Yayy I finished page 1!! I plan to do at least another page this weekend, but do let me know if you'd like me to continue!! I survive on encouragement 😆

Also yes i know i Know "Black" is the color of Sauron, shhh let's just pretend that now that Sauron is out of the picture Normal people can be goth or wear black without moral issues lol

#eowyn x faramir #faramir x eowyn #eowyn of rohan #faramir/eowyn #faramir #farawyn #eothiriel #eomer x lothiriel #eomer eadig #lothiriel of dol amroth #eomer/lothiriel #lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien fanart #lotr fanart #my art #Enjoyed making this! like i said i'm hoping to finish another page or two this weekend :) #also let me know if you don't mind this coloring/painterly style I'm doing here 🤔 #It's... interesting but i think it fits the vibe and is certainly better looking than if I tried to detail everything with lineart... #let me know tho if you like this so far (i know it's only just begun) and whether you'd like me to continue! #I also plan to do another page of Romance in Rivendell this weekend if I can manage it #also for those curious those pale markings on Eowyn's arm neck and chest are scarring/marring--effects from fighting/defeatig the witch kin

[middleearthpixie]

Here I come bringing my obsession your Ask Box!

AUgust Mashup:

Eomer + Enemies to Lovers + “I didn’t know you cared.”

No pressure: Please and thank you! <3

Ahhhh... I know this took me FOREVER, but here you go (and you should know, this is my very first time ever writing Éomer, so I really hope I got him right!)

I hope you like it! 💜💜💜

Fair Enough

Trope: AUgust Mashup Enemies to Lovers

Quote: “I didn’t know you cared…”

Pairings: Éomer x fem!reader

Warnings: None. Just fluffy fluff

Rating: G

Word Count: 4.6k

***

“Isn’t there some way we could just—you know—knock him from his saddle?”

You bit back a smile at Cynewyn’s suggestion, although it did have merit, and tried instead to focus on the plate you were drying. “The trouble with that would be, we might spook his horse and if it was injured, we’d never forgive us, would we?”

“Well, no. I don’t suppose we would. But, the horse might be just fine. Only Éomer would get no less than he deserves.”

“True, but it’s a risk I’d rather not take. The last thing either us or papa needs is to to pay for replacing his horse.”

“It would be no less than he deserves as well, the snake. I’d like to throw a rock at him right now.”

“Makes two of us, but again—” 

“I know,” Cynewyn sighed, “it’s a risk you’d rather not take.”

“Exactly.” You smiled at your older sister. “We can only hope that one day, he gets his and that we are lucky enough to witness it.”

“Which is not going to happen.” Cynewyn went quiet as she dunked another plate into the washbasin. “Still, why would he do that to you, anyway? What was the point?”

You shrugged, taking the plate to wipe dry. “To make sport of me, I suppose. After all, isn’t it funny when a man pretends he’s interested in you and then when you show up at your agreed upon meeting place, he’s nowhere to be found? And isn’t it funny when he and his friends were just outside of the pub, giggling like children, is just so amusing?”

“Men? Bah! They are but boys. Big boys, but boys just the same.” She passed you another plate.

You said nothing, but dried the plate and then slid it onto its shelf in the cupboard, atop the small stack you’d already dried. In the time it took you to do that, Éomer had moved on down the road that ran before the kitchen windows of your family’s small stone cottage. You should have known he’d been sporting with you when he asked you to meet him at the coffeehouse the previous week. Until that morning, he didn't seem to know you were alive. It was only too bad you could not say the same, because not only did you most definitely know he was alive, you thought he was the most perfect man alive. That afternoon, however, he toppled from that pedestal and shattered at its base as far as you were concerned. 

Of course, that didn't mean his thoughtless actions didn't hurt. Because they did. They most definitely did. 

But, you’d not think about what happened any longer. He’d gotten a good laugh at your expense, but you would rise above it. You had no other choice, really. He was the king’s nephew and you were… well…

You were nobody, really. 

A depressing thought.

You finished drying the dishes and left your sister to whatever it was she was doing. You shared a room and night after night, you would stretch out on your bed and try to read whilst she went through her seemingly bottomless supply of fabric for whatever gown she was going to try to copy from whichever lady she saw in town. She was really quite gifted, so you didn’t mind when she asked you to be her model, as you had no dressmaker’s dummy. But tonight, she did not need your assistance and, claiming a headache, instead she chose to go to bed early. A good night’s sleep was always welcomed, but as you lay there in the dark, sleep mocked you instead. It had been happening more and more often now, as the world grew more unsettled and while you could usually find some way to drift off, tonight was not one of those nights. You were simply too restless and so you slipped from the small stone cottage to go for a walk. 

You tried not think about how disappointed you’d been when Éomer stood you up at the coffeehouse. Perhaps you should have expected it, but it hurt just the same. Of course, you weren’t the only one who imagined catching his eye. Half the women of marriageable age in Edoras dreamed of doing just that and no one could blame a one of you. Not only was he the king’s nephew, but he was so blasted handsome, with his long, wavy dark gold hair and direct hazel eyes. And whenever you saw him on horseback—you melted a little on the inside each time.

Of course, now he knew you fancied him and not only that, but he’d used it against you. Knocking him off his horse wasn't even close to being enough. Still, you couldn't dwell on it forever. In time, everyone who was in that coffeehouse would forget.

Everyone but you, anyway. 

“And that is the last we will think of it,” you muttered, trying instead to focus on something, anything, else as you strolled on. 

It was a peaceful night, hints of the coming autumn in the crisp edge of the breeze that stirred the leaves last night’s storm had pulled from the trees. The best thing about the stone cottage at the end of the road in Edoras? You were the farthest point from the king’s residence, which meant you would most likely not cross paths again with Éomer at this time of night. True, he’d been riding south, which meant that at some point he would pass by here again, but you’d have enough warning, as the road was wide and almost no trees lined it. Sneaking up on you would be almost impossible. 

Not that he would even try. He’d made himself perfectly clear where you were concerned. 

The night sky was clear, spangled with stars and moonlight bathed everything as far as you could see an etherial silver color. There had been rumblings to the east, and you’d heard talk amongst the menfolk about the possibility of war, and you also knew that orcs had been seen on the borders of Rohan. And that was why you did not leave your house without a blade of some sort. Although your father was not overjoyed at the thought, he allowed both you and Cynewyn to carry a small sword, which you were almost never without. You weren’t a master by any stretch of the imagination, but Papa had made certain you and your sister learned how to defend yourselves, should the need ever arise.

