#Engraved on my Heart

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 5 of 7

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 6 - Epilogue

Summary: Unable to find rest, the prince and the maid meet in the halo of the moonlight. Their closeness inevitably leads them to transgress a boundary from which there is no retreat.

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

Warning: You knew it was coming. It had to. It gets spicy! [NSFW] [NSFT]

(it remains fluffy though)

Word count: 10,500

Read it on AO3 here.

Night had long fallen over Rohan, its ink black mantle, dotted with molten-golden asters that sparkled far above the lands, enfolding the world. Guardian of dreams and protector of dreamers, it had plunged the realm into an undisturbed tranquillity. Predators roamed the plains, shielded by the darkness that Night provided, perpetuating the circle of life. Birds of prey spread and fluttered their wings, fending the air with innate grace, and waiting for unsuspecting rodents to capture their acute eye. Above it all, the moon hung in the sky, boasting its rich silver hues, bathing the mountaintops into its glow; the sole beacon of any soul untouched by the lull of sleep.

Winter had truly begun to take root once the sun had set. Despite having left the earth bare during the day, it now draped its surface with rime. Scintillating opal dust waltzed through the breeze, carrying the serenity of the sky to the wilds below. The blanket it wove upon the ground stifled the steps of the animals seeking shelter in the woods. Deer wandered between the trees, scouring the landscape for a place to settle for the night. Under a pine, a doe curls up around her fawn, letting her brown coat warm up her young.

At the heart of Meduseld, nestled in her bedchamber, Éorhild lay wide awake under her covers. Though her irises faced the spectacle that nature offered, they were blind to its magnificence. Rather, they drowned in brine that trickled down the bridge of her nose and met its end against her pillow. She wept in silence; exhaustion had gnawed too deep in her bones for her to tremble or wail.

Guilt. Remorse. Vile creatures whose claws tore her flesh into shreds, searing her with an agony so profound that she could do nothing but pray that it would pass. By then, she was in a state beyond hysteria. She was carving herself a grave in the ruthless soil of apathy, each shovelful burying her in a void of her heart’s own making. As the clod in her back grew higher by the second, she hoped that once it would shroud her, new life would take root from her despair and blossom into a bed of colourful lilies.

Éomer’s soul-baring confession had shattered her world into fragments too jagged to reassemble. Though she had never questioned his fondness, she never had imagined that it had ripened into love. His revelation had sent her mind spiralling, untethered for reason, her heart plummeting under the recollection of her reaction. Its thunderous rhythm had roared in her ears, drowning every fragment of coherence. Instinct had eclipsed thought, and before she had fathomed a response, she had murmured an apology and fled his quarters. Her mantle, hose, shoes, and veil lay abandoned on his chair, a silent testament to the dismay that had seized her. No other explanation had been uttered; no apology issued. Within a second, she had departed.

Another fainting spell had befallen her, though this time there had been no gallant rescuer to whisk her away on his steed. Mere seconds had passed until she regained her spirits and dragged herself to her washroom, where she poured herself a warm bath to thwart the promise of severe soreness in her muscles and ribs come morning. It had been but a fleeting solace. There she had lingered, with her head underwater to scream her lungs out until they burnt, the water absorbing her anguish without alerting another soul.

Then, she had shuffled the short distance to her bed, clad in nothing warmer than her shift, heedless to the chill that nipped at her skin. Heaving a rattling sigh, she had collapsed onto the mattress and burrowed beneath the covers. For hours she wrestled with the sheets, tossing and turning, incapable of drifting away. Her mind yearned for the oblivion of sleep yet clung stubbornly to the memory of her prince. Each time she closed her eyes, his image rose unbidden, piercing her with a pain radiating from her chest down to her fingertips, where it stung like nettles. Sleep, cruel as it was, evaded her.

And thus, she lay, alert and hollow-eyed, the tears she had hoped would bring release proving futile. They left her drained but long away from the hibernation she craved, her waking sorrow haunting her through the long hours of the night.

In truth, she was utterly spent, her body eroded by heartache and her spirit ravaged by the flames of regret. Mindless chores she could carry out in her room to compensate were unthinkable; she has no more strength to spare. Lifting a finger even felt an insurmountable task. She was an empty vessel adrift in despair. Insomnia was holding her captive in the world of night owls. She was its prisoner, vulnerable to its cruel grip. Too weak to even stand, she lay in the dark, unable to peer through the bars of this cage to glimpse a shred of hope. Escaping this madness seemed a fantasy that only fools could aspire to.

To quell the venom coursing through her veins, Éorhild turned her thoughts to Éomer’s plea, echoing in her mind like a cherished melody. How exquisite it had been! Never in her wildest dreams had she placed herself on the receiving end of such fervent passion, nor as one to whom those infamous three words would have been bestowed. Faintly, she recalled when she was a carefree girl in the Westfold who dared to dream of hearing them, yet never believed they would one day be hers.

His confession, so heartfelt, had unravelled her to her very core, wielding a mastery akin to the realm’s most gifted poets. Every syllable of it reverberated within the cell of her fragility. It was the only balm to the excruciating scorch of her emotions.

Éorhild imagined the life that Éomer had envisioned for them — one unshackled by constraints and etiquette. At its start was a wedding without allegiance to ranks or Gondorian nobility. Above their braided and flowered heads stretched a cloudless canopy of azure, ornate with a single golden disc illuminating the plains around them. In the middle of the Rohirric nature, their hands would join as they would pronounce the most poignant vows their people would ever witness. Better still, their union would be celebrated in solitude, far from the shadow of Edoras, away from prying ears and burdensome traditions. Perched atop a hill embraced by the towering mountains, their promise to each other would only reach the earth and sky. In that sacred moment, there would be no titles, no subjects, no servants, no rulers; only them and a bliss of their own making.

Together, they would raise a home whose walls and hearth would embody their shared spirit and all they could hope for. Behind closed eyelids, she could almost experience it. She could taste the sweetness of calling him ‘Husband’ in the dead of night, for no other reason than to release the same thrill in her chest that had danced there when they shared their first kiss on the hillside. Untainted by the world’s demands, they would do everything that life has deprived them of so far. They would hold each other close beyond the enclosure of their garden, they would touch lips within sight of others. Their only bond would be to each other.

Preventing her mind from painting the scene in richer detail, a sudden chill coursed down her spine, snapping her back to the cold reality of her solitary chamber. With a begrudging sigh, Éorhild pushed herself upright, grimacing from the soreness in her back. Her body, weary from prolonged inactivity, craved some motion. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and pressed her feet to the icy floor, hoping that a short midnight stroll would provide her some semblance of peace.

She retrieved a pale candle from the drawer and replaced the spent one in her holder. As she struck a match and watched the flame catch, its glow cast a sharp flicker upon her traits and kindled a heart-wrenching realisation in her mind.

Éomer must have suffered greatly, watching her flee from him in that moment of vulnerability. He had poured out his heart to her, after all; and she had not remained to listen. The thought weighed on her, and the flickering wick seemed to mock her in the stillness of the room. She anchored herself to the chest of drawers, suffocating from the lump forming in her throat.

How dared she run? How could she have deserted him when every oath she ever swore, as maid or woman, was bound to his welfare? In shadow and in daylight, she had tended to his needs with unwavering commitment. Yet, the moment that he confessed his love, she had ceased to listen. In that instant of raw honesty, she had faltered and abandoned him, her loyalty fractured by the terror of such foreign emotions.

She did not resent him for speaking his truth, not for a second, not for a million years. If anything, what invaded her then was an overwhelming sense of being cherished — something she had never known. Long had her childhood blurred into hazy memories, yet none held a fraction of the comfort that his presence provided her. Every conversation they had shared, whether by the hearth or in the corridors of Meduseld, had flown seamlessly. Not all had been easy, but never had she feared revealing her thoughts and heart to him, despite the consequences it might bring. Over the past months, whenever something amusing or thought-provoking passed through her mind, her first instinct had been to reach for Éomer, to share in the joy or laughter with him. Days grew devoid of interest; she had spent each of them thrilled at the idea of warming herself up by his side in the hall come evening. And at night, when at last she closed her eyes, it was his face, his smile, that guided her towards the land of dreams.

She loved him. The certainty struck her with the force of a galloping stallion, leaving no room for doubt. Teardrops formed puddles upon the dresser as they dripped off her cheeks, dimpled by a smile. Her hands fumbled in the dim light for a robe and clutched it around her quivering frame. With the candle holder firmly in her grasp, she yanked the door open and rushed barefoot into the shadowy hallway, her resolve now burning as brightly as the flame between her fingers.

Éorhild halted at the closed door of Éomer’s quarters, her shallow breath forming momentary clouds in the air and her pulse thrumming. Her eyes stared at this gate separating her from the man she coveted, unmoving, for what seemed an eternity. A bleak awareness crept over her — that of her impulsiveness. What had she been thinking? The silence of the Golden Hall, heavy and undisturbed, reminded her that, unlike her, most within its walls were deep in slumber.

Her courage faded and her fingers tightened their grip around the candlestick. Nevertheless, her heart urged her forward, while her brain screamed at her to retreat. When she raised her fist towards the thick wood, bracing herself to knock, a voice interrupted her momentum.

‘Whoever you are, you might as well enter,’ she heard it say, recognising it as the prince’s. There was no use in surrendering now. Éorhild squared her shoulders, drawing in a sharp breath to steady herself as her head extended towards the latch and eased the door open.

Inside, his chamber lay shrouded in obscurity, pierced only by a halo of moonlight that spilled through the window on the other side of the bed. Leaning on one forearm against the windowsill, Éomer was facing away from her. His stance was tense yet contemplative, as though the whirlwind of sorrow had rooted him there. Since her hasty departure, he had undone the plaits she had braided into his hair that morning. Their mild impressions waved his tresses, like ghosts of her touch. He wore a loose white shirt, rolled to his elbows, and tucked into a pair of silk trousers he reserved for the scarce hours of leisure he was afforded in the palace. How cold he must feel, she wondered.

Éomer cast a glance over his shoulder and the sight of Éorhild in her robe froze him mid-turn. His frown betrayed a flicker of surprise, as though he had been prepared to witness anyone in Rohan — but her — stepping across his threshold that night. His lips parted, searching for a pleasant greeting that never came. The shadows deepened the lines of his face, accentuating the vulnerability that etched there, unguarded and unfeigned. The luminescence of the moon did nothing to help the pallor that worsened his appearance.

Oh, how he must have been suffering.

‘It is you,’ he croaked, the unsteadiness in his voice suggesting that she had stolen the breath from his lungs by appearing to him.

Éorhild pressed her back to the door and held the candle aloft. His evident anguish dissuaded her from approaching, out of fear that she might twist the knife into his wounds that her actions had already inflicted.

‘Indeed, your Majesty, it is I,’ she whispered back. ‘I did not think that I would find you awake at this hour.’

‘Can I help you with anything? If it is your clothes you want, I have not moved them.’

Her gaze fell upon the pulled chair, where her forgotten belongings laying folded preserved the memory of her hasty retreat. The sight tugged at her heart — an unbearable reminder of when she both lost her composure and him. She set the candle upon the nearby chest of drawers, shedding a light on the ornate helmet he had worn into battle placed at the centre of the furniture. The biting cold seeped into her skin and she shivered, rubbing her palms against her arms for even a sliver of warmth.

‘Have you not found rest, my lord?’ she spoke again, turning to him again.

‘I am in a state where I have forgotten what sleep even is,’ he scoffed, running a hand over his face.

Silence reigned supreme once more, disrupted only by the occasional crackle of the wick. Éorhild wrestled with her thoughts, embarking on the vain quest for words that would defend this impromptu nightly visit without hurting him further. Potential phrases dissolved on her tongue before she could utter them. No justification could fully encapsulate the truth behind her presence. Besides, his evading, restless gaze suggested that it unnerved him so deeply that he could scarcely bring himself to face her.

With tentative and measured steps, she drew nearer, albeit keeping a safe distance from him to spare his fretfulness. Her eyes, however, held fast to him; it traced the contours of his face, captured the sorrowful depth of his blood-shot eyes.

‘I apologise for running away earlier,’ she blurted out. ‘When you confessed your love to me, I was overtaken by a terror so consuming that I lost the ability to think clearly. My judgement was clouded, my instincts warped, and it drove me away from you, against my will.’

Éomer’s glimmering eyes met hers at last, cautious and uncertain. He merely nodded and stood back against the windowsill. The pale aura of the moon, caressing his skin, illuminated the unshed tears in his eyes. Their sight, unbearable to her, threatened to break her; still she stood firm, drawing strength from the depths of her adoration.

‘Was it me you were afraid of?’

His question sliced her heart with a sharpness akin to Gúthwinë’s blade. Her breath caught and she dropped her hands at her sides.

‘Why would you ever think that I feared you?’

‘You spoke of terror,’ he pressed on, swiftly catching a tear with the ball of his hand before it would fall and observing the landscape again. ‘Was it fear of me? Fear that I would coerce you into my bed?’

Determined to face and confront him on the matter, Éorhild bypassed the footboard of the bed and climbed the short steps leading to the alcove where the window frame would preside their exchange. At her approach, Éomer recoiled yet made no move to elude her. This time, his eyes remained fixed on her figure as she took place across from him.

‘I never feared this eventuality in the first place,’ she intoned. ‘You were not at the root of my dread, and for allowing you to believe otherwise, I owe you my deepest apologies.’

‘Speak to me, then,’ he pleaded in a sob, his voice cracking. ‘Why did you flee?’

Though her heart ached to enfold him in her arms and never let go, she held herself back. No gently gestures, no words of reassurance, could come ahead of the explanation she owed him — explanations she was resolved to provide. It was the least she could offer, and she would not have him bear her withdrawal any longer.

