Chapter Text
He finds her in the garden of Imrahil’s townhouse, tucked away among the lilacs with a book in her lap, her grey gown dappled by the afternoon sun through the leaves. She looks up as he approaches, raising her eyebrows at him as she reaches for the bookmark next to her on the bench. Her dark hair is loose, tumbling down over her shoulders.
“Éomer”, she greets him, closing the book. He glances at the title, but it appears to be in Sindarin and he’s badly out of practice.
“My lady.” He clasps his hands behind his back, straightening as if he was a young rider about to report to his marshal. She tilts her head slightly to one side and gives him an odd look.
“My name is Lothíriel,” she gently chides him. “Surely you have not forgotten that we agreed to be less formal yesterday?” She pats the bench and moves a little to the left. “Come, sit with me.”
He nods, grateful for the invitation, and slowly comes to sink down on the bench, leaving what he hopes to be an appropriate gap between them. He is an experienced campaigner, but on this battlefield of courtly manners he is greener than he ever was as the youngest rider in Elfhelm’s éored. Still, he has prepared as well as he could.
“Lothíriel,” he begins again, “we have not known each other for long, but...” He hesitates for a moment, seeing her inquisitive look in the corner of his eye, then continues. “I have… a favor to ask, or maybe rather an offer to make.” He turns to look at her. “Would you hear me out?”
Her face is an impassive mask now, revealing nothing. The face of a princess, he thinks. “I will listen”, she says.
He hesitates again, idly wondering if she might already suspect where this is going, and for a moment a faint breeze rustling the leaves is the only sound heard in the garden. She waits patiently, her full attention on him. It’s time to sound the horns and commit to the charge, he decides. He draws a steadying breath, looks away from her, and starts on what he has prepared to say.
“If I were a more courtly man, I would certainly not have done things this way, but I will not pretend. You seem to me an honorable and reasonable woman, and I hope you will not take offense. We rohirrim value honesty, and so I will be honest with you, as I hope you will be with me in return.”
He stops for a moment and glances at her. She still wears her impassive face and says nothing, but nods for him to continue.
“You have been a good friend to my sister, when other ladies of the court have looked askance at her as an outsider. Your brothers and your father are my trusted shield-brothers. By all accounts, you are a most capable administrator, a skilled diplomat, an educated woman who keeps her own counsel.”
He pauses again, but he is committed now and there is no turning back. All plans involve risks, and in battle, hesitation often means death. The only plan he could come up with requires baring his heart and his doubts, and so he forges onward, not daring to look at her.
“I, on the other hand, am a warrior, never meant to be a king. I am at ease leading men on campaign, but in a council chamber or at Elessar’s court, I am lost. But the campaign is over, and the war is won, and I am king whether I want it or not.”
He turns back to her now, and looks into her grey eyes. Her expression is unreadable.
“I need an advisor, someone who has strengths that I lack, someone I can trust absolutely, a companion, a…” he trails off, but steels himself and finishes in a whisper, “a queen”. He is unable to look away.
She blinks slowly, and he finds himself briefly fascinated by her long eyelashes.
“Éomer,” she says faintly but steadily, “are… are you trying to propose to me?”
He coughs and looks down, staring at the flagstones. He can feel a faint color rising on his cheeks.
“Yes. The Mark needs - I need a queen. I can hardly think of any woman better suited than you. I-” He means to go on, getting back to his plan and speaking faster now, but she interrupts him.
“Then, I assume you have spoken to my father about this already?” Her tone is even, but there is an edge to her voice now. He keeps his head down.
“No. I am glad to consider Imrahil a friend and ally, but I need you, not him.” She makes a faint noise, but he soldiers on. “As I said, I need someone I can trust implicitly, someone who I can always rely on to be candid with me. Not a second-in-command or a subordinate - an equal. It must be your decision, not your father’s.”
He looks up again. Her impassive mask is gone now, replaced by some confused mix of emotions, and her mouth is slightly agape. He’s definitely put her off-balance, and so he gives her a lopsided smile and tries to lighten the mood.
“Even so, I very much doubt that your father would be opposed, were I to ask him. Even I, as oblivious to courtly manners as I am, could not possibly misunderstand what he has been trying to imply with all his talking about his lovely unmarried daughter.”
At that, she turns away and mutters something in Sindarin. When she looks back at him the impassive mask has returned.