Your walks had become your way of remaining sane when it seemed there was so much uncertainty all around. The thought of war was so foreign to you, as your father insulated you and Cynewyn as best he could, and yet you knew it wasn’t far off. The king’s health was failing, and you’d heard rumors that he, Éomer, and the king’s advisor, Grima, had been butting heads of late. 

Perhaps that was why Éomer had gone thundering past the kitchen windows on his horse as he had. One too many cross words with his uncle, maybe? In some ways, you hoped so, for if Éomer was banished, life would become easier for you.

But at the same time, if you were completely honest with yourself, you knew if he left for good, you would miss him terribly. How difficult it was, caring so much for a man you also tried so hard to despise! If only you could forgive him.

If only.

You vowed once more to not think about it. 

Instead, you concentrated on the beauty of the night sky, of how those stars seemed so vast and endless, how the moon managed to bathe things silver although it gave off no light. You listened to the whisper of the wind through the scrub grass and bushes that dotted the landscape seemingly to the edge of Middle Earth. The wind whispered, crickets chirped, and in the distance, an owl hooted. A normal night.

Or so you thought.

You heard the noise before you saw the creature that made it and as those sounds reached your ears, the stench reached your nose. Your heart lurched, your stomach kinked, and a sour taste filled your mouth, brought on both by the stink and the coldest, iciest, most petrifying fear that ever permeated your being.

Papa always told you not to venture too far from the road. One never knew what lurked in the fields sweeping east and west, where twisted trees grew in clumps and provided cover for many things.

Such as the orc now standing over Éomer’s prone body.

You ducked, shifting toward the stand of pine trees twisted by the winds, which thankfully carried any sounds you might have made away from the orc and Éomer. Metal clanged Éomer blocked the orc’s downward swing with his blade. He held fast, his arms trembling from the effort and his heavy glove the only thing keeping the dual-sided blade from slicing into his hand.

The orc appeared to brace harder against his blade, determined to run Éomer through and you couldn't let that happen, no matter how angry or hurt you were because of him. So, you slid your blade free and crept about the pines as silently as you knew how. You’d learned from Papa, who would take you with him when he went hunting, and although you could never bring yourself to kill anything, you learned from him just the same. Besides, an orc wasn’t anywhere near as beautiful as a deer or fox. Quite the opposite, really. They were the ugliest, vilest, most disgusting creatures to walk the earth as far as you were concerned. 

Your soft-skinned boots made no sound as you approached and the orc never knew what hit him when you swung and cleaved his head clean from his shoulders. What was left of him collapsed like a sandbag atop Éomer, who swore softly as the creature’s thick, black blood splattered him. 

Nausea rose in your throat as it spattered you as well, and you tried to ignore it as you grabbed the still-warm shoulder and threw the corpse back. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve had better nights,” Éomer groaned, rolling over and onto his knees, his sword clattering softly in the dust. “What are you doing out here?”

“I was but going for a walk. What is that—” you gestured to the dead orc—“doing here? They do not usually venture so close to our borders.”

“They grow bolder and have been for some time now.” He rocked back on his knees and swept his silver and brass helmet from his head to let it clatter to the ground alongside his sword. “Are you all right?”

“Me? I am fine.” You resheathed your sword and carefully crouched alongside him. His dark blond hair was damp with sweat, pulled away from his face and held back with a small strip of worn leather. “And you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing.” He winced as he shifted onto his backside and gingerly prodded at his left thigh.

You looked down, your stomach clenching at the sight of the wound that must’ve bled terribly, for the entire front of his trouser leg was stained with a large wet patch. It looked as if the orc’s blade had sliced through the fabric. Without thinking, you brushed his hands aside to see for yourself and as soon as you had, you wished you hadn’t. 

The wound was ugly and raw, a long slice from just below his hip to his knee, and still bled freely. “We need to get you home.”

“You go on. I need to find my horse.”

“Your horse is not here,” you told him, scanning all around to make certain you weren’t lying. You were’t. There was no sign of a horse anywhere about. “Come, let’s get you up and I will help you.”

“Just leave me…”

“Oh, don’t be a fool!”

He jerked back. “I am serious. Leave me. The last I want is harm befalling you on my behalf. So please, just go. There will be more of them coming, looking for this one,” he nudged the corpse with one boot. “And I am not at all certain I’d be able to protect you.”

“You mean you aren’t certain you’d want to.”

He just stared up at you. “I didn't say that, nor would I.”

“You might as well. Aren’t I only a laugh to you anyway? Ever the fool for you and your friends to chuckle over.”

At least he didn't try to deny his actions or motivations as he said, “Oh… the coffeehouse.”

“Yes,” you nodded, “the coffeehouse. So, you’ll forgive me if I don't believe you would lift a finger to keep an orc away from me. Of course, you would do well to remember that it was I who saved you from an orc regardless. Still, if you wish to be left alone, far be it from me to insist on staying.”

You moved to stand, only to have him catch you by the wrist. “No, please,” he said softly, looking up once more, “don’t go. I—I owe you an apology for that.”

“To save your sorry skin, no doubt.”

To your surprise, he chuckled. “I deserve that.”

“Oh, that’s mighty big of you to admit,” you said dryly. “How very big indeed.”

“Very well, you’re right, you know. About all of it. And I mean that in the most sincere manner possible. Honest.”

That took a bit of wind from your sails and you sighed. “Perhaps we might fight about it later?”

He bobbed his head. “I wholeheartedly agree with that notion. Much, much later. In fact, we should never speak of it again.”

“Once you apologize, you mean.”

“I just did apologize.”

“No,” you shook your head, “you said you owed me one, which you do of course. But admitting it is not an actual apology.”

To your surprise, he burst out laughing. It was cut short by a sharp inhale of pain, but his smile only wavered as he snorted, “You’re joking, right?”

“You mean to tell me you honestly considered that an apology? Those sorry words? Truly?”

“Well…” he nodded. “Yes."

“Fine.” You stood up and brushed dirt and crushed pine needles from your backside. “I’ll bid you good eve then. You should hope you’re mobile once more before they come looking for their friend.”

You had every intention of marching off, of just leaving him there to rot, not caring if any more orcs happened upon him. It would serve him right. Apology. Bah! He could go pound sand, as Papa would say.