‘When Master Guthláf revealed to me the laws that endorse lords commanding their maids’ bodies, I grasped how brittle my agency was in the eyes of Rohirric lawmakers and nobles,’ she began. ‘The realisation that my autonomy could be stripped from me so easily, no matter what I say, made me understand Lady Éowyn’s rage on a more profound level. For so long, I must admit, I envied her in secret — a part of me I now repudiate. I could not fathom why she, of all people, could consider herself marginalised simply for her sex.’

Her fingers clasped the sleeves of her robe. The shame caused by her mistakes, which she had mulled over for hours, stirred uneasily in her stomach more strongly with every passing thought.

‘I knew, of course, that even among servants, women and men receive different treatments. Even our very oath belittles us. Male servants may bed whomever they fancy within their rank, they may take wives and have children, and still be welcome to contribute to the palace’s upkeep. But should a maid take a lover, she risks banishment. Théodil has paid the price for it.’

A tremor seized her lower lip, drawing the prince’s attention, which had not wavered from her since she had begun to speak. She was unravelling herself before him with as much honesty as he had displayed during their fiery conversation earlier. So, he listened with patience, his senses attuned to her words. In that instant, there was nothing else he desired more than to hear her, to understand her and that turmoil, whose ravages she had concealed to protect him. Or perhaps because she had yet to perceive the extent of its devastation herself.

‘At first, I thought her foolish for so openly risking her livelihood for that guard,’ she confessed in a strangled sob. ‘But now… now I wonder — what did Théodil truly do wrong? She is hardly different from her male peers, after all. She, too, has desires and the capacity for love. Why, then, should she be punished for even a simple kiss?’

Her barriers fell and she wept openly, although she paid the tears drenching her face no heed. Still, she took a moment to gather herself.

‘What I mean to say is that I had always believed my agency over my body to be the one thing truly mine, not for others to control. To learn that I had been misled for sixteen years unsettled me in ways I scarcely knew how to express.’

‘If I may speak candidly, without causing you offense, I care for you far too deeply to risk your safety. Forcing you into anything had never brushed my thoughts, not even a little. My love for you never entailed the corruption of your consent.’

‘I know.’

Éorhild dried her cheeks with a smile that held little mirth, and he, too, echoed it with a brief chuckle. They contemplated each other, the curve of their lips betraying a tenderness, kept at bay ever since she graced his room, blossoming anew. Sorrow had lifted from Éomer’s stern traits, and the glint in his eye was no longer solely that of brine.

‘You look ethereal tonight, Éorhild,’ the prince murmured as he admired the drapes of the white robe around her silhouette. ‘You are more beautiful to me than the Elves.’

‘Do not jest, my lord!’ she chortled, covering her mouth with her hand, hoping that its presence would help dissimulate the hues rising to her cheeks.

‘I never jest!’

The tension ebbed, surrendering to the chimes of their laughter. Their shoulders loosened, and the burden they had each borne lifted higher by the second. The camaraderie that had once defined their evenings — spent by the fire, drink in hand, exchanging words straying between the mundane and the profound — returned, thawing the imperceptible frost that had solidified following their abrupt parting.

Éorhild, finally drawing a steady breath that appeased her frayed nerves now that he knew and understood her dread, acknowledged the collar of his shirt. Between the parted hems, his collarbones and chest offered her a tantalising view. They were not unfamiliar to her; she had seen and grazed them in the bath that morning, yet there was something undeniably alluring about their partial occultation. The contrast of skin and linen sent her heart hammering and provoked a slow-burning ache deep within — delicious but somewhat outrageous.

Trailing along the folds of the fabric where shirt burrowed into waistline only further aggravated the adrenaline rush inside her abdomen. Underneath the garments, there was this body she knew was robust and chiselled, but its waist possessed a narrowness that required her to sink her nails into her palms to refrain from tracing them with her fingertips.

‘You cut a striking figure yourself, your Majesty,’ she complimented him in return.

‘Oh? Thank you. I, um…’

Éomer smoothed out a crease between his dark eyebrows with his knuckle, rubbing quite harshly at his skin as though to steel his mind away from such enticing distractions. Whether he noticed her lingering glances, the subtle tilt of her voice, or the unintentional flirtation woven into her compliment, she could not tell. However, his restraint was palpable, a silent battle against the temptation to yield to such frivolities. In all earnest, it was only fitting; too much remained unspoken between them, too many truths still hung in the air, awaiting acknowledgement.

‘I wanted to let you know that… should you decide to decline the position after such an eventful first day, I would understand,’ his low voice resonated with sincerity inside the alcove. ‘Truly, I would. I would not hold it against you, even for a second.’

He hesitated, his gaze faltering. Obviously, the prospect did not please him in the slightest. Even she could tell that he was setting aside his wishes to value her decision above them.

‘It was a hardship I thrust upon you without forewarning, and I should have handled it differently. Know that you already have my deepest gratitude for even considering it and giving it a chance. I cannot, in all good conscience, ask you for more.’

Another heartfelt expression of the tumult in his spirit, she told herself. One that she had provoked. The muscles in his jaw clenched and, when his lips parted again, his voice carried the raw edge of regret and a tinge of frustration.

‘I am sorry, Éorhild. Truly. I should have discussed it with you, shared my thoughts and concerns, before bringing it to my uncle’s attention. But I was so consumed by the need to keep you close that I let my impulsivity take control. I should have known better. I apolo—'

‘Éomer,’ she interjected with a gentle tone, ‘I have no intention of leaving your service. It was — and it remains — my choice to stay. You must understand, I am not here out of duty alone. Whatever trials have emerged with my assuming this role, they have not deterred me. If anything, they have confirmed that my place is here — with you.’

Shuffling out of the shadow, her bare feet brushing against the cold stone without a sound, she came forward, meeting him halfway. Éomer’s breath hitched, sensing a delightful tension that united them at that second. The moon’s silvery glare, speckled with delicate golden tints, kissed the skin of her neck. It descended towards the lowered hem of her shift, through which he could distinguish a single mole above her left breast. His broad frame, ordinarily adopting a confident poise, shifted and found refuge against the cold wood covering the wall.

But she paid that no mind.

‘Do not shoulder the guilt of offering me this role,’ she continued, plunging her dark irises into his. ‘I am here because I choose to be. Not because you compelled me, nor because I found myself cornered. But should I ever change my mind, I promise that you will be the first to know.’

No response met her attempt at comforting him. Calm reigned as he stood petrified against the wall with flaring nostrils as his chest heaved with laboured breaths. The dim light caught a damp sheen on his forehead, and though his posture remained unchanged, the storm within him remained too evident. Éorhild lingered, her heart fracturing at his reticence to reply yet holding out hope that her presence would coax him out of this stupor. And she waited.

But the seconds dragged on, and he had not made any effort to speak. Admitting defeat, she exhaled in resignation and curtseyed.

‘I will take my leave, my lord,’ she said in forced reverence. ‘I wish you good night; I shall see you in the morn.’

Thought she turned towards the door, each step she took to leave his side was reluctant. Some part of her still hoped that he would call her back. She had not even confessed her feelings in return; perhaps that was just as well.

When her toes grazed the floor at the foot of the steps, she halted. Tears prickled her eyes, and she bit her lower lip, wondering whether to induce further conversation. Deciding in favour of it, she spun to face him again.

‘You know, I would not have been happy in that vision of us you evoked.’

Éomer’s gaze flickered to hers.

‘Is that so?’ he enquired in bewildered confusion, his curiosity undeniably piqued. ‘Then, my perception of our relationship must have been terribly misconstrued.’

Éorhild clasped her hands together to eclipse their trembling.

‘It was an appealing fantasy, without a doubt,’ she continued. ‘But I believe that you have misinterpreted what would constitute a fulfilling life from my point of view. How could I have found bliss if my husband spent his time roaming Middle-earth in search of superficial ways to please me? How could I have been satisfied with constant loneliness in a house where all has been shaped to my taste, without bearing traces of you?’

His chest tightened as he pondered what he had neglected to consider. She was right. He had been distracting by the promise of what he could offer her if they could love freely — riches, comfort, beauty — that he had omitted the one element that was truly worth offering: himself.

‘You thought of all the things I might want,’ she choked up, ‘but you never once realised that all I wanted was you. Not just your love, but your presence. Your time, your hands, your heart. In poverty or in abundance, all I would have wanted was to be with you.’

She retraced her steps and came to stand before him, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from his skin.

‘I do not seek a life without labour, but one in which we would both contribute to establish a home to thrive in. One that needs not correspond to outside standards, but one that is imperfect in all the ways that matter most. We would have built these walls together, without caring whether they are too slanted — we would laugh it off and make it work. But at the end of the day, my only home would have been you.’

A life forged with their bare hands, steered by decisions they would have negotiated and agreed upon… It sounded like the sweetest melody to his ears. The thought of a hypothetical shared future filled him with a sense of peace. He had spent so many years under pressure of external forces and standards — Gondor’s, Rohan’s, his uncle’s, his own. There was a shift inside him. In this moment, the dark clouds had parted and a sun in the shape of Éorhild illuminated his world.

To build this life together, without pretence or outward approval, seemed the only objective worth pursuing. Her vision, so simple yet fruitful, surpassed anything he had ever dared to dream for himself. Genuine companionship, shared labour and tender displays — nothing expected of a king.

To hell with the crown.

Just as he was on the verge of sharing his newfound clarity, a series of soft sobs halted him. She was weeping once more, and the sight tore at his soul.

‘I would have gladly chosen a life in which I would be your bride,’ she hiccupped. ‘In time, when we would have been ready, I would have borne you children. Even though I doubt that I would ever be a good mother.’

‘What in the world makes you question it?’

‘Selfishly enough, I would have struggled with the idea of sharing you. Having desired you for so long and finally earned the privilege to be yours, I could not bear it.’

Muttering an apology, she began to turn — but before she could make another escape, his hand lightly grazed her wrist, breaking her impetus. His fingertips caressed the palm of her hand, and his eyes bore into hers, incredulous yet hopeful.

‘Do you feel the same as I do, then?’ his voice quivered, caught between excitement and dread. ‘Or am I once again misreading your desires?’

She let out a scoff, her tears mingling with a bitter laugh as she returned his stare.

‘Of course I do, Éomer. It is you. It has always been you.’

She swallowed the lump in her throat, summoning every fragile ounce of courage the speak the truth she had silenced for far too long. These three words had longed to flow off her lips and waft through to him. It was the confession she should have offered him earlier that day, when the moment was still opportune. Perhaps then, she would have woven poetry into her proclamation, crafting it with the same methods as the many bards that had enlivened Meduseld throughout the years with tales of passion and longing. Her voice would have risen, ever so sweet to his ear, capturing the fullness of her steadfastness in verses worthy of him.

But her life was not one of great halls and song. Thus, she settled for a simple but sincere declaration.

‘And I love you.’

Uncontainable joy invaded his roaring heart. Thousands of jubilant exclamations clamoured within his mind, each vying for release. Emotion surged through him, constricting his throat and misting his eyes, leaving him on the brink of tears that would attest of his relief and elation.

Sensing that she would not be trespassing any boundary, Éorhild pressed herself against his chest and her arms found their way around his neck, drawing him into an embrace that they had both itched to indulge themselves to.

‘Ig léofie ðe,’ she repeated in their native tongue.

Éomer’s palms cradled her jaw and his thumb traced her rosy lower lip.

‘Ond ðe ealswan léofie ig,’ he cried, ‘o Éorhild, seo dyreste ond seo sweteste in blæd min.’

Weaving through his untamed mane, her fingers and drew his head closer with utmost tenderness as her eyelids fluttered shut. With a desperate fervour, he clung to her, encircling her waist with one arm, afraid that she might vanish once more. His lips captured hers in a kiss that alleviated the burden of long-suppressed yearning, poignant yet firm. It was the melding of two spirits who had been circling one another, incomplete and hollow, until this very moment.

Her mouth was supple beneath his, their heat igniting a bonfire within his chest whose flames licking the inside of his veins, chasing away all shadows of doubts and remorse. Time came to a standstill, the world beyond them melted away as he deepened the kiss. It was an unspoken promise of unwavering devotion and a future that would be theirs to hold. Each brush of their tongues spoke of the battles they had fought alone in the dark, and the unyielding faith that they would face the rest together.

Love had finally found its voice, and it was the prince and his maid who heard it sing.

Two nights prior, under the canopy of stars on the windswept hillside, they had resigned to the bittersweet comfort of a single night for them to etch in their memory — a fleeting hour to hold onto into the solitude that would follow. Yet here they stood, hearts that had once braced for parting now trembling with the yearning for another.

Their lips separated, the faintest whisper of warmth lingering upon them, and their foreheads rested together. The lovers shared tender smiles, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. Fingers found their way to each other’s faces, brushing against familiar contours in adoration. A featherlight touch, yet charged with powerful emotion, as though they sought to memorise each wrinkle and curve. Shimmering more brightly than ever, their eyes locked in an unbroken gaze, devouring one another with a hunger that words could never aspire to satisfy.

In the silence, their smiles curled, testifying of the elation that enfolded them both beneath its celestial cloak. Its pull proved irresistible, and they kissed once more. Deeper, slower, imbued with sweet indulgence, as though compensating for all the hours wasted from forbidding themselves to love. This intimacy was their sanctuary, where they needed not conceal their affection.

Heat blazed between the pair, each caress fanning their craving into a wildfire that reddened their cheeks. Their kiss grew careless and urgent, their ragged breaths grazing their prickling skins. Éorhild trailed along the curves of Éomer’s shoulders, her fingertips tangling in his unbound hair. His hands roamed her back, halting every so often to pinch her waist or cup the back of her skull.

Soft, breathy moans escaped them like sweet nothings whispered in the night. Éorhild’s belly coiled with molten flames far more potent than the ones that had overtaken her that morning by the bathtub and left her clutching the wall. This was no fleeting spark but a raging conflagration induced by the unrestrained connection they were sharing.

Both knew that this night — their night — was no longer one fated to be a mere pleasant memory but one they were bound to weave. One that was about to change them indefinitely.