“I… must say I am humbled by your faith in me, Éomer, but we barely know each other,” she says. “Forgive me if I seem to doubt your intentions, but what made you decide to approach me with this… unprecedented proposal so suddenly? Surely there are other women who are just as capable, and I know little of the Mark and its people.”
He sighs. He was certain this question would come, but he is not sure he can explain his reasoning to her satisfaction. Still, he must try. “I can certainly understand your doubts,” he begins, slowly. “I realize this must seem very sudden to you, but I have had you, or at least someone like you, in mind for a while now.” He pauses, uncertain about how to go on. There is a faint wrinkle on her brow now, but she says nothing, instead making a small circular gesture with her hand, as if telling him to continue.
He straightens and decides to try a different approach. “Éowyn has told you about Gríma Wormtongue, yes?” he asks abruptly.
She hesitates, but if she is surprised by his change in topic, she does not show it. “I know who he was and what he did,” she acknowledges slowly, “but not in much detail. Why?”
He grimaces. “It is well that she spared you the details, for it is an evil tale. I do not believe she has told it all even to me. Maybe Faramir…” he shakes his head and stops there. “The details are unimportant.”
He looks at her again, and his tone sharpens. “What is important is that against Gríma Wormtongue, I was powerless.” He locks his gaze to hers, willing her to understand. “I saw my sister sink into despair and anguish, my uncle reduced to a shadow, the Mark at the brink of ruin, and I could do nothing.” He is almost hissing through his clenched jaw at her now, bristling at the memory. He draws a calming breath before continuing.
“Men call me a great warrior, and not without reason. I know how to make war, when to attack and when to retreat, and with my sword and my riders there are few things in middle-earth I could not fight.” He looks away, and suddenly he is back on the fields of Pelennor, that horrifying day. He blinks, but when he opens his eyes he is back in the sunlit garden on the bench beside Lothíriel, who is still listening patiently. His voice is hoarse when he continues. “Éowyn herself fought things that I could not. She is stronger than I, in some ways.”
He turns to Lothíriel again. “And yet,” his voice is soft now, “for all our strength, against Gríma’s words, we were as helpless as newborn lambs. I do not know how to fight with words, and I do not know if I could learn.” He leans back and stares into the sky. The memory is unexpectedly raw and painful, and even though he had prepared for this, he is still ashamed at his admission of weakness. He does not know how to go on. Silence stretches out between them.
Eventually, she is the one to break it. “I am not Mithrandir’s equal, Éomer,” she says, very gently, and he can hear no scorn or pity in her voice. “I do not think I could have saved you from Gríma.”
“Aye,” he sighs. “I apologize. That was not what I meant.” He glances at her. Her expression is softer now, no longer the impassive mask. “Gríma…” he finds himself lacking words, and stumbles on, “Gríma himself is not… I mean…” He tries to gather his wits, and turns to face her again.
“I am not looking for someone who could fight the likes of Saruman, or Saruman’s lackeys,” he begins. “What I meant to say was that Gríma made me realize that there are battles I am woefully incapable of fighting, battles that are over before I even realized I was fighting them. There are good men on my council, and loyal, but they all have their own interests to look after. They tell me I must marry, and they are right, but if I go back to Edoras unprepared it will not be long before all their words have set my head spinning and I will hear myself agreeing to marry some daughter or niece, surely very pretty and agreeable, and just as surely unlikely to disagree with her father or uncle.”
He is speaking faster now, but she seems to be following intently, so he goes on to conclude his line of reasoning. “I would soon become a king in name only, a figurehead. It is no disadvantage that you would be an outsider in the Mark. You could see with fresh eyes, unclouded by old feuds and prejudices. And while you too have your own interests, I think those interests are in line with mine as far as the Mark is concerned. I would follow Elessar, and I think you would do the same.”
She is frowning at him now. “You may be selling yourself short,” she says. He shrugs, not sure if he believes her. “Do you really not have anyone you trust at your court?” she asks then, and he thinks he hears some concern in her tone.
“I have men I trust with my life and more,” he reassures her, “but they are as I, warriors with little skill at words and politicking.”
She does not seem happy with this answer, and her frown deepens. “I do not understand,” she says, and now she seems irritated. “You would trust me, a foreign woman - a slip of a girl, your council would say - over your own shield-brothers? Trust me to guide you and keep you independent? We are barely more than strangers. I could count the number of hours we have spent together on my fingers. How did you come to this decision, Éomer?” She is glaring at him now, as if she’s upset with his poor judgement.