However, you only got maybe ten feet away when your conscience got the better of you and you came back to find he hadn’t moved an inch. 

“Come,” you growled, crouching beside him once more to take hold of his left wrist. “Let’s get you back.”

“I didn't know you cared,” he said even as he allowed you to help him up.

“I don’t. I should let you rot.”

“So, why aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. I’m a soft-hearted fool, I suppose.” You gave a not so gentle tug. “We should go. His pack is bound to notice he’s not returned and I do not want to have to explain to your uncle how I let you get butchered by orcs.”

“I’ll be forever grateful,” he replied drolly.

“Do you wish my help or not?”

He draped an arm about your shoulder. “Yes, of course I do. And I appreciate it as well.” He winced. “How far are we from Edoras’ border?”

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

“That far, eh?”

He leaned heavily on your shoulder, and you tried to ignore the stinging along your neck, the dull ache that spread down into your shoulder from bearing the brunt of his weight, as he was considerably taller and heavier than you were. “I’m afraid so, yes.”

“Wonderful.”

For reasons you couldn't begin to explain, the drollness in his deep voice made you laugh. “Yes, I couldn’t agree more.”

You managed to get him back to the road, him leaning hard against you with each step he took on his wounded leg. And with each step, his gait slowed. “Take care,” he said when you stumbled. “It would do us both no good if we fell.”

“I beg your… pardon,” you gritted, hefting him higher on your shoulder once more, “but… you are… not light, you know.”

“I know and I appreciate your help here as well.” He went silent for a long moment, then, drew in a deep breath and added, “And I’m sorry. For what I did at the coffeehouse.”

“All you had to do was come in and tell me you’d changed your mind, you know.” you told him, staring straight ahead, waiting for Edoras’ reassuring lights to come into view. At least then, you knew you’d be close to home and close to safety. 

“The thing of it is, I didn’t change my mind.” The regret in his voice surprised you and you stopped without warning, catching him as he stumbled, then scolded, “Take care, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m sorry, but what? What do you mean, you didn't change your mind? Of course you did. I was there, remember? I was there and you were not.”

“No, I know that, but,” he pulled free, easing his arm from about her shoulders before shifting to settle on a rock, “I need to sit a moment.”

You didn't fight him, happy to be free of his weight, even if only for a few minutes. You rubbed the side of your neck. “Only a few minutes, though. We don’t know how much time we have left.”

“I know.” He looked up at you. “I didn’t change my mind, you know.”

“So you’ve said. What you haven’t said, was why you just left me sitting there like a fool.” Finally, you were able to get that weight off your chest, your eyes stinging the way they had in the coffeehouse, when you realized he was not coming through the door. “Why did you do that to me?”

“I was coming in,” he said slowly, looking up to meet your gaze, “and when I saw you… I got nervous and I know that sounds idiotic, but it’s the truth. It was a stupid, fool thing to do to you and I am ever so sorry I hurt you. If I could but do it over, I would walk through that door and we would not be having this conversation. And for that, I am also sorry.”

You had waited so long for him to assume responsibility for how he’d hurt you. And now that he had, you were at a loss for words. How did you respond to that? What did you say?

“Am I supposed to believe you had an attack of nerves? You, of all people?”

“Is that so hard to believe? I’m only human as human as any other man, you know. And that means that yes, sometimes, I have an attack of nerves. I’m not made of stone, I’ll have you know and you—”

You waited a moment for him to finish, your heart beating erratically now as those words were the last ones she ever thought she’d hear from him. But, when he remained silent, just staring at the ground, you leaned in. “I what?”

He looked up then, his eyes soft, and murmured, “You stole the breath from my lungs.”

You could only stare. Were you but dreaming or perhaps he’d suffered a head injury before you reached him? One of those had to be the truth because there was no other rational explanation for his words, no matter how they set butterflies free in your belly to batter your insides with their wildly-beating wings. 

“Éomer, I—I don’t know what to say,” you finally managed. 

“No, I’m sure you don’t,” he replied softly. “And I cannot fault you. But, if you could find it in your heart to forgive me, I would like another chance. A chance to right things between us.”

“Things between us? Is there a thing between us, never mind more than one?”

To your surprise, a sheepish smile lifted his lips. “I should like there to be.” 

“I don’t even like you, you know.”

His grin widened. “Somehow, I don’t believe that. After all, you came back, didn’t you?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. I could still leave you out here.”

“You could.” He nodded, then shook his head. “But you won’t.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then let out a heavy sigh of resignation. “No. I don't suppose I will.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief. “I knew it.”

You offered up a smile of your own and then, with all the force you could generate, you punched him square in the shoulder. 

He yelped as the blow sent him rocking backwards. “What was that for?”

“Because you, Éomer, are an ass and I should leave you here to suffer whatever fate you deserve.”

“You should, but I wish you wouldn’t.” He reached for your hand, caught it, and linked his fingers with yours. “I am truly sorry, though. You have to believe me.”

“Why should I believe you now?”

Éomer winced as he carefully stood. “Because I would like the chance to right my wrong where you are concerned.”

You looked up at him. “And how do you think you can do such a thing? I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” 

“I’m fairly certain I do.”

He smiled then and bent and before you could say anything, his lips met yours. Despite his wounded leg, he caught your face between his hands, not so much as wavering as his lips moved teasingly and gentle against yours, as his tongue eased between your lips to caress yours, and you shivered at the silken caress. His lips were soft and warm and those butterflies fluttered harder now, with more fury as he kissed you slow and deep and made your head spin as it had never spun before. 

Éomer was slightly breathless when he drew back. “So, will you allow me another chance? A chance to right what I’ve done wrong?”

“By all rights, I should say no.”

“But you won’t.” His hazel eyes sparkled with mischief.

“No,” you shook your head slowly, “I won’t.”

In the distance, came the snarl of wargs and that was enough to spur Éomer to drape his arm about your neck once more and say, “We should go.”

“A wise idea, to be sure.”

You made it back to Edoras without incident and you wasted no time in rousing the healer  from her bed, just as she wasted no time in shooing you from the infirmary. Someone must have alerted Éowyn as well, for she came hurrying down the corridor, her hair bound up away from her face and still in her nightdress.

“What happened?”

“He was set upon by orcs just beyond the border.”

“But what were you doing out there?”

