#Eomer fanfiction

[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.’

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[gloomwitchwrites]

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

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

A Sudden Spark

Éomer x Female Reader

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

Word Count: 1.4k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

The Great Shadow is fading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dancing?”

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

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

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

“And you are not partaking,” he comments.

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

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

By the Gods, he should have realized sooner.

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

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

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

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

Perhaps forgetting for a bit is a good thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is power within you along with the soft.

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

She’d be a fierce queen.

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

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

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

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

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

taglist:

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[n0tamused]

Hi! Id like to request a eomer x plus size reader if you’re comfortable, maybe she’s a seamstress and makes eowyns dresses. You can honestly do this however you want. I just feel like there’s such a lack of Eomer fics out there that’s my husband 🙏🏻

A/n: Thank you so much for the request, I had so much fun writing this one! <3 I do hope you liked it! Although I am comfortable with plus-sized reader or chubby reader, I failed to see an opportunity to mention any body shape here, so I do hope I haven't failed you lol. If you have any advice or insight on what you'd like to see more of, let me know :) <3 Pleas enjoy! And- There is definitely such a lack of Eomer fics..

Contents: Eomer x F!Reader, fluff, reader is a seamstress, established relationship

Words: 1164

Morning came chill and yellow, pale golden rays coming through in thin lances through the curtain covering the windows. A fire was already moving in the big stone hearth and it was not long until the room began to feel too warm. But you sat on a cushioned chair next to the window, warmed by the fire behind you and cooled by the breeze that slipped through the cracks near the milky glass. Needlework was a tasking thing, yet one you enjoyed regardless of how frustrating it may be at times. Once you had tried to teach the craft to lady Eowyn, but all your efforts saw no fruition, as the shieldmaiden’s blood ran hot within her and gave no surrender to tasks more delicate.

As strong headed as a bull she is, you thought as you let your mind drift past the heralding of wars and bad omens. Too much has been happening lately, too much. These little works of embroidery were all you had to keep your mind satiated and at peace. Before you knew it, the image before you was becoming more intricate. It would seem Lady Eowyn would have a rather detailed dress, more detailed than any other. Quickly, but not hastily, the needle worked its way through the cloth like a warm dagger through butter. In and out, sowing and painting with threads of yellow and black and green and white. Your needle worked to the sound of your humming, a needle song, as you called it. Yet today was not the day that your needle would hear the end of the song. The heavy wooden door had opened so suddenly and so quickly that your needle dipped through the cloth like a sword, drawing blood from the finger underneath. Hissing, you let the embroidery fall to your lap along with the needle, pressing onto the sting with your other hand. You couldn’t forsake formalities even then, however much you wished to scold this somebody.

“My lord Eomer!” formalities fell from your lips before you had the chance to even settle on the features of his face. Gold spun locks fell down the sides of his face, swaying as he came to an abrupt stop to survey the room. His brows furrowed and his lips tightened. “May I help you?” you asked him, and his honeyed eyes fell on your form, blinking as if cast from a trance.

“It is my sister I was hoping to find here with you. I had thought she would be here learning your craft from you, as she did before”. Confusion could not be helped as it crawled onto your face, but the manner in which he said so made a smile fight to curl your lips in disbelief.

“Lady Eowyn?” you lowered your hands into your lap, fingers still clamped over your little stinging injury. “Lady Eowyn has long since stopped giving her ear to my words. The skill does not suit her, nor I try to force her to do it. Did you not know?” you finally settled on the reply, seeing confusion and anticipation ringing through the horse-lord’s head. You had to wonder whether there was air in there alone in this moment, has he become blind to his sister’s character? 

His lips fall apart, then close, his eyes looking to the side as he realizes his own error and then they close. Nodding his head slowly Eomer sighs, shoulders falling and his hand rests on the pommel of his sword. “I see.. I should have expected it..” It is a veiled whisper, hiding behind itself a minor feeling of foolishness, but he does not hope to weigh himself down with it. 

“I apologize if I had startled you, my lady” he then spoke, blurted more so as his eyes fell to the hands in your lap. “Have you hurt yourself?” he added, taking a few big strides and closing the distance between the two of you. 

"No-.." You didn’t get to reply before he was extending his hand down and silently asking to take yours. The gesture made the words melt on your tongue, you could only obey the silent request and put your hand in his. The small dot began to bleed again in the absence of applied pressure, sliding down the length of your finger. “It is only a small thing, it causes me no bother, Eomer..” you whispered, lashes fluttering as you gazed up at him. 

“Nonsense.. I caused this” he speaks lightheartedly yet seriously all at once and then he dips to one knee before you, your hand cupped in two of his own. Warmth flooded your cheeks as his lips found your hurt after wiping away the droplet of blood, kissing each knuckle of the finger and then turning your hand over to kiss the top of your hand as well. By the time you found yourself from your frozen minds, you managed to slap him on the shoulder, giggling in disbelief as well as the light-headedness he managed to cause. “Eomer!” you giggle, snatching your hand away. You were half tempted to throw the embroidery frame at his face were his teasing smile any bigger.  “You forget yourself, my lord” you press the word ‘lord’, eyes lit up in mischief. 

“Why, I was only hoping to provide my lady an apology and some comfort for the hurt I caused..” he whispered as he looked up at you, lingering a moment longer before standing up. The odd and dark days had made it so that Eomer had little to no time to spend in private with you, so he could only find excuses to swiftly stop by wherever you are, linger for a moment and leave with an unspoken promise to come back again. Sometimes he’d leave flowers too, other times he’d leave you with more feelings than touches. All the time he was surrounded by  people and duty, and you had your own to attend to as well.

But for a moment now, it all seemed much worth it. 

“Join me for dinner tonight, my lady?” he asked, tone even and expectant, that deep timbre of his, sure as the ground he walked on, as steady as him. 

“If that is an order, who am I to dare deny it?” you say, smiling up at him. 

“Good. In that case I cannot wait to have your company join mine, soon enough. Until then… I am hoping you will accept another request of mine?”

“And that is..?”

“Help me find my sweet little sister” he says, releasing a deep breath of exhaustion, even if the day barely started. You scoff, smiling even wider, not at all unfamiliar with Eowyn’s antics and character.

“I can only help if my lord promises to see this wound healed with his own healing in the upcoming days”

His eyes find yours, smiling a smile of their own as warmth fills his heart in some childish light, kindled fire burning gentle yet strong. “You have my word, my lady”

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[sotwk]

Rainy weather means Wet Éomer time.

It's a gloomy, rainy, stormy morning!

Perfect atmosphere to load up on some Karl Urban / Éomer inspo and get work done on THE SCENE. (Taken, Final Chapter in progress)

I finally completed the scene that needed to be written before the scene I've been dying to write, and every fellow writer knows the joy and relief that brings.

Here's a lil' moodboard teaser for the fun and hype. Happy Friday y'all!

Extra special tag for @scyllas-revenge cause I know you won't want to miss this one.

[myabsurddreamjournal]

Luck (part 1)

Éomer x Female! Reader

Summary: Reader is a maid at Edoras who has a crush on Éomer, What happens when she accidentaly pours wine on him?

.....

Everyone was celebrating the victory in the Great Hall of Edoras. She was hearing the sounds of laughter and dancing, faintly from the outside. Her duty for tonight was waiting here, Serving wine or water if anyone ever comes for getting fresh air.

Maybe it was weird that she volunteered for this, no one seemed to come here anyway. Waiting alone in the balcony. While everyone else is having fun.

But she always liked this kind of duties.

Like grooming horses, picking herbs, cleaning after everyone left. The ones where she didnt need the communicate with the other.

She liked silence,

Sure music was beautiful, and people laughing, dancing, celebrating. It was all beautiful.

But this,

this is something else, Watching the white mountains, the way moonlight reflects on them. It is prettiest shade she ever seen, The dark blue, that she never gets tired of.

And the gentle night breeze on her hair.

Its almost magical to her.

.....

As moon gets lower on the sky "It must be close to end of celebration" y/n thinks. She can tell it from the way sounds from inside quietens slowly.

She smiles to herself thinking this was a beautiful night,

she feels calm. Her mind feels calm.

But like everything beautiful in life her peace is short lived because suddenly footsteps alerts her, someone is coming towards here unfortunately, i hope they leave quickly she thinks as stands up, taking the wine jug on her hand.

To her luck (unluck) owner of the footsteps is may be the last person she wants here. A very tall person with broad body, and long blonde hair that she knows very well. She stared it many times when no one was looking.

Éomer, the kings son.

The powerful Éomer,

The one everyone adores.

The fearless, and strong

And kind.

Her heart beat starts to quicken. Just like whenever she sees him, (from 20 meters apart at most close and more than 20 people around) sneaking galances from window while cleaning. Or when he passes by corridor she is standing.

She takes a deep breath, as he goes to opposite side, his back towards her, he is not drunk she can say, she never seen him drunk anyway, he is always standing on his legs strongly. Like a great warrior he is.

I never seen him this close, he is beautiful.

he will get inside back soon, Calm down. He wont even notice you.

Minutes passes with her battling with herself and her poor attemps to calm herself and he is still looking at mountains motionlessly as if he was a statue.

After few more agonizing moments he finally starts to move, Drinking his wine at one go.

Thanks Eru, he is leaving.

But to her horror instead of leaving he extends his hand that holding the goblet, which is a sign for more wine.

Her mind races.

