#éomer x you

[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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[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 •

[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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[themoonlily]

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[sotwk]

Taken (Eomer x unnamed OC) - Part 3 of 3

Part 1 / Part 2

Summary: After having his proposals and professions rejected by the woman he loves, Éomer still refuses to be dissuaded. He vows to continue fighting for a future with her--even if that means having to let go for the time being.

Word count: 6.7k

Dedicated to anyone who has ever known the pain of loving someone you could not have. <3

Content: Boromir lives (!), angsty romance, declarations of love, jealousy, mutual pining, class division, shield-maiden, Éomer King, Rohirrim OCs, post-RotK, non-canon pairing

Rating: T (Teens and up)

Warnings: Sensuality gets steamy, but nothing explicit. Mentions of old battle injuries.

To Read on AO3: Link

Taken 

PART THREE

Third Age 3019 May 6

Minas Tirith, Gondor

“If you would allow me to propose something your Grace, I--”

“Éomer.” The King of Rohan growled the ungentle correction with an irritated shake of his head. “If I have leave from your king to continue calling him Elessar, then I will not abide frivolous formalities from you…Captain. And speak freely! It is your candor that I came here for, as much as your counsel."

Boromir chuckled faintly. “Very well.” He downed the last of the wine in his goblet before picking up the jug to refill it, then reaching across the table to serve his guest as well. 

While Éomer took a hearty swig, Boromir used the extra seconds of silence to weigh his next words. The noble horse-lord had done most of the talking since his arrival at the house not an hour ago, rambling on with barely contained agitation that would have frightened or offended anyone unfamiliar with his character. But Boromir had known Théodred’s cousin since he was a child, and while he was not nearly as close to Éomer as he had been with the late Prince of Rohan, their friendship had deepened enough--especially over the past few months--to familiarize Boromir with the trigger points of his temper. 

And Boromir had never before seen him more sensitive about a topic than the matter they had at hand. 

Love certainly wields such terrible power over a man, the Captain-General of Gondor mused, before clearing his throat. 

“I will gladly fulfill your request of watching over her in your absence, making sure she is well-treated and wants for nothing,” he began. “But a soldier can quickly grow restless without sufficient martial exercise.” 

“I agree.” Éomer leaned forward to fold his arms across the table. “Has she not been here long enough for your men to grow accustomed to seeing her at the training grounds? None of them need spar against her or even alongside her if they do not wish to. She would be content to practice drills on her own. In fact, she may even prefer it.”  

“My men will tolerate her presence just fine. The valor she showed on Pelennor was well-witnessed, and stories of it have circulated around our garrison,” Boromir said. “I admit she may inevitably overhear crass remarks from some passing boor among the citizenry. A woman warrior still remains an oddity in these parts. But I am sure she did not come to her status without learning how to weather such criticisms.” 

“Yes.” Éomer stared at the empty goblet he rotated slowly between his hands. “She has had to bear with a lot of ignorant talk over the years.”

“Which is why I propose taking her as a member of my company while you are away. Just temporarily,” Boromir added quickly, noting the immediate change in the horse-lord's demeanor. “It will help her feel more at ease while here, separated from you and her countrymen, if she had a group to belong to.”

“She has already taken a strong liking to your Aerdis. Which, I must confess, took me by surprise.”

Boromir smiled at this, his fool heart ready to burst with joy at every casual mention of his betrothed. “My lady is an easy one to love,” he said simply. “And indeed, the two seem to enjoy each other's company. I am certain Aerdis would be happy to continue acquainting her with all of her treasured haunts within the city and even beyond its walls. But…” 

He rubbed his jaw slowly, ever the unconscious tell of his discomfort with the situation at hand. But it was no use dancing around the real counsel he wished to present to Éomer King. “When it comes to daily labors, a shield-maiden will likely be happier with work better suited to her talents.”

Éomer cocked an eyebrow, clearly undeceived by Boromir’s attempts at off-handedness. “What sort of work? I sense you have something specific in mind.”

“I do,” Boromir admitted. “And I shall explain it to you plainly, although I will first say that it is both a suggestion and a request for a favor.” At this point he considered offering Éomer another refill of his drink, but the deepening scowl on the man’s face made him think better of it. “As you may have heard, I have been charged by King Elessar to lead the delegation that will treat with the Southrons. Sadhar has already come forward with an offer to parley, as soon as next month.”

Éomer’s eyes widened; he caught on even faster than Boromir had expected him to. “And you wish to include her in your delegation?”

“With your approval, yes.”

“You do not have it!” Éomer exclaimed. “And how could you propose such a thing?! Have you forgotten how she was so nearly dragged off by those animals to be taken who knows where for purposes I dare not even think of?”

“Are you really asking that of the man who came to her aid?”

It was a risky move to prod at that wound, but Éomer looked properly chastised by it. “You rescued her,” he conceded. “And for that I shall eternally be in your debt. But I cannot pretend to understand why you wish to involve her in any dealings with Harad.”

“You must see why I thought of her,” Boromir insisted. “You, who can personally attest to what she is capable of.” But Éomer continued to look too distraught to think, so he laid the rest out. “I can count on the fingers of one hand every person I know who can speak a Haradric dialect with reliable accuracy. Half of them died in the war.”

Éomer rose abruptly, nearly knocking over his chair in his state. Muttering indistinctly, he turned his back to Boromir to glare out the nearest window and brood at the rain lashing against the glass panes. 

“When Théodred used to boast to me about her, I dismissed it as a mentor's pride in his fanciful protégé,” Boromir continued. “I suppose I too allowed myself to be distracted by her sex. But she really is a hidden gem in your Éored, is she not? Your cousin invested in her training with great thoughtfulness, and it has borne fruit marvelously. He really believed--”

Éomer slammed the heel of his hand on the window frame. “Théodred was not the one hopelessly in love with her for so many years! There lies the difference!” he snapped. “So when you ask for my consent to take her to meet with our enemies, consider that you are asking me to risk the life of the woman I absolutely refuse to live my own life without!”

And while Boromir reacted with silence, he stood there, breathing hard, one fist on his hip and the other hand pressed over his forehead. “Forgive me,” he mumbled. “The wine, I…and I have scarcely slept since--”

Boromir waved off the apology. “I understand your agony well. It was not long ago that I lived through the same, and just mercifully survived to a happy end. I am on your side, Éomer. I know politics and duty might make the lines difficult to discern, but I hope you can believe that.”

“I believe it.” Éomer made another weary swipe of his hand across his face. “At least I think I do. Too many things are changing too quickly, and I fear a failure to keep in step shall result in my simply being dragged along behind everyone else like an unhorsed sot.”

“Then maybe there is wisdom in her request to stay behind and out of your way. The time apart may provide you the focus you need to regain your footing.”

The tired lines on Éomer’s face tightened again. “And why must time apart involve setting her on a perilous road?”

“The mission carries little chance of peril. Peace talks, even with Harad, are nothing compared to everything she has survived to get this far. You know this.” Éomer brushed past Boromir to return to the table, but the captain’s frank reproach pursued him. “Separation from her is what you dread, not the Southrons.”

So furiously did Éomer scowl at the table surface that for a moment Boromir thought he might turn the heavy shelf over in a fit of rage. Instead he seized the wine jug, poured himself a gobletful, and drank it in two forceful gulps. 

“I had hoped you could give me counsel on how I might change her mind, and convince her to simply come home,” he finally said. “Perhaps even quell her doubts in the future she can have with me.”

Underneath the anger and frustration, Éomer’s raw misery lay bare to Boromir, and suddenly he felt a swell of compassion for the young king. Would that he could offer a swift resolution to his predicament, instead of mere commiseration for the challenges that still lay ahead. 

“However hard it is to hear, separation is the soundest advice I can give you today,” Boromir said. “Time and distance are most effective at calming the storm in one's mind, so that the heart may have its chance to be properly heard. Many have learned this from experience, myself included. I believe it shall be the same for your lady.”

Éomer's shoulders heaved in a ponderous sigh. “If only it did not feel like such a gamble.”

Boromir could not help a chuckle. “Then I regret I must tell his majesty, that you cast your first of many dice the moment you let her take your heart. But in the end, you shall be the one to decide how much you are willing to risk, and you alone decide when you are done.”

The anguish that resurged on Éomer's face was almost a relief to Boromir. The King of Rohan was wise enough to already know the graver half of the truth: that his new throne was in many ways a cage, and there was very little a good ruler could afford to risk in pursuit of his own desires. 

* * *

“Take the names of any fools who might give you trouble,” Léodor said, unhooking the reins of his horse to start leading it across the muddy yard. “I can sort them all out on our return.”

You laughed as you followed him to the edge of the farmland property, marked by the scorched ruins of what had once been a granary. “Do you really think I could wait that long without sorting such fools out myself?” 

“Anyone with the gall to harass a rider of the king’s Éored deserves a second dose of thrashing, or a third or fourth.” Your friend turned to grasp your forearm and give it a firm squeeze. “Although I sincerely hope these men of Gondor would know better, for their own sakes.”

“They are our allies, now more than ever before,” you reminded him. “And I have every confidence in their courtesy and hospitality.”

“Perhaps if you were less of a recluse and better at making friends, I would not worry so.”

Your knuckles barely grazed his sleeve as he darted away and promptly swung up to the safety of his saddle, chortling and calling, “You are only proving my point, sister!” 