Sensing the unravelling of her moderation as her torso shoved Éomer against the wooden panel, Éorhild emitted a sharp gasp that cut through the haze of their fiery endearment. Realisation struck her like a bolt of lightning, and her eyes, widened in terror, mirrored the chaos within. Staggering backwards, she tore herself away from him, the intensity with which she had touched him leaving her ruffled.

Her back collided with the opposite wall, the cold surface grounding her even as her chest heaved with panicked breaths. She raised a trembling hand to her lips, as though to keep the phantom of their kiss onto them. Across the distance that now separated them, Éomer’s stare burnt with surprise and yearning, but he made no move to close the gap. Instead, he simply watched, clasping his knees together and breathing in tandem with her, as though tethered to her every gasp.

‘D-Did I aggrieve you, beloved?’ he stuttered, flattening his hands against the wall as if it was the only way to keep them to himself.

‘N-No, I…’

She twisted a strand of her hair and averted her gaze. Hues adorning her delicate features oscillated between warm and cold tones, attesting of the dilemma that was tearing her apart. Lord Guthláf’s words crept into her mind again.

No amount of earthly pleasure shared with the prince is worth your death.

‘How… are you feeling?’

Contorting his traits into a wince, Éomer’s attention flitted between his thighs, her figure, and the despair in her eyes. A sneer of embarrassment fleeted from his throat.

‘Flustered, I will not lie,’ he laughed, the sound warm but laden with tension and self-consciousness. ‘I thought I had mastered myself, but I find that I am not as composed as I had hoped.’

Though self-deprecating, the smile he bestowed upon her was genuine. Leaning further against the wall, his head tapped against the wood in a soft thud, while his hand burrowed into one of his pockets, an unconscious attempt at distracting himself from the disrespectful thoughts invading his mind.

‘But I do not forget the danger that acting upon my impulses would entail, Éorhild. Rest assured.’

‘Tell me what you are thinking about.’

‘You would not want to hear any of it,’ he responded, his voice quavering as her questions only served to aggravate his state.

‘But what if I do?’

Bashful but bold, her challenge caught him off guard. There she stood, her fists clenched against her thighs in a posture both defensive and daring, urging him to speak the words he withheld from her. In that instant, she transcended her image of a meek and obedient servant. She was a woman asserting her desires, laying her heart bare, releasing hundreds of questions to know whether the man she cherished felt the same yearning deep within him.

‘You would think me depraved,’ he insisted, reluctant to answer her plea.

‘Éomer, please.’

His nostrils flared and, in a wary abdication, he caved in. Despite his acquiescence, a subtle defensiveness crept into his voice, betraying the inner battle he was fighting and failed to spare her from.

‘You truly want to know what I am thinking?’ he hissed. ‘I long to disrobe you and lay you down on my bed. I wish to explore every part of you, to trace your skin by candlelight, hearing your sighs with every kiss I give you like they are prayers lost in the night. All I want is to make you feel revered, though I may not know the way.’

A deep inhale filled his lungs upon the realisation that he had uttered his most intimate desires in a single breath. He shielded his mouth with a shivering hand, ashamed of the impropriety he had displayed in her presence. But she wanted to know, and he had delivered. Now, all he anticipated was her flight — his revelations had this tendency of drive her away. Would she return, this time?

Éorhild straightened her posture, lifting her chin with determination, and spoke.

‘Give me the order.’

Slackening his jaw, Éomer stared at her in stunned silence, his brain hassling to process the gravity of her demand. He tilted his head, attempting to clarify whether he had heard her properly or whether his discomposure had warped her meaning. But when she refused to stand down, it was clear as day — she wanted him to dictate her.

‘Éorhild, you cannot be serious,’ he said, repulsed by the prospect. ‘You are no hound to obey my bidding. You are a woman — strong, precious, radiant, and astoundingly intelligent — and I love you, beyond reason or restraint. Do not ask this of me; I could never forgive myself if I did it.’

The distance separating them dwindled to nothing as she approached to rest a hand on his forearm, demanding his patient attention. There was no surrender to be found in her eyes — no trace of sorrow, nor hesitation. Without the shadow of a doubt, she empathised with his torment as she observed it tearing through him as he grappled still with her request.

Éomer had always held her in the highest regard, admittedly more than she thought she deserved, valued her autonomy and integrity as if they were sacred and as he had so vehemently asserted earlier. That he would deny her, was no surprise. It was as much a testament to his respect for her as it was to the principles he upheld.

And yet, this situation demanded more.

Her expression softened into a compassionate display.

‘This is not about undermining what you hold dear or asking you to betray yourself,’ she explained with such calmness that it unsettled him. ‘It is about what lies between us, what we both feel and cannot deny. I am not demanding you to abandon your conscience for my sake, but to consider that this — us — requires us to make a choice together, no matter how unconventional it may seem.’

Her hand trailed upward, gliding over the sinew of his arm and the breadth of his shoulder, finding its path along the ridge of his clavicle. It lingered there for a few seconds, savouring the warmth beneath the unfastened collar of his garment, before it continued its ascent. At last, it ended its course against his cheek and the pad of her thumb gave a stroke over the plane of his face, light as a feather.

It cupped him there, steadying him even as he faltered under the weight of his concern. She swept away the faint sheen of perspiration that clung to his skin. To him, her gesture held more meaning than words ever could. It was a delicate blend of reassurance and intimacy, one that their laws prohibited — it was already a risk she took for him. In the quiet of that moment, her touch spoke what her lips needed not say — I am here. I am yours. It is us against all odds.

His broad palm rose to meet hers, enveloping it with an affection that belied its strength. He held it there, grateful for her existence.

‘Far be with from me to compel you to act against your will, but I must speak plainly. We have little choice but to navigate this treacherous power play if we wish to remain together — even in secrecy — and to consummate our bond.’

‘I despise this eventuality,’ he sighed.

‘Consider what lies before us. If you command me, it grants us a measure of protection, a shield should our union ever come to light. It would ensure my survival and safeguard your crown, however dreadful you may find the prospect of becoming king. If you refuse…’

She hesitated for a breath, her voice softening yet losing none of its courage.

‘If you refuse, we face a bitter fork in our road: either we surrender to our impulses and I forfeit my life, or we deny ourselves entirely until the day you take Lothíriel for a wife and share with her the night we meant for ourselves.’

‘You do not understand, sunnan scima min. I cannot bring myself to strip you of your agency by uttering such crude words. To command you, especially in this matter, would be to forsake all that I admire in you.’

Éomer placed a kiss upon her brow.

‘Never will I wield my rank as a leash upon you,’ he declared. ‘No one deserves such a fate — least of all you.’

‘Oh, love of mine, you would not do such a thing,’ she responded, peppering kisses along his jawline, causing him to blush. ‘It would be a mere façade, our armour against scrutiny. We would not need to craft falsehoods should the nature of our bond be called into question. Besides, did you not once tell me not to give words more weight than they deserved?’

He exhaled in amusement and disbelief, his eyes rolling in feigned exasperation while his arms encircled her waist.

‘I cannot believe you are using my words against me,’ he jested, delighted by her audacity.

Melodious and gracious, her laughter brushed over him like a comforting breeze on a suffocating summer’s day, disarming the tension that gripped him. Before he could phrase another pleasantry, she burrowed against his chest, and he could do nothing but wind his arms around her. Her fingers threaded through his hair, grazing his scalp in gentle motions, as she rocked him in a slow, rhythmic slay.

‘I want you to give me that order,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘For this and what would follow, you have my full and educated consent.’

Éomer measured the solemnity of her statement for a moment more, his brow furrowing in contemplation. Then, with a heavy sigh, he extricated himself from her embrace. He looked into her eyes, searching for a hint of apprehension, some inkling of qualm, but he found none. He perceived nothing but the depth of her desire for his whole person, and he would have been lying if he had said that it did not stir him.

‘Are you absolutely certain?’

‘I am.’

‘Then, at least, allow me to make things proper,’ he pleaded, the words almost reverent, as though their sole purpose was to right a hypothetical wrong, to give their union the form it had always lacked.

With an expression both earnest and vulnerable, and as the moonlight caressed the side of his face, he lowered himself to one knee in near veneration. Her breath caught in her throat as he picked up her hand and pressed it to his lips. There was a shift in the air, unexpected yet delightful, that emulated the eternal fealty they bore to each other. Uncertainty swirled inside her soul as she tried to decipher his intentions, speculating about the ceremony fastened to his gesture.

‘Éorhild, words fail me to demonstrate how absolute my infatuation is. There is no day worth rising for without you by my side. You have transformed me in greater ways than one, and thus I shall forever lament the time I lost before I saw you, before I truly learnt what it was to be treasured. You are, without question, the most wondrous being to have come into existence and graced this wretched world.’

‘Is such a formality necessary?’ she giggled behind her hand. ‘This hardly warrants a proposal.’

‘Let me finish,’ he insisted, a radiant smile tugging at his lips. ‘And so, at this late hour, I kneel before you not as a prince, but as a man whose every thought you occupy. Since our laws forbid me from presenting you with a ring or seeing you in a wedding gown, I wish to offer you my spirit and my heart through the gift of my flesh, and it is yours to use as you see fit. For when at last you enjoy me, the shape of your hands will forever be carved into my skin, so even when the time comes for me to marry, I will always carry you with me. So, Éorhild, I beg — no, I bid you — to bed me.’

She nodded with trepidation, and they fell into each other’s arms, their lips meeting into a fervent kiss. It struck her then, with startling clarity, how meticulous his phrasing had been — a crafted formulation to bestow her with the illusion of dominion, when reality lay far from it. And she loved him even more in that instant, with the ardour of the lords in the ballads of minstrels who worship the ladies they covet.

No sooner had she perceived the faint taste of wine upon his tongue than Éomer swept her off her feet. However much effort he had granted this motion, his lips remained sealed to hers, as though the very act of breathing without her might undo him. With a knightly grace, he carried her over to the rumpled bed, as though partaking in a solemn rite to translate relics to a sacred altar. Lowering her with tender care onto the bed, he held his breath when her golden hair, tousled and waved, fanned out across the pillow like a celestial crown, its lustre shining brighter even than the surviving candle’s flame.

Inclining over her, he found himself spellbound by her features. He traced the curve of her face, committing every detail to memory. He carved the crescent moon shape of her jaw into his consciousness, dotted each of the small moles he numbered eight onto the canvas, sculpted the aquiline curvature of her nose into marble, blended pigments to achieve the amber reflection in her irises and the fair hue of her skin, so accommodated to indoors settings.

At her waist, he found the belt that cinched her gown, the haphazard bow undoing with the gentle pull of his fingers and stirring the garment underneath. The rustle of the fabric unfastening reached his ears, as intimate as a shared breath. The loosened folds revealed her chemise, like a cloak of modesty, with its unadorned and humble weave coarse under his hand. He hesitated, his gaze searching hers for permission, and she granted it wholeheartedly, guiding him by the wrist to her frame. By parting the hems of her robe in a bolder brush against her collarbones, he was unveiling a treasure he deemed himself unworthy to behold.

Reaching her out to him, she drew him to her heart, forcing him to kneel on the mattress, and her mouth greeted his in a grand welcome. His lips withdrew to wander along her jawline, peppering pecks against her tingling skin, descending upon her exposed throat. Air flowed and ebbed from Éorhild’s lungs in succinct expirations, evoking to him the waves washing upon the lofty cliffs of Dol Amroth, which he had admired for hours during his diplomatic visit there, finding solace in the unfamiliarity of the landscape and isolation from Imrahil’s court.

Beneath him, Éorhild was overcome with conflicting sensations. The kisses laid upon her neck stirred a shiver that coursed down her sides, spreading like a cold tide meeting the warmth of the shore and crackling away across her chest like seafoam chasing the sand. Each instance triggered cool thrills, yet she felt as though she was melting — an ice sculpture surrendering to the embrace of the sun, fading drop by drop into its irresistible grip.

In return, she wove a hand through his tresses. As his chaste, titillating strokes deepened into firm, open-mouthed kisses, each stoking the embers of her desire and amplifying her sensitivity, she gave a careful tug at their root, muffling a whimper in the crook of his shoulder.

Without thinking, her fingers found his shirt and bunched the fabric between them, yanking it upward and over his head. He complied without protest, assisting her in shedding the constricting garment. Straightening, he balled the shirt in his grasp and hurled it over his shoulder. It fended the air with considerable force and sailed dangerously close to the open flame of the candle, the anticipation of a catastrophe hitching their breaths. A faint metallic thud echoed as the shirt landed and sprawled atop his helm upon the dresser, and they laughed, relieved to have avoided a mishap.

Sparks illuminated her eyes at the sight of his bare torso, as numerous as the celestial bodies he had seen immortalised in Lady Galadriel’s irises. Yet, in the eyes of his beloved, even the legendary splendour of the Trees of Valinor paled before the radiance she brought to his world.

When her fresh palms lay upon the burning expanse of his chest, he yielded to gravity and passion, collapsing onto her with an urgency that bordered on obsession. His head nestled beneath her chin and questing flickers of his tongue chasing the ridge of her clavicle. The gasps he had drawn from her before magnified into strangled moans, ever so rewarding.

‘I want to devour you,’ he groaned against her dampened skin. ‘All of you.’

‘Do proceed, min heortan frean…’

Éomer cradled her chin in his hand, his thumb caressing the groove between her lower lip and her chin. His smile, candid and unguarded, spoke volumes — a quiet declaration of love that required no utterance.

‘May I disrobe you, leofre healsmægeth?’

‘I feared I might never hear you request it.’

She slipped from beneath him with an unhurried grace and rose. Standing before him, she was a vision caught between shadow and light, her form etched in soft luminescence dancing upon her shift. Her wrists moved with purpose, finding the ribbon at her collar, and with a deft motion, she loosened the tie. The neckline dipped to reveal the robust slope of her shoulders. A mere flick made her garment abandon her frame, cascading along the curves of her body before pooling into a heap at her ankles.