But, I never served him before! Eru please please help me.

After a few seconds She burts towards him as he starts to turn his head questioningly towards her way, hand still extended.

Dont be a coward this is the simplest duty.

As she starts pouring the wine she relizes her hands are shaking.

Very badly.

Its okay he is not looking, he is looking at mountains.

How long pouring wine can take It? 5 seconds at most maybe, but this time it feels like years to her, years spend with war and agony,

it almost over, You got this. You can do this.

But her body has different plans from her brain. Her hands stafts shaking more as the wine level gets higher on the goblet.

and before she knows it the goblet is full and its overflowing

To his hand.

Oh Eru, please no, this might be a nightmare

...

She doesnt know how much time passed her eyes are closed and she cabr dare look at him.

But when she notices unbereable feeling of his eyes on her.

She has no choice but open them.

Yes, He is looking down at her with unreadable expression,

"F-forgive me s-sire." She says immadietly bowing her head.

But she can see wine is dripping from his hand to floor.

Not knowing what to do, her panicked mind decides it for her, She pulls out her handkerchief , and takes his wine soaked hand in her hand wiping the vine quickly. and gently as possible,

You are touching a royal you fool! This crime is punishible by Death.

she pulls her hand quickly as if she burned by a fire. Éomer's hand falling to his side absurdly and her handkerchief falling to floor.

Eomer opens his mouth but she beats him to it.

"S-sire please dont k-kill me, im too young to d-die" she half yells and runs to inside.

...

Notes: i love how y/n has almost every mental disease.

Also This is Éomer looking down at her

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

Ties That Bind

Summary/Context: Do you ever wonder what happened when Théoden briefly imprisoned Éomer in Two Towers? Or about how Éomer felt about it, or how other members of the royal family felt when Wormtongue similarly manipulated Théoden against them, as we know he did? Me, too, so I wrote this. It’s meant to slot in with canon events like Éomer’s release from jail, Háma’s discovery of a bunch of stolen stuff in Wormtongue’s possession, etc., as well as with some of my own headcanon for Théodred (more of which is here).

Characters: Éomer, Eadlin (“princess”, Théodred’s fiancée and a real ride-or-die for him), Háma, mentions of Théoden, Théodred, and Wormtongue

**********

“Get your hands off of me!”

Éomer thrashed against the men on either side of him, trying to wrest his arms free from their iron grip. With his sword confiscated and his hands twisted uncomfortably behind his back, he had little chance of overpowering multiple guards. But he would sooner break an arm in the struggle than be led meekly into a prison cell like a child accepting a teacher’s correction.

The man on his right, a lieutenant of the king’s guards, grunted as he took a sharp elbow to the ribs. “Do not make this more difficult than it has to be, Marshal,” he said. “These are the orders of the king, and they will be carried out.”

“These are the orders of Wormtongue, only put into the king’s mouth,” Éomer seethed. He dug his heels into the stone threshold at the door, bracing his body against the lieutenant’s effort to propel him forward. The two strained against each other for several seconds, the opposing forces keeping them suspended motionless in the doorway, until another guard behind him sent a swift boot into the back of Éomer’s knee, buckling his leg and causing him to stumble forward into the cell. The door slammed closed behind him.

Immediately back on his feet, Éomer gripped the bars of the door and pulled with all his strength. The steel rattled back and forth in its casings but yielded no other result. As the guards retreated up the staircase, he roared with frustration and kicked a small wooden stool into the wall, where it splintered noisily against the thick stone.

He bent down to catch his breath, resting his hands on his knees, and glared out at his small enclosure from behind the long, golden hair that hung across his face.

“By all means, keep raging about. That is certain to help the situation.”

He whipped around in search of the source of this hoarse, flat voice, and his eyes landed on a small person bundled into a dark green cloak and sitting against the bars in the cell next to his. The stranger’s back was to him, and a hood obscured their face and hair.

“I do not recall asking for anyone’s opinion,” he spat out, turning all of his anger easily onto this new, available target.

“And yet you will receive it just the same,” the stranger answered. “If I can endure my pain and outrage quietly, surely you can do so also, Éomer.”

He froze at the sound of his own name, and the contents of his stomach heaved upward as he suddenly placed the voice. His fury was snuffed out in an instant.

“Eadlin?” Her name came out almost as a whisper.

She turned and cast back her hood, revealing the familiar face of the woman his late cousin had planned to marry. Her eyes and nose showed clearly that she had been crying, and the blue and yellow remnants of a fading bruise marred her cheek. But most striking was the bitterness in her expression as she glowered up at him from her place on the floor.

“For days now I have waited for someone from Théodred’s family to come to my aid,” she said. “And now the first of you to arrive is brought under guard himself. But it was foolish of me to have expected any help from the house of Théoden, since it is by his will that I am here.”

He rushed forward to the bars that separated them, and crouched down to look directly into her face. “You must believe me, Eadlin, had Éowyn or I known you were here, we would have done everything we could to get you out. None in our family would ever wish you any harm.”

“And yet here I sit. I would not call this a loving embrace, would you?”

The disdain in her voice shook him. Outside of this cell, she had been a close friend, clever and sharply funny but easy and warm with those she loved. And there was none she loved more than Théodred. She was fiercely loyal to him, extending her full affections to anyone who had his favor and withholding them completely from those who had friction with him. It had always pleased Éomer to know that Théodred had such a steadfast ally unfailingly at his back. But there was a cold steeliness about her now, a furious apathy, which Éomer did not recognize. She was clearly grieving, but her grief had curdled into something else, something harsh and unforgiving.

“Strange events are unfolding, and the king is not well,” he said quietly. “He has difficulty now discerning friend from foe.”

“He seemed quite confident about who was who when he accepted Wormtongue’s accusations against me.”

“Wormtongue!?” The fire of Éomer’s anger, briefly suppressed, was immediately rekindled by that hateful man’s name. “I should have guessed. There is hardly an ill deed in Rohan these days that Wormtongue seems not to have a hand in. What has he to do with your imprisonment?”

She drew her arms tightly around herself and sat for a moment in silence, as though playing out past events in her mind again. At last she spoke. “The day before Théodred died, I passed Wormtongue on the terrace. He expressed condolences for my loss, but I had experienced no loss at the time. When I asked him what he meant, he immediately reddened and stammered something about misspeaking. He is so often awkward and unpleasant that I attributed everything only to his peculiar nature and thought no more of it. It was not until the next day when Éowyn came to tell me–”.

She broke off as her voice began to quake. Closing her eyes, she exhaled slowly through gritted teeth. When she opened them again, her voice was clear and strong once more.

“When Éowyn came to tell me that Théodred had been killed overnight, I thought again of Wormtongue’s odious little face from the morning before, accidentally offering me his affected sympathy for a death that had not yet occurred. And then I knew that he was somehow in league with those who killed Théodred…that he had foreknowledge of Isengard’s attack and the relentless focus they would aim at Théodred alone. He knew that Théodred would die, and he erred only in the timing. He spoke too soon and, in doing so, he betrayed his own complicity. I could see it all, but I had no proof. So I waited until dark that night and went to the chambers where he keeps his office. I forced the lock to search for evidence of his treachery, but he discovered me there and had me dragged before Théoden as a thief and a traitor. He asked for my imprisonment, and Théoden agreed without hearing a word from me first.”

Her fingers trailed lightly over the blue smudges on her cheekbone. “I did not go quietly, but what is one woman against a company of guards? And I have been here ever since, rotting alone in the jail of the man who was to be my father.”

Éomer slumped back against the wall and rubbed a hand across his face. “Of all the charges I would lay at Gríma’s feet, never did I think he would reach so low as to aid in the death of the king’s son. Can it really be so?”

Her head snapped up. “Do you accuse me of lying?”

“Of course not.” He raised his palms in conciliation. ”I would take your word over Wormtongue’s in all things. There is no question.”

“Then you are one step ahead of your uncle.” Her lip trembled slightly but her gaze was direct and keen. Éomer looked away to escape the heat of it.

Of course he understood why she felt betrayed by Théoden. Was he not himself sitting in a cell because Théoden had accepted Wormtongue’s counsel? It stung, there was no denying. But something within him still felt a confidence that Théoden’s increasingly erratic behavior was not a true expression of his uncle’s will. The kind and generous man he had known all his life, who had taken him in and raised him as a son, was still there somewhere.

“Théoden is not himself of late,” he said. “I do not know how to explain it, but a person does not change so dramatically merely from old age and illness. I hope still that he will come back to himself before long.”

“You are more softhearted than I imagined, Éomer. Maybe you can forgive one who would cast you aside like so many kitchen scraps, but I cannot. Nor can I forgive the way he treated Théodred in the last weeks of his life. Accusing him of trying to usurp the throne. Of disloyalty. Did you know that your cousin went to his death with such words from his father in his ears? Why should I care whether they were Théoden’s own opinions or he merely repeated the accusations of Wormtongue? The effect was the same.”

Éomer winced. He had been the target of similar remarks recently, part of a wave of paranoia and suspicion that seemed to be gripping Théoden ever tighter. And though Théodred had never mentioned it, Éomer was not surprised to hear that his cousin had experienced the same thing. But if Eadlin had seen Théodred hurting as a result, Éomer doubted he would ever be able to change her mind about Théoden again. She might forgive many things over time, but causing Théodred pain was not one of them. Not now that the pain could never be redressed.