“Waste not a thought or care on me, and focus them all on your family!” you retorted, and stepped back as he spurred his horse forward. “Westu Léodor hál!”

You watched him gallop off across the plains of Pelennor, back to the distant towers of the White City. Tomorrow, he and the rest of the Éored would finalize preparations for the greatly anticipated journey home. But as soon as he heard that you had been tasked with staying behind, to remain with the body of Théoden King, Léodor alone took the time to come looking for you. 

Whatever his suspicions regarding Éomer's selection of you as the one to leave in Gondor, Léodor spoke nothing of them. He was content to spend his entire visit sharing the cask of ale he brought, and talking your ears off about all the things he planned to do with his wife and son and infant daughter upon their reunion.

How far your relationship had come, you mused, as you watched the shrinking speck finally melt  into the shadows of the deepening twilight. With him and with the rest of the men in your company, when you had once sworn, in tears hidden, that they would never accept you. Now their departure would sting as though you had been orphaned for the third time. 

It is only for several weeks, you told yourself, to ease the weight of doubt that sat upon your chest. As you turned to walk back toward the cottage, a fierce wind rose and ripped off the cloak that was loosely draped over your shoulders. With a startled cry you grabbed for it, but not quickly enough to save it from landing in a large puddle.

You retrieved the soaked fabric from the mud with a sigh. A fat raindrop landed squarely on the top of your uncovered head, and was immediately followed by another and another. Spontaneous rain had been pouring on and off over Gondor since the King’s coronation, and you heard the locals welcome and praise this tumultuous weather as a blessing, a sign of war’s filth being washed away to cleanse the lands for rebirth. 

Shielding your eyes from the sudden deluge, you looked up at the roiling clouds overhead, further entranced by the sight of jagged lightning flashing over the White Mountains.  But when your gaze dropped back down to the horizon, you were alarmed to notice a horsed figure crossing the fields through the storm, approaching fast, in your direction. 

It was him. Without proof of his face or voice, or even the support of logic, you just knew. It was him. 

The very thought of that froze you, mind and body, in place. Pale and immobile and increasingly drenched, you stood like a deeply rooted tree while the rider drew closer and closer, on a horse powerful enough to sustain its determined gait over the sodden ground and lashing winds. Dumbfounded and dazed, you remained, until at last he came to a stop just several yards away. He dismounted Firefoot, his heavy boots squelching in the muck, and that sound snapped you to your senses. 

“My lord,” you rushed forward with the soiled cloak twisted uselessly between your hands. “The stables are around the back. Let me take Firefoot there while you get out of this rain.”

“I shall stable him,” Éomer said sternly, but not unkindly, to warn you against arguing. “Go and wait for me inside the house.” 

Without speaking another word or sparing a backward glance, you obeyed your king. You shut the cottage door behind you to keep out the ill weather, hung your wet cloak on a peg, and crouched by the warmth of the fireplace to dry off as best as you could. You kept your jittery hands busy feeding the flames with more wood, but your mind refused to be calmed as easily. 

What is he doing here?! The agreement had been for you to report to him the following day, to receive in full detail your last set of orders before the entire Rohan contingent departed. Éomer had granted your request to stay behind quickly enough, and with so little argument that you had hoped perhaps the issue between you was settled, at least for the time being.

If he was not prepared to completely abandon his fatuous notion of asking you to marry him, then time apart would surely set his mind back to good sense. The Éomer you knew could always be trusted to do the right thing. You clung firmly to this thought while you waited the agonizing minutes for him to return from the stables. 

As soon as he entered, you offered him the last clean towel you could find to dry himself with. He raised his eyebrows at your attempt to give him royal treatment, but graciously swiped the cloth several times over his face, neck, and hair, before tossing it over the back of a chair. 

“So this is the place.” He peeled off his riding cloak to reveal clothing underneath that was just as soaked as yours; he may as well not have bothered with the outer garment at all. “You said it belonged to Lady Aerdis’s late…uncle?”

“A relative of sorts,” you said. When you confided in your new friend your wistful desire to be housed outside the city, where you could have more quiet and solitude, she had been quick to offer the empty cottage in near Pelennor that was recently willed to her by deceased relations. “There are things I can work on to help restore it while I am here. Even my meager skills will serve a farm better than sitting on my hands in the city barracks watching everyone else in their labors. I wish to remain useful, and do my part in the rebuilding.”

“I understand. You have explained all that, and well,” Éomer said slowly. “But regretfully, I must rescind the permission I granted for you to live outside Minas Tirith. You can stay here for the remainder of this week, to rest and do as you please. But afterward, I would like for you to go back to the city and remain there until my return.”

You bit back a protest, determined, now more than ever, to reaffirm your position as his servant. “May I ask what I am to do there, then?”

“Lord Boromir petitioned me to loan you to his company, and I granted it. He shall assign your duties, and you will take your orders from him while I am gone.” 

Although it surprised you to hear this, it was a welcome prospect. Of all the men in Gondor you liked and trusted Lord Boromir the most, having known him since you were just a girl, albeit not intimately. This would provide an opportunity to improve on the connection. “Lord Boromir honors me with his request. And as always, it shall please me to do as my king commands.”

Éomer responded to your formal pledge with a weary sigh. He braced his hands on the back of the chair in front of him, and the way his knuckles whitened in the tightness of his grip, while he searched for his next words, did not escape your notice. 

“Make no mistake, this command does not align with what I desire,” he said thickly. “Leaving without you violates every instinct in my body, but if that is what must be done to make you see reason, then I shall bear it.”

“Reason?” you repeated stiffly. “What conclusion are you hoping I might come to?”

Éomer raised his eyes from the floor to meet yours across the room. “I know you believe that putting distance between us may somehow alter how I feel about you. But I in turn believe the time apart will help you accept how deeply in love you are with me.”

The heat that flooded your face burned through your mask of composure. “I am not--”

“Enough.” The sadness that bled into that single word made it a plea instead of an order. “I did not come to reopen discussions on the matter. Especially not if denials are all you have left to say to me.”

“Then pray tell, what has my lord come for?” you challenged him behind your icy courtesy. “How else may I serve you, Éomer King?”

The hurt that crossed his face came on so suddenly, looked so profound and real, it was as though you had physically struck him. He stared at you in a dead silence, and you forced yourself to hold his gaze while you held your breath, guilt sinking into your gut from the knowledge that you were the wretch who had gone too far. 

“Nothing,” he said quietly. “Clearly there is nothing more to say, other than farewell.”

He picked up his cloak, turned, and left, leaving you utterly dumbfounded, staring at the door that slammed shut behind him.

The longest seconds of your life passed before your shock and indecision were overcome by a wild hysteria that made your entire body grow cold.

You leapt for the door and wrenched it open, and stepped into the downpour in time to see him vanish around the corner of the house, heading back to the stables. 

The loss of him from your sight smashed through your bravado, and you cried out into the storm. 

“Éomer!!”

Before you could grasp your reasoning for why you did it, or what you planned to do next, he reappeared, every footstep leaving puddles as his approach backed you up into the cottage. His eyes bore down at you, his expression now guarded and inscrutable and expectant. Gusting wind drove in sprinkles of rain through the door left open and ignored. 

I am sorry. The whisper sitting on the tip of your tongue was smothered by a hostile inner voice. 

Let him go. It is your duty. It is what’s right.

But your stolid face collapsed under the weight of your anguish. A grimace squeezed out the tears that blinded your eyes, finally betraying your shameful truth. I do love you, Éomer. 

Gentle fingers settled lightly over your lips, stilling their feeble quivering. A voice even warmer and more tender than this touch eased your struggle.

“I do not need words. This is enough.”

As the hardened pads of those fingers brushed across the plane of your cheek, you closed your eyes and at once forgot all else that existed. Such was the power of his touch that for years you so vigilantly avoided, until that fateful moment of weakness after the coronation exposed your secret. That moment could never be undone, no matter how hard you tried to bury the truth now.

Éomer murmured your name, his breath warm on your temple, and then his hands stilled where they lightly cupped your face. In that pause lay a question, and the last time you answered it, you had hurt him. Foolish liar that you were.

“Yes.” The whisper passed from your lips to his as his mouth wasted no time seeking yours. You clasped your hands around the back of his neck, urging him closer as your own hunger surged. You felt the tremor that ran through his shoulders when you slipped your tongue against his. How could you have ever chosen to cause him pain, when you could have given him this instead?

He broke the kiss to let you catch your breath, but nuzzled your chin upward to gain access to your neck, so his lips could continue their quest to the hollow of your throat. You gasped at the scrape of his teeth on your collarbone, then moaned when he remedied his offense with reverent strokes of his tongue. His arms wrapped fully around your waist, pulling you greedily against him, fingers threading and tugging at your hair as he moved his worship to your shoulders.

But it was your touch, the scrabble of your hands over his hips and stomach as you held on to him for balance, that elicited a low growl. In just a few hurried steps, he backed you to the furthest corner of the cottage, until the side of the bed hit the back of your legs.

Your name was still the only thing he could utter, muffled in between the kisses he could not stop lavishing on every bit of your skin he could reach. Your hands found their way to his hips again, this time  sneaking underneath the wet fabric that clung to his torso, then brazenly gliding upward, past his belly to the taut muscles of his chest, high enough for your thumb to circle his nipple.