You managed a smile. “I was but going for a walk. I was having trouble sleeping, and sometimes that helps.”

“You need be careful,” she warned. “What if you’d been alone?”

“We won’t think about that.”

The healer came out. “My lady,” she said with a tired smile. “His lordship is resting now and he’d like to see you.” 

Éowyn stepped forward, only to have the healer shake her head. “No, my lady, I’m sorry. He meant you,” she said, looking at you.

You swallowed hard. “M-me?”

The healer nodded now. “He was very clear.”

“I’ll just see what he might want,” you said, feeling no little guilt at Éowyn’s almost hurt expression. “And when he hears you’ve come down to see him, I’m sure he will ask you be brought in.”

Éowyn said nothing, but bobbed her head and you followed the healer into the small, quiet, semi-dark room. 

Éomer was abed, the linens stark even against his pale hair, and your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, as you’d never seen him so informally dressed, his loose tunic left unlaced to offer up an enticing patch of what you were certain was a finely-muscled chest. The image that came to your mind brought those butterflies to life once more deep within your belly. 

His eyes were closed, his enviably thick lashes dark crescents against his pale cheeks, but as you drew near, they opened and a tired smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I thought perhaps I’d dreamed everything that happened this night,” he said softly, “but the pain is far too real.”

“I assume your healer stitched the wound. It looked fairly ugly.”

He nodded. “She did. I can resume duties in a week, according to her.” He gestured for you to come closer and when you did, he added in a whisper, “and we won’t tell her when I’m gone come morning, will we?”

“You should take her advice.”

“I cannot. Not right now.”

“Éomer, you will be useless with only a few hours’ rest and one leg. You need allow yourself time to heal.”

“Are you taking her side?”

“In this?” You nodded. “Absolutely.”

“But… you’re supposed to take my side.” 

“I would be, if you weren’t talking such foolishness.”

“Ouch. You wound me.” As he spoke, he reached out and caught your hand, and your mouth went dry as he gave a gentle tug. “Come and lay with me.”

“I couldn’t.”

“You could.”

“Éomer.”

“What?”

“I don't even like you.”

His eyes glinted with a hint of mischief. “We both know that isn’t true, don’t we?”

“Oh, it’s true.”

“Liar.” He tugged again. “Are you truly going to make a wounded man beg?”

“Éomer.”

“What?” He brought your hand to his lips, to your surprise, brushed its back with a kiss and murmured, “Please?”

You stared down at him for a long moment. “You are supposed to be injured.”

“I am injured. Nearly twenty stitches are holding that wound closed. But somehow, I don't think I’ll mind being trapped in this bed, if I have someone to share it with.”

Your heart fluttered. “Éomer. You are in an infirmary.”

“I know, but I’m in my own room, as you see.” He smiled. “No one will bother us and I promise to keep my hands to myself.”

With that, his smile grew mischievous. “Unless, of course, you’d rather I didn’t. And then, the next time I see you in the great hall or the yard, I’ll just look across at you and smile and only you will know why.”

You sighed softly and then, after a quick look about, gingerly stretched out alongside him, your heart beating faster as he drew his arm about your shoulders to tug you closer. You peered up at him. “And why will I be smiling?”

His eyes glinted with that same hint of mischief that let loose even more butterflies in your belly. “You’ll see.”

With that, he caught you beneath the chin with one bent finger, lifting your face ever so slightly and as his lips captured yours, you smiled. “You aren’t going anywhere come morning, you know.”

He broke the teasing kiss to gaze down at you. “Is that so?”

“It is,” you nodded, “because you have some very real making up to me to do. And I’m fairly certain it will take longer than a few hours."

“Making up to you, you say?” One dark brow arched and his smile grew wicked with promise. “I think that’s fair enough.”

***

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#eomer #karl urban #LOTR #august mashup #august prompts #fotfics august event #sotwk asks #pixie answers #Éomer x reader #Éomer x you #LOTR AU

[dreamlandcreations]

Immortality/The choice

Éomer x Reader x Haldir

As only part elf, you could choose between two worlds. And it seems you might have to decide sooner than you expected, with your heart pulling you in two different directions.

Content with spending time in the elven kingdoms, learning the way of your ancestors and slowly gaining control of your abilities, you never even thought of the possibility of finding a place among mortals.

"Your heart is both elf and human, I believe in the worst way possible." - Galadriel

• moodboards masterlist •

#eomer #éomer #eomer x reader #eomer of rohan #éomer x reader #éomer x you #haldir #haldir x reader #haldir of lórien #haldir x you #elf!reader #lord of the rings #lord of the rings moodboard #eomer moodboard #éomer moodboard #haldir moodboard #moodboard #moodboards #my stuff #my boards

[philtstone]

if you’re still taking prompts from that list, I’d love to see your take on the nemesis one for any of your modern AUs!

sorry it's not an EXISTING modern au but it is. a modern au. partially inspired by many many many things most significantly a post i literally cannot find again no matter how hard i look... also by anne from anne of green gables. anyway, this is mostly just vibes. and my own salad shirazi opinions. in that order.

In Arwen's house growing up family dinner was always a shared time of day, so it makes her glad that the small apartment her father moved into last year honours the same principle.

“It’s not that he irritates me,” eighteen year old Eowyn, fresh out of her first term of university and with her long gold hair in a tangled braid down her back, is explaining from the dinner table. “I hardly get irritated easily — it’s just that he’s so sweet and friendly all the time, I am sure he’s up to something.”

“Eowyn dear,” says her uncle. His attention is mostly absorbed by the newspaper in front of him. “If you might repeat that first part aloud, and reflect on it a bit.”

Eomer snorts from the sink. Gandalf had tasked him with washing the dishes — he had more or less nothing to contribute to meal making. Eowyn makes a face at him.

“I am good tempered. It’s just no one who’s normal is that nice. Certainly not a man.”

Gandalf, who’s in the midst of a very complex chess game with Arwen’s father, chuckles a bit. 

“Indeed?” Ada asks, with a wry smile. Eowyn blushes.

“Do not tease her, you men,” Arwen says, sweeping in to add hot water to the tea cups. The pale green flats of the fragrant tea leaves sent in express overseas mail by her maternal grandparents swirl in the kettle’s pour. Authentic green tea has a potency Arwen has not found in anything purchased around here. “You know she isn’t talking about you, and anyway, she’s right.” 