He reached through the bars and put a gentle hand on her arm. She stiffened but did not move. “I promise you, if I can find a way out of this cell, I will get you out, too. I will not leave this prison without you. And together we can try to fix all of this. To restore things to the way they ought to be.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were a mistake. She tore her arm away from him and jumped to her feet. Her face flushed around the fading bruise, and her fists clenched at her sides.

“The way they ought to be? So you will bring my Théodred back from death, then? You will restore to me the best and kindest person either of us has ever known, the one person I loved above all else? Because that is what ought to be. And if that is not what you offer, then I am not interested. Now or ever.”

She strode to the opposite side of the cell, as far away from him as she could reach, and threw herself to the floor with her back to him once again. She made no further sound, though he could see from the ragged convulsing of her shoulders that she was sobbing.

He fought back the overwhelming urge to join her in her grief, to sit on the floor of his own cell and feel the full weight of his sorrow at the loss of his beloved cousin. But with so many disasters that had already befallen Rohan and others that might yet still occur while he was helplessly trapped here at the margin of greater events, his own pain would have to keep waiting. Instead, he reluctantly turned aside and began to pace back and forth across his cell, brooding on his situation and searching his mind for a plan of action. When the light failed and he could no longer see the bars on either side of him, he felt his way to the wall and sat back against it. He stared forward into the darkness, and in this way he passed a long, unhappy night.

When the morning sun at last began to filter in, he could once again see Eadlin sitting in her corner. Her back was still to him, and her knees were drawn up tightly under her chin. The sight of her in such misery was a jarring contrast to her smiling and animated presence in his memories. His heart ached for her, and for Théodred. How his cousin would have felt to see her like this he could not imagine.

He sat a while longer until the sound of footsteps on the stairs broke the silence. The hollow feeling in his stomach reminded him that no food had been brought since his arrival, and he stood in expectation of receiving some form of meal. To his surprise, however, the face that appeared in the doorway was not a guard bearing food but rather the friendly visage of Háma, captain of the king’s guard and doorwarden of Meduseld, bearing a large ring of keys.

Háma smiled broadly and shook the keys with a celebratory jangle. “I have orders for your release, Marshal. Straight from the king himself.”

“The king?” Éomer rushed to the cell door, anxiously watching as Háma tried one key after another in the lock. “He has changed his mind? How?”

“I could not say. I know only that the wizard Gandalf arrived this morning with several strangers in tow, and they had an audience with the king. What was said inside is not known to me, but some magic seems afoot. There was sudden darkness and lightning in the middle of an otherwise clear morning, and soon after the king emerged from the hall to stand and walk in the sunshine as a man twenty years younger than he was only yesterday.”

Éomer’s mouth fell open and for several seconds he was unable to speak as he tried to make sense of Háma’s words. “Gandalf? Alive after all? And Théoden seemingly restored to health? It feels too much to have hoped for. If this is a jest of some sort, Háma, I assure you that I will take it badly.”

Háma grinned as he inserted a final key, which turned with a satisfying clink. “May Béma hunt me down if I do not speak the truth!” He pulled open the door and stood aside to allow Éomer to walk out.

“Thank you, my friend,” said Éomer, grasping Háma’s forearm. “I do not fully understand the chain of events that you have related, but I know better than to question good fortune too closely. Do you know where my sword is?”

Háma smiled and nodded toward the stairs. “If you return to Meduseld, you will find Gandalf and his companions still with the king. Perhaps you can get more explanation from them while I fetch your sword for you.” He turned to lead the way out, but Éomer stood fast and maintained his grip on Háma’s arm.

“I cannot leave yet,” Éomer said. He looked over at Eadlin, who still sat silently in her corner. “I need you to release her as well. I made a promise that we would leave this jail together.”

Háma followed his eyes to the next cell and started at the sight of her. “Lady Eadlin in prison? How could this be possible?” He turned back to Éomer, his brows knit tightly together with concern. “But Marshal, I am sorry. I…I have no orders to release anyone but you.”

“Would you accept such an order from me? If so, I will gladly give it.”

Háma chewed on his lower lip. “I suppose now that you are released, you are returned to status as a marshal in good standing. It is not the usual way for marshals to command the king’s guard, but, then, many unusual things have happened today already. And it does not sit well in my heart to see your cousin’s intended bride mourning from a prison cell.”

Having thus made up his mind, he crossed to her door and unlocked it with the same key. She rose slowly and stepped out. “Thank you, Captain Háma,” she said quietly, and he bowed in acknowledgment. She then bowed in turn to Éomer. “And thank you, Éomer. You have honored your word. I am sure there is much now for you to do.”

His shoulders slumped a little. “Will you not come with me to Meduseld? Would you not witness Théoden restored and prepared once again to receive us as loyal members of his family?”

She laughed ruefully. “Us? What makes you think I am included in his change of disposition? He sent Háma here to retrieve you, not me. I have no reason to believe my position with him has changed, and his position with me has certainly not.”

“But surely once he sees you, once you can speak with him, all will be made clear. He loved you as a daughter, and I know that he still does. Return with me and reclaim your rightful place in his heart.”

She slowly shook her head. “Éomer, even if that were true, it would not be enough. There is no life for me in Edoras anymore. I have no reason to stay here, where precious memories of Théodred will lurk around every corner. Where every familiar place and situation will remind me of him and his absence. I cannot heal where the wound will always be open. And to stay only to seek revenge will turn me into someone I do not wish to be. I have glimpsed that person this week, and she is terrible to behold.”

Her voice was no longer angry but sorrowful, as though her bitterness had leached out of her overnight only to be replaced by a weary defeat. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

“Eadlin, you cannot give up. Would you leave Wormtongue to get away with what he did to you? With what he did to Théodred?”

He could see that the question hit its mark. Tears welled up in her large eyes, and she looked down for several long, anguished moments. When she looked up again, however, her eyes were dry and clear.

“There are others better able to deal with Wormtongue than I. You will find more capable allies in the visitors who arrived this morning, I am certain. But I will offer you this help.” She leaned forward. “When I was in Wormtongue’s office that night, I found a loose floorboard in the east corner. I had just pried it up when he came running in and had his guards drag me out. But I had time enough to see there was a locked chest stowed in that compartment. A man like Wormtongue does not make such an effort to hide things away unless he truly fears them coming to light. If you send Háma to retrieve the chest, I am certain you will find things inside that are proof enough of his wickedness even for Théoden.”

Éomer shot a look to Háma, who nodded his understanding. “Let me first fetch your sword, Marshal,” said Háma. “And then I will find a way into Wormtongue’s office if I have to break the door open myself.” He turned and ran up the stairs.

Alone once more, Éomer took Eadlin’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You can put your faith in Háma. There can still be justice for Théodred, and maybe that will help to ease your pain.”

She gave a small sigh and shrugged.

“What will you do now?” he asked.

“I am not sure yet. Perhaps I’ll ride to Aldburg and be with my own family again for a while. If I have to build a new life for myself, that seems a likely place to start.”

He nodded. “If you should ever change your mind, there will always be a home for you here. Éowyn and I will see to that. You are part of our family still, with or without Théodred.”

She reached up to press a kiss to his cheek and then stepped around him to the staircase. Just before disappearing around the corner, she looked back at him one last time. “He really loved you, Éomer. I hope you know that. If anyone had to take his place and fulfill the destiny that was to be his, he would have been glad to know it was you.” With that, she smiled sadly and walked out alone.

[as-amemory]

I Could Drive You Crazy

Pairing: Éomer x OFC (unnamed)

Summary: She drove him crazy, with her little mannerism specifically crafted to irritate him, to get a rise out of him, for it was then, in that sweet spot before he starts to boil, before his true ire took over, that they find themselves in the heated throws of passion.

Warnings: NSFW, explicit, racism against Dunlendings (if thats a thing? I don't know, I'm new here), unhealthy relationships.

Word Count: less than 2k.

Setting: Aldburg, Rohan - some years before the War of the Ring.

Notes: This is the result of me ovulating and having no outlet as well as a song-bug stuck in my ear: I Could Drive You Crazy by Sierra Ferrell. Basically its a song about being crazy and I thought that might make for an interesting character to pair Éomer with, since apparently I enjoy watching him suffer. I'm not yet ready to name this OFC. I kind of hate her but I want to play with her a few more times and see what mischief she can get up to first before I decide if she needs a permanent residence.

I'm probably going to the small section of hell they specifically reserve for the sickos who deface Tolkien's works with such vulgarity. Enjoy!

Hay Fever threatened to take him fully yet she barged through the door as if he hadn’t complained to her that morning of an oncoming headache. She loved to do that. Ignore his every word and then act surprised when he was upset with her for having to repeat himself. Rare did he share his feelings with others, rarer still that he was forced to repeat himself. Not as Third Marshal of the Mark, Lord of Aldburg. People listened when he spoke. She did not. 

“Feed your dogs, Éomer,” she says, voice full of spite. He hated when she called him by his name so casually. He never particularly cared for the triviality of titles. It matters not to him how he is referred to, as long as he first gave leave to call him by his given name, yet she takes the privilege without even bothering to ask permission.

She eyes the hound dogs sprawled at his feet with contempt. She did not like that he allows the dogs to reside inside the confines of his home. They belong in a kennel, outside. “They look as though they will devour me.” 