An ungentlemanly word suddenly rumbled from Éomer King's throat, so startled was he by the sensual touch. Within moments his shirt lay discarded on the floor, your back made contact with the mattress, and there he was, leaning over you, bare from the waist up to your hungry eyes. You gave yourself an extra second to appreciate the sight before hooking a hand over his nape to yank him back into a kiss. The fervor in his response left you writhing and whimpering and completely vulnerable in your weakness. 

A deep haze settled over you as you began to lose yourself to the pleasure of his ministrations. With every inch of you, you wanted this, and the way your body reacted to his every action, shaking in desperation for more, would surely tell him that. And yet… yet as you felt his fingers grope for the fastenings of your dress, felt his palm brush the back of your knee to your thigh, felt his hardness press against your hip… something inside of you jerked in reawakened panic.

“Éomer. W-wait.”

So soft was the protest, you were not even sure you had said the words aloud. But almost immediately, Éomer stopped and pulled back. He took one look at you, your disheveled state, and whatever expression lay on your face, and he sat up fully, turning away, dragging your heart out of your chest with him.

“Éomer, please. I am… I just…”

“No, I understand and I agree. To carry on would be unwise.”

He rubbed both hands roughly over his face, shaking away the stupor induced by his desire.

“All these years I have ordered the men to give you the respect you are due. I cannot risk your virtue or reputation now, however long I have wanted this. Wanted you.”

You moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. “You are my King, and it is my duty to protect you and your reputation. We must behave prudently.”

He nodded, but still looked so pained you could not help but lift your hand to try to soothe the scowl from his face. He angled his head to kiss the inside of your wrist.

“I will have you,” he muttered, his diverted gaze making it seem more a promise to himself than to you. But when he turned his eyes back on you, the wanton lust pooling in them stirred the heat in your belly. “I will wait for the right circumstances, however long it may take, but I will have you.”

He rose and walked a few steps across the room, perhaps in need of distance from you. As he stood closer to the fireplace, the light illuminated a view so rarely seen by anyone, many people in Rohan had come to believe that Éomer was simply hale and hard of body beyond the limits of mortal men. 

The numerous scars that decorated his body testified to both his fragility and his strength. Many of his wounds had been tended to by you on the battlefield, carrying terrible memories that were now also moments of pride and achievement that you shared with him. 

Éomer seemed to feel your intent gaze upon him, and he stretched out a hand to you, beckoning you to rejoin him. As soon as you were within reach, he wrapped his arms around you again, drawing you against him, sighing contently as your touch drifted over the bare skin of his chest and shoulders.

Your hand moved with intention, skimming down to his lower abdomen, probing carefully for the large scar you knew sat just below his ribcage. That injury was less than two years old. It still amazed you how it had managed to heal with little issue, under the constant strain of the many violent battles Éomer fought in since. 

So close. A chill ran through you as the memory rose unbidden: you pressing down hard to staunch the bleeding, screaming for someone to help carry the barely conscious Marshal to the nearest shelter, where you could safely attempt to clean and suture the wound. If the orc blade had sunk in only a fraction of an inch deeper, it would have been beyond anyone's power to save him. You came too close to losing him that day.

Eomer's lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he interrupted your reminiscence with a whisper. “How can you still doubt that we belong together, when already you are part of me?” 

Your fingers passed over several other scars from injuries you had tended to over the years, and came to rest over the tattoo on his upper right arm. The black dragon curled around the edge of his shoulder was identical in design and location to the mark borne by every rider in your Éored. Your possession of that dragon mark bound you to Éomer intimately, but also defined your role in his life. Sharing his bed, or even being with him just once, was not your place.

“None of these give me any right to claim you,” you said softly. “You must still marry. And it is your duty to marry well.”

He caught your elbow as you started to move your hand away, and guided it back to slide over his waist, to rest over the scar once more, willing you to hold fast to the memory it carried, and hold fast to him.

“What does it mean to marry? Is it not just the giving of one's entire self--mind and body, heart and soul--to another?”

He hooked a finger underneath your chin, urging your downcast gaze to rise and meet his.

“How am I to dispose of things that are no longer in my possession? I have long been taken, solely and utterly, by you.”

And with that gaze he set upon you, you wondered: how many glances must have he given you in secret all these years, with eyes that burned with something more than the devotion of one comrade-in-arms to another? What willful blindness had you clung to for years, for you not to have noticed it?

“I must fulfill my duties to Rohan, this is true. But not even a king can be asked to do the impossible.”

“But to wed a great king to a lowly servant--” You shook your head. “Many would argue that is the real impossibility.”

A new expression akin to anger flashed across Éomer’s face. Before you could wonder what you might have done wrong, he dropped to his knees before you, both knees, his hands wrapped tightly around yours.

“My lord!” you cried, aghast that he would debase himself, even in private. You tried to force him back up, but he would not budge.

“Never speak of yourself as lowly again,” he admonished. “King or peasant, there is nothing more lowly or humbled than a man so wretchedly in love, as I am with you.”

“Éomer…” You sank to the floor with him. “If only things were so simple. I wish it could all happen as you say, but I just do not see how. I do not know what can be done.”

“Let me hold your love for a while longer, and wait for me,” he said gently. “That is all I ask. The rest is mine to accomplish. As long as your heart is mine, and I know you have given it to me freely, I will fight for my right to keep it.”

You felt his grip around your fingers grow tense in the long seconds of silence that followed. At last, you brought his knuckles to your lips, kissing the hands you adored with such devotion.

“When you leave, you shall take my heart with you,” you whispered into his palm. “But I fear it will be a greater challenge than you believe, to keep others from wresting such an unsuitable offering from your hands.” 

“They may certainly try, if they wish to test me.” The ice in his tone unsettled you, even though that veiled threat was certainly not for you, while the warm caress on your cheek was. “Not for a moment will I appear unclear or undecided when it comes to my intentions towards you. I will never make that mistake again.”

“B-but the Council of Eorl. The lords…”

“They answer to the King,” Éomer interrupted. “Do not privileges, as well as duties, come with this crown? Trust me. Please.” He bowed to rest his forehead against yours. “While we are parted, I will prove to you that it can be done, that I will do whatever I must to marry you, and to honor and protect you thereafter.”

“Marry?” you murmured. The idea still seemed no more than a ludicrous fantasy. But then Éomer kissed you again, deeply, as though determined to memorize the taste of your lips, urging you to focus on the present moment. 

Because he was yours, even if just for that night. Even if by dawn, it could all crumble under the pressures of the world outside these walls. Éomer loved you, and held you in such high regard to want you as his wife and queen. You would swear to anyone that this knowledge alone was already a dream fulfilled. 

And yet. If you were brave enough to hope, maybe…just maybe, this would not be the last impossibility to come true for you. 

* * *

They do not know. Hundreds of Gondor’s citizens bearing streamers and flowers lined the streets of Minas Tirith that morning to join King Elessar in sending off the departing Eorlingas. But it occurred to Éomer how strange it felt that none of them had any awareness of a matter that was not only monumental for him personally, but carried significant consequences for all of Rohan.

Soon that will change, the young king vowed to himself. Soon his Council will hear the truth, and afterward all of Rohan, and then the rest of their allies. But for the moment, discretion--no matter how bitter the pretense tasted. 

No one except for Lord Boromir and his betrothed, the lovely Lady Aerdis, who both stood next to her, understood what truly lay underneath the courteous gestures exchanged between the King of Rohan and his shield-maiden. A simple bow, an exchange of a few words, and a locking of gazes that was all too brief. Had they not spent that one evening together, Éomer would have remained trapped in the false belief of her indifference towards him. The memory of her kisses would have to suffice for a while, and he could only hope he had given her enough to remember him by, as well. 

He brushed the edge of his hand over his lips just as he turned away, and forced his feet to carry him down the line of assembled well-wishers. 

A noticeable hush descended on the crowd of onlookers as Éomer came to the end of the road where, closest to the ruins of the Great Gate, the King of Gondor himself met him, flanked by none other than Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth, and his only daughter.

“Lady Lothíriel.” As Éomer took the hand she courteously offered him and brushed a kiss on her fingers, he became aware of the wan smiles that surrounded them, and the unsubtle tittering of a few ladies watching. “Your presence this morning is an unexpected and most delightful gift.”

Lothíriel was astonishingly beautiful indeed, with such radiant grace and sweet smiles, that it would not have surprised Éomer if many citizens of the White City came out just to catch a glimpse of her. “I wish you, Lady Éowyn, and all your men a safe journey, your Grace,” she said. “And may you have great success in your labors, so that we can soon celebrate your speedy return.”

“You are kind, my lady. I certainly hope for the same,” replied Éomer. “We leave behind treasure beyond price here and shall be eager to return for our own.”

Two Rohan lords had already swooped in to engage Imrahil in quiet conversation, and only stepped aside when Éomer himself approached to exchange farewells. Éomer’s admiration for the Prince only grew the more he learned about him and spent time with him, but the unabashed thirst of his counselors for Dol Amroth’s friendship irritated him. Yet another issue he intended to settle in the ordering of his House’s affairs. 

Finally, Éomer came before Elessar, who embraced him tightly and honored him with a bow, from one king to another. “Worry not, my brother,” the man once called Aragorn said quietly to him. “I shall see to it that they are cared for, these ones whom you so dearly love.”