While Gandalf says, “Do tell us more, then,” charitably, Arwen returns to the small kitchen island. The rice is coming into its own in the cooker. Rice is always a comfort; it unites across cultures and races. Admittedly to this day Ada will prefer jasmine to basmati, no matter Arwen's own fascination with the latter. She sets about peeling two thick skinned cucumbers and dicing them, along with tomatoes from Mr Bilbo's garden, into a bowl. Then comes the shallot, and its lilac purple skin. Arwen has always loved the colour lilac. She has a nightgown a shade lighter than this onion, which her fiance sighs over dreamily every time it’s taken out.

Behind her Aragorn chops tarragon for the lentils, which are bubbling. He has embraced jasmine rice since childhood. His hair is tied out of his face and just barely escaping the doom of a man bun (Aragorn is too sincere about everything to accidentally look like the smarmiest versions of his countrymen) and he smells of fried onion and rose oil, like he often does when in this place. In matter of fact he smells like this kitchen is decorated: the multiple little knick knacks lining the sil, the old silver, the warm reds of the woven rug in the floor (one of an innumerable number kept in Iverworn’s house), and the cracked old laminate tiling – brown. There is some comfort in the idea that Gilraen's old apartment is still in the family. Only now, Ada has his little shrine in the den which doubles as his study, and a few more photographs have been added to the baby pictures lining the front hallway.

On the other end of the table Gimli and Legolas sort through Bilbo's rock collection while the old man gives running commentary on where he found each one. Arwen’s cousin is being educated on geology in the process. Frodo and Sam and the rest are still at school; Aragorn has volunteered to go pick them up in a half hour.

“This ought to go in the sedimentaries pile, Legolas. You see the distinctive layering – to really know we’d check for carbonate, but I’d say this is a solid limestone.”

“I don’t understand. Many of them have layers. That one with the crystal –”

“Running in parallel. Look, they’ve sedimented. It’s in the name, for Mahal’s sake. The geode, a sedimentary rock? Preposterous.”

“I found that one in Dale you know. It was, oh, twenty years ago or so now — I’d just had a pint with your dad, Gimli – you remember what he was like twenty years ago, wearing those garish red turbans (though they suited him well) – and when we came out on the street there it was by the lamp post, a little lump of a thing. I thought to myself, why, that looks just like Lobelia’s terrible laddoo – you haven’t tried them, but they’re glorified pebbles, with how dry and small she makes them – and then I turned it over and thought, where might a pretty piece of rock like this come from in the middle of such a town? But then, Dale is very metropolitan …“

Absently, Arwen begins humming to herself.

“Won’t someone put on some decent music?”

“Don’t look at us old men, Eomer. Haven’t the youth got a stereo system?”

“Oh, it's all Bluetooth now. Ah — I have your rook there, Elrond.”

“No he hasn’t; that’ll put his queen in jeopardy.”

“Keep your eyes on your lentils, Estel, my own function perfectly well. He’s been doing this since he was a boy.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” says Gandalf, with the wise knowing of someone who was there to witness such behaviour in person.

Between it all, everyone is somehow still managing to listen attentively to Eowyn as she expounds her theories and suspicions.

“He’s asked four times if we could study together after class. Four times. The next major exam we have is worth sixty perfect of the grade and I’m sure he saw me speaking with the professor last week because I was so determined to pass it. No one passes that exam, according to the third years –”

Arwen stirs the lentils and wonders if they ought to take a little bowl to the shrine.

“Perhaps he’s looking for a friend,” says Gandalf philosophically.

“Maybe he’s a creep, like Wormtongue was,” suggests Eomer darkly.

“He’s only starstruck by a girl in the engineering course,” says Bilbo, with a bit of (not unkind) humour in his voice. Then he reaches into his large duffel, which he lugged indoors with Aragorn and Eomer’s help, and extracts a box of fresh sweets for the table. These, Arwen hopes, are better than Lobelia’s – though she is sure they will be much too sweet for her own taste.  

“There are girls in engineering these days, old friend,” Gandalf interjects with a raised eyebrow, but Eowyn is not really paying attention to either of them.

“Last week at lab he gave me a book about zoological diseases I mentioned off hand almost a month ago,” she says with that earnest way she has. “That doesn’t have anything to do with engineering. Do you think he was trying to throw me off my game before our lab quiz?” 

It is very hard to keep a straight face at this inquiry, but Arwen – and many others present – manage it. “Have you considered that he might have just thought you’d like it?” asks Arwen.

“But that’s none of his business,” Eowyn says, as though this was obvious. 

“How did he know you liked it then?” asks her brother, baffled.

“We’ll — I told him,” says Eowyn. She flushes a bit. “But he initiated the conversation. We should have been talking about closed circuits.”

“Or nothing at all, apparently,” says Ada gravely.

“You don’t know him. He’s got a look in his eye. I can just tell.”

“Oh look, I’ve found him on Facebook.” 

And so Legolas has, and they all converge around his smartphone while Eowyn glares defiantly. 

“Faramir, is it? You know, he kind of looks like you, Estel.”

“Yeah – if you were much scrawnier and looked like a dweeby engineering student.”

“They look nothing alike,” says Eowyn hotly, crossing her arms – Arwen cannot help but catch Aragorn’s eye (he looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh, not helped at all by Gandalf, who is looking right at him, and skillfully masking his own merriment besides) “and Aragorn would never be such a — a — a snake, anyway.”

Arwen agrees with this hypothetical assessment, at least. She rummages through the fridge and retrieves the fresh clutch of herbs she needs for her salad.

“But what has he done, Eowyn. The poor boy. There is a bit of dweebishness there, isn’t there … indeed …”

“Look at the last name; isn’t that Denethor’s boy?”

“Oh yes, that would explain it. Engineering? Of all things? I always thought he had a poet's soul when he was a kid.”

“I wonder how they’re doing – haven’t spoken to the man in an age, you know.”

“Denethor you mean?”

“Well, not since the incident with that poor tree in the synagogue’s front yard,” says Gandalf sadly. “You were there Aragorn, you remember –”

“Hmmm,” says Aragorn grimly.

“Well I told you,” interrupts Eowyn. “I haven’t got proof, just suspicions! He’s trying to psych me out of this program. But I tell you – I won’t let him!” 

Arwen wonders if perhaps Eowyn had grown up around sisters, she wouldn’t insist so very hard on sticking it out through a degree she is not really interested in. These ruminations are interrupted by a soft touch at Arwen's waist. “Hm?” she says.