To him, she was a masterpiece, sculpted by the hands of the Valar themselves, and Éomer was undone. As he admired her, he forgot to draw breath, and his eyes widened as if the shores of Aman laid bare before him while the songs of the Eldar arose around him. Éorhild was the divine made flesh — there was nothing he could imagine would equal or surpass the vision of her figure in the moonlight, unclad specifically for his enjoyment.

He was unworthy of it all. He was but a flawed mortal, graced by the presence of this entity that, he felt, required of him to kneel. And he would have gladly obeyed, if not for his compulsion to explore her further.

He joined her side, caressing the defined muscles of her arms, chiselled by years of incessant scrubbing, carrying, lifting, swinging and rattling. With her eyes following his every movement, she seemed achingly vulnerable, and her lack of elocution led him to believe that she awaited some sort of approval from him — any sign that proved that her offering of her body had been seen, accepted, and valued.

As though words would have cheapened the reverence he experienced, he stared in sheer awe. But when she averted her eyes, as if doubt was corrupting her confidence, he tilted her chin towards him with a curled finger.

‘You are more exquisite than every treasure ever unearthed, more radiant than the stars that adorn our skies. Béma be damned, you steal the very air from my lungs,’ he murmured. ‘And now, more than ever, I desire you, in a way beyond all reason.’

‘May I undress you?’ she enquired, fragile with longing.

‘You may do as you wish with me. But this — this I long to give you.’

Swelling his chest with determination, Éomer unlaced the ties of his trousers. They slid from his legs, bunching at his ankles until he lifted his feet to ease the fabric off. He discarded it onto the floor and undid his braies with measured gestures, watching for any shift in her expression. When he finally stood before her, exposed in spirit and body, there was no sign of discomfort on her traits — only a flustered blush.

‘Are you still willing?’ he whispered, daring not to even hold her hand.

‘I am. Are you?’

‘What a question.’

Amidst a torrent of kisses, their naked bodies clasped together and came to rest upon the sheets once more. Torrid streaks formed sigils imprinted on their skin, igniting a hunger neither could quench. Exhalations mingled, swirled around their flushed face as their murmured voices, hoarse and tremulous, rose in a hymn to lust that only they could understand and sing.

Éorhild shivered under his hands, two tepid ripples amidst her body now subjected to the crisp wintry air. His mouth journeyed across the contours of her form, mapping every rise and hollow in almost piety. Meanwhile, his fingers traced the gentle curve of her breast, their path inflaming a crescendo of pleasure that unfurled within her core, lifting the banners ever higher upon her hills.

Breaching through the last vestiges of their sheepishness, Éomer descended, nestling his face into the sanctuary between her silken thighs. His nose grazed the curls crowning her mound, and with a devotion deeper than prayers could ever convey, he venerated her in the hushed language of sensuality. At first, in spite of his fervent desire to please, his tongue shifted with tentative hesitance, somewhat inept at procuring her what he believed she deserved. Her gaze drifted to the timbered ceiling above, as though seeking answers among the beams and shadows, striving to decipher the dim sensations prickling her.

‘Guide me, beloved,’ he pleaded, his breath hot against her exposed flesh. ‘Show me how to ravish you.’

‘I know not how,’ she admitted, her tone laced with the unfortunate tint of shame. ‘I have never sought such things before.’

He lifted his head in surprise, while his feet found purchase against the footboard of his bed behind him.

‘Not even behind closed doors?’

‘Éomer,’ she laughed, ‘I have lived nearly my whole life sharing a room with other girls, and even my bath was never a time for solitude. Besides, my days often exhausted me too much to allow such matters to cross my mind.’

‘Then, I suppose we should figure out a way — together,’ he teased with a proud grin before dipping his head back onto her.

He ventured onward in his exploration, each motion of his lips a studious reimagining of his previous attempts, drawing a map of her most receptive areas. The warmth of his breath swept over her, and he noted with great satisfaction how it ignited her pleasure anew. Finding a resting place upon her soft stomach, his hand unwittingly tugged at her skin. Her body responded instinctively — an abrupt jolt, accompanied by a sharp squeal that expressed her surprise and delight.

‘There!’ she gasped. ‘Right… there! Just… gentle…’

There it was indeed — his new treasure.

Her sighed pleas and muttered instructions guided him through the unknown, and in them he found his purpose; in her ecstasy, he found his incentive. Relentless yet mellow, he pursued her rising fervour, his focus unbroken as he listened to her cries of mounting elation. White-knuckled, her fingers gripped the sheets, her back arching into a bow of exquisite tension. Her free hand found the crown of his hair and grabbed a fistful, which she released when she realised the abruptness of her gesture. But he maintained it there, discovering an unsuspected taste for this rough display. At once, her world dissolved as a frigid wave crashed over her senses, dragging her into a rapture that evoked the sensations of simultaneous soaring and drowning.

Her knees enclosed his head in an instinctive embrace, a cry tearing from the very depths of her being. Slowly, the storm subsided, and with a long, deflating sigh, her body sank back onto the mattress. All else faded but the racing cadence of her heart, drumming a rhythm into her ears.

Éomer placed a tender kiss on her golden curls and crawled back to meet her, admiring her undone state. In his eyes, she had never looked more sumptuous —her damp, parted lips, her crimson face, and the wild tangles in her hair formed a vision of beauty that left him breathless.

Éorhild’s eyes fluttered open, drawn to his presence hovering above her. A playful smile dug dimples into her cheeks as she reached up to brush her thumbs against his beard to dry it, while a light laugh rose in her throat.

‘You look ridiculous.’

‘I do not mind it one bit,’ he chuckled in response, his eyes softening at her sight.

Oh, how he loved her.

‘What prompted you to do such a thing?’

‘Tavern songs,’ he recounted with a shrug. ‘Soldiers exchanging bawdy tales while setting up camp. You should remember to thank them for their service when you encounter them next.’

They erupted in laughter, and he sought refuge in the curve of as he breathed in her natural fragrance that clung to her skin. She encircled him with her arms around him and pressed her lips to his temple.

‘I do not know what to do to delight you in return.’

‘Do not trouble yourself over it, my love,’ he intoned, combing a loose strand of her hair away from her forehead. ‘There will be nigh on countless nights for us to uncover such wonders together. For now, I wish to… I wish to give myself to you. If you are still willing, that is.’

She stayed quiet, her stare fixed on some distant point ahead. This was the moment that her body had implored — yet now the leap seemed impossibly high, the weight of it all pressing down on her chest. A storm of doubts and fears whirled with fierce violence, threatening to pull her away from the present.

But before the tempest could carry her away, the caress of his palm against her jaw grounded her. His hazel eyes, beacons in the blur, silenced the chaos.

‘Are you afraid?’

‘Never have I lain with a man,’ she confessed, though she knew the admission was nothing new to him. Her voice remained steady, but there was palpable vulnerability in it. ‘I know not what to do.’

‘I have lain with no man or woman. I have kissed other ladies, I will admit, but it has never gone this far. I know not if it eases your mind, but I, too, am untried. What I do know is to be gentle, and that is all I shall be. I promise you. And should you wish to stop, say the word, my sweet, and I will pull away without question or disappointment.’

‘Will you not consider this opportunity wasted on me?’

Éomer cradled her face between his palms, brushing his lips across it, until his gentle exploration came to rest at the tip of her nose.

‘There could be no more meaningful opportunity than this, lufestran. None more loving,’ he said, leaning his forehead against hers. ‘Tales of old tell of first unions as a moment when a piece of the lover’s soul is captured, a gift to carry for a lifetime. Now, I may not be a poet, nor one for grand gestures, but my mother filled my bairnhood with enough ballads to make me believe in such things. And truth be told, I would be beyond honoured to carry a piece of you with me, onto the throne and unto my grave, and for you to hold my heart in return.’

Éorhild’s thoughts turned to the future, to the inevitable day when they would part, and the prospect tightened around her heart like a vice. As she beheld him in enamoured contemplation, a smile broke through, warm and steady.

If the old stories held any truth, then the only one to hold a fragment of her essence would be Éomer. There was no question. She knew it, and deep inside her bones, she had known it for a long time.

‘Then claim it.’

Tag list: @emmanuellececchi @konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras

If you wish to be tagged (or no longer tagged), don't hesitate to let me know!

[aprilblossomgirl]

The hell? This ain’t no time to confess your weird feelings.

[themisterhip]

You took everything from me...

[fairyhaos]

cruelest thing that kpop has ever done is impose a "you can't eat anything" rule on their idols in the country that says "have you eaten today?" as a way of showing love

[rabiesgiver]

Dröm Drop Distans 💖🎼

[klyn-n]

[whateveryeah]

This two pictures just scream the most beautiful fictional couple ever

[lale-txt]

never underestimate the power of fanfic because rn i'm looking at some of the most beautiful plates i've seen in my entire life (painted like figs and pomegranates) and all i can think about is mbb!yn crafting them in her pottery shop with utter care

[amiwritesthings]

i know I'll never forget the way i always felt with you beside me and how you loved me then my name engraved on your heart

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 4 of 7

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Epilogue

Summary: As Éorhild assumes her duties as Éomer's lady-in-waiting, she finds a semblance of peace in the proximity of her beloved prince, shielded from the weight of consequence. But nothing is ever as easy as it seems.

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

Word count: 12,846 (I so apologise for that)

Read it on AO3 here.

‘You stayed.’

Éomer’s utterances, still tinged with the remnants of his agitated slumber, bore the weight of both observation and inquiry. In his tormented reverie the night prior, he had resigned himself to the likelihood of being awakened by a different maid, if not by Edelmer himself. He had braced himself for the eventuality that their brief encounter in her new allocated chamber had concluded their friendship, or whatever it was that they had shared, and that their eyes were destined never to meet again.

To be proven wrong had never felt sweeter to the prince.

And so, he beheld her. Just for a moment longer. A twinkle of indescribable elation illuminated his eyes, dancing within them, while a giddy smile etched dimples into his cheeks. His joy was so profound that, for once, he paid no mind to his dishevelled appearance in her presence, his hair tangled from restless tossing and turning when sleep would not yet grace him with its veil of dreams. He, who for the past months had unconsciously devoted more of his time to the grooming of his beard and hair in anticipation of their next meeting by the hearth, felt no compunction about presenting himself in one of his most unadorned states. Deep down, he knew that she would never think any less of him for it. If there was any kind soul in this world to whom he would gladly bare his heart and display his real self, it was Éorhild.

It would always be Éorhild.

A tender smile graced his new chambermaid’s lips as she walked around the bed, delicately setting the tray with his morning repast upon his lap.

‘Fresh bread, a glass of cider, a piece of chicken adorned with melted cheese, and some potato slices flavoured with the finest spices. On the side, I have added some grapes if you are still hungry,’ she announced softly, maintaining a professional demeanour despite their albeit confusing intimacy. ‘I ensured that the chicken’s skin was cooked to a crisp, as you love it.’

His still-waking mind was lured out of the fog of slumber by the mingling aromas emanating from his plate. They evoked childhood memories of his late mother, who so often sheltered him within her embrace while eating at the royal table under Meduseld’s arches. Her ordinarily solemn composure she maintained in the company of courtiers, was kept at bay in his presence. Instead of ceremonious phrases rehearsed beforehand, flows of affectionate and playful words would spill from her lips, only to be heard by him. In time Éowyn did hear them too, but there once was a time when he was the sole receiver of such cherishing. Then, the darkening clouds in the east was a concern kept away from his guiltless mind. He still had time, his mother would say. It mattered more for him to remain in good health and on a saddle.

His chambermaid suppressed the urge to lay a hand over her stomach as the scents reached her in turn. Though without voice, they told of people from across the continent, of flavours without borders. They carried the songs of the sowers and reapers who nurtured the crops until they were ready for trade. The billowing vapour still bore the undulations of the river’s currents, licking at the barges ferrying the spices to new lands. An earthy bouquet fated to caress his tongue whispered of craggy mountain passes and ancient rocks paving the path for carts to reach the Golden City. They were born of the ground to taunt her, born to prepare them for others and never taste them herself.

Perceiving the slight pinch of her lips, Éomer shifted towards the centre of the bed and gestured to the vacant space beside him.

‘Please, do join me. Have you had your breakfast yet?’

Éorhild merely bowed her head, crossing her hands over her pressed thighs. After she had greeted and announced herself to Edelmer in the kitchens, she had endeavoured to feast on a cold salted bun. Naught more. The labour of her first tasks had already whetted her appetite, so conflicted her emotions had remained in the morn.

‘Thank you, but I need none, your Majesty.’

‘None of this, Éorhild, I beg of you!’ the prince pleaded, holding out his hand for her to grasp. ‘Are we strangers to each other now? Must I be punished so by indifference for having my heart stir at your sight?’

Silence met his beseechment. Fear still scorched her soul despite her decision to retain the position of chambermaid. She needed not speak it. He could sense it in her gaze so far averted from him, longing for every second she would allow him to hold it. Now that the court’s conventions permitted her to observe the royal family and touch her prince, it appeared a colossal weight that he was guilty of placing upon her innocent shoulders.

Yet his perception only resembled Éorhild’s dismay in part. It was not so much the weight of the demands entwined with the hardship of her new duty which caused her every joy to fester in its bud. It was rather her distrust in her own capacity to remain proper should their eyes meet again. Her wits were crumbling with every shared glance; when all would be ruined, what would dissuade her from claiming his lips where anybody could see? The king’s wrath would no longer constitute a threat, for she would dismiss the consequences of her passion on a whim.

For her sake and Éomer’s, she had to shun his affection. But how would she find the strength, when her very soul was consumed by the will to be his?

‘Éorhild, I can hear your stomach fussing. Please, do eat with me. I am not inviting you as a lover, but as a friend who cares about your well-being.’

Stunned out of a response, Éorhild shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The prince exhaled and dragged himself out of bed, clad in naught but his night shirt. He strode over to a small table across from the footboard of his bed, swept his belongings aside, dusted it off, and set his desk chair by its side.