He smiled at the look of mixed wonder and apprehension on Éomer’s face, and dipped his head in another show of reassurance and of farewell.

With that, the Rohirrim set off on the North-way in a procession over a mile long, accompanied by the fanfare from the people that continued to line the road stretching across Pelennor. Countless flags in a multitude of colors and sigils from the different regions of Gondor fluttered in the air, and from every direction, enthusiastic cheering and waving followed the Riders across the fields.

At the head of the procession, behind his standard bearer and with Éowyn at his side, Éomer quickly fell into a brooding silence that did not escape his sister’s notice. 

“I truly did not think I would ever see the day when the two of you would be willingly separated,” she said lightly. When Éomer looked at her with raised eyebrows, she shrugged. “I am sure you have good reasons for choosing her to stay behind with our uncle.” 

“Many reasons,” Éomer grunted. 

Éowyn regarded him thoughtfully. “Has the time finally come when you would allow yourself to be open with me about these reasons? And the other concerns weighing on your mind and heart? It is just you and I now, Éomer,” she said softly, stretching out her hand to him.  “I may not have uncle’s experience or Théodred’s cunning, but I love you beyond words, and would do anything to see you happy. Let me help you.”

Éomer smiled at this, and reached over to take her hand and squeeze it. “Perhaps I can aspire to the happiness you have found with Lord Faramir.”

“Having my affections stolen by a High Man was not what I aspired to,” said Éowyn, trying to look annoyed but unable to hide the blush on her cheeks. “But love, it seems, is the wildest beast of all. It will not be tamed, or bridled, or even reasoned with. It goes where it wills. Éomer…” Éowyn’s sweet face turned stern. “You have suffered enough, and have been forced to carry so many burdens, not least of all our uncle’s crown, which I know you never wanted.”

“It is my honor to take the throne in Uncle and Théodred’s stead,” Éomer said firmly. “And why do you make assumptions about the things I want?”

“I know who it is you have wanted, for a long time now,” Éowyn said with a stout confidence that took Éomer aback. “You are discreet, brother. But I have watched you and looked out for you, more closely than you realize.”

Éomer shook his head. “I am still learning the many ways I have been underestimating you, Éowyn. Soon I shall believe myself unworthy of your care or help.”

“Someone has to care for you, during the frequent times you would not.” Éowyn glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were still out of hearing range of the rest of his Éored. “Especially now that you have left her behind.” 

Éomer pressed his lips in a tight line and returned his gaze to the road ahead. “I will be back,” he said. “There is much to do in Rohan before then, but with Uncle waiting in the Hallows, I can hardly afford to dawdle or delay.” 

And she is waiting. Éomer caught a glimpse of his sister’s suppressed smile that told him she had already thought the same thing. Another person with strong opinions to contend with.

Éomer spurred Firefoot forward to signal the standard bearer, who promptly blew one quick blast on his horn. As the King took off in a steady gallop, the thunder of hooves rose behind him as nearly a thousand other Rohirrim picked up their pace to match his, drowning out the excited shouts of the Gondorians that started them off at last to their journey home.

Men Tag List: @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @achromaticerebus @aduialel @asianbutnotjapanese @auttumnsayshi @blueberryrock @elan-ho-detto-elan-15 @entishramblings @fizzyxcustard @glassgulls @heilith @heranintomyknife23times @konartiste @ladyweaslette @laneynoir @lathalea @quickslvxrr @scyllas-revenge @talkdifferently6 @emmanuellececchi @ass-deep-in-demons @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @alwayssevvy

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[queenariesofnarnia]

a drinking game and pretty names 🍻

legolas x f!reader

a/n: here's a little ficlet no one asked for. i felt like writing it because i just did an extended edition marathon of the hobbit and lord of the rings :) it was also the first movies i ever wrote fanfics for 🤭

gif not mine

wc:375

You couldn’t help but let out your laughter as you watched Legolas and Gimli participate in their drinking game. Legolas looks unfazed by the drinks and Gimli is a drink away from sleeping on the floor in the Golden Hall tonight. You were nursing the pint of ale in your hand as you stand next to Éomer.

 “Here, here. It’s the Dwarves that go swimming with little, hairy women” Gimli belches. Causing you to snort taking a drink to cover it up.

“I feel something. A slight tingle in my fingers. I think it’s affecting me” Legolas says admiring his fingers. You shake your head laughing.

“What did I say? He can’t hold his liquor” Gimli’s words a bit slurred before his eyes cross and he falls to the floor. Laughter roars around the table.

“Game over” Legolas says shrugging, you join his side wishing Éomer a good night if you don’t cross paths again tonight. You link arms with the inebriated Legolas heading outside to enjoy the crisp night air and the stars.

“Did you have fun mellon?”(friend) your ask as you let go of his arm. He catches your hand before your arm drops to your side.

“I did meleth nîn”  (my love) he answered, the term of endearment throwing you off guard. You avert your eyes to the stars above instead of your entangled fingers. He gently calls to you to catch your attention. your eyes meet his piercing gaze. “You have such a pretty name, though meleth nîn suits you perfectly”

“So drinking games cause you to use endearments enril nîn?” (my prince) a smirk on your face as you question him getting over your bashfulness.

“The drinking game simply gave me the courage to use the endearment I’ve been waiting to call you for a long time” he says cupping your face with his free hand.

“For what it’s worth I think you have a pretty name as well. But I can always call you melethron”(masc.lover)  you suggest closing the gap. you could feel the crisp air dance along your face, but you focused on how his steady breathing fanned your lips. glancing from your eyes to your lips one last time he pulled you in for an overdue kiss.

end note: if anyone reads this thank you :) if not thats fine too!

[shirefantasies]

Horse-Maid- Eomer x F!Reader

I’ve been really wanting to do more one-shots, so here we are- enjoy this short little imagine 😘

“What happened to you, huh?”

Chuckling, you bent down to take up a brush. Sneoan, your horse, had somehow gotten a mess of leaves and brush tangled in his pure-white mane. Smiling at the way your horse’s eyes fluttered shut in contentment, you gently dragged the brush through the tangles, working out the leaves from the coarse hair with your fingers.

Your father had long cared for that stable, but ill health of late had driven him to grant its care to you, his eldest daughter. And with joy had you said yes! Your people’s love of horses carried naturally into your heart even without the wonder of seeing how your father groomed and sometimes armored your proud Riders’ mounts. Truly the trust he had for you to continue it was an honor.

Sneoan suddenly turned his head; you followed, gaze tracking the swing of stable doors. Thuds of boots and rustles of the hay littering the ground alerted you further to the presence of another.

“Where is Havner?” No malice colored the man’s tone, just a serious inquiry.

Finally turning around, you were met with an expression of curiosity across a face that perfectly matched his tone. Long golden hair fell to his shoulders and around the look of regal inquiry, swept as it was away from his dark eyes.

“Retired,” you replied simply, eyes trailing lightly across the man’s features as one of your hands still combed Sneoan’s mane.

The man’s brows arched and rose. “Ah, I see. That is news to me. Well, would you mind terribly directing me to the new master of the stable?”

Your hand finally faltered, a single freed leaf fluttering to the floor. “That would be me. Which of these fine horses is your mount?”

“You?”

“Yes.” A faint frown began creasing your forehead- for all his looks, was this man truly that dense?

“Never before have I seen a stable in the hands of a horse-maid,” he remarked.

Striding over to the wall where you rehung your hoof pick, you shrugged and gave a small roll of your eyes, not that the man could probably see it. “Well, now you have.”

“Why did Havner choose you?” He pressed on, shuffling closer as you tidied.

“My father chose me after years of training and even observing the farriers,” you countered, crossing your arms and smirking drily, “and if you really still doubt me, ride with me. See who completes the circuit faster.”

Apparently forgetting whatever errand had been at hand, the man shrugged lightly with a cocky look of his own. "Very well. Let's."

~

Sneoan saw you through. It was a tight race, but in the end you pulled ahead, creating a respectable difference in your finishes. Turning around, you fixed the stable man with a pointed look of satisfaction.

“You have bested me.” His grace and decency met you such that you felt shock; you’d expected more fight, greater upset at loss.

Your mouth opened once to speak, twice, before a reply emerged, your ire nearly all drained. “Indeed I have,” you replied, easing the grip you had on your reins as the both of you slowed down, “so?”

“So,” he shot back, “you have proven yourself a more than worthy heir to your father’s work.”

Squinting in the sun as you may have been, you caught the glint of pride in the man’s dark eyes. “You know, you are quite like my sister. You have spirit. She would be very fond of you.”

“Sounds as though she is of sound judgment,” you teased as your horse trotted evenly aside his, inclining your head his way.

“Indeed she is!” He chuckled, shaking some golden hair off his shoulder.

You smiled. “So, may I finally know my opponent’s name?”

The almost childish look of surprise that dashed across his face was something you couldn’t help a giggle at, feeling another rosy rush of warmth to your face complementing the sun’s touch.

“I never…” He cleared his throat, finally returning to his look of gentle stoicism. “Yes, well, my name is Éomer, son of Éomund. At your service.”