“I’m off to pick up the kids,” Aragorn begins in a low voice (the assembly continues to chatter behind them). She smiles at him, then stops: for reasons unexplained he is suddenly offering her a horrified expression he usually only reserves for conservative Tik Tok mommy vloggers and occasions where Pippin is about to grievously injure himself on the park playset.  “... What are you doing?” he asks.

“Adding the mint,” she says serenely. 

“Fresh?” Like she must be mad.

“Doesn’t it have mint?” 

It is his grandmother's recipe, after all; silly man.

“Dried.”

“Your mother always said it had to be fresh.”

“Fresh dried mint,” he clarifies, gravely.

“Really Estel.”

“Take over the lentils.”

“That was your job — and you’ve got to pick up Frodo and his friends.”

“In ten minutes.”

“You’re going to ruin it. Mr I Can Subsist On A Can Of Beans.”

“I can subsist. That doesn't mean you can add fresh spearmint to a perfectly good salad. It tastes completely wrong.”

“Estel …” But Aragorn has already ducked beneath the counter to reach deep into the recesses of their spice cabinet and retrieve an extremely dusty repurposed jar of dried mint, now cradled in his brown hands. The half-peeled label is for sour cherry preserves, which Arwen is sure no one in this family has bought from a store since they discovered the tree in Ada’s backyard.

“This is hardly fresh,” Arwen says archly.

“I dried it last week,” he says, all innocence. His t-shirt is worn and ratty enough that its low collar shows off her old necklace. She can see the jade flower and her own name etched in the characters of her mothers language at the center.

She sighs. Kisses his cheek; takes the mint. “Go fetch Mr. Bilbo’s wards.”

“They’re going to make a mess of my car,” he says, as if he did not happily volunteer for this task.

“Your car is already a mess, my love.”

So he goes, grinning. Arwen adds the mint to the salad and renters the fray.

“Eowyn,” she says. “Perhaps the next time he asks to study, you might take him up on it. That way you can get close enough to catch him at his awful scheme.”

Eowyn's mouth widens in a ponderous oh, as if she had never thought of this. Arwen pats her shoulder comfortingly.

“Food will be ready in ten minutes,” she says. Ada is smiling at her — a true smile, not without its own edges of memory, but no longer the bittersweet thing of three years ago. Arwen smiles back.

#i would post this on ao3 but its so niche and im not sure if i want my 200th post to be this plotless #we'll see #my writing #thank u emma you always got me #lord of the rings #arwen undomiel #aragorn #bilbo baggins #gandalf #eowyn #elrond #gimli #legolas #theoden #eomer #aragorn x arwen #eowyn x faramir #gimli x legolas #is this something

[sotwk]

Taken (Eomer x Reader) - Part 2 of 3

Part 1 / Part 3

Love Confession feat. Eomer Eadig

Valentine 2023 Event by @sotwk

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

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.”

To be continued in Part 3...

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#sotwk fanfiction #eomer #eomer x reader #eomer fanfiction #rohan #lotr #eomer x you #valentine event 2023 #follower request

[myabsurddreamjournal]

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?

.....

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

#eomer of rohan #did i ever told you guys karl urban was my childhood crush #eomer fanfiction #eomer x reader #lotr #lord of the rings #eomer #lotr imagine #lotr fanfic #eomer imagine #karl urban

[minaturefics]

The Same at Heart

Request from @tolkien-fantasy: Eomer or Aragorn falling for an extremely intelligent reader who is witty and charming, but can be insecure and is reclusive when she gets tired (plus does translation of languages like elvish).

A/N: Hello friend! Thanks for the request :) I picked Eomer for this because 1. there isn't enough Eomer love out there and 2. I feel like him + reader's reclusiveness would make an interesting angst point lol I hope you enjoy it!!!

Eomer x Reader

Fem reader

No content warnings

3.2k

---

Meduseld was alive with music and laughter. Torches blazed in their sconces, the great fireplace lit, and everything glowed golden. Chatter filled the room, punctuated by the stomps and claps of the dancers, along with the clink of cups and the calls for more ale. There was an arm-wrestling competition occurring at one end of the room, and some sort of card game at the other.

Eowyn grinned beside you, her face flushed, and gestured to the room. “Are you glad that you came with me, my friend? You do not get celebrations like this in Minas Tirith.”

You laughed. “No, you most certainly do not.”

You had been introduced to Eowyn in Minas Tirith, assigned to help her translate some of the texts in the Houses of Healing from Elvish to Weston, and over the weeks the two of you had grown close. Eowyn was thankful to have another woman to confide in, and you were delighted and refreshed by her different ways.

She craned her head and scanned the crowd. “Where in Arda is Eomer? It is not like him to take so long to wash and dress.”

Your heart lurched at his name. He had not been at the hall when you and Eowyn arrived from Minas Tirith — he was at the Glittering Caves attending some matter with Gimli — and you were still yet to see him. 

You smoothed down your gown and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, wishing that the hall was not so warm. Were you dressed well enough? Eowyn had assured you that it was an informal affair, but your cotton and velvet dress would not have passed for an evening dress back in Gondor. Perhaps you should have worn one of your silk one’s instead. Maybe you could rush back to your room and change before Eomer arrived.

“Ah, here he comes now,” she said and your eyes followed her gaze to where Eomer had entered the room.

He was greeted by a chorus of cheers and raised tankards. He grinned at his people, friends and subordinates alike, clapping them on their shoulders and shouting replies across the long tables. You swallowed, taking him in. He looked gallant and radiant, his hair golden and his fine doublet accentuating his broad shoulders. He truly was just as handsome in his more casual wear as he was in his armour.

Eomer’s eyes met yours from across the room and your breath hitched, memories from before rushing back to you. Him, throwing his head back, laughing at your joke, the warm sound filling the room. Him, asking about your translations, brows furrowed and eyes alight with awe. Him, glancing back at you, gaze intense and heavy, as his convoy rode out of the city. 

“I wonder…” Eowyn muttered, watching her brother cross the room, a strange smile on her face. You raised your eyebrows in a silent question but she shook her head and laughed. “It is nothing.”

“Sister,” Eomer greeted, pulling her into a hug and squeezing her until she let out a little squeak. “It is good to see you. I am happy that you managed to visit.” He released her and looked at you, a wide smile on his face. “And you as well, my lady. I am glad to see you here tonight. I did not think you were one for parties.”