‘If you do not find it in yourself to join my bed, even chastely, let us break our fast in a proper manner. Please, sit.’

Aware that she had little reason to decline now that her body had betrayed her hunger, she complied and lowered herself into the seat. He set the tray down upon the table and nudged it towards her as he sat on a stool on the other side. She hesitantly picked a potato slice and nibbled at it, a flush of embarrassment creeping over her at the idea of the prince observing her as she ate. Not wanting to upset her further, Éomer imitated her, using his bare hands instead of the lavish cutlery she had brought him. If she did not use them, neither would he.

‘Why have you chosen to stay, if I may ask?’ he whispered. ‘I was certain that I was never to be in your presence again, and you do not seem to rejoice at the thought of being a chambermaid either.’

She finally looked at him. A blush warmed her cheeks as her attention lingered on his dishevelled tresses, stirring an unexpected longing within her to smooth them with her fingertips.

‘I had chosen to decline at first,’ she confessed, ‘but as soon as I found myself before Edelmer this morning, my heart dictated me to stay. I could not explain it, my lord. Instead of resigning and asking to be replaced as your chambermaid, I wished him a good day and before I knew it, I was preparing your meal.’

‘I see. Do you regret this choice now that you have entered my chambers?’

Éorhild swallowed a piece of spiced yam and pondered his question in silence. Did she regret it at all? Did she come to wish that she had stood her ground? It had not crossed her mind in the slightest.

‘No, I do not, my lord. In fact… I fear I could not bear a life away from you, a life where we are strangers and I am not devoted to you.’

‘Oh, Éorhild…’

Without a second thought, Éomer extended his hand over the table, gently taking hers. Despite its coarse and dry texture, her skin seemed to him as soft as the finest silk beneath his touch. Oh, how he craved to cover it with tender kisses until his last breath! Dying at her feet would be such a heavenly way to pass. Devotion would change sides, for once. She would be the princess, and he would be her servant.

‘I could not drag myself away from you, even if I tried,’ he murmured, plunging himself into her misty eyes. ‘But I understand that you need boundaries, you have made it abundantly clear. Name them, and I shall respect them.’

Her fingers curled around his. Her thumb gently traced the lines of his palm, sending delicious shivers throughout his body.

‘Let me accommodate myself to this position before I utter them,’ she sighed with a shy smile playing upon her lips. ‘This fear shall pass. I hope.’

‘Then your will shall be done, my sweet.’

Replenished enough to face her tasks, Éorhild let her prince finish the plate while surveying his chambers, planning which areas to clean once he departed for his own work. She compiled a list of her priorities, organising the tasks in the most efficient order to ensure her work — and his life — would be made smoother.

With enough effort and hard work, she could become an exemplary chambermaid. She was sure of it.

‘Tell me, what has my uncle ordered for me to do today?’

‘The King has demanded that you visit some of the villages in the Fold to lift the spirits of those whose barns and homes were devastated by the recent storms. Lord Fréaláf will accompany you to distribute provisions. After this, King Théoden demands a report and a list of what relief to bring so our brothers and sisters can have a home as promptly as possible.’

‘This winter will be particularly harsh. I would not want to see my people suffer in such trying times. I will go to meet them.’

Éorhild bowed her head and smiled.

‘You are fated to be a great king. I have always known it. And I shall never cease to proclaim it.’

With these words, she withdrew to the washroom to prepare a warm bath for him. On a stool she had carried over to the side of the tub, she arranged soap and washcloth neatly while the water heated above the fire. So absorbed was she in her task that the sound of Éomer fumbling with scrolls in the next room seldom reached her. Before the kettle had fully boiled, she lifted it and poured the steaming water into the bath, before sprinkling milk, fragrances, oils, and dried flowers into it.

Behind her, while she filled a basin with cold water, Éomer entered, still in his shirt. She rose and bowed, folding a towel over her forearm.

‘Your bath is ready, your Majesty.’

‘Thank you, Éorhild. I shall… um…’

Instantly understanding his intent, she turned to face the wall. As her eyes trailed along the carved patterns on the wooden panels, she heard his shirt rustling to the ground. It was enough for the hairs on the back of her neck to prickle and for her lungs to forget to draw air in. The muscles of her abdomen, below her navel, tightened in a way they never had before, and it required all her willpower to suppress the whimper that threatened to escape her clenched lips. Perceiving the sound of his foot breaking the surface of the water, she gripped the wall, out of breath, digging her nails into the wood. A shard pressed painfully into her skin, keeping her grounded amid this dizzying euphoria.

What evil was seizing her? Was the biting winter cold rooted into her bones? She could scarcely believe that she had fallen ill; the previous night had been warmer than any she could remember in the maids’ quarters. Yet it ached at her core. Warm and cold waves slithering through her organs one after the other.

And she savoured it. Somehow, it was a kind of soreness that soothed.

She paused for a moment to steady herself before slowly turning to face him. As expected, his shirt lay discarded on the cold floor, and she took one step forward to collect it. It was then that the figure in the bathtub piqued her curiosity.

Éomer had reclined in the warm water, his bare torso rising and falling with each breath. Through his parted knees, emerging from the surface, she could discern droplets of the milky water scintillating upon the thin patch of hair across his chest. The skin of his arms, propped up on the rim of the tub, gleamed faintly in the candlelight. For the first time, she witnessed the sculpted strength of his muscles, carved by years — if not a lifetime — of training. War, she reckoned, could only have honed them further.

Her gaze drifted upward to his broad, toned shoulders, and she caught sight of the quiet elation softening his traits. With his chin tilted up and his eyes closed, he rested his head against a folded towel, surrendering to the warm embrace of the bath. His brass hair tumbled down over his collarbones, brushing the water’s surface with lazy grace. And if the foreign sensations already roiling within her had unsettled her reason, the vision of his hands idly tracing circles in the water only served to stoke the flames smouldering in her core.

‘Your Grace,’ she muttered, clutching the towel between her hands, ‘must I await you in your chambers? I am unsure of the expectations set on a chambermaid at such a time.’

One of his eyes flickered open, and a grin curled his mouth, digging a dimple just beyond the edge of his moustache.

‘Please forgive me; it has been so long since I last had such a soothing bath. Théodil never put such care into ensuring my mornings would be filled with comfort. I should have taken a moment to describe my routine. If you would be so kind as to hand me a washcloth and soap, then you may take your leave.’

‘Of course, your Majesty.’

She hurried over to the stool she had prepared and picked up both items. Yet, as she moved to present them to him, her attention was drawn once more to his torso, half-submerged in the water. In a fleeting moment, something deep within her resolve fractured, and before she could resist her will, she was kneeling at his side. He straightened in surprise, his puzzled stare fixed on her as she dipped the washcloth into the basin and worked the soap against it, coaxing a thin lather to form.

She lifted his hand in a tender gesture to press his knuckles to her lips in a ceremonious kiss. As she did, she guided the washcloth along his forearm, towards his elbow. One would have been blind not to notice the shivers that rose on his skin, as the object of his every desire attended to him in such an unpredicted and intimate act of care. He cupped her chin and waited for a word from her, his breath suspended in anticipation. But it never came. Not a flicker of expression betrayed her thoughts. She remained ever so calm, her focus absolute as she washed her prince’s arm and shoulder in meticulous strokes, ensuring that no inch of his skin was left untouched. Neither did she show any hint of repulsion as she scrubbed his armpit, still bearing the remnants of sweat from a night spent in anxiety.

‘Éorhild, what are you—’

His voice faltered, interrupted by a soft exhale that seemed to emanate from his very core, as her hand caressed his chest. Inside it, his heart pounded and blurred his sight, as though the very rhythm of his pulse was overpowering all reason and earthly senses. Never had anyone made him feel so small, so delicate, beneath their touch. Éorhild treated him as though he were the most precious being in existence, and he sensed it in every gesture, every look she cast upon him. And, in turn, it cost him all the mental discipline to resist the urge to pull her into the bath with him, to fondle her hips, whether over or under the fabric of her maid’s shift. Had he had his way, his lips would have been left scorched and raw from kissing her with the intensity fuelled by the passion that had consumed him over the long months.

Her hand halted on his abdomen as the gravity of the boundary she was on the verge of crossing dawned on her. Flushed with shame, she hastened to wash his legs and feet, her movements now sharp and uneasy. Without warning, she placed the cloth in the palm of his hand, her gaze dropping to the floor as she reclined on her heels.

‘Forgive my inappropriate behaviour, my lord. I now leave the matter in your hands.’

She scrambled to her feet, flustered and clumsy, placing the clean towel on the stool. Yet before she could flee, he caught her wrist with a gentle but unyielding grip and placed a single kiss there.

‘Do not leave me, gentle Éorhild. There is nothing to forgive.’

Her arm trembled, so consumed by guilt was she for her weakness. What had overtaken her, to wash him without consent, crossing a line so dangerous to cross? She had always been the pillar of reason and composure within her social circle and among the maids; Hilda had made a point of instilling these values in her, ensuring that she would eventually pass the torch with confidence to someone capable in time. Her steadfastness, once her cornerstone, now felt so brittle. The strength she had prided herself on, the very motivations that carried her through countless harsh nights in the maids’ quarters, crumbled piece by piece, like a fragile edifice battered by the unforgiving storm that was her affection for Éomer.

And she could not forgive herself for it. What model was she setting for the others? If Hilda could witness her state, she would have rightfully given her a piece of her mind. She would not have been tender or measured in her words; and that was precisely what Éorhild needed. She had to find someone who would speak plainly, who would shake her from this vicious daze and remind her of the perils that her feelings entailed.

Éorhild cleared her throat and withdrew her hand.

‘I must ensure that your clothes are pressed before you leave, my lord.’

‘Théodil already did it,’ he replied with a brief smile, betraying his disappointment. ‘You may ready my armour.’

‘Very well, your Grace.’

When Éomer stepped from the bath and patted himself dry, he craned his neck, his gaze catching Éorhild’s silhouette hunched over the bed as though she were lost in thought. Her hands moved diligently, polishing his breastplate with practiced care; yet her eyes were lost, fleeing to a distant horizon far beyond Meduseld. What thoughts, he wondered, occupied her mind? Her shifting demeanour — at times devoted, at times distant — left him to doubt whether her decision to remain his chambermaid was born of genuine will or a sense of duty she could not escape. He would not put it past her; duty had always been her light, shaping her every decision, giving her purpose, and driving her to arise with each new day.

And her hand, so deliberately caressing his body… What had prompted it in that moment? What force had steered her pretty limb, influencing her into crossing a boundary she had so desperately kept at bay?

The phantom of her touch still haunted his skin. The warmth of her fingers had embraced his arms, as though their imprint had etched themselves into his very soul. He wanted her. He wanted her with a yearning so fierce it eclipsed every fleeting notion of fondness he had ever felt for other women. Never had he desired anything — or anyone — so profoundly. He ached for her to bring him to his knees, and he would not require a single utterance from her to yield. All he aspired to do was to weave her essence into his veins, for no embrace would ever quell this ferocious hunger.

At last, Éorhild turned and retrieved a clean undershirt. In the washroom, she guided the garment over his form, studiously resisting to look at his exposed skin. Averting her eyes, she deftly secured his loincloth and rolled woollen hose up his legs with forced detachment. Without a word, she attended to him and completed the task of dressing him. She led him to a stately armchair tucked into the corner of the room, its dark wood displaying deep red undertones under the sunlight filtering through the window. Across from it, a mirror hung on the wall. Its tarnished gleam, having captured the likeness of generations of royals, still reflected their shared silence.

She reached for an ornate comb, crafted from pale ivory adorned with intricate carvings of traditional Rohirric knotwork and suns. Its artistry told of their people’s heritage, which stirred pride within their hearts, each detail a testament of their forebears and their skills. She passed its teeth through the golden locks on his head, careful not to tug at tangles and cause him pain. The prince shut his eyes and surrendered to the exhilarating strokes of her fingers. Éorhild perfumed his hair and braided it, before stepping back to allow him to rise. Once she had cladded him in his lighter armour, with its leather glinting in the candlelight, she bowed low and pressed her lips to his knuckle in reverence. The gesture sent a shy tremor through him, as though she were bestowing her favour and benediction upon him before he rode to battle.

‘Your Majesty, you stand before me ready to aid your people.’

‘Thank you, Éorhild, truly,’ he murmured, running the pad of his thumb alongside her jawline. He helped her stand, holding her hand for a moment longer. ‘Please do not overburden yourself today. The diligence you have shown since entering my family’s service far exceeds what I could ever expect of a chambermaid. I ask no more than a tidy room and a fresh shirt for the morrow.’

‘I will certainly not settle for so little, of course, you should know me well by now,’ she chuckled, her eyes brightening at last now that the tension had evaporated. ‘Should my tasks be completed ahead of time, would you grant me leave to visit the market? I wish to buy a few apples for myself.’

Éomer returned her smile and reached over to a small oak box resting on his desk. He opened it and retrieved a gold coin, pressing it gently into the palm of her hand.

‘I wish for you to buy yourself those apples and treat yourself to a pint of cider while you are at it. There is nothing quite like old Balthain’s steaming pastries to pair with it.’

‘My lord, I cannot—’

‘I knew you would refuse,’ he said with a knowing smirk. ‘So, to ease your guilt, you may buy a couple of those pastries for us to share after dinner tonight. I will also expect a bottle of cider. And since I hate loose change, you might as well spend it on yourself.’

She scowled, but after a brief pause, she reluctantly accepted and slipped it into the pocket of her apron.

‘It is my first day and you are already spoiling me.’

‘And I am happy to. If others gossip, let them. It is not forbidden for me to give you presents.’

‘My lord…’

A laugh slipped off her lip, diffusing a comforting warmth throughout his chest. What a chime! What a melody! He could listen to it endlessly, forevermore. He would cherish waking to the sound of it each morning, if not from the lingering scent at the curve of her neck. That of life itself, a balm to his soul, affirming the simple joy of knowing she exists, and the blessing of being so near to her. And, he hoped, that she loved him as much as he did her.