You gave your name in turn. “And I, it would seem, at yours. Your horse there? He’s a good one. Always puts up with my prodding. Don’t you, sir?” Reaching across to bridge the gap, you stroked the flowing mane of Éomer’s horse.

Leaning to look back up, you were surprised at the intensity in your fellow rider’s gaze, his eyes boring into yours. “He knows a good hand when he sees it. Might we do this again someday?”

“Have a race?” You replied, perhaps a bit dumbly, beneath that stare.

“I could try my hand at a rematch.” A smile teased upon his lips. “Or we could simply ride together. Whatever you prefer that day, I suppose. I will be happy for the company. What say you, horse-maid?”

[todayontumblr]

Tuesday, August 15.

Welcome to Planet of the Bass.

He is The Man of The Hour. All appeared lost as we entered the first days of August, 2023, with still no Song of the Summer to call our own. At this darkest moment, one man and one woman appeared on the horizon; like Gandalf and Éomer in the east, overlooking Helm's Deep. Only where Gandalf brought shadowfax, the morning light, and 2,000 riders, this summer, DJ Crazy Times and Ms. Biljana Electronica bring nothing but bass, bass, baggy crop tops, Y2K club outfits, more bass, and skiing goggles. And we simply cannot thank them enough. So if you have spent the last week pondering the big questions, like how life, it never die, or if women are your favorite guy, then know that today there is nothing to be sad: #planet of the bass is released, in full, today. Everybody, movement.

And did we mention a Tumblr-exclusive DJ Crazy Times Spotlight?

That's right. The man himself has sat down with us to answer the internet's burning questions in this latest Spotlight over at @music. His all-time gladdest rhythm? Other long-lost staples of the 90s he would love to bring back? What he would do during a cyber system overload? It's all here. We'll be seeing you in an undisclosed warehouse in an disclosed city in an undisclosed Eastern European nation.

And bring skiing goggles x

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

Turning Points

Pairing: Éomer x reader (who doesn’t want to imagine themselves hanging out with Éomer??). Plus an Elfhelm cameo because I love that dude.

Summary: Éomer’s lifelong best friend reckons with how much and how quickly his life has changed as a result of the war and wonders what that means for the life she had hoped to have with him.

************

The clear, deep sound of horns rang out in the distance and alerted all of Edoras to the imminent arrival of the army, home for the first time since that urgent, panicked ride to Helm’s Deep more than two months ago. Although word of their subsequent deeds and victories in Gondor had already reached the city, many details were yet unknown, and the mood of those who gathered in the streets was celebratory but tinged with anxiety as hopeful eyes prepared to scan the returning éoreds for a first glimpse of deeply missed loved ones.

The terrace in front of Meduseld quickly filled with people, and you slipped easily into the crowd as the first few companies of horsemen began to climb the hill. The riders smiled broadly at the cheers and flowers that rained down on them, though some still bore clear evidence of painful wounds and fractures. Others led behind them riderless horses, the mounts of those soldiers who would never return. You whispered a quiet prayer of gratitude, knowing from the messengers who had gone back and forth from Minas Tirith that both of those most precious to you were safely in the host.

No sooner had you finished your prayer than a cry went up from the crowd–“Hail, Elfhelm, Marshal of Edoras!”—and your father came into view. As gregarious as he was popular, he played shamelessly to the crowd, doffing his stallion-crested helmet and waving a shield that had clearly been confiscated from some defeated Haradrim commander. When his eyes finally landed on you, he gave a joyful whoop and sprang from the saddle. Throwing the helmet and shield aside, he ran to you with the speed of a much younger man, and the strength of his embrace forced the breath from your lungs. He spun you around several times as you kissed his sunburned cheeks, and when he placed you on your feet again he grasped your shoulders and gazed for a long moment at your face.

“Many nights have I dreamed of just this view,” he said. “There is no finer one in all of Middle Earth.”

You gave his hands a squeeze. “I have not known a moment’s peace since you left. Now that you are back, I may never let you leave again.”

“I am at your command, my lady,” he said with a smile and an exaggerated bow. “But I do not flatter myself so much as to think that I am the only one you have been missing. The royal household will be arriving soon, and I am certain you are as eager to see the new king as he must be to see you.”

Your heart leaped in your chest at the mention of Éomer, but this was not the time or the place to open the gate that held back those feelings. “For my part, I shall certainly be glad to see him home and safe. But a man such as Éomer has many friends, and no doubt he desires to see them all.”

He burst into laughter. “Do you speak such nonsense on purpose, or have I really raised you to be so naive? I know that you do not admit it to others, and perhaps not even between yourselves, but I have watched the two of you for many years now and I know love when I see it. Let us not pretend you are just one friend among many, a single star in a crowded sky. You are his sun, just as he is yours. I may be old, but I am certainly not blind.”

Your face flushed in pain and embarrassment. If your father had perceived all of this, likely others had, too. It was true that you loved Éomer, and you had always believed he loved you back. You felt his devotion in the way he trusted you and watched out for you, in the look on his face when you walked into a room. But neither of you had ever stated it outright. Perhaps you had been wrong all along, reading a great deal too much into a cherished friendship. Or perhaps what he felt was no longer relevant given his new responsibilities and duties. Either way, when Éomer married another in a few months' time, your crushed hopes would be on display for the whole city to see and discuss.

“Things have changed, father. You know that. The Éomer that I have known all my life was Éomund’s son. He was not heir to the throne of Rohan and certainly not its king. His life is very different now from the one we might have expected just months ago when Théodred was still alive.”

He sighed. “Much has happened, I concede. He has gone from nephew to heir to king. He nearly lost his sister. He comes home with much to reflect on. But his heart itself has not changed.”

“Has it not?” Despite your best efforts, your voice broke and tears began to slide down your cheeks. “Then what of the news that has already made its way back here in advance of your return? Amongst word of your victories and the death of poor Théoden, it also said that Éomer is to marry the princess of Dol Amroth. They say she is considered a proper match for a king of the Mark, and that none less than the new king of Gondor himself proposed it. If I have heard this, surely you have, too.”

Your father reached up to gently brush a tear aside. “Anyone who would claim that you–the finest woman in all of Rohan–are not a proper match for our own king does not have sense enough to offer an opinion on the subject. I have heard this talk of Dol Amroth, it is true, but I have not heard any of it from Éomer’s own lips. And I will not believe it unless I do. His choice was made long ago. You will see.” He put a finger under your chin and tipped your face up to him. “Now, I would stay here and debate this with you all day if your mother were not surely waiting for me at home. And if she thinks I have not hurried there with sufficient speed, she will soon accomplish what all the swordsmen of Harad could not!”

You smiled in spite of yourself and kissed him one last time before he remounted his horse. He gave you a wink as he rode on, and you dried your eyes before turning back to the procession of riders making their way forward.

Before long, the king’s banner appeared at the bottom of the hill. Even at that distance, it was easy to identify Éomer among the many men of his household–you would always recognize his frame and the way he carried himself even if he were not wearing his distinctive horse-tailed helmet and sitting astride Firefoot, who had now been arrayed with a saddle and bridle that sparkled with the gold of a monarch.

As he came into closer view, you could begin to discern the new trappings of royalty–the beautiful green cloak trimmed with shining gold embroidery, the neatly braided hair, the fur-lined boots. But underneath these superficial changes, he still looked like your Éomer. The same man who shared with you a lifetime of confidences and mischief and private jokes. The one who cried in your arms when he missed his parents. Who doted on you whenever you were sick and angrily confronted anyone he thought had hurt your feelings. Who stole your breath every time he turned his hazel eyes and dimpled smile in your direction.

His company dismounted near the bottom of the terrace, and he moved toward the stairs, trailed by attendants, guards and throngs of well-wishers eager to greet their new king. The clamor presented a perfect opportunity to slip away now that you had confirmed with your own eyes that he was safe and unharmed. It was the coward’s way out, but even one more day before you had to directly confront your new reality would be a gift. Just as you began to turn away, however, the sound of his voice carried over the tumult, calling your name.

You froze in place as he approached, feeling immediately uncertain of everything–how to stand, where to look, what to do. A lifetime of affectionate greetings and easy companionship had not prepared you to meet under these circumstances, not as intimate friends but as ruler and subject. Beloved and left behind. Hearing nothing but the sound of your own blood pulsing in your veins, you bowed and looked down.

“Hail, Éomer King.” When you finally raised your eyes, you could see uncertainty written on his face as well. He took another step toward you but stopped, and tentatively reached out a hand before dropping it back to his side. He looked in both directions, where dozens of attentive faces observed his every move.

“I am glad to see you,” he said quietly. His eyes sought yours, and when you allowed them to meet he gave you a soft smile. “I have missed you.”

“I…I am much relieved to see you home. These have been long and anxious months.”

Before either of you could speak again, an armored man at Éomer’s side cleared his throat and nodded in the direction of Meduseld. “You are expected in the hall, my lord. There is much business awaiting your attention, including messages due both to Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth.”

The mention of Dol Amroth sent an icy stab of pain into your chest, and you shrank back several steps, seeking a swift retreat. “Go ahead, my lord,” you managed to say. “A king’s duties must come first.”