This was his home. It would do her well to get used to seeing them laying on the floor. He sits back in his seat appraising her, the judgment seeped deep in her dark eyes. She is of mixed ancestry, there is no doubt of that by looking at her. Carrying enough blood of the Dunlendings to mark her differently. A mark of his resentment towards her. Resentment that blossomed into hate, the sweet fuel to their more rousing escapades. 

“I should let them.” The threat comes out harsher than he intends, the start of a cold restricting any tenderness from escaping his throat. 

Tossing two halves of an uneaten pheasant on the ground the dogs swallow it whole in one bite. He had taken his supper in his room that evening, not in the mood to dally with the residents of Aldburg. Typically the seasonal Hay Fever did not affect him but the heavy spring rains had caused an influx of new weeds to run wild in the fields causing him to feel less than ideal. Currently a pain bloomed behind his eyes and at the base of his throat, leaving him in no state to make friendly conversation. Yet here she is, when he had specifically ordered the Doorward not to let anyone into his rooms. 

She could drive him to insanity with her blatant disrespect of him. He did not know why he kept her around. They had nothing in common and his list of grievances against her was long in number, dating back almost a year prior, growing longer still.

Showing up late to a personal invitation to go riding, acting as though they had never agreed to a time and certainly not a place of meeting. She had once offered to cook him supper to which he almost choked on the bones swimming in the stew. Had ruined a hunting trip, scaring away all the animals with her incessant humming. A tune which was stuck in his head for almost a fortnight. There was no fishing to be had with her, requiring more patience than whatever little she possessed. Yet time, and time again, him found himself tangled in sheets of his bed with her, or roughly pressed against the edge of his desk in the solar, partial to the idea of being caught, or in the hayloft above the stables, straining so deliciously tight around him as she rode - 

He teeth grind at the sight of her, fluttering about his room, touching this and that, moving it slightly away from its original spot as she talks about her day. 

“I found a lovely bolt of cloth that would make a fine dress.” She has picked up the crystal paperweight from his desk, peering at it as if she is speaking to the paperweight and not him. 

So it was money she wanted? He should have known better than to think she was checking on his well being. He lifts his chin, waiting for her to meet his eye. She would have to ask him directly if she desired any coin from him but she continues to pick up random items just to set them down again, completely ignoring him. 

“Come here.” His patience has grown thin. He will not ask her twice yet she looks at him as if he should be the one crawling on his knees to be near her. As if he should hand over his purse just to be allowed the honor of being in the same room as her. 

When he does not concede to her silent petition she nods her head in appreciation to his stubbornness. A sly smile curls on her lips as she approaches him, already lifting her dress to better seat herself on his lap. 

“I don’t know what I ever liked about you,” he says gruffly as she straddles him. Pushing aside her skirts he unties the laces of his trousers. He would have his due of her before this Hay Fever set in fully. 

She laughs mockingly at that. “You love me.” 

“I don’t think I do.” He nips at her lips and she smiles ruefully. Skirt pulled around her waist he is able to easily palm the wet folds of her labia. “You seem to like me,” he draws out, pushing the heel of his palm into her sensitive nub, eliciting a delicate gasp from between pink parted lips. He takes the opening to kiss her fully when she otherwise does not particularly enjoy the intimacy of a long drawn out kiss. She surprises him by matching the energy, eagerly molding her lips against his. Rutting down on his hand and along his ever hardening cock causes a gasp of his own to escape his mouth and into hers. His eyes closed briefly at the contact. They had last laid together only that morning. Was he so fallible to her that he could not even keep from gasping out like an inexperienced adolescent? 

She bites down on his lower lip. Hard, drawing blood. He hisses his resentment through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into her side. He hated when she did that. This she knows. She remembers that particular detail about him, yet could not remember the name of his first horse or his favorite fishing spot. More than anything she loved to know what he hated.

She is trying to get a rise out of him. Make his boil, just a little. The sex was always better for it. 

“Minx,” he growls against her mouth. Taking hold of his cock he spreads the juices of her pleasure along the length, lining himself up with her entrance. Greedily he flicks his hips up into her without warning. She laments her pleasure, loud for all to hear. The Doorward, no doubt, will not be expecting reprimand from him, not when he can so clearly hear the results of his mistake. 

Wiggling against him she tries vainly to adjust to the size difference but he holds her in place, fingers digging into her sides. He wishes that he wasn’t so incorrigible. That he wasn’t so tempted by her teasing. That he could withhold himself from acting out so rashly. Maybe like that of his older cousin, whose poise and sense of propriety had always come with ease. Yet he falls for her time and time again, fucking her exactly as she enjoys. As he enjoys. 

Letting his eyes linger on her undulating body he sets his jaw to keep from baring his teeth at the pressure of her rolling hips. If only she rode horses as good as she did him then she might be worth her weight in the saddle. Yet for all her withering she is shit astride a horse. It was that cursed Dunlending blood, tainting her ability to be anything but subpar.

A whimper escapes her lips, and he smiles cruelly, at least she suffers, same as him. She rides him slow, a painful pace that leaves him groaning. His only respite from her torture is his thumb circling her clit. She might know everything he hated but he knew exactly what her body loved. Specifically how to milk an orgasm out of her that would leave her seeing stars. It starts slow. Small circles to bring her to attention, and then an increase of pressure as blood engorges to the area. Her breathing hitches in her throat. Like the cat that caught the canary, he smiles at the sight of her. A harsh thrust of his hips, he fills her fully causing her pace to falter. The careful placement of his thumb halts, watching the confused look cross her features as her incoming orgasm slips out from under her. 

His name is a growl on her lips, a slight warning. “Éomer.” 

That he could take his name from her lips. 

She knows the game he plays, the same one she taught him all those years ago. His thumb picks up pace with her rolling hips. He cradles her neck with his free hand. Skin hot, beneath his touch. A sheen of sweat is building along her hairline. He traces the curve of her collarbone and down her chest, across to her nipples, hard beneath her bodice. She is almost as sensitive here as she is between her legs, her hands clench around his shirt trying to hide her rising ecstasy. His nostrils flare, eyes trapped on the expanse of her face, carefully watching for each small indication of her pleasure. 

Turning her head she tries to hide from him but he quickly has her jaw clasped between his fingers. He would see her. Shaking her head she waves off his touch, attempting to cover her eyes behind her hand, like a child hiding in plain sight. He clicks his tongue, taking her hand in his and after some struggling binds them both in his clasp behind her back.  

“Go on then.” He flicks his chin in her direction. Her pace has all but stopped, hesitantly she finds it again, knowing full well that he now possesses all the power. The power to dish out pleasure as he saw fit.  

Yet her rolling hips are more powerful, more exaggerated than before, causing him to grimace, lest he call out her name. She would love that, revel in his undoing. He steels himself with a deep breath through his nose. A ragged breath from her lets him know she is close again. He slows his thumb, wondering if she’ll cry out, plead with him to give her what she wants. 

“Éomer.” His name, like a prayer on her lips, is soft and sweet, and he knows he no longer possesses the control he once touted. 

Letting free her hands, he pulls her in close until her head rests against his. He can feel the warmth of her breath as he takes his pace, thrusting into her. She has brushed away his teasing thumb, replacing it with her own skilled fingers. A shuddering breath and she tightens further around the length of him. She cries out loud enough that he is certain they hear her in the Great Hall. He is still thrusting into her as she convulses hot and heady around him but he soon follows suit, letting his release run him fully with a loud groan of his own. 

Panting, she rests her head against his chest, forehead sticky with sweat it clings to the thin fabric of his shirt. She does not cuddle. She never has lingered in his arms as they slowly drift down from their high. She slips off his lap and he shutters at the sudden loss of contact, hands gripping the armrests of the chair. 

By the time he has regained his senses enough to stand she has relieved herself and wiped clean his seed dripping down her thighs. Maybe a good romp was the cure to any oncoming ailment. He drowns the last of his ale, eyeing her as she smiles prettily for him under dark thick lashes. So demure and pliant, when only moments earlier he was ready to have her thrown from his room for her uncouth behavior.

“You spoil me, my lord,” she says coyly. He bites back a scoff. 

Her gaze is taken with the leather purse heavy on the corner of his desk. A slight nod of his head and she promptly reaches across the expanse, showing off the long lines of her body, and that of the soft curves she knows he loves to grab hold of during their coupling. Deftly, her fingers dip inside the pouch, taking out three coins. 

“This should cover the cost.” Her gaze darts to him, searching for any subtle hint of permission that she could take more but he is hard set against giving her indication. Already she pushes the bounds of his generosity. 

“And one more,” she purrs softly, plucking a fourth coin out. “As insurance to return to you.” 

He rolls his eyes, knowing well she will only return when she pleases not because she feels indebted to him. Offering a low curtsey, she mumbles her thanks, letting his gaze linger on her, on the low cut of her dress. Her bosom all but swells out of the strains of her bodice. When did such a salacious style come into fashion? Surely his sister did not expose herself so scantily in Edoras? He bites his lip, thoughts of his sister quickly pushed from his mind replaced instead by the women so humbly lowered before him. Already he feels a slight twitch of his groin. 

She rises, satisfied with her display of deference. A Haunting smile on her lips, she glances at the hound dogs splayed out on the rug. 

“Feed your dogs, Éomer,” she instructs as a final goodbye. Out the door he is certain she can hear his mocking laughter following her.  