Éomer directed her to where the fresh linens were kept, but he was not surprised to see her already familiar with the location. With a last gaze, rich with fondness and trust, he departed, his duty calling him to the struggling villagers of the Fold.

The day passed more swiftly than Éorhild had anticipated. In contrast to his younger years, when she had been brought to tend to his chamber, Éomer had become noticeably tidier, and cleaning his quarters was no longer the arduous task it once had been. As intended, she exceeded the expectations he had voiced and tended to the upkeep of his private areas with an unequalled level of attention. Not only did she replace and washed his linens, but she also dusted every nook and cranny, the intricate carvings in the wall panels and the furniture, as well as each lantern and scroll she could put her hands on. All floors were swept, all candles replaced, the bathtub emptied and thoroughly scrubbed. His muddy garments were washed, infused with subtle fragrances, and hung to dry by an open window in the wash house beneath the Golden Hall.

When her chores were at last complete, she retreated to her own quarters to wash away the day’s labour. She hung her uniform to air by the window, opting instead for a loose woollen dress. A headscarf came to conceal her hair, lending her a modest yet graceful air. With her green mantle fastened at her shoulders, she gathered her coin purse and wicker basket; thus adorned, she stepped out, bound for the bustling market of Edoras.

Her path led her to the heart of Meduseld, where she encountered Lady Éowyn, sitting by the hearth with a pelt over her knees. A radiant smile lit up her face as she read a freshly delivered letter. Éorhild paused to bow respectfully, and she could not help but appreciate the contentment that the lady displayed. There could be no doubt — the letter’s author was Lord Faramir of Minas Tirith, whose words had the power to brighten up the lady’s day and life.

As she passed under the arches, Éorhild’s thoughts meandered, unbidden, to the memory of that evening when she and Éomer had shared a cup of tea on the hillside. He had seemed genuinely elated for his sister’s choice of husband. There was this blatant relief in knowing that, amidst the trials of her life, Lady Éowyn had been granted the rare privilege of forging her own destiny in this matter of the heart, no matter how insignificant it may seem in one’s life. Her decision, unshackled by duty or arrangements, seemed to lighten Éomer’s spirit, as though it reaffirmed his hope that happiness could be earned even in the face of adversity.

It pained her so greatly that he would never know the same freedom or joy for himself. Being the heir of the throne of Rohan, Éomer’s hand was not his own to give, but a prize to be bartered, auctioned, and reduced to a tool for securing alliances and strengthening the kingdom’s prospects. His fate was bound by politics, a vicious and weighty chain that no amount of personal yearning could ever shatter. The thought of his desires stifled, and his bliss sacrificed for gain gnawed at her heart with relentless sorrow.

She loved him. The realisation dawned on her, oh so bittersweet. And he seemed to love her too, judging by his tender glances and the weight of his words. Their mutual pining did not strike her as a passing fancy or some shallow infatuation fated to vanish by the next moonrise. No, it felt rooted, profound and abiding. It was as though their souls had wandered the world in loneliness and had finally found each other, now waiting for their bodies to join as one. Yet, the path ahead of them was full of thorns and was paved with the inevitability of reality. She was baseborn, he was to be king. Her heart had already caught onto one of these thorns, left there to bleed for eternity.

A guard stepped forward to open the heavy gate for her. She acknowledged his gesture with a curtsey and stepped out into the crisp air of this wintry afternoon. The creak of the door shutting behind her was accompanied by the faint hum of the marketplace farther into the city. She followed it, drawn like a fish to a lure, her steps heavy. Every so often, her gaze turned to the landscape beyond the ramparts. The world beyond the capital was caught in winter’s grasp, though it had yet to snow in earnest. The once green fields, undulating into hills stretching towards the horizon, had surrendered to the season’s damp embrace; the recent storms had transformed their loamy soil into sprawling swamps of mud clinging stubbornly to the terrain. Under her breath, she murmured a prayer to Béma, the protector of riders. She beseeched him to shield Éomer and Firefoot from harm in the Fold. The thought of them braving the treacherous, mud-laden roads filled her with uneasiness. She prayed for their sure footing, for their journey to be unmarred by peril, and for the prince’s safe arrival to the Golden Hall, where his well-being would once again rest in her hands.

And, catching herself in her selfish fixation of her prayers upon the prince, she lowered her head in shame and apologised to the Vala. She then implored him to spare and protect the villagers, whose livelihoods had been washed away by the storm.

Lower down the hill, the market thrummed with life, serving as both the beating heart of trade and the soul of the community for the Rohirrim who lived there. In its appearance, it resembled any other marketplace. Stalls stood in rows; their wares were strategically displayed to catch the attention of passing customers. A teeming crowd flowed between them, while the sellers, determined to outshine one another, clamoured their unbeatable prices over the constant and unfading chatter. Tantalising fumes of freshly prepared goods wafted through the narrow square. Large cauldrons bubbled over open flames, releasing steamy, mouth-watering tendrils which embraced the crowd, while golden-brown pastries, still warm from the oven, were left out to cool.

Éorhild joined the commotion and clutched her basket tightly to her abdomen. She moved along the rows, folding herself into the smallest space possible to avoid shouldering fellow visitors. At the end of the third lane, she found the fruit merchant’s stall, and her gaze lingered on a cluster of ruby red apples, glistening under the shy sun peeking through white clouds. She selected a few of the finest she could put her hands on and exchanged a few coins for the treasure. She tucked them away inside her basket, a smile tugging at her cheeks as she counted the additional ones she bought, thoughtfully set aside for Éomer and Firefoot.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the judges’ house, standing behind the tanner’s booth. Its pristine façade outshone its neighbours, testifying of the means and the social wellness of its personnel, who maintained it religiously, although the hanging sign creaked noisily as it swayed on its rusting hinges in the breeze. Its sound was almost mournful, as though whispering secrets of the countless harsh and difficult decisions decided within over the years to whomever was willing to lend it an ear. For a moment, Éorhild stopped and stared, her mind straying to the risks that she and Éomer had taken to be near each other and struggled so much to cease taking.

What if the judges inside could clarify the age-old laws of the royal house? Perhaps they could grant her the wisdom she sought, the tools to discern her place as a new chambermaid and choose her course more wisely. She imagined herself stepping through that varnished doorway, humbling herself before the ageing judges, who, she was certain, would welcome her plight with cold detachment and severe judgement. Undoubtedly, they would see the folly in her yearning and warn her of the dangers looming over her head should she pursue him. Only them could shake some sense into her disoriented heart. Could their grave words steel her resolve again as they reminded her of the chasm that lay between her station and Éomer’s?

The embers of her passion had to be snuffed before they consumed her entirely and reduced her life to ashes.

And yet, Éorhild could not bring herself to step forward. Her feet remained firmly planted in the mud, her breath shallow and strained through the lump that had formed in her throat. A thousand questions warred in her mind, and each seemed more absurd than the last as her eyes kept examining the façade, whose grandeur seemed to mock her dishevelled thoughts.

Before she knew it, she was pacing through the thinning crowd, dimming her inner agitation with the thought of alcohol. At the market’s edge, she encountered the cidermaker, a burly man with a strikingly copper-coloured beard wearing an apron tarnished by years of fermenting fruit. She slammed the gold coin that Éomer had entrusted her on the counter in exchange for a cup and a bottle of his finest spirit. The latter she lowered into her basket; the former she rose to her lips, tilting the vessel with abandon. The golden liquid was drained in a single breathless gulp. It froze her throat for a mere second, sat heavily in her chest for another, then the burning passed.

Her antics earned her the curiosity of a group of men with reddened faces huddled around a weatherworn table beside her. Their elbows nudged one other while their laughter rang out in derisive delight. Heat flushed her cheeks — not from the drink, but from their jesting bellowing that followed. Ignoring their words, she kept her chin up and feigned to readjust her head covering. Between the poles of several stalls ahead of her, she could still see the judges’ house, taunting yet promising.

She offered a brief nod of gratitude to the cidermaker, who caught the flush of discomfort in her eyes. He slammed his hands on the counter and roared at the other men.

‘Mind your manners, you louts! Have you got nothing better to do than drink yourselves stupid and pester ladies?!’

But Éorhild hardly perceived the seller’s gallant intervention; her brisk pace had already led her away from the scene. It compelled her straight towards the judges’ house, before which she stood with clenched fists. There was light behind the greenish windows. Taking it as an invitation, her hand grazed the polished handle of the door, and she crossed the threshold.

Inside, the warm air that engulfed her and pricked her reddening fingertips bore a stark contrast to the wintry breeze she was leaving behind. Above her head, a chandelier shuddered when she shut the door, the faint haloes of the candles’ light flickering upon the walls. Its click echoed in the stillness of the otherwise dim room, heralding her presence in what felt like a far louder announcement than it truly was. On her left, a boy was tossing logs into the fire within a red hearth. His hands, blackened with soot and calloused from handling wood, swiftly dodged the flames and sparks. He did not acknowledge her presence; surely, he had not been entrusted with the task to welcome visitors, so young was he.

Further on the right, a lofty and imposing shelf stretched almost the height of the ceiling, carrying more scrolls and volumes than she had ever seen in her life. It was a fantastic collection of knowledge and history, gathered along the years and borrowed from the neighbouring realms. Some of the edges were gilded, others frayed, their spines either pristine or cracked, bearing faded inscriptions of the Rohirric language, ordinarily recorded in oral tradition. They emitted a strong scent of ink and aged parchment, mingled with the eye-stinging aroma of woodsmoke.

In the centre, a table adorned with a single candelabra stood unattended. A lone chair worn by every bottom it had known had been pulled on the other side of the desk, but never rearranged. Perhaps its occupant was soon to return. Behind it was a door separating the room from the rest of the house. Éorhild discerned several voices speaking at once beyond it, and though she could not make out the words, she knew that they belonged to various, simultaneous conversations. Yet, seeing that nobody had come to see her, she spun around to leave.

‘Well, good day, milady,’ a cheery yet calm voice interrupted her course. ‘It is not everyday that a maid of Meduseld graces our humble abode. Be welcome, child.’

She turned swiftly, startled by the sudden greeting. An elderly man stood in the doorway to the adjoining chamber with a tome tucked under his arm. She recognised him as Judge Guthláf, having served his occasional dinners with the king at the palace. He had always struck her as a blend of grace and warmth, not just in the thoughtful advice he lent to Théoden, but also in the genuine compliments he unfailingly awarded the servants on every visit.

‘Forgive me if I startled you, dear,’ he added with a hearty laugh, beckoning her inside. ‘I did not hear your arrival; my hearing is no longer as sharp as it used to be.’

She dipped into a curtsey, her hands clutching the handle of her basket.

‘Good day, your Honour. I apologise for my unprompted visit; I did not mean to intrude.’

‘Oh, child, do not worry yourself. Come, come.’

The boy brushed past her without so much as a word or a glance, his thin frame moving towards the door. It opened for a moment, admitting a single sharp draft that nipped at the back of her neck before the door closed with a resolute thud. She stepped forward, the soles of her slippers producing faint echoes on the stone floor. She stood before Guthláf, whose scrutinising gaze examined her. His dulling eyes half shielded under his bushy saw a gleam of recognition kindled in them.

‘Ah, Éorhild, is it not? You were the orphaned girl that Hilda brought in years ago! She brought you here once or twice in your early days in Edoras, I remember.’

‘Your memories are clearer than mine, I must admit,’ she responded shyly. ‘I mostly remember you from your visits to the king.’

‘Oh, that was long ago, and you were but a girl. How could I blame you? Anyway, do speak freely, child. It is rare for anyone of your station to seek our help, so I suspect that the reasons you passed our doorsteps go far beyond the tidying of halls or the pouring of wine.’

While speaking, Guthláf trotted around with surprising ease for his age, advancing towards a corner obscured from her by the bookshelf. There, he retrieved a wooden chair, which he promptly dragged behind him to offer her. She bowed her head in gratitude and eased herself onto the seat, clasping her hands together for warmth. The old man sat across from her, leaning his elbows onto the table and staring at her, neither in an urging nor in a prying manner. The smile etched into his cheeks encouraged her to gather her thoughts and speak.

‘Yesterday, I was named chambermaid of the prince,’ she stuttered, unsure what to even ask. ‘I know that the oath I am bound to swear will differ from the one I swore years ago. Would you happen to know what it officially entails?’

Pondering her question, he fidgeted with the signet ring around his middle finger.

‘What shall change, you ask? New duties, new expectations, as you probably know already. I suppose that you have had a taste of them today, have you not?’

‘Indeed, your Honour.’

‘Mh. In addition to the maintenance of his belongings and quarters, you will act as a personal advisor in many ways. Not as a political one, mind you, but there will be many a time when you must act as his conscience, ensuring that he does not make a mockery of himself or his status at official or diplomatic events, for instance.’

His words echoed in her mind, tormenting her further. Éorhild balled her hands into fists, grasping the coarse wool of her skirt to ground herself. What had possessed her to seek counsel here, when she was unsure of what answers she needed to hear?

Lately, she had been hardly capable of acting as anyone’s conscience, least of all Éomer’s. She had only ever been the type to abide by the rules without question, until now, when she only posed a threat to his balance and clarity of mind.

‘I…’ she trailed off, unsure how to continue. He waited with relieving patience, rubbing his chin in anticipation of what she might confess. ‘What of the nature of my relationship with the prince? I am aware that my former oath involved a strict vow of celibacy, but what of this new pledge? I know of many maids who covet my position to be free of it.’

‘Ah, you are not the first to ask me this, child!’ he laughed. ‘This new oath you will swear will be negotiated with the person you are serving — the prince, in this instance — and compromises may be made, if he so wishes. If he does not object to your taking of a lover, then he will not have you vow for a life of celibacy again.’