His thick brows drew together and he frowned slightly, but eventually he nodded his assent. Your feet carried you away and down a maze of small streets and back alleys, picking up speed as you got further from the crowd, until at last you reached the edge of the city and disappeared into the surrounding fields and paddocks. You cast yourself down in the tall, sweet-smelling grass, shedding tears until you had none left and then staring up dolefully at the flat, blank sky. No matter how you considered and reconsidered your position, only two excruciating choices seemed to lay before you–either to find a new way to love Éomer, shorn of all romantic possibility and content to exist on the terms available to you, or to lose him entirely from your life. The first option felt beyond your strength, but the second was utterly unthinkable.

Uncounted hours passed until it began to darken and torches and candles sparked to life in the distance. Miserable and cold but not yet ready to join the revelry of your family, you wandered back to the city and found yourself headed to the old tack room at the marshal’s stables. Ever since childhood, the abandoned little storage space had served as a private spot to meet your friends, talk or simply to think, and during the war you had spent many hours there alone ruthlessly poring over your fears and concerns.

Throwing open the door and expecting to find it empty as always, you instead walked straight into Éomer, practically bouncing off his chest as he stood just past the threshold. Gone were the outward adornments of royalty, and he looked as you were accustomed to seeing him—simple clothing, well-used boots, hair in loose waves on his shoulders. “Éomer! I mean….I’m sorry. Excuse me, my lord.”

He grimaced a little. “Please, that is not necessary here. Not when it is us. I would like one piece of my old life that is familiar, someone who will still treat me not as king but as myself. I thought you might be here and hoped we could talk as we always have.”

He sat on an old saddle trunk and looked up at you expectantly. Here now was the first opportunity to test your strength—to be there for him simply as a friend and see if you could endure it—and so you nodded and sat next to him.

He was quiet at first, looking around the room and seeming lost in thought. The issue of his pending marriage felt to you like a heavy, palpable presence in the room, but you did not have the heart to raise the subject yet. Instead, you clasped your arms around yourself and waited for him to speak, to give some indication of what he was thinking.

“Do you remember my fifteenth birthday?” he asked suddenly.

“Your…fifteenth birthday? Yes, I think so.” Fragments of distant memories quickly reassembled in your mind. “That was the night you dragged a stolen cask of ale in here, wasn’t it? And then you drank more than half of it all on your own.”

“Which meant you had to spend the rest of the night holding back my hair while I experienced the consequences.”

You smiled. “Yes. Though I experienced some of your consequences, too, if I recall. Those shoes were never the same again.”

He snorted a laugh, and for just a moment things felt almost normal again. Easy and light, as they had been when you were just those two coltish teenagers, having fun and testing the limits of your adolescent independence. But as the laughter faded, the awkwardness returned and his face turned serious.

“I am sorry about this morning.” He shook his head slowly. “That was not how I imagined our reunion, but everything has become so difficult and formal now. I have few moments to myself or chances to do as I once would.”

You could hear in his voice the strain of this adjustment to always being the focus of attention, to being one who is honored and deferred to instead of one who is engaged with. No wonder he was thinking of earlier, simpler days. You longed to comfort him, to take his hand or sit with your head against his shoulder. “Do not apologize,” you said instead. “I understand that you have new demands on you. I regret only that I was not able to tell you how sorry I am about your uncle. I will miss his kind heart.”

He nodded. “Thank you. I take comfort in knowing that he would be proud of what his death achieved.”

Another small silence ensued before he looked up and smiled at you. “But now I must apologize again,” he said, “for I have not yet asked after you. Please, tell me how you have been since we last saw each other.”

You gave a dismissive wave of your hand. “There is not much to tell, at least nothing to stand alongside the great tales we have already heard of your heroic deeds.”

“I do not ask for great tales,” he insisted. “I want only to hear about you and what I have missed, great or small.”

“Well, what you missed were endless hours of inventories and supplies and checklists and stockpiles. Many of the men who typically see to those basic concerns were injured or killed at Helm’s Deep, or they were called away to your muster. So I filled my days with work that they would have done…tracking stores of food and medicine and equipment, ensuring they were sent where they were most needed, planning for replenishments when stocks ran low. It was nothing I have ever done before, obviously, but I am careful with numbers and can keep good records, which is most of what was required.”

He chuckled. “Old Elfhelm has always been so proud that his daughter is one of the few in Rohan to read and write. I heard him bragging as much to one of Lord Elrond’s sons back in Gondor.”

You smiled and shrugged. “That certainly sounds like him. He has never lacked paternal enthusiasm. Or the confidence to share his enthusiasm with literally anyone.”

“That is true, but he is right to be proud. You should be proud as well. Hunger and disease often follow in war’s footsteps, even for the victors, and that has not been allowed to happen here despite the destruction of so many villages and farms and the absence of so many of the normal laborers. That is a service any king would value.”

Your cheeks bloomed a bright red, and he smiled at your discomfort with praise. In truth, though, you were quite proud of what you had accomplished, and it was only hearing the praise from his lips that sent waves of warm color to your face. “Thank you,” you mumbled at last.

He seemed on the verge of speaking again, but instead he leaned back against the wall and contemplated the floor for several long moments. His knee jogged quickly up and down, a nervous tic he’d had ever since boyhood. Before you could ask what was troubling him, however, he looked up with an unsettling intensity.

“May I ask you something? And you will respond to me honestly, no matter what?”

His earnest tone sparked a flare of anxiety in your chest. Was this the moment when he intended to tell you of his engagement? When you would have to somehow react to this news with the graciousness and dignity you knew were required? “I will certainly try.”

He took a deep breath and winced slightly in anticipation of speaking. “I have spent many hours now reflecting on things that Éowyn related to me before I left Gondor. How she did not feel that she was able to live the life she wanted when she was here. That she could not be who she was meant to be simply because she was born a woman. I am ashamed that I was blind to the causes of her unhappiness and that she did not feel that she could confide her true feelings to me earlier. But having failed her then, I worry now that I may have failed others in my life as well. Others who are equally important to me.”

He suddenly turned and grasped your forearms, repositioning you both so that you now sat face to face rather than side by side.

“If you have ever felt that same unhappiness or believed that I was not willing or able to understand your feelings, will you now forgive me? I would not want anyone else to suffer as Éowyn did, and least of all you.”

Your heart broke a little at his words. It broke for Éomer, who would sooner give his life than intentionally hurt someone he cared for, and it broke for Éowyn, whose full feelings had never before been revealed to you. But, hearing now how she had felt, something in her words resonated with a deep part of you, reverberating off a chord you had not always been consciously aware of. You thought carefully for several moments before responding.

“If you ask me whether I ever resented you or the life that I led, the answer is no. I have always trusted in you above all others, and my life never felt anything but normal to me. But I, too, have reflected on these last months, and perhaps I can now better understand Éowyn’s mind.”

He nodded, encouraging you to continue.

“Amid the tragedy of these days, I found some purpose and meaning in the work I did. It was gratifying to feel truly useful for the first time. I did not know it before, as you do not know to miss something you never had, but once that instinct is awakened it is difficult to ignore. It seems it was awakened in Éowyn long ago. But, for myself, I cannot deny that I will now be deeply saddened to lose my sense of purpose once the men are all returned to their old duties and the help of a woman is no longer accepted.”

“Maybe that is not what has to happen,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I would not come to a new understanding of the world, to learn a necessary lesson at a steep cost, only to ignore that lesson and rule my kingdom as though I do not know any better. This will not be a land that I want to rule if half the people must always limit their talents and hopes to fit within the meager bounds afforded to them by the other half.”

His words hung in the air as you struggled to make sense of what you had heard. A chance to share in the great works and deeds of the kingdom, just as the elven women had always done in their own lands? To learn and achieve and stretch yourself in ways that had never before been possible, and not just when dictated by the necessity of war but as a part of everyday life? You had scarcely the courage to even dream of such a thing, but now it was being offered to you. And you knew you wanted it. “I will be the first to stand behind you in any such effort,” you say at last. “But what you suggest is a radical departure from the way that things have been for all the years of our history, indeed from the way that they have always been in all the lands of men. There may be strong opposition to change.”

“I do not fear a difficult task if I know it to be necessary. I will see it done.” He paused and gently picked up your hand to hold it between both of his. “Though I would be aided by the help of a capable queen. One who will rule with me, not as a token or a symbol, but as a true partner.”

His touch sent a jolt of lightning through your arm, and you looked down at your hand to watch his thumb run lightly back and forth over your wrist. It left a trail of fire on your skin. “I…Well, I do not think I understand. Surely you mean Prince Imrahil’s daughter?”

“Imrahil’s daughter?” He looked startled. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because news of a royal engagement travels quickly, perhaps faster than you realize. Half of Edoras has already heard about you and the princess of Dol Amroth.”

“Then half of Edoras has heard wrong.”

A small gasp escaped your lips before you could act to hold it back. You looked up into his eyes and drew a shallow breath. “Then…then you have changed your mind?”

“I have not, but only because it never needed changing. I am certain that any daughter of Imrahil is a good and worthy woman, but I declined that match when it was suggested. Any report to the contrary is the result of confusion or rumor. It is true that I am ready for marriage, but I do not wish to bind myself forever to someone I barely know. To someone whose heart and mind I do not yet fully understand. Not when my own heart has long been reserved for one who I already know to be the best of women.” He drew your hand up and pressed it tightly to his chest, where you could feel the steady, strong beat of that heart against your fingertips. “If she will have me.”