“I enjoy them on occasion.” Your smile grew sly and teasing. “Provided that the company is agreeable.”

He chuckled. “And have you found us agreeable so far?”

“Much more agreeable now,” you said with a smirk.

A slight flush rose on his cheeks and he coughed and glanced away. Eowyn snickered beside you. “How is your work coming along?” he asked, eyes coming back to you.

“Well enough. The work is easy, but tedious. The texts are long and winding, and very specific, and one has to be careful of mistranslations, especially in such things like medicine and healing.”

“No, I suppose one would not wish to mistake a poison for a cure.”

“Would it surprise you, brother, that many cures come from poison?” Eowyn asked.

You nodded. “It is the dose that decides whether one lives or dies. Too much of something is never good.”

He looked around the room. “I do not think one can have too much merriment.”

“Ah, but one can have too much ale.”

He laughed, low and full. “I cannot argue with that, my lady.”

“You would do well not to argue at all,” Eowyn grinned. “Even Faramir sometimes shrinks back from her debates.”

“He does not!”

“I have actually seen him hide behind Boromir,” she laughed.

“I wonder,” he said, a little softer, “if you find us crude and unlearned here without the same sort of lore and literature.”

You shook your head. “Unlearned does not mean unwise. And language is language, whether written or spoken. The words and lessons of your people do not mean any less simply because they are not recorded in books and scrolls.” 

He nodded slowly, but still looked unconvinced. Eowyn, as though sensing his unease, smiled and said, “Do you know she is learning Rohirric as well?”

His eyes lit up, eyebrows rising. “Truly?”

“Eowyn has been teaching me, though we have only just begun.” He nodded, gesturing for you to speak, and you laughed. “I would not dare embarrass myself in front of the king with my untrained speech.”

He opened his mouth to reply but someone called for him from across the room. He glanced behind, gave you an apologetic smile and a bow, and left. Eowyn then looped her arm through yours and suggested taking a turn about the room. The rest of the evening was filled with introductions and chatter, the Rohirrim curious about your work and you interested in their traditions and legends.

But soon the noise became overwhelming, voices and laughter and clattering all fighting for your attention, and the room began to feel stuffy, the air growing thick and the bodies just all a bit too close. You glanced around the room, searching for Eomer, and found him laughing with a group of his men. 

Your stomach clenched and you sighed. It would have been nice to speak to him again before the night was over. 

With a few words to Eowyn, you slipped out of the hall and down the corridor that led to your room. You let out a long breath, weariness suddenly overcoming you, and shut the heavy door behind you. Your room was still and quiet, warm from the smouldering coals in the fireplace, and you sank into the cushioned bench, melting into the blessed calm. 

-

Eomer ran his brush along Firefoot’s body in short, sharp motions. He was due for a grooming, and while Eomer normally let the stableboys handle it, he felt he needed a distraction. The scent of wood and hay, musky and earthy, soothed him while he worked. He did not understand you. He did not understand you at all. 

Did he say something to offend you? Or perhaps you had taken offence to the fact that he did not come back to speak to you at the party? He grumbled to himself. He had wanted to, but there were so many people vying for his attention. When he extricated himself from them, he searched for you in the sea of bodies, but your familiar face had vanished. And then for the next few days, you had shut yourself up in your room or had gone on walks alone along the Barrowfield. 

He sighed and laid his brush down. He started to work on the mane, unravelling the braid and untangling the soft strands. Firefoot snorted in approval and Eomer rested his forehead on the horse's neck and inhaled. He smelled like sun and grass, leather and sweat. Oh, Firefoot. Always so sure and steady. Eomer wished he could share in that security.

Or maybe you were avoiding him because you found him uncultured and uninteresting. You were so frighteningly quick and clever, always ready with some sharp observation or wry comment. And how beautiful you looked, poring over books, ink smudged on your cheek, eyes alive in the candlelight. The Rohirrim may be noble and valourous, but perhaps to a renowned Gondorian scholar, even the king of such people still seemed rough and brutish. 

“Eomer?” Eowyn called and he lifted his head. “What is it that troubles you?”

“It is nothing.”

She joined him by Firefoot and stroked the horse’s muzzle. “Do not lie to me, brother, I can see it in your eyes.”

He let out a short breath and looked into his sister’s eyes. When did her gaze stop being so piercing and mournful? When did they become so gentle? They looked so much like their mother’s. “It is your friend, the scholar.”

“What is it?” Her lips curled up in a playful smile. “Has my dear brother grown fond of her perhaps? I suspected as much when I saw you last night — I do not think I have seen you so well groomed in years! And you were even wearing scent — no, do not deny it, I smelled it when I hugged you.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks and he shook his head. “It does not matter, she would not return my feelings.”

“Eomer! How can you say that?”

“You cannot tell me that you are not aware of what the Gondorians think of us.” He began to pace the stable, gesturing with his hands. “Bema, I know you know —  we spoke of such things when you married Faramir.”

“And Faramir and I are happier beyond belief, no matter what some people of the court may think  — I do not see how this is any different. My friend does not hold such foolish opinions.” The eyes sharpened and the steel he had come to know so well returned. “And do not forget, you are a king.”

“I am also a man,” he snapped. And then, in a rush, “I seek love as much as anyone else. I want to be wanted as I am, not for my title or my land.”

Her jaw tensed, and for a moment he was convinced she was about to unleash a lecture, but she sighed and shook her head. “Come, tell me what is on your mind.”

“I do not think she returns even a fraction of what I feel. We did not get to speak much that evening and I thought we could talk more in the coming days, but I have seen so little of her.” He ran his hand through his hair. “She is polite enough at meals, but afterwards she simply vanishes.”

She smiled indulgently. “She is just tired.”

“Tired? The journey from Minas Tirith was not strenuous was it? Unless you failed to tell me about some mishap or event.” He narrowed his eyes at her. 

She laughed. “It is not the journey that tires her but people and noise and merriment.”

“I do not understand.”

“Not everyone is inclined to as much merriment and conversation as you are, brother.”

“But she was not like this when I was in Minas Tirith.”

“You had visited in a lull of parties and balls,” she said with exasperation. “I have known her longer than you have. This is simply how she is.”

“It is… it is not because of me?”

“Bema, brother. How could it be because of you?”