She shifted in her seat, her hands plucking the lint on the wool’s surface. Her eyes darted to the fireplace, whose heat worsened the blushing creeping up her neck and dyeing her cheeks a crimson hue. Her nerves were unravelling, thread by brittle thread, with each tug of her fingers. The prospect of being freed from such a restrictive and frankly unfair pledge did nothing to soothe her turmoil; in truth, it only fanned it further. Despite her disorientation, she possessed enough reason to understand the cruel reality of the situation. It mattered not whether her regained freedom would enable her to find a lover of her choosing. The laws of court and birth, the unyielding expectations of their respective places, were a steel cage locked imprisoning her heart and its desires. Seeking comfort in each other’s arms would still be forbidden to Éorhild and Éomer, and no amount of resistance would lift the ban.

But then, like a single ember catching fire to a dry leaf, an idea flickered to life in her mind — wild, unprompted, and unbecoming of her usual sense of propriety. It was not one that she prided herself on, nor did she desire to voice it to anybody else, but if she wished to be given the wisdom she dared not speak of, she had to play a game. She could not pose the question as herself, lest she be revealed as a greedy servant. Guthláf’s curious gaze and the heavy silence that had befallen the room, only disturbed by the crackling fire, pressed her reason with an urgency she could not ignore.

‘Your Honour,’ she began, her voice forcefully wavering as she feigned fear, ‘are there any provisions within the laws — any precedents — that might allow a master to take liberties with his chambermaid?’

Her words suspended in the air seemed weightier than any of the volumes lining the bookshelf beside them. Beads of sweat trailed down her temples, so ashamed was she to even speak such preposterous implications towards Éomer, gleaming in the firelight cast upon her profile. The heat in her body, prompted by her hurricane of emotions, was suffocating her. Her trembling fingers unhooked her mantle as she muttered an apology and folded the cloak over the chair’s back.

Master Guthláf stared at her in disbelief. His wrinkled hands, clasped over the book he had been carrying, twitched around each other.

‘Éorhild, has the prince…?’

‘No, no, your Honour,’ she hastened to reassure the old man, whose face had turned as pale as the snow on the mountain peaks. ‘It is just… I am unused to being so often in the presence of men in closed quarters. I do not know what it is that men wish for, and, perhaps, in a moment of weakness, something could happen.’

Éorhild winced, the sharp sting of self-reproach piercing her all the way to her very marrow. What a clumsy explanation she had improvised! She felt her own words stumble and wash over the old man, who, to her surprise, seemed to soften at once. If she could have reached out and snatched her words back, she would have done so in a heartbeat.

For a moment, he said nothing. His eyes drifted towards the logs aflame in the hearth as he searched for the right words to speak to a fearful young woman such as she. From the concern that contorted his traits and further wrinkled the corners of his mouth, she guessed that his answer would not be as pleasant as she had anticipated. There was a terrible truth hidden behind his pale irises, threatening to darken the discussion at once.

Finally, he cleared his throat and considered his visitor with pity.

‘A matter such as this is no small one, my dear child. But you must know this.’

He rubbed his finger upon his upper lip, mustering his courage to face her with a revelation that could terrify her.

‘The laws of the royal house are such that if a male individual cared for by a female chambermaid wishes to engage in… certain activities with her, he may command it, and she must comply without question.’

Her sweat turned to ice at once, stabbing her with a chill that no fire could thaw. Indignation coiled inside her core like a serpent constricting around her insides to smother them before it could feast on them. More than ever, she understood Éowyn’s pain.

How could such a humiliating thing be asked of a woman? Did her body not belong to herself? Was her flesh just another tool of service, stripped of agency?

She had willingly ceded her heart to her duty when she was not yet a woman and had until this day never once regretted it. Its unique desires and ambitions had been stifled when she pledged her devotion to Meduseld, and the wellbeing of its inhabitants had become her sole beacon. Her soul, too, she had bound to them out of loyalty and respect. It had resisted every order, every expectation, never crumbled under any form of pressure or intimidation from other maids or Edelmer. But her body, surely that should remain hers.

But if even that was forfeit to the whims of tradition or the impunity of kings, princes, and marshals, what did she have left? Nothing but her name. The thought hollowed her out, leaving an echo of despair where there once had been resolve. A name was nothing that she used for herself; it was always to be spoken by others. It was as easily erased or forgotten by the trials of time as stories of old that nobody wished to pass down anymore. It did not dictate who she was as a person. It did not tell of her personality, of her values, not even of her flaws. Its letters bore no witness to whatever good service she had provided to anyone. Its syllables were blind to the comfort she knows she had brought Éomer that night under the stars, when she sang his mother’s song to him.

The world suddenly felt so hostile, its rules and unholy chains that dug into her flesh keeping her on her bleeding knees. Oh, what life had she chosen? The question scorched her chest, too bitter for her to contemplate for the time being.

Guessing her consternation, Guthláf reached over to take her clammy hand. He gave it a squeeze, accompanying the gesture with a knowing smile, devoid of joy.

‘I know, child. I know,’ he murmured. ‘If the prince demands your presence in his bed, you must obey. But know that if he ever displays violence towards you, in bed or in his chambers, there are laws to protect you.’

Ironic. There were no laws to safeguard her dignity if her body was demanded against her will, yet if he so much raised a hand against her in anger or force, the judges might intervene. But even that faint hope was a fragile thing. It was frayed with the knowledge of who her adversary then would be.

A royal. Against the glory of his title, her station was nothing but dust encrusted in the grooves of the floors she was destined to scrub until her death. She was not so naïve as to believe that justice was blind to their disparity, nor foolish enough to presume that the scales would ever tip in her favour. No matter how righteous her cause, her whisper would falter beneath the roar of his status, her truth obscured by the glow of the crown he was promised to.

It was not just fear that churned in her belly but the unshakeable certainty of her own insignificance in the face of power. Her nails bit into her palms, nearly drawing blood. Yet, somewhere through the fog, a spark of defiance ignited. She could not change the laws, nor could she wrest power from a prince. But she could cling to her sense of self, her identity and her will. If the world offered no protection, then she would have to be her own shield.

‘I see,’ she replied coldly, withdrawing her hand and flattening it upon her thigh. ‘So, if I understand well, he could order me to share his bed, and neither he nor I would be punished for this offence?’

‘Not unless he harmed you.’

For now, that would have to be enough. She was not sure that she could handle much more dwelling on the matter.

‘And to think that so many maids would sacrifice everything, even tear each other apart to be in my place,’ she scoffed, tying her cloak around herself again. ‘They have not counted their blessings.’

‘My child, there is much gratification in exercising this function,’ Guthláf prodded with a shake of his head. ‘Should you satisfy your master’s wishes regarding the upkeep of his chambers and his person, there are many ways in which you would benefit from this position. Some chamberlains and chambermaids have been granted lands in the past; some were elevated to the status of courtiers. Do not abandon yourself to such defeatism. I have seen your work at Meduseld and the only person I have met who carried her tasks with such grace was Hilda herself, Béma bless her soul.’

‘Yet I would have to sacrifice my integrity for these privileges, and I am not quite sure that I am willing to do so. Lord Éomer has always treated me kindly, but to know that he holds such power over me is…’

Her voice trailed off, her mind too weak to consider the outcome of their relationship should he grow weary of her avoidance and decide to take the matter in his own hands. She did not believe him capable of doing so; but too often had she witnessed the lords of the court misbehaving towards other women to put it past him.

‘Éorhild, if that is of any consolation, I have seldom ever heard of a master ordering it from their maids. Not within the royal family, that is. Be at peace; I am sure that Lord Éomer would not trespass your boundaries, unless you prompted him to. But surely you are not silly enough to do such a thing, are you?’

Their gazes locked across the table, and Éorhild felt that time itself paused. The judge’s eyes, weathered by years of truths both spoken and withheld, reached into the recesses of her spirit. A chill ran through her; her thoughts might not be as shrouded as she had believed. Did he know? Had he, from the moment that she crossed the threshold, discerned the tangled threads of her forbidden yearning? Did he see past the clumsy detours of her words and perceived what her heart truly wished to know?

His stare pinned her into place and her breath hitched, shallow and shaken. His expression betrayed nothing, stilled into a mask of patience. Beneath it she sensed an unspoken knowledge, as if he was merely awaiting her to confront it herself.

‘Did you already know, my lord?’ her voice rose, although little more than a strangled whisper.

His eyes softened, but his answer, when it came, confirmed that he had grasped what she had struggled to articulate.

‘Do you truly believe that you are the only young woman to have come to me in hopes that I would give her my blessing to pursue the object of her desire?’ he responded, his voice hardened now that the matter had been bared between them. ‘Do not fool yourself, girl. Your pretty head would be severed from your shoulders by morning if you indulged your urges.’

His patronising tone made her recoil and press her back against her chair. The defiance born of her indignation, however, had not been snuffed out. She rose to her feet, those of the chair scraping against the stone with a discordant tone that offended their ears. picking her basket up off the floor.

‘I have taken enough of your time, your Honour,’ she hissed. ‘Thank you for your counsel.’

Her knuckles paled as she clutched the handle, turning on her heel, desperate to evade the suffocating atmosphere of the house. Each step she took towards the door grew heavier than the last, her mind a cacophony of self-recriminations and accusations towards Rohirric society.

She reached for the latch, her trembling fingers stiffening at the touch cold of the metal, but before she could push it, Guthláf’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

‘Child,’ he said, his tone an odd mixture of consternation and compassion, ‘you will not flee the danger your heart poses by storming out of this room.’

Her breath caught in her throat. Slowly, and reluctantly, she turned to look at the old magistrate, still sitting at the table behind the dying candle. His gaze was no longer the scrutiny she had sensed moments before. It had transformed into something gentler, almost fatherly.

‘Whatever it is you seek,’ he continued, his palms flattening against the wood, ‘you will not find it by avoiding the reality of your circumstances. So, if you truly reject my counsel, hear at least this; no amount of earthly pleasure shared with the prince is worth your death. No man is worth your death.’

Tears brimmed her eyes within a second. A tremor crossed her lower lip, and although the old man’s sight was no longer as precise, it did not escape him.

‘Hilda was proud of you, you know? Every time she and I shared a glass, she would tell me about her prodigy. You were the daughter she had never had the joy to have. Please, do not waste your life away on a whim. She would not have wanted that.’

Éorhild could bear it no longer. She pushed the latch and left, without so much as a goodbye. Outside, the bustle of the market had died down, and most of those who had stayed behind were helping the merchants with the packing of their goods and the cleaning of their stalls. None of them paid attention to her, and she was grateful for it. Pressed against the door, her chest heaving with strain, and tears streaming down her red cheeks, the last thing that she wanted was to be noticed.

She clasped her chest, sensing her erratic heartbeat underneath her palm. Her breath, reduced to succinct shallow gasps, caused her shoulders to curl inward, as though she was shrinking around herself. The world around her blurred, the people, homes, and mountains fading into indistinct shapes dancing before her. Her eyelids fell and she drew some fresh air through her nostrils, letting it fill her lungs like a balm applied to her dilapidated nerves.

One breath. Then another.

Gradually, the haze began to lift, but the haunting image of her head on a pike ruined her every effort. Her basket collapsed at her feet, spilling the beautiful apples she had acquired earlier. The cider bottle, she would later find solace in, had not shattered, and merely rolled against her shoe.

Below her feet, the earth was seized by a faint quake. Someone far away shouted, but she failed to understand their words. Her feeble knees caused her to totter away from the door, her hand holding fast to the wall. But the force it took her to take a step surpassed her. Her chest burnt with distress, and dark blotches began to stain her sight.

‘Éorhild?’

Her eyelashes fluttered open upon the mention of her name. It was the only clear perception amidst the drowning sensations of her reality crumbling all around her and swirling ever closer until it would swallow her whole. Through a squint, she made out the shape of a grey steed with a proud, white head. Perched atop it was a red figure she could not recognise.

The voice rose again, although not directed to her this time.

‘Return to the stables and demand an audience with the king. I shall meet you there without fail.’

‘But my lord—,’ another voice responded.

‘I am not leaving my chambermaid in distress here. Do carry on. I will bring her to the palace and find you.’

Hooves trampled the ground as the riders ascended the hill to the royal stables. Éomer muttered an order to Firefoot, and the horse trotted up to her right as she collapsed onto her knees, bruising it on a rock. The prince slipped off the saddle and knelt by her side, holding her quivering hands in his own.

‘Éorhild, what has befallen you? Has harm been inflicted to you?’

Her head shook in feeble protest as a sound, more air than voice, escaped her throat — a rattling whimper that seemed to drain the last of her strength. Without another word and realising that she was in no state to clarify the situation, he gathered her form into his arms. Her body, lighter than she would have imagined, slumped against his torso, unable to resist even if she had wanted to. With delicate motions, he set her down on his saddle, her head lolling back. Éomer swung himself onto the horse and anchored her between his arms and legs. He braced her against his chest, curling one shoulder forward and pressing his cheek to her hair to keep her head fastened.

Though half-lidded eyes, she caught sight of her fallen basket, the bottle and apples scattered onto the ground beside it.

‘The apples,’ she exhaled.

‘Nevermind them,’ he intoned into her ear, nudging Firefoot back onto the path. ‘Let me take you back home.’

His horse launched forward; its step brisk yet steady enough for Éorhild to remain firmly seated. Around her, the city fell into a fog of her own making, and the hum of the merchants closing shop was reduced to a distant purr against the rhythmic clopping of Firefoot’s hooves upon the golden dirt. For now, there was nothing but the path ahead and Éomer’s heart beating alongside hers in her ears.

She must have lost consciousness, for when next she opened her eyes, the wintry air and landscapes were beyond reach. Her vision swam back into focus and the first thing she registered was the softness beneath her — a bed, far more comfortable than the straw mattresses she had occupied for most of her life. Her body was warm, soothed by the calming scent of lavender woven into the linens tucked snugly around her. Across from the bed, her green cloak had been neatly folded and laid to rest on one of two chairs standing on either side of a round table, towering over her slippers. Whoever had brought her there had also taken the precaution to take off her woollen hose and head covering and had disposed of them onto the chair’s back.