[hottpinkpenguin]

Blessing - Eomer X Fem!Reader

Oneshot, word count: 4,4045 Summary: Loving a Lord of the Riddemark comes with its fair share of trade-offs. Even more so when you're riding into battle right next to him. Warnings: steam (mutual bathing, nudity, kissing, heavy petting if you squint), canon-typical violence, some playing with the timeline,

You unsheathed your sword in one swift, strong movement, the grating sound of steel on steel as the blade scraped against its scabbard. Your horse, Túrion, reared up on his hind legs as Saruman’s Warg-riders charged across the empty plain in front of you. You had only moments before their forces would smash against your company’s line. Turning back to face your comrades, you lifted your sword high into the cold, early dawn air. 

“For King, for country, for your families and homes!” You shouted as loudly as you could manage, hoping your voice carried over the sound of whinnying horses nervous for battle and the growing roar of the Wargs. The faces of the six dozen female warriors at your command – your swordsisters - broke into a unified scream. The battle cry echoed across the dusky plain, and you noted with a grimly satisfied smile that some of the foe balked at the sound. 

Túrion pulled sharply at the bit in his mouth, signaling to you his anxiousness for battle. You felt the same frenzied energy; it had been ricocheting through your bones ever since King Theoden had given you his begrudging permission to mount up and join the rest of the Rohirrim in guarding the citizens of Edoras as they made the dangerous march to the mountain keep at Helm’s Deep. Your nerves came partially from the knowledge that this was the only change you and your swordsisters had of proving your mettle to the rest of Rohan, and partially from knowing that, although you had the king’s blessing to fight, you distinctly did not have the blessing of his heir and your lover, Eomer. 

As another bloodthirsty cry erupted from the lines of mounted soldiers behind you, you gave Túrion his head, kicking him into a gallop as you thrust your blade high and forward, signaling the charge. 

“For Middle Earth!” The riders behind you echoed your call to arms as the company leapt to action. 

The sound of hundreds of hooves pounding into the frostbitten ground roared to life as your unit charged forward to meet the oncoming Warg-riders. Your mind slipped into a red haze of battle-fueled fury as your sword sliced through its first victim, then its next, and so on, until you and your sword were one and the same. 

* * * * *

The sun was high in the sky by the time you re-sheathed your sword. The muscles of your sword-arm shoulder screamed in relief as you let go of the weight of your blade. You swung down off Túrion’s saddle, examining your stallion’s wounds. Most were superficial cuts, but there was a deep gash cut into the meat of his left flank. Dark crimson blood stained his grey speckled coat, and he whinnied in protest as you gently prodded the rough edges of the wound. It would require cleaning and sewing, you decided, which meant you wouldn’t ride him for a few weeks while it healed. 

“My brave, brave boy,” you cooed at him tenderly as you moved to the front of his body, stroking his sweaty neck sweetly. You saw his eyes soften at the sound of your voice. You let your forehead fall forward to connect to his snout. He chuffed at you lovingly, rubbing his nose on you as if to reassure you he was alright. Túrion had been your horse for almost ten years, and he’d joined you in every battle you’d fought in so far. 

“It seems your horse fared better than you, my lady.” The voice behind you was reproachful but laced with relief. You smiled, ignoring the admonishment in Eomer’s words as you turned to face him. 

“Eomer,” you sighed dreamily, your voice misty with exhaustion as you let him envelop you with his arms. The layers of armor and chain mail and fighting leather between you left you unhappily separate from his reassuring warmth, but the knowledge that he – like you – had survived the Warg attack made you weak in the knees with joy. 

“You’re hurt, Y/n,” he mumbled gruffly against your hair as he placed a tender kiss on your forehead. 

You pulled back from him, puzzled. You hadn’t noticed any injuries during the battle, although it was very possible that adrenaline had dulled your awareness. 

“I am?” you replied in bewilderment. You lifted your arms gingerly, trying to feel for the injury more than look for it. There was an appalling amount of blood and sinew and entrails staining your armor; all of it from your enemies, you’d assumed, although Eomer seemed to disagree. 

“Your head,” he said by way of clarification. His expression was pained as he touched the side of your face up towards your right temple. Although his pressure was gentle, you noted a tenderness at his touch, and his fingertips were tacky with half-dried blood when he withdrew his hand. Your mind idly flicked through the memories of the battle, trying to identify when you’d been injured. You knew some of the Warg-riders dipped their blades in poison – usually the officers – and if the injury had come from one of them, you’d need to see an apothecary for the herbal antidote. You had a vague recollection of your helmet being knocked from your head by an errant arrow. As you tried to piece the memory together, you realized that the arrow must have sideswiped your skull, leaving a shallow albeit bloody gash there. 

“I’m fine, it was an arrow,” you sighed in relief as you gently ran your hand along the cut. It was narrow and straight – most certainly the work of an arrow rather than a blade. You saw Eomer’s shoulders visibly relax; his mind must have raced to the possibility of poison just as yours had. 

“Thank the Gods,” he breathed out, cupping your cheeks in both his hands as your foreheads connected. Your eyelids fluttered shut as you enjoyed the sound of his breathing syncing with yours. The sounds of the fading battle and dismounting riders around you faded into the back of your awareness as you let Eomer’s presence wash over you. 

When you finally drew back to meet his gaze, you saw the anger that he’d tamped down just long enough to ensure you’re safety flare to life in his honey-brown eyes. 

“What in the devil are you playing at, exactly?” he snarled accusatorily. You had to suppress a chuckle at his rage. He was the bravest man you knew, like one of the royal knights of old out of a children’s fairytale, but when it came down to you, his protective anger reminded you of an hissing, spitting kitten. You wanted nothing more than to pepper him with kisses and have him walk you to a nice, warm bath, although you knew that your doting affection would only enrage him further.

In an attempt to hide your smile, you turned back to Túrion, undoing his breast collar and easing the saddle off his back. 

“Whatever do you mean, my Lord?” Try as you might, you couldn’t quite extinguish the note of teasing in your sarcastic question. Eomer’s nostrils flared in response. He grabbed your upper arm, pulling you about to face him. His eyes were simmering, his handsome lips pursed so tightly they were white against his sun-tanned skin.

“You rode into battle knowing you didn’t have my blessing,” Eomer growled. He released your arm as a few of his men walked past, eyeing the two of you surreptitiously with sidelong glances. Your romance with Eomer was no longer a secret, although both of you tried to keep your personal affairs separate from your roles in Rohan’s military. 

“I had the King’s blessing,” you snapped back once his men were out of earshot. “Last I checked, the King’s blessing still outweighed yours, Lord of the Mark.” Using Túrion’s saddle as a buffer, you brushed past him, leading your horse by the bridle towards the line of soldiers pulling back from the corpse-riddled battlefield towards the shadowy mountains off the west, where the safety of Helm’s Deep thick stone walls awaited. You could practically feel the heat from Eomer’s gaze boring into the back of your head as you walked away. 

Let him burn himself out, you told yourself as part of your instincts yearned to turn back and make peace. You knew Eomer’s anger came from a place of protectiveness, and you loved him for his devotion. By the same token, you also wanted him to realize that a warrior’s blood pulsed through your veins. It wasn’t your fate to be a lady of Rohan’s court, waving embroidered handkerchiefs at him as he rode off into a glorious death in battle. Your fate was to ride out next to him and meet your enemies standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Like him, you would lay down your life to protect those you loved. You’d never dream of taking that away from him; and you expected him to give you the same latitude in return. 

Holding your chin high, you let your feet carry you away from him, eventually getting lost in the crowd. You’d be lying if you said your pride wasn’t a bit wounded that he didn’t chase you down, but he didn’t. Eomer was far too proud for that.

* * * * *

It wasn’t until nightfall that you reached Helm’s Deep. The adrenaline of battle had long worn off by then, and you were beginning to feel every bump and bruise covering your body. Based on the scattered reports you’d picked up on from the other unit commanders, you knew that the battle was far from over. Saruman’s main force was marching towards Helm’s Deep as you spoke. The Warg-riders had been little but a scouting force. You only hoped to have enough time to eat and, if the Gods were merciful, rest. 

Once you’d seen Túrion to the stables and tasked a stable hand with patching up his wound, you made your way towards the main hall of the keep. Theoden’s court had assembled there, and he’d ordered all of his unit commanders to adjourn there for a hot meal and battle strategy. Thankfully, your company had lost relatively few of its number, while others had sustained heavy losses. Despite the bone-deep fatigue that pulled at your eyelids, you forced yourself to stay keen to the king’s brief on his strategy for the coming conflict. Given that your company was still majority intact, you suspected that you’d be part of the castle’s main defensive force along the lower ramparts. 

It wasn’t purely exhaustion that threatened to pull your focus elsewhere; from across the dimly lit hall, you could see Eomer at his usual place to the king’s immediate left. His expression was somber, and you doubted that anyone noticed the slight groove between his eyebrows that betrayed his inner turmoil. But you knew his face the same way you knew the feel of breath in your lungs. You’d be able to feel his emotions in the dark. 

After the king dismissed the company leaders under strict instructions to rest as much as possible, you felt your feet automatically lead you up towards the head table where Theoden, Gamling, and Eomer sat together, their heads bowed as they continued to talk of strategy. Noticing your approach, Theoden smiled at you warmly and waved his nephew off.