All the world seemed suddenly still, as though you were balanced precariously on the crest of a hill, waiting for the last tip forward that would send you rushing headlong down into a new and joyous life. You opened your mouth to respond but found that no words would come. Instead, you raised a hand to his face, lightly tracing your fingers along his jaw before sinking them into his dark golden hair and pulling him toward you for a kiss that had been decades in the making.

It was worth the wait.

[enchantedflameandflower]

My Karl Urban Masterlist should be completely updated now! If there’s a broken link or a missing drabble please let me know!

I want to give a special shoutout to a handful of recent readers who have gone through and liked every part of my long Billy story Glimmer as they read. You have no idea how much this means to me to see you like each part one after the other as you go along, it literally makes me feel so much love. Thank you so much!!! @integalacticspacemonkey @chocolategiverzombie @aaahhal-blog

andddd @dustie-faerie @smallsadjellyfish @purplegirl98 (and to everyone that is reading and has read!) ❤️

I am working on part 39 of this fic and have some fun things coming up. This is my priority so please don’t lose hope! It was a rough summer and an even rougher September, but I never give up, especially not on Billy (or Len or Gavin or John or Éomer or or or) ❤️🫶🏻🫠🔥😍🥰😘🥹😘

[areyouwell]

Characters;

Film:

Logan Howlett

Natasha Romanoff

Wanda Maximoff

Thorin Durin

Fili Durin

Aragorn

Éomer

Éowyn

Anime:

Levi Ackerman (I have a dedicated blog to this man)

Kento Nanami

Satoru Gojo

Ieiri Shoko

Phobophobia: Logan Howlett x Mutant!F!Reader

You'd been away for two years, travelling across America to find mutants before they experienced the worst moments of their lives. Returning from your travels, you find your position taken, your bedroom commandeered, and your heart stolen by a certain new professor.

[dreamlandcreations]

The Heart of the Dark Flame masterlist

Éomer x half elf!Reader

Summary: You follow the Fellowship after they lose Gandalf, only to join them just before they meet the exiled Rohirrim led by Éomer... (another fic inspired by a conversation with @kind-wolf 🖤)

• Éomer masterlist • Main Masterlist • Moodboards masterlist •

Chapter 1 • The Ring

• Éomer masterlist • Main Masterlist • Moodboards masterlist •

• Taglist •

[wordbunch]

✨ wordbunch masterlist ✨

Lord of the Rings/ The Hobbit

➳ HEADCANONS

➳ multiple characters (x reader)

you’re in the fellowship and the hobbits have a crush on you

how the hobbits look after you when you’re sick

the fellowship reacts to you singing

LOTR characters taking care of an overworked partner

the fellowship meeting their partner’s family

how you look after the hobbits when they’re sick

LOTR/TH characters with an extroverted partner

hobbits with a partner whose love language is physical touch

hobbits ft. cuddles and kisses

the fellowship tries to set you up on a date

how they take care of a sick/injured partner

their love song (taylor swift edition) - LOTR characters

their love song (taylor swift edition) - the hobbit characters

how you pamper them when they're stressed/overworked (lotr + th characters)

➳  one character (x reader)

being a ranger with Aragorn

Boromir with a hyper partner who infodumps

➳  multiple characters (no reader)

the fellowship in a college dorm (modern au)

great middle-earth bakeoff (the fellowship)

➳  one character (no reader)

random Pippin headcanons

➳ MULTI-CHAPTER STORIES

“Winter Forest” (Legolas x female reader): part one /// part two /// part three

“One Lifetime With You” (various characters x elf reader): BOROMIR /// FARAMIR

"Hopeless" (Pippin x female reader): part one /// part two

➳ SFW ALPHABETS

Éowyn

Boromir

Éomer

Aragorn

Legolas

Pippin

Frodo

➳ ONE-SHOTS

“better company” (Sam x Reader)

"a little secret" (TH Bilbo x Reader)

The Rings of Power

➳ HEADCANONS

➳ multiple characters (x reader)

how they comfort you when you miss your family (Galadriel, Arondir, Elrond, Celebrimbor, Gil-galad) 

their love song (taylor swift edition) - the rings of power characters

➳  one character (x reader) 

being in love with Elrond

Elrond getting jealous

rivals to lovers with Elrond

Elrond as a dad

➳ SFW ALPHABETS

Elrond

Galadriel

Isildur

➳  ONE-SHOTS

“reminiscence” (Elrond x Reader)

“perfectly proper” (Elrond x Reader)

“strong, brave, lovely” (Elrond x Reader)

"countertop confessions" (Isildur x Reader)

"healer's healer" (Elrond x Reader)

"oh, how unreasonable" (Halbrand x OC/reader)

Random

my re-read of The Hobbit - thoughts

PLEASE CONSIDER REBLOGGING if you enjoyed a fic, so more people can potentially see it!

[staplegrapes]

Mystery Guardian (Éomer Éadig x Reader)

Description: After the battle, you are wounded. You were not supposed to be here. Therefore, you would simply swipe some healing supplies and be on your way. Yet a certain newfound king would not allow it.

Word Count: 1.4k

TW: Canon-typical depictions of violence, blood and battle

A/N: Reader is written as gender neutral, but it is implied for some reason or another they were not supposed to be at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.

✨Gender Neutral Reader✨

It was risky being here, you were well acquainted with that thought given that it ran through your head with every passing second. Though the battle had ended in an apparent victory much blood had been spilled. Scores of men flooded back towards the Houses of Healing and you found yourself contemplating going with them.

You weren't bleeding profusely or had any limbs hanging on by a thread, but you knew if you did not see your wounds tended to, you would likely end up quite ill. Seeing as you had managed to not perish in battle, you thought it may be of interest to not succumb to something much more easily avoided than a blade swinging at our face. Yet, there was the added difficulty of the fact you were not supposed to be in this battle. Your presence unveiled from your helmet would turn heads undoubtedly.

You had a simple plan. Keep your head down and armor on as you weave through the masses of injured and only take what you needed to avoid infection. Many more were in a state much worse than yours. As soon as possible, you make a hasty exit and find a safer spot.

You found it relatively easy to make it within the doors, many men were also still fully suited in their armor. The houses were large, yet the thralls of men easily overtook the resources. The hoards pushed you further into building. The stone archways seemed to get narrower the further you walked, more or less shuffled in further. After some time you noticed a free table with what appeared to be some clean bandages and a wound solution. Quickly, you snagged both and tried to make an exit, but the masses pushed you further forward. With some small shuffling, you finally made it out of the mainstream. Taking a breath to orient yourself you caught a glimpse of a pair of broad and familiar shoulders. Éomer was stooped over another, to which it shocked you to see the angelic face of Éowyn void of any life.

It was of no surprise to you she had also found the courage to fight despite the opposition to do so. While you did not know her plan, you knew you both had done so to protect your people. Still, she laid dead and your heart lurched having grown up with her and Éomer. Her bravery was overshadowed by the loss of her. As your gaze widened you noticed Aragon standing over her, while he was concerned he did not appear to mourn her. You saw a look of hope on Éomer's face.

Watching for several moments, you watched as Aragorn tended to her. You saw Éomer's shoulders relax and somehow you knew, she would be alright.

"Where did you get that?" a healer asked you, pointing to the healing supplies in your arms and in that moment you bolted down the hallway back towards the door. Maybe that had not been the most dignified way to deal with it, but your mind grew hazy and you began to rely on instinct rather than intuition. You hastily walked outside the walls and found yourself beginning to walk with no true direction in mind. The sparkle of a small stream down a steep slope caught your eye.

The small stream seemed to be the only place you would be able to tend to yourself safely. So that is what you did, carefully shuffling down the steep grassy slope towards the small glistening stream below. Your breath began to grow weaker as well as your vision did, the surge of battle wore off as the wear from battle grew. Taking a steadying breath, you bent down to the stream and began to dampen the cloth with the clean water.

It was a slow process, given your weakened state, but you made progress. Washing the injuries, keeping them clean with the solution and the water, wrapping them in the bandages and moving onto the next. It was quite awhile as you began to grow near the end of your needs but a voice startled you from your silent pursuit.

"You'd find better aid within the walls of Healing Houses, go there to tend to- oh."

You knew that voice anywhere and given the abrupt ending to his sentence supposedly he knew the back of your head anywhere.

Éomer.

How had you not heard him sneak up behind you?

"I shall be fine, your grace." you timidly turn towards him, ironically, given your fierce demeanor in battle not long ago.

"Whatever have you done? are you hurt badly?" His eyes were wild with concern as he quickly descended down the embankment. You watched him stumble just as you did, likely the most uncoordinated you had ever seen him be in all your years of knowing him.

"I trust Éowyn is alright?" you whisper, still deflecting his concern.

"Y-yes, Aragorn... she'll wake soon." He knelt alongside of you, "Are you hurt?"

"I'll be fine, I'm sorry about your uncle." You wince as you wrap your forearm tightly. He gently places his hand over yours.

"It is better for it to be loose."

You nodded silently as he rewrapped your arm.

A silence takes over the air between you two. It was comfortable in some odd way, given that you had both lived through the battle you were unsure of the outcome.

"It was you." he says in a breath.

"I do not know what you are talking about," you mutter through gritted teeth as you feel him start to clean another spot.