It was Éomer’s chambers. She already knew them like the back of hand.

The pads of her fingers caressed the weave of the sheets as she wondered whether she had dreamt the day’s events — the bath, the market, her encounter with Guthláf, and the chaos that followed. But as her thoughts settled, she knew they were real. One thing was certain; someone had carried her to this sanctuary, and for the time being, she was safe.

She hauled herself up with tremendous effort and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Much to her relief, her head had ceased its spinning. She was just about to attempt to stand when the door opened and Éomer entered, carrying a steaming bowl of spiced mashed potatoes. When his eyes locked with hers, he almost dropped the dish to come to her side, but he clung to it and hastened to place in on his bedside. He fell at her feet, pressing his lips to her hands.

‘Éorhild, you gave me such a fright!’ he breathed out between kisses. A flutter in his voice betrayed the concern that hard burdened his heart ever since he found her by the judges’ house. ‘Oh, my beloved, name whomever has caused you such torment and I shall hunt them for sport!’

Her fingers brushed through the blond strands on his head, their course coming to a halt when his cheek nestled against her palm. She could not help the smile lighting up her features at last; his mere presence alleviated her troubles, although, in a way, he had been the cause of it all.

He remained still, breathing in her scent at her wrist, his breathing matching the steady rhythm of her pulse. His hand came to enfold hers, neither pushing it away nor forcing it back through his hair. It was there, undemanding, merely demonstrating his affection, as though to reaffirm his support.

‘Nobody has offended me, my lord,’ she spoke, her dry throat causing her words to emerge raspier than expected. ‘Be at rest.’

‘How could I? I thought I was close to losing you, Éorhild, and my heart could not bear it.’

He extended a hand to stroke her jaw, his twinkling eyes admiring her for a moment. Then, the spicy scent emanating from the bedside table reminded him of the food he had brought in from the kitchens. He withdrew his hand and offered her the bowl and a wooden spoon. ‘Here,’ he chuckled, making her hand cup the dish. ‘You must eat. You need strength.’

The spoon danced in Éorhild’s hand as she stirred the mash, the aroma reaching her and prompting her to eat. The savours spilled across her tongue, engulfing her entire mouth. She closed her eyes to allow the complexity of the tastes of such simple food to overwhelm her. The herbs, the spices — she recognised them as those reserved for the highborn. She had carried countless delicacies adorned with them to the royal table for years, in private dinners and banquets. So often had she considered to defy the rules for a single bite, just to familiarise herself with the food that her peers had put such care into perfecting and to know, at least once, how it melted on the tongue. Now that Éomer had allowed her to partake in the discovery of such seasonings, the divide between their ranks seemed ever so thin.

Her hand shook slightly when she planted the spoon back into the bowl. It was not solely due to the soreness of her limbs, but to the act itself. The fact that Éomer had taken the initiative to bring her some sustenance after the incident, how relieved he had been when he found her awake, and the fact that he had her cumbersome clothes put aside while she was asleep, moved her.

Along another mouthful, a wave of guilt traversed her stomach, causing it to churn. She stole a glance towards the prince, whose brow creased with concern at her puzzled expression. This was not how things were supposed to be. She was the servant; she should be the one to ensure that his stomach was full. That was the natural order of things and had been since she first entered Meduseld at the tender age of twelve. Yet here he was, kneeling before her and presenting her with food.

How reckless she had been, allowing her whirlwind of emotions to submerge her into unconsciousness. He should not have to bear the consequences of her idiocy — his attention diverted, his time wasted, his care given to someone unworthy of it.

And that was one of her main concerns. She did not deserve his attention at all, not that day, not ever. She should have remained in the shadows of the hall, hugging the walls as a faceless phantom in the royal household. The day that Éomer had deigned to engage in a conversation with her had been both a blessing and her doom.

‘Forgive me, your Majesty,’ she uttered in shame. ‘I did not mean to trouble you at all. This is unnatural, you should not have to—’

‘Sit down, Éorhild,’ he said in a gentle command. ‘And what ever do you mean by unnatural?’

‘This, you tending to me while I am soiling your linens with my dirty dress. I apologise for this mess; I must wash them tonight and change them again.’

Éomer cradled her face, the warmth of his skin instantly ebbing away the spiral that was ravaging her thoughts again.

‘Beloved, I would sleep between muddy sheets for the rest of my life if that ensured your welfare.’

Her tears hung on the tips of her eyelashes. He sat beside her and enfolded her in his embrace, placing a kiss in her hair.

‘You have borne so much for me, my family, and our kingdom, Éorhild. So, no, you owe me no apologies. For once, let me shoulder this weight with you.’

The heartfelt intentions behind his words tipped her tears off the edge. They cascaded down her cheeks without restraint, the dam of her composure fractured by his kindness. He guided her head to his heart and rested his chin on top of it, lulling her until she could speak again.

‘I do not deserve any of this,’ she said with a sniffle, moving to blot her tears with the hem of her sleeve, but finding his thumb already wiping them away. ‘Not from you.’

‘You deserve far more, and it is high time that somebody told you so,’ he responded, touching his forehead to hers. His hand curled around hers and his lips kissed her knuckles. ‘Now, will you tell me what happened earlier today? Help me understand.’

With great reluctance, she turned back to the bowl on her lap. She forced herself to ingest several spoonfuls, in hopes to delay the inevitable moment she would have to confess the reasons behind her earlier collapse. Éomer remained seated by her side; he did not press her; he did not speak. His unspoken patience reached her and assured her that he would wait for as long as she needed.

‘I spoke to Master Guthláf,’ she divulged, her gaze still downturned to the nearly empty dish.

‘What for?’

Éorhild laid bare her heart to him, sparing little in her revelations. She spoke of the unease gnawing at her over the inevitable scrutiny she would face from the other maids, resentment brewing from her appointment as chambermaid without Edelmer’s assessment of the quality of her work. She recounted how her fondness for him had intruded her every waking thought, dissolved her sense of propriety and blinded her to the bounds of what was tolerated or forbidden.

She conveyed her anguish at the market, where thoughts of consulting the judges over the oath she would have to swear if Éomer secured her position as chambermaid after her trial. She described how, after draining an entire cup of cider, her feet had carried her to Guthláf, before whom she had circled around the subject with hesitant words, though the old man had understood her purpose from the very beginning.

She related the magistrate’s blood-curdling words regarding her consequential beheading, should she succumb to her emotions, and how the thought of Hilda’s profound disappointment, were she to witness her unrest, was unendurable. All of that, she explained, had been responsible for her collapse at the market.

Éomer lent her an attentive ear throughout her account and refrained from interrupting her at all. He merely nodded, considering her troubles and pondering a solution to alleviate her fears. Although he did not voice it, he did blame himself for her anguish. He had demanded too much, without serious regards to what circumstances he had forced onto her.

‘And there is something else that Guthláf informed me about.’

‘Tell me.’

‘As my master, you possess the right to summon me to your bed. I would hold no voice in protest; it would be my duty to yield to you, entirely, without resistance.’

His dark brows drew together in a frown, his gaze fixed upon her with a palpable unease. Her words had stirred something troubling within him, enough to give him the impulse to rise to his feet and struggle to contain his confusion. After rubbing his face with the balls of his calloused hands to regain his composure, he turned to her.

‘Please,’ he implored, his voice low and unsteady, ‘tell me you are not considering such a wretched thing.’

With a resigned sigh, she finished the bowl and set it gently aside before facing him again.

‘Desire or no,’ she began, her voice as heavy as his, ‘that power rests in your hands, always hanging over me. My body, our laws dictate, will never be mine to own.’

‘Éorhild, for Béma’s sake!’

His face flushed crimson, a tumultuous blend of anger and hurt twisting his traits. His eyes welled with unshed tears, and his teeth sank into his bottom lip, his force stopping just on the verge of bleeding.

‘Is that truly what you think of me?’ he shouted. ‘Is that what you have been waiting for? For me to use and abuse you until I discard you when the novelty fades? To treat you like an object, as though you never mattered to me?’

Éorhild wept in return, gripping the bedsheets between her fingers.

‘No, that is not—'

His voice cracked, betraying the rawness of the rage and sorrow swelling within him.

‘Damn it, I may be a man, Éorhild, but I am not…’

He suppressed a sob, his eyes never leaving hers.

‘I am not that kind of man. Never would I betray you or your integrity. Never would I raise my hand against you. Do you know why?’

She shook her head, the intensity of her sorrow mirroring that of the storm in his eye. It compelled him to draw nearer to her and offering himself at her feet. With a peculiar vulnerability she had never witnessed from him, he anchored himself by holding on to her hand, laying the other over his heart. Some unseen force urged him to speak, to unburden himself from secrets he had hidden for too long. And so he did with absolute honesty, uttering his truth, meant for no one but her.

‘From the moment I laid eyes on you that evening, months ago, I have been bewitched,’ he confided. ‘I no longer recognise myself. I do not eat, I do not sleep, I have forgotten what I stand for. So often do I wake in the dead of night, with a gnawing pain in my gut. It grips me, relentless and cold, a constant reminder of what I cannot escape. It pulls me from the little rest I find to taunt and torment me about what I cannot control. Every minute of every day, I want to scream myself hoarse, to exhaust myself until I collapse, so I do not have to feel, even for a second.’

Only then did Éorhild grasp the extent to which they had been sharing this torment. They had been nursing their wounds in solitude, each concealing what they could of their anguish to protect the other. Yet their bond had done nothing but press salt into those very wounds, never permitting them to heal. All this time, they had worn smiles veiled by invisible tears.

‘But you know what?’ Éomer continued, urgently pressing her hand against his chest, as if contact would be enough to convey what he was not sure he could articulate well enough for her understanding. ‘Given the choice between this misery and the opportunity to forget your existence… I would choose the misery. I would endure it all over again, without a second thought. And I would thank the Valar for every moment of it.’

Éorhild rose to her feet, her movements hastened and unsteady; he was there with her in an instant, his grasp on her hand unwavering. His eyes bore into hers, intense and searching, seeking a glimmer of affirmation, a spark of hope that her heart mirrored the agony in his own.

‘Why would you ever want that?’ she cried, clutching his fingers in despair. ‘Would you not wish to be free from all this pain? Free from the impossibility of whatever our emotions plead us to become for each other?’

Before he could offer a reply, she cradled his face between her palms. Their breaths mingled as she leant in.

‘Éomer, I am poor. I am but a maid — someone that those of your rank can tread upon without fear, without consequence, with all the impunity the world affords your station.’

Her thumb brushed his cheekbone, carrying with it a brine he shed.

‘I will never make you happy,’ she continued, her voice shattering like glass under the strain of her emotions. ‘All I have done, I see it now, is lead you astray. From your duties, from your role as Prince of Rohan. You are the future king, and sooner or later, you will have to marry Lady Lothíriel. It is written, inevitable. There is nothing — nothing — that either of us can do to change it. So why? Why would you choose to inflict this woe upon yourself?’

‘Do you truly not understand?’

He cupped her jaw, drawing closer still until their noses nearly touched. Éomer, the stoic prince who so often veiled himself in an air of detachment, now stood before her utterly undone, his sobs breaking through the brittle barriers of his composure.

‘Were you not a maid and I not a prince, I would have married you without question. I would have raised a house from the earth itself for us. Shaped every piece of furniture to your liking. I would have roamed the wilds, killed animals with my bare hands to drape you in their pelts, until the cold would never dare reach you. Until every shadow and scent of our house gave you a sense of security and home. Until it breathed only of you.’

She opened her mouth to speak, but he laid a finger upon her lips, seizing the opportunity to caress them.

‘I would have crawled on my knees to the ends of this world to seek the rarest herbs and remedies when your body is weakened. I would have woven the finest silk to compliment the rich brown hues of your eyes. I would have had you trample on my back so your feet would never hurt from stepping on a sharp rock on your path. And I would cherish every child you would be willing to give me. My whole life would have become a shrine to your beauty and to the righteousness of your soul.’

‘But why?’

‘By the Valar, have I not made it clear?’

He swallowed hard, his thumb grazing her cheekbone with tenderness.

‘I love you, Éorhild. And it tears me apart.’

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[aprilblossomgirl]

What kind of beautiful sky do you want? At least more beautiful than this. How? Explain it to me. An orange sky, I guess. And the round shape of the Sun in the middle. Pretty clouds all around it. It would be great to have a rainbow too. I'm seeing it. As beautiful as you describe. Day, all I'm seeing now is gray clouds. Look again more closely. See? The sky is a gradient from red to orange to yellow. And there's the Sun hiding at the skyline, shining through the edge of the clouds. Looks just like ocean waves. I'm seeing it now. As beautiful as what you just described. . So, you've seen everything you want to see? Not yet. There's still one last image. Are you smiling? Mhm. Don't lie to me. . This is it. The last image I want to see. . . (In the end, Mee became a statue and gazed joyfully at the last light, forever.)

Last Twilight (2023-2024) Episode Nine | Dir. Aof Noppharnach Chaiyahwimhon

[queenlua]

do i need to rewatch Arcane s1 to be properly oriented wrt Arcane s2?

i definitely did watch the first season but i am not sure i could tell you a single fact about it, which seems Suboptimal, but...,,,

[sparklingchim]

questioning what life is rlly about but then u catch up with the girlies over dinner n life is worth living again <3

[theediscodyke]

If I had a dollar for every time I ended up loving an accidental Disney yuri ship I’d have two dollars. Which isn’t a lot but kinda weird that it’s happened twice (follow my editing acc on tiktok if ya want @/inertiajoon… which is also my twitter @)

[skzworldz]

WHEN THE EIGHT OF US ARE TOGETHER WE LIVE AND WHEN WE FALL APART WE DIE

[imlocalatbest]

My first attempt at engraving,, I think it went pretty well :))