Eomer protested his uncle’s dismissal, partially out of a sense of duty and partially to spite you, but Theoden would hear none of it. “Soldiers are never guaranteed another sunset, Eomer,” he chided his nephew sternly but not unkindly. “Don’t waste this one mulling over the details of tomorrow’s doom. Go. Be with your heart.” 

Theoden’s words touched you, and you bowed your head gratefully at him as Eomer rose with a sullen pout. As you turned to follow a very surly Eomer out of the hall, you swore you saw Theoden shoot you a conspiratorial wink. 

The walk to Eomer’s chambers was quiet, although not tense. There was an understanding between you two: despite your quarrel, both of you expected to spend the evening together. And although there were differences of opinion, you knew that you were secure in his affections, just as he knew the same of you. You and Eomer had been doing this dance for too long to let something so petty drive a wedge between you, especially on a night like tonight. You weren’t sure if it was your imagination, but at times you swore you felt the faintest tremor in the mountain that Helm’s Deep was cut into, a foreshadow of the unimaginable force marching your way. Theoden’s scouts had reported an army as large as ten thousand strong, pouring out of Isengard’s gates. The very notion of ten thousand was almost beyond your imaginings, and it pierced your heart with an unmuted terror. You knew Eomer felt it too - everyone did. 

Perhaps it was that shared terror that kept both of you silent as you entered Eomer’s chambers. He closed the door behind you softly, dismissing the guard who stood watch by the doorway. You’d only been to Helm’s Deep once before, but the chamber was exactly as you remembered. The court servants who had fled Edoras with the rest of the nobility had brought with them precious few luxuries, but among them were a pile of freshly laid towels, a bar of soap, and an array of candles spread throughout the room. You breathed a sigh of relief when you saw steam rising from the simple, porcelain tub in the corner of the room. A warm bath was exactly what you needed right now. Sweat and dried blood from the morning’s battle had dried on your skin and in your hair. You weren’t a particularly vain person - your lifestyle hadn’t afforded you such luxuries - but you were not above enjoying a thorough soak and a soft bed to lay your head on at night. 

Without sharing a word, you and Eomer began removing your armor. Unlike earlier, where his anger hung around him like a stormcloud, his mood now moved in the direction of contemplative. You felt his gaze on your face as you lifted the heavy chainmail tunic you wore under your leather armor over your head. With the weight of your armor removed, your limbs felt loose and light. As you swung your dirty braid over one shoulder and began undoing the plaits, Eomer finally broke the silence. 

“I never get tired of seeing you like this, you know.” HIs voice was softer than you expected, and it caused your breath to snag in your chest. You lifted your eyes to him as you shook out the roots of your hair. His face was streaked with dirt from the fight, and there was a dark blue bruise that you hadn’t noticed earlier blooming under one eye. But beneath the grime and his week-old stubble, you saw a soft smile gracing his lips and a gentle light in his eyes. You couldn’t help but smile back. 

“Like what, my lord?” you replied teasingly as you unlaced the bottom layer of your armor - a heavy tunic made of quilted wool. The chill damp of the air felt delicious against your bare skin. You didn’t relish the idea of re-donning everything in just a few hours, especially given that you wouldn’t have time to wash the tunic or clean the plated armor, but for the moment it felt incredible to be rid of those putrid, heavy layers. 

“Undressed, in my chambers.” Eomer’s reply was somewhat muffled by the hem of his own tunic, which had snagged around his head while he was undressing. You laughed at the sight of the Lord of the Riddemark, future King of Rohan, half-naked with a dirty tunic wrapped around his neck. You stepped over to him and helped untie a few more laces at the neck of the tunic, easing his head through the opening and freeing him from the confines of the tunic at last. 

“Such language in front of a lady,” you replied mirthfully as Eomer gestured towards the tub. You accepted his invitation gratefully, stepping one foot into the warm water and then another. The bathwater turned grimy as you let your body sink beneath the surface of the bathwater, dipping your head back to wet your hair. 

From outside the tub, Eomer grabbed the bar of soap and wetted it before running it over your hair to form a lather. When he began rubbing your scalp with firm fingers, you let out an audible moan as you let your head lean back against the edge of the bath. 

He chuckled as you gave yourself over to the incredible sensation.

“I see no lady here,” he replied after a moment, earning a playful glare from you and a splash of bathwater in his direction. He dodged the blow easily, letting out a laugh of his own. 

“Your manners need work, my lord.” Your retort had little bite to it; you were too mesmerized by the patterns Eomer’s fingers wove against your scalp. Your eyelids fluttered closed as you let relaxation seep into every fiber of your body.

“No lady,” he continued, bending down until his beard tickled your ear. “Only a woman. My woman.” Your toes curled under the surface of the water as he dragged those last two words over the gravel in his voice. Sensing he’d plucked the right chord, Eomer chuckled proudly as he planted a kiss to the soft skin in front of your ear. You reached up to grab his hair and pull him to your lips, but he’d already withdrawn. Your eyes opened just in time to see him sink into the bath next to you, the water level rising dangerously close to the lip of the tub. Like you, he grunted in appreciation as the warmth of the water began to work out the kinks in his tired muscles. 

You allowed him to settle against the far edge of the bath before you moved towards him. He opened his arms in a well-rehearsed move, allowing you to settle between his strong thighs and lean back against his firm torso before wrapping you with his arms. Your head lolled back against his shoulder, his cheek coming to rest on your freshly rinsed hair. This was not the first time you had shared such intimacy with your lover; far from it, in fact. But, much like he had pointed out earlier, there was no dulling of affection between you two. Instead, you felt your feelings for him deepen with each passing day. 

As the two of you sat together in the cooling water, you traced absentminded circles over his forearm. Your gaze landed on the dancing flame of a nearby candle as you let your mind wander into a space just shy of sleep. You felt Eomer’s breath deepen against your back as he too relaxed into the quiet. 

After several minutes of companionable silence, you squeezed his arm to rouse him from his reverie.

“Do I have your blessing for the battle ahead, my lord?” Although you used the same playful tone you’d employed moments prior, the question was a serious one. You felt Eomer tense ever so slightly behind you as he considered his response. 

Sensing his hesitation, you pressed on.

“You know I will fight tomorrow, with or without it.” Eomer tensed further at your callous words, although both of you knew they were true. You let your tone soften as you added, “although I would feel all the better for it if I had your blessing.” 

He let out a soft sigh, shaking his head slightly. 

“Whatever did I do to find myself in love with a woman such as yourself?” Each of his words was drenched in devotion, and the sound of it made you curl against him as he squeezed you tightly. It wasn’t a direct answer, but you understood his meaning. His blessing wasn’t something to give or take away; you always had it. Eomer had known what you were long before he’d fallen into your bed, and you’d been certain not to soften those parts of yourself that found a home in battle just for his sake. 

“You are truly one of the lucky few,” you cooed back, relishing the sensation of him nuzzling down against the skin where your neck and shoulder connected. You reached a hand up behind you, lightly gripping the back of his head and encouraging him to let it hang gently against yours. He obliged, sighing contentedly as you began twirling strands of his hair around your fingers. 

“I swear to the Gods, y/n, sometimes I don’t know if you’re my salvation or my downfall.” His confession came with a distinct note of pain. You knew that pain well: it was the pain of loving a warrior. The pain of having to say a potential goodbye each time they rode into battle. The pain of subsuming the urge to protect him at any and every cost under the need to follow orders. It was the pain of frantically searching for an all-too familiar face amongst the bodies of the dead on a battlefield. It was a unique kind of pain, and one that both of you had known you’d always live with when you’d allowed yourselves to fall in love. 

You ignored the way the bathwater sloshed over the edge of the tub as you turned to face him. His eyes were misty as you cupped his handsome face in your hands, running your thumbs tenderly along his cheekbones. 

“Eomer… my love…” Before you could finish your thought, he pulled you against him, his lips meeting yours greedily. In an instant, you recognized the intention behind his kiss. A knot of desire began to coil in your stomach as your fingers tangled in his hair. He pressed his kiss down into your mouth harder, and you felt the mingling of fear, pride, devotion, and love in behind that pressure. Your chest bloomed with heat as the kiss deepened. Suddenly, Eomer rose from his seated position and stepped out of the bath, his muscles tensing enticingly with the quick, agile movement. Bending down to lace an arm under your legs and one behind your back, he lifted you quickly from the now tepid, grimy water. He carried you to the bed with a purposeful heat simmering in his eyes, making that knot in your stomach tighten further as butterflies began to take flight in your lungs. He laid you on the soft blanket, his arms coming to frame your shoulders as he settled his body over top yours, caging you in between his flexed biceps. Just before his mouth met yours again, you lifted a finger and pressed it to his lips. He froze, his eyes on you with curiosity and a hint of frustration. 

“Your blessing, Eomer,” you said breathily, trying to tamp down your own impatience. “I want your blessing.” It had never felt important before, but the longer your mind lingered on the battle ahead, the more compelled you felt to hear those words. 

His honey brown eyes danced with delight as you withdrew your finger, allowing him to speak freely. He didn’t hesitate.

“You have it.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips. 

“You have my blessing always.” Another kiss at the corner of your mouth. 

“Today.” Your jawline. “Tomorrow.” Your collarbone. “For all of your days.” Your shoulder. “And all of mine.” Back to your lips. 

Your heart seized in your chest as the tenderness of the moment bewitched you. Eomer hovered over you, each of you basking in each other’s gaze for another heartbeat. You saw the tender light in his eyes turn molten just as your own mind turned back to the needs of your body. 