He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “I could not put into words the reasons why I would trust you,” he tries to explain, then hurries to continue under her glare. “It is not a matter of reason. On the battlefield, there is rarely time to carefully consider your options. Indecisiveness and lack of action is the gravest of errors there, and so I have learned to trust my gut, for better or for worse. At court, it may be for worse more often than not. But when it comes to the measure of a man, or a woman, I find that I am rarely mistaken. I trust your father and your brothers, and I judge you to be cut from the same cloth. Éowyn trusts you, and I would as well.”
Her glare softens then, and she turns away and sighs, staring at the lilacs.
He waits to see if she has anything more to say, but she seems lost in thought. He clears his throat. “So, you understand what I am asking, then?” he prompts. “I need a queen who is strong where I am weak, an honorable woman who will not hesitate to tell me when I am wrong, a woman who will not easily bend to the words of my council.”
That does not seem to have been the right thing to say. She turns back towards him, and the glare is back in full force. There is a dangerous glint to her eyes as she leans in towards him, and he suddenly feels like he’s been caught far behind enemy lines with no reinforcements in sight.
“May I remind you that you are asking me to be your wife , Éomer?” she snaps. “You have talked so much about advice and councils that I am wondering if you have forgotten that you are asking me to share your life and your bedchamber, be the mother of-” She stops abruptly, as if she’s said too much.
He can feel heat rising in his cheeks, as if he was a green boy again, and avoids her gaze.
“I have not forgotten,” he mutters. “I merely thought…” He clears his throat and stares down at the flagstones. “It is sound tactics to center an offensive around one’s strengths, and so I meant to emphasize what I thought other suitors would not offer you. You are rightly pointing out a weakness of mine, as I cannot offer you love. I have never known love, and I have no hope or expectation to find it for myself.” He looks up again. “All the same, I have heard it said that your wife should be your best friend, and I think we could be friends.”
He hesitates, but finds her gaze again, and tries to convey his sincerity. “You have been good and amiable company on our outings with our siblings in these last few days, and I did very much enjoy dancing with you at the feast yesterday.” His cheeks are definitely burning now, but he keeps his eyes locked with hers and continues. There is no retreating now. “As for the… bedchamber, I assure you, there is no woman I would rather share it with. You are -” he stops, reminding himself that this is Gondor, she is a princess of Dol Amroth, and he must not be inappropriate, and he settles on ”- a very beautiful woman, Lothíriel.”
They are both blushing now, and he is sure he must have said something inappropriate after all. She breaks his gaze and looks away.
“You are unbelievable,” she mutters. “One moment you talk like you are planning a military campaign, and the next you just…” She makes a little helpless gesture with her hands.
He can’t help but laugh a little at that. “Surely you have had suitors more refined than I call you prettier things,” he smiles. She mutters something inaudible, something about bedchambers he thinks, but he’s definitely said more than enough about that already, and ignores her.
“Perhaps I should have followed you into the garden when you went out to cool down from the dance last night, gone to my knees and professed my heartfelt love for you in the moonlight?” he jokes, trying to get over the embarrassment.
She makes an unladylike snort, but smiles back at him. “Had you done that, I would have rolled my eyes and told you to go home and sober up, and maybe asked if Amrothos had put you up to it.”
He laughs, and she laughs with him, and for a little while he feels happy and carefree, in a way he has not felt in a long time. They smile at each other, but soon she smoothes her expression, although she stops short of the unreadable face from earlier.
“You have given me much to think about, my lord,” she says. He does not fail to notice the formality, and suddenly he feels very uncertain. Just now, it seemed the battle was in his favour, but her words immediately remind him that he has no experience here. Maybe he has completely misread the situation?
“I cannot give you an answer now,” she continues, her tone serious. “But I will consider your words, and we shall speak again before you leave Minas Tirith. I will seek you out when I am ready.”
He nods. He shall have to be patient, then, but soldiers are well used to waiting. “Very well,” he says, and as he rises he takes her hand. “I thank you for hearing me out, my lady. I shall take my leave.” He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses her knuckles. This much court protocol he can manage, at least. She gives him a dignified nod and a gentle smile as he lets go of her hand.
“Of course, Éomer,” she murmurs. He is somewhat reassured at that, and smiles back as he turns and leaves her to her book.