"You're the one who saved me when I had a blade to my neck." He keeps his eyes locked on your shoulder where he continues to clean.

"That could have been anyone." you shrug, looking away.

"If it was not you, then say so." You feel his eyes burning into the side of your head.

You remained silent. He sighs as he leans back on his knees.

"That tells me all." He states. "Why are you here?"

"Others needed to be attended to. I can manage myself."

"No, you that is not what I mean." He gently pulls your chin for you to face him. You sigh.

"You think I a coward?" you ask with a harsh tone much more intense than you had originally planned.

"What? No. In what tone did I-" You see him startled by your change in inflection.

"Then how shall I not defend my people as well as you?" You ask, dropping your tone to a softer, yet defending clarity.

"My job is to defend for you." He says softly, tilting his gaze.

"Well that does not sit well with me. I could not bear the thought of you dead on my account." You shake your head.

"It sits well with me." He says, "but I am most appreciative to breathe another breath granted by you, though I'd prefer it not be at the risk of your safety."

"We will have to agree to disagree on that matter." You turn back to him with a small smile. You understand his chivalry and nobility, yet you truly would never want to be the reason he didn't come home one day.

"Very well then, you feel well enough to walk? Let us return to the Healing Houses, Éowyn will wake soon."

"Will it not look strange for me to be present? Some may be opposed."

"And then they will have to answer to the King, for who is indebted to you with a life debt." he said as he helped you stand up and navigate up the bank.

It never occurred to you till now. Éomer is to be king.

"You may question that, I have more or less stolen the supplies from the houses that I used."

He chuckles, "I'm certain it can be remedied." He kept a solid and stabilizing hand along your arm as you walked back towards the Healing Houses.

"I can stay outside if that is better, give you time with Éowyn." but his grip only tightened.

"Stay by my side, I lost my uncle and nearly lost two of the dearest people in my life, I intend not to repeat that in anytime in my rule." he looked down to you with a protective look in his eye. Though it had been a grim day, you saw light beginning to shine from behind the clouds.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hii I like your writings! If you're still taking requests, can you write something about Eomer and the female reader? The reader is Aragorn's older sister. A ranger and a renowned warrior. After Eomer personally meets the owner of the stories he's been hearing for years, he may begin to fall in love with her. If you write, thank you in advance, if you don't I totally understand, no problem.~

Greetings, Anon! I'm SO sorry it took me so long to get to this request. It has been sitting in my inbox for a hot minute. Thank you so much for reaching out and dropping this off. I hope you enjoy this little thing I put together.

A Sudden Spark

Éomer x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: mild suggestive themes, slight canon-divergence, fluff, yearning, crush at first sight

Word Count: 1.4k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

The Great Shadow is fading.

Evil is not gone. It is simply receding, lingering in the farthest reaches, waiting for the final blow of steel that will eventually come. There is a brightness that stretches over everything like a warm blanket draped across the shoulders. It is as if the Sun returned after a long sleep.

Éomer breathes deep, allowing the brilliance of sunshine and the floral aroma on the wind to fill his lungs. A peace settles over him, a gentleness that extinguishes all ache from the last few months. Éomer is battle-weary. He lost his uncle, and nearly lost his sister.

A few years of peace are what he and everyone needs.

Turning away from the Pelennor Fields, Éomer reenters the feast hall of Merethrond. Taking up residence beside a tall, white pillar, Éomer observes the crowd around him, drinking from his mead cup. Everyone is in a celebratory mood. As they should be.

The battle is over. Gondor has a king. And yet, there is still so much to do.

Éomer celebrates along with them. The mead is delicious if a bit strong, and he has a tender urge to experience life. A fair maiden with lovely lips and curves would surely satiate that subtle hunger.

But darkness and duty lurk in the back of his mind. The bright sunshine and fresh air only quieted it for a moment. Rohan is without a king. Éomer will take up the title. He has not officially been crowned but it will happen after all of this is done. From this point on, Éomer must serve his people in more ways than he has previously. While he has always been a ferocious fighter and a skilled rider, the politics of ruling will become a new burden.

Éowyn will support him, but for how long? She is currently tangled up in Faramir’s arms, the two of them moving across the floor in a dance that sends the bottom of her dress spinning. Her smile is wide and pure, cheeks lightly flushed from exertion and most certainly from the beginnings of love. Faramir’s smile is just as wide and bold, their gazes locked on one another as if there is no one else in the room.

No. Éomer will not always have his sister. It appears that he will lose her to another sooner rather than later. But he is not upset. If anything, he is happy for her. She deserves so much, especially after all they’ve lost.

That leaves only him. He too will need someone at his side that is more than simple counsel. Éomer will need a wife. That is the reality of things. Someone for him to love and to love him in return, to birth his children, to listen and give advice, and to assist in taking care of the realm. While it is a duty, Éomer deeply longs for companionship.

But all this responsibility subdues the celebratory mood. It slots his thoughts into all that must be done on his return to Edoras.

Éomer is happy for Aragorn. He is happy that Gondor has a king, and that Gondor will be a great ally. He is happy that Aragorn has reunited with the woman he loves, and that the lands are no longer scarred by darkness and death.

He takes a long swig of his mead, leaning harder against the pillar as he observes the dancers in the middle of the hall. The mead is strong and sinking into his bones. The buzz is sharp in his blood.

“Not joining in?” The feminine voice draws Éomer’s attention away from the dancing couples and to the end of his right shoulder.

Éomer freezes, his mead cup halfway to his mouth. The woman standing next to him smiles sweetly. Your gentle beauty is soft and inviting. As Éomer continues to stare, that sweetness morphs into amusement, and that one look sends a little shiver up his spine to slice through his heart.

When he doesn’t answer, you arch a single eyebrow, and Éomer hastily clears his throat.

“Not for me,” he admits, immediately drinking some of his mead.

“Dancing?”

Are you asking him? It feels like you are but Éomer hasn’t always been successful about understanding a woman’s signals when she’s interested. Usually, Éomer is the one approaching.

Éomer nods because he doesn’t trust his voice. He might choke on his words this time instead of a simple cough.

There is a stretch of silence before you speak again. “But you are celebrating.” You nod toward his cup. Éomer briefly glances at your empty hands.

“And you are not partaking,” he comments.

You laugh. “The Lord of the Mark is observant,” you tease, smile stretching toward your ears.

Another stretch of silence, and your eyebrows start to rise toward your hairline, head tilting slightly. Éomer blinks and then heat rushes up his cheeks.

By the Gods, he should have realized sooner.

Éomer pushes off from the pillar, straightening his shoulders and back, smoothing the front of his formal tunic. “Would you—”

“Yes,” you reply automatically, eagerly reaching for him.

Your hand is warm in his. Éomer follows, allowing you to lead, dropping his drink somewhere on a random table before entering the crowd of dancers. The music is upbeat and light. Éomer wouldn’t call himself graceful, but he did grow up learning traditional dances for this very reason.

But you continue to lead, and somehow that is comforting. Éomer is always prepared to take charge and make decisions. He does none of that now. You are smiling, clasping his hand, this stranger that has suddenly captured all his attention.

Perhaps forgetting for a bit is a good thing.

Éomer goes through two dances with you before the music slows a bit. Before, he hardly had a chance to speak, but now the two of you are close together, bodies pressed tight. He briefly glances over your shoulder and notices Arwen’s smile. She is watching him, and you. His gaze falls to the man beside her.

There is a slight frown on Aragorn’s face. Why is he frowning? Why does he appear concerned?

“You know my name but I’m afraid I do not know yours,” says Éomer, his face slightly tilted toward your own.

You give it casually and Éomer blanches. He knows that name. He knows who you are.

For the time he’s known Aragorn, Éomer has heard the stories from others, never from the man himself. He keeps you secret, not leaning into the tales told about you. You are his sister, the elder but not by much. But you are not soft and delicate, or so Éomer has been told.

You are daring. Adventurous. A fierce warrior and Ranger. You wield sword and bow with gracefulness and deadly aim. Éomer had heard that the Rangers came during the battle, but he did not see you. Then again, Éomer was far too busy trying to keep himself and his fellow Rohirrim alive.

The image he built of you in his head does not match the woman before him. The way you match his every step and how your hands feel against him, all speak to gentler things. Before him is a sweet and soft woman, but as he peers closer, Éomer notices the subtle shifts of your movements. There is a warrior’s grace to the fluidity of your body against his and with every leading step.

There is power within you along with the soft.

Éomer’s heart suddenly snags, stuttering before becoming a pounding drumbeat. When you turn your smile back to him all coherent thought leaves his brain except one.

She’d be a fierce queen.

The music swells and then melts away, and you release Éomer to step back and bow deeply. Éomer mimics the movement. When the two of you straighten, it is at the exact same time, and then you step far too close for a stranger.

“This is where we part,” you murmur, soft lips forming the words yet also sending Éomer’s brain into a foggy scramble.

You incline your head and begin to draw away. Like a lightning strike, Éomer moves into the space you just occupied, snatching your wrist to pull you close.

Your lips part in surprise, chest heaving slightly. Éomer’s gaze drops to the exposed tops of your breasts.

“This is where we part,” he repeats, gaze returning to your face. “For now.”

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @miaraei @coffeecaketornado @cherryofdeath @berarenado @therealbloom @ninman82 @thewulf @ferns-fics @beebeechaos