“Now, my lady,” he whispered. “Allow me to show you exactly how much of this lord’s blessing you’ve earned.” He dove down to kiss at the now cleaned skin above your breasts, earning a delighted cry from you as you let your eyes flutter close. 

Somewhere in the darkness covering Rohan, an army ten-thousand strong marched closer; but for that moment, your love chased away the dark…

[cauliflowertree]

eomer

first kiss & leaving notes

when he’s banished he leaves a note in his spot with y/n and y/n finds it and flees the city and goes to find him & he’s waiting for them not too far away, like on the borders and they get to him at night & he’s sitting by the fire alone and it’s like yay reunion & first kiss :D

YO THIS??? THIS DRAFT???? ^^^^ is from MONTHS ago (probably like a year ago) but why does it slap and why do i want to write it now?

[whiskawaybelf]

This is the final chapter! A little epilogue for the end of this fic. I have some more things in the cards, if anyone is interested but this one is now done. Hope you enjoy!

quick reminder I always tag my fics this one is under the tag 4rings, feel free to blacklist if it’s not your jam or cluttering your tags

[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.’

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!

[gloomwitchwrites]

Burnt Bread

Éomer x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: fluff, physical & emotional hurt/comfort, family issues, established relationship, alcohol

Word Count: 2.4k

After being left to fend for yourself in your father's bakery, you end up making a massive mistake that earns his ire. Fleeing, you find comfort with the one person who you're utterly safe with.

A/N: Dedicated to @firelightinferno

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

“I’m leaving. Watch the shop.”

You glance up from the sticky dough beneath your hands and find your father near the door. He sways on his feet slightly as he attempts to tug on his coat. “I’m leaving” is just another way of telling you that he’s off to drink, and by the look and smell of him, he’s already started for the day.

It wasn’t always like this, and it’s only become worse over the years. Following your mother’s death, your father’s reliance on mead has become a crutch, a vessel for his loneliness. It doesn’t matter that you are alive and here for him.

While you don’t entirely resent him for falling into this state, the frequency of it does worry you. Worse, it’s driving a wedge in your relationship with him. He’s becoming distant and detached. His frequent disappearances leave you alone to take care of the shop and everything that goes along with it. It’s not difficult, and you enjoy the work, but when the shop is busy, you can’t always keep an eye on things.

You’re starting to grow tired of this, and you don’t want to feel resentful of your father. You’ve always loved him, even on the days when he comes home stumbling.

“For how long?” you ask flatly, trying not to sound upset that he’s departing yet again. This is the fifth day in a row your father has left the shop in the morning to drink. You fail, a little indignation creeping into your tone.

Your father hears it because he scowls in your direction. “Don’t know,” he mutters, as he teeters toward the door.

There is no final goodbye or backward glance. The shop door slams shut, and tears begin to form in the lower lids of your eyes. Brushing them away with the back of your hand only dusts your cheeks with floor.

This constant distance is tiring.

Putting all your frustration into kneading the dough on the table, a little bit of that steam begins to cool. Once you’ve had enough, and your arms ache, you cut and shape the dough, setting it aside to rise.

The bell above the door rings as the first customer of the day steps inside. And then it begins.

This is why you miss your father in the mornings. Everyone loves seeing your face. They appreciate your kind smile and helpful attitude. Most days, your father is nursing a hangover and keeps to himself, leaving you to take care of everyone that walks in. But without him, you’ll need to do both.

The front of the shop quickly packs with people. You’re so busy taking orders and wrapping bundles of freshly baked bread, that at first you don’t smell the slight hint of char in the air. It’s only when you finish helping a customer that you catch a whiff of it.

The older woman’s nose crinkles in confusion, and while she says nothing, her reaction gives you pause. Inhaling, you consider the scents in the shop, grouping them into different categories. There’s sugar, butter, and—

Your eyes widen, and then you’re rushing to the large stone oven at the back of the shop. “Oh no. No no no no.” Grabbing the large, wood paddle off the wall, you hurriedly scoop up and toss the bread onto the nearby table.

Some are perfectly toasted but others, like the ones closest to the fire, are charcoal. You slide the paddle in and retrieve a loaf that is entirely on fire. In your surprise, the paddle and bread fall to the floor.

They both clatter loudly and you drop to your knees, using your apron to smother the burning bread. The tears fall easily, and the heat from the apron is hot and irritating, but you put it out. You’re so absorbed in trying to salvage what you can, that you don’t realize where the wide part of the paddle is.

Your hand goes out and connects with it. You jump back with a light cry, cradling your palm. The paddle is wood and not metal, which is some comfort, but your left hand is throbbing.

The bell above the door rings, and you glance up, eyes wide and frightened like a deer.

“What is this?” comes the sneering voice.

Your father is back, and you can smell the sourness from here. He half-sways, half-limps around the counter to where you’re kneeling. His pupils are wide, and he has to lean on the countertop for support. That yellow gaze roams over you, to the burnt bread on the floor, and then back to you again.

“You stupid girl,” he whispers. Then, much louder. “You stupid stupid girl!”

This is the part of him you dislike the most. When he’s deep in his cups, all kindness is gone.

“I’m so sorry, father. We were busy and I didn’t realize—”

“Do you know how much you’ve cost us? This is two dozen loaves.” He picks one up and throws it at your face. His aim is terrible and completely off. All you have to do is bend a bit and it sails right over your head.

“Father—”

“Do you do this to me on purpose?”

“Father. Please—”

“Every day I have to look upon your face and see your mother. A daily reminder that she is gone!”

“Please,” you beg softly, staring down at your hands.

“Get out!”

You bolt up and rush out the door, nearly knocking over an elderly woman about to walk inside. You run and run until you pass through the gates of Edoras, stopping only when you make it to the burial mounds of the kings. You fall to your knees and then onto your back, staring up into the sky.

It’s morning, but overcast, the clouds a stormy gray like they’re ready to cry and join you in your sorrow.

There is only one person who could give you comfort, but he is not here. He is gone, expected back today but you’re not sure when. Even if you were to wait for him, you’re in no state to greet him. Éomer should see you happy when he returns, not tear-stained.

No one holds vigil at the burial mounds. This will be your respite. This will be your chance to slow your racing heart and dry your eyes. Once you’re calm, once you’re no longer wishing to flee from this place, you’ll hold vigil at the gates until Éomer arrives. Going back to the shop to face your father is out of the question.

The grass is a soft bed beneath you. Closing your eyes, you press your hands against the earth, splaying your fingers wide, focusing on the individual blades of grass under your palms. This will be your anchor until you can find a bit of peace.

“What are you doing on the ground?”

Your eyes snap open and you turn your head to the right, meeting the amused smile of the man you love.

“Éomer,” you breathe, sitting up to grab at the front of his leather armor. It doesn’t matter that your hands sting, you pull him down onto you wanting his closeness.

His gentle laugh is perfect, and when your mouths meet, everything slips away. Éomer settles between your legs, his forearm resting by your head while his other hand reaches back to grab. He meets bare thigh, and the contact is exactly what you need.

Éomer is real and whole and with you.

The kisses that start with soft excitement quickly become deep and heated. There is a slight harsh bite to his breathing as the two of you presses closer. Your hands slide up to wrap around the back of his neck, but as they crest over the lip of his armor, the tender flesh on your palm screams out.

Hissing, you draw back, clutching at your hand.

Éomer stills and then pulls away from your lips. His head tips downward, glimpsing the burn before you can hide it from view.

“What happened?” he asks, his tone tipping toward concern.

“It’s nothing,” you murmur, as the memory of your father comes roaring back.

“It’s not nothing,” he replies firmly, his brow creasing. “Show me.”

Slowly, you unfurl your fingers, revealing your palm. Of everyone in your life, Éomer is the safest.

Éomer’s mouth forms into a deep frown as he clutches your wrist, drawing your hand closer to his face as he inspects the burn. “Did someone do this to you?”

You shake your head. “No. Just grabbed some hot bread. That’s all.”

Éomer sees right through you. “You’ve been crying.”

“It hurts.”

Éomer sighs, gently guiding your hand down to your chest. When he releases your wrist, Éomer reaches out to trace the backs of his knuckles against your cheekbone. “You can tell me if it was your father.”

When the tears start to accumulate in your eyes again, Éomer leans in and lowers his voice. “Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head. “Not with his fists.”

Éomer’s exhalation is shaky, like he’s trying to calm his own anger. “You’re coming with me.”

“Éomer—”

“You are coming with me,” he repeats. “We will talk, and I will tend to these burns.” When you open your mouth to argue, Éomer shakes his head. “Don’t be stubborn.”

He slowly sits back on his heels and helps you come to sitting. Then he’s on his feet, bringing you with him. Éomer;s horse, Firefoot, grazes nearby.

Éomer’s hands lightly brush away the blades of grass that cling to your skirts. “Would you like to walk or ride back?”

You love Firefoot dearly, but you’d rather take your time arriving to Edoras’ gates. You’re still not calm, and a slow walk with Éomer at your side might just help you find some peace.

“Could we walk?”

He nods. “If that is what you wish.”

Éomer leads Firefoot by the bridle with one hand, and with the other, he clasps yours. He does not push or dig around, but instead moves at the pace you set. Éomer knows your signals without you having to say anything. Instead of inquiring about your father or what happened, he talks about his time away. It gives you a chance to shift mindsets, to focus on him and nothing else.