He looked down at his hands, callused and creased with dirt. “Perhaps she thinks me boring.”

Eowyn threw her arms up. “You are infuriating. Eomer, did she not spend most of her evenings conversing with you when you were in the city?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “She asked me to tell her stories of our forefathers. And I had asked her about the nature of Elvish speech.”

“And did she not agree to come with me to Edoras when she had no obvious reason to?”

He paused and looked at her. “Are you implying she had come to… to see me?”

“If you do not believe me, ask her yourself!”

His heart swooped in his chest, spirit lifting. He knew his sister; she would not send him forth if she did not have confidence. Was it truly possible that you felt the same way? There was no way to know for sure if he did not ask you himself. He glanced out of the stables at the steps rising to Meduseld. 

“I will go,” he said. “After I have had a ride.”

He stroked Firefoot’s cheek. Yes, a ride would rouse his heart and wake his courage. And then he would go find you. 

-

You stood up and stretched, rolling your shoulders and circling your wrists. The evening sun was slanting into your room, casting long orange rectangles across your desk and the floor. With a satisfied sigh, you closed the two books on your table and closed your ink pot. You looked out at the thatched roofs, eyes drifting down the hill to the green Barrowfield and onto the plains beyond. In your chest you felt the stirrings of loneliness, the pull to find someone and speak and laugh with them.

Perhaps you should search Eomer out. After all, it was him that compelled you to follow Eowyn to Edoras. You smiled to yourself. Eomer with his fiery hazel eyes, his expressive brows, his hearty laugh. He was radiant when he spoke of Rohan’s heroes, voice rising and falling with the retelling, hands moving, pantomiming the scenes. A man so well liked, so well loved, by his people. Your smile faltered. Did he find you bookish and boring? 

A knock sounded on your door and you walked over. It was probably Eowyn come to prod and poke you when she thought you had spent too many days in isolation. “I was just going to find you, Eo —” You flung the door open. “—mer?”

He stood in front of you, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. The scent of hay and musk wafted in and you wondered if he had just come in from a ride. He always looked handsome in his formal clothes but he looked best like this, slightly dishevelled, hair wild and clothes rumpled. 

“I did not expect to see you at my door,” you blurted.

“I wished to speak to you.” His eyes darted over your shoulder into your room. “That is, if you are not tired.”

“Of course,” you said, smiling, and stepped out into the corridor. “Would you like to walk with me? I think some fresh air will do me some good. To the garden at the back?”

He nodded and you made your way out. The small patch of green, shaded with a few trees and bordered by shrubs, overlooked the city. You walked the dirt path to the edge and gazed out. The city was winding down for the day. Horses were being led to the stables, shops were packing their wares, and the delectable scent of roast meat and onions drifted out of the houses. 

“Even Minas Tirith is like this in the evenings,” you mused. “People are the same wherever you go.”

“Do you truly believe that?” He sounded strange and strained behind you. “There are a great many people who would disagree with you.”

“They are fools,” you said, laughing. “At our hearts, we are the same. Do we all not yearn for a moment of peace in the sun? The comfort of a safe home? The arms of one who loves us?”

He came up beside you and looked over his land. He was solid and reassuring and you felt the urge to rest your head on his shoulder. How lovely it would be to have more evenings like this, looking over a prospering people, a friend, a lover, next to you. You fidgeted with your hands. Eowyn had said that she suspected her brother might harbour tender feelings for you. But if he did, why did he not act? He was an impassioned man, was he not? Perhaps she had been mistaken. 

Perhaps he thought you too soft, too plain. Unworthy for a valourous king.

The dinner bell rang out from inside the house. You looked behind your shoulder and turned on your heel. “Ah, we should go in.”

“My lady, wait,” he said, reaching out to grasp your wrist.

“Eomer?” you glanced down and he moved to withdraw his hand but you wrapped your fingers around his before he could escape your reach. 

He stared at your joined hands before his head snapped up, eyes wide. “Why did you come here? To Edoras? My sister said it was to see me but I can scarcely imagine —”

“Yes.” Your heart sped up. Why was he asking? He would only be asking if he —

He broke out into a wide smile and drew you closer. “So it is really true! Tell me, my lady, do you care for me?” His eyes darted away, then back to you. “I am not learned in poetry and prose, and perhaps if I was I could express myself in language more fit for someone like you. But even then, there are no words that can compare to the plain truth. You have my heart, my lady, and there will be no other for me.”

Your heart stopped. Then started again. Laughter rose in your chest and you giggled. You reached for his cheek. His beard was soft, his skin warm. “There is no other for me as well.”

“You would suffer an unlearned man?”

“You are not unlearned. Your knowledge and wisdom simply lies elsewhere. Valar, I wish you would stop thinking that of yourself.” He chuckled and you smiled. “And you? You would suffer a scholar? Whose mind is forever turning and thinking?”

“I would hardly call it suffering.” His smile turned sly. “Though, if you feel you suffer from your mind, I could perhaps aid with that.”

“What do you —”

He cupped your cheek and brought his lips to yours. They were soft and full, insistent but gentle. He tugged you closer and rested his hand on your waist. He smelled like grass and hay and the lingering scent of bergamot. You drew back and his lips chased after you, capturing them in another kiss. You sighed, relaxing in his arms, and curled your fingers into his hair.

“We should go in,” you whispered, pulling back. “Or Eowyn will come find us.”

“I do not mind.” He laughed. “It shall be repayment for all the times I stumbled upon her and Faramir.”

“Well, I mind. I do not need her teasing me all the way back to Minas Tirith.” He grimaced and you stroked his cheek with your thumb. “I will not be gone forever, my love. There is still work to be done with the translations, and my things are all still there. Do not fret, we can write letters while we are apart.”

“I suppose then, I should get used to picking up my pen.” His fingers flexed on your waist. “But do not think I shall be squandering your presence here. I intend to get my fill of you before you leave.”

“You are always welcome to me, my love,” you said, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Now until forever.”

#eomer x y/n #eomer x you #eomer x reader #eomer fanfiction #lotr fanfic #lotr fic #eomer

[hottpinkpenguin]

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,

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…

#eomer #eomer lotr #eomer imagine #eomer x reader #eomer x y/n #eomer fluff #eomer fanfiction #eomer x you #lotr #lotr fanfiction #lotr imagine #lotr fluff

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 2 of 6

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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