When the two of you are in his private room, Éomer guides you over to the hearth. He lays out a small nest of furs and gently helps you down on them, taking care not to accidentally brush against the burn. Once you’re seated, Éomer moves to a far corner of the room to remove his weapons and a few heavy pieces of armor. Then he comes back to you, sitting beside you in front of the fire.

“Show me your hands.” Reluctantly, you present them. Éomer frowns down at them. “Tell me again your father didn’t do this to you.”

“He didn’t. I promise.”

Éomer sighs heavily and his hands wrap around your wrists. He gently guides your hands closer, inspecting the burn. It’s only on your left hand, and Éomer slowly releases the one that’s fine. “I’ll have someone fetch some ointment for this and bandages.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is. I’ll take care of it.”

You snort and Éomer’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “Think I’m incapable?”

“A strong warrior like you capable of such tenderness?” you tease.

His smile softens. “What about all the times I’ve been tender with you?”

Your cheeks heat with the memory. “Not in that way,” you mutter, trying to hide your embarrassment.

“Would you prefer that as well?”

“Perhaps later,” you breathe, heart quickening in your chest.

Éomer lifts your wrist to his mouth, placing a kiss on the pulse point. “I’ll return shortly.”

When Éomer acquires the correct ointment and bandages, he sets to work. He cleanses his hands, scrubbing his nails and between his fingers before he begins. Then, with purposeful slowness, Éomer lifts the injured hand and begins rubbing the ointment into the surface-level burns. They likely won’t blister but they’ll sting for a week or more.

Once the ointment is applied, he unwraps the bandages, guiding it over and around your hand to keep the ointment in place. He ties off the extra and cuts it off with a clean blade, tucking the little bit left into the wrappings. Éomer is overly cautious but it’s sweet.

He is always so gentle with you.

“You spoil me,” you murmur.

“I enjoy it,” he replies, turning your hand over to double-check his work.

A soft sadness creeps in. “One day you won’t.”

Éomer glances up. “How so?”

You shrug as if the words don’t mean anything. “You’ll marry a princess. She’ll beautiful and fair. The people will love her.”

Éomer shakes his head. “Why would I ever want such a thing when I have one right here.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I’m not.” Éomer kisses your fingers and gently guides your hand to your lap. In a move so delicate it momentarily steals your breath, Éomer cups your cheek and leans in close. “All I ever want. All I ever need. Is right here.”

Éomer stands before the back door of the shop your father owns. He’s still fuming, but not nearly as much as when he saw your hand. For some time, Éomer has wanted to give this man a piece of his mind. You are precious, and more importantly, you don’t deserve his ire.

The man is a drunk, and everyone knows it. Most show him pity because it all started with the death of his wife—your mother. But that was many years ago, and any pity Éomer felt for the man has long since evaporated.

Squaring his shoulders, Éomer pounds on the door like he’s trying to splinter the wood.

You are still in Éomer’s chambers, curled up in the pile of furs he created in front of the fire. You are sacred to him, the woman he wants above all things. One day, you will be his, and will no longer have to answer to your father.

The drunkard swings open the door. “What?” he growls before he realizes who stands before him.

His eyes widen, and he straightens up, smoothing out the rumbled apron. He fumbles over his words and Éomer holds up a single hand, silencing the man.

“I’m not interested in excuses.” Éomer takes a step into the shop, towering over the man. “If I ever see her in tears again because of you, understand that my next visit will be much less pleasant. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

Éomer wants to stay more, but he draws back his rage. He nods curtly, and exits, only wanting to return to you.

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado

[ohnonotnow]

my library

here's some of the best the hobbit/lotr fanfics I've read cuz they can be quite hard to find and I wanna help

will update the list as I read

Thorin

Smoke, iron and Thorin

Fire and Gold

Learning Khuzdul

Braid of Gold

Thorin being soft

The Beauty of Chance

Those Hands

Misunderstanding

The arrival

A king's crown

Covered In Steam

There's just inches in between us

Thorin after a long day of training with his nephews

In This Moment 

Agreement

Symphony of your life

Oh so quiet

Confession

Find Your Way Back

Fili

fili oneshots

Moonrise

The Most Unpleasant, Defective, and Abominable Incident

Stay with me

The Redeemer

Durin's Garage

Restless

Lost My Way

Kili

The book keeper

insecurities

The beauty and the Beast

getting back at Kili for teasing

My Treasure

Madly in love

It's in his kiss

Love Bites

Sway With Me

Wood Carvings

Softly. . .

Sweet like nectar

A Shot in the Dark

Beorn

Early Mornings

Beorn takes care of you when you're injured

Linger

Legolas

Watcher of Wanderers

The Innocence of Brutality

Blessing

Sensitive

Being best friends with Legolas

Hazy Memories

Spellbound

Thranduil

Bookworm

Relax

Best friends father

Fascination

Flower On My Skin

To Meet Under the Stars

Passenger Princess

Autumn Thunderstorm

I Could Love You With My Eyes Closed

Haldir

Gentle Dark

Lindir

My Heart Is In Your Hands

Moonlight

Just a Little Help

Warriors Great Tales

The Fountain

Return to Me

Èomer

Burnt Bread

A Helping Hand

Wildest Dreams

Falling In Love With A Librarian

SFW alphabet

Happiness

A Roll in the Hay

Blessing

Turning Points

More characters

various characters oneshots

Imagine: elves having highly sensitive ears and you finding out by accidently touching them.

Journey to Erebor

Hair braiding

Elves + Braiding

What Type of Kisser is Each LoTR Character?

The Hobbit Characters + Physical Affection (Suggestive Version)

A Headcanon For Each Member of Thorin’s Company

Cuddling With Thorin's Company

Imagine some of the elves of Middle Earth find out how easy it is to make you (a human staying in Rivendell) blush and become aroused.

The LOTR characters reacting to a modern reader

[sotwk]

*Crashes into your ask box*

Please, I'm begging

The salvaged letter, wh- what happened 🥺

OOOOOH GIRL. COME SIT.

That ficlet, "A Salvaged Letter" is actually just my half of a silly game a delicious intrigue @scyllas-revenge and I cooked up. You can read "Reader's" amazing response, written by Scylla, HERE.

I do hope to continue this mysterious epic romance with another chapter or two of "Salvaged Letter" (collabing with Scylla if she's still willing), but I'm so glad you liked what you've read, and thank you so much for always being ready to Simp with me!!! <3 <3 <3

We are ALLLLL suckers for angsty, passionate Eomer. We should have fun with it!!!

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

A Vigilant Eye

Pairing: Éomer and his OC wife Mereliss (That translates roughly to “famously kind”. There’s more about her here, where she first appeared in the form of the “reader” character.)

Summary: Our king of Rohan stubbornly refuses to acknowledge a riding injury, but his wife is not going to let him get away that. This is as close to anything smutty as I’ll ever write—that is to say, it’s not really smutty at all in the actual sense, but it’s headed that way and you’re certainly free to imagine where it goes from here!

“Have you not earned yourself a break? I don’t think you’ve moved from that desk since I left here hours ago.”

Mereliss looked up from a stack of papers to see Éomer standing in the bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame and watching her with a wry smile on his face.

“I could ask something similar of you, as you have spent all of those same hours on your feet dealing with one problem or another.” She dropped her pen on the desk and leaned back to stretch. “Are you finished for the day?”

“Unfortunately, no.” He walked over to plant a quick kiss on the top of his wife’s head. “I have only a few minutes to change my boots before Hildred and I are due to inspect the new earthworks outside the main gate.”

He went to collect his riding boots from the closet, and as he walked she took note of the small hitch in his step that had been developing over the past few weeks. He would never admit to being in pain–it was against his nature to be perceived as complaining, no matter how legitimate the reason–and so far the effect was subtle enough to escape the eye of a casual observer. But Mereliss’s attention was far from casual when it came to Éomer. She knew every inch of his body better than she knew her own, and she watched over his health and well being with the vigilance of one who protects a priceless treasure. She had asked him about this slight limp two weeks ago, and he insisted that it would go away soon. But, if anything, it seemed to her a little worse now. She stood and followed him across the room.

“I cannot help but notice that your hip still troubles you. You spend so much time in the saddle, perhaps you should take a few days’ break from riding and allow it some rest.”

He scoffed. “There is nothing wrong with my hip, and certainly nothing that would make me unable to carry out my duties.”

He grabbed a pair of boots and moved toward a chair to put them on, but she stepped into his path and blocked his way.

“I never said that you were unable to carry out your duties. I am merely proposing that a short period of rest might help you to see to those duties more comfortably in the days ahead.”

He attempted to step around her, but she moved sideways in tandem with him. When a second step also failed to circumvent her, he frowned.

“I am comfortable enough already.”

“The way that you walk suggests otherwise. And if you do not take better care of yourself, it will only continue to get worse with time.”

He blew out a frustrated breath and raked his hair out of his face. “As I have told you before, it is nothing to be overly concerned about.” He put a hand on her shoulder and looked directly into her eyes. “You needn’t worry about me. I promise.”

She arched an eyebrow. His stubbornness was legendary, but she had learned her own counter maneuvers over the years. She could be very persuasive when she set her mind to it, and she had no intention of letting this particular issue go.

She pulled his hand from her shoulder and wrapped it around her waist instead, pressing in close to him and running her own hand up his spine to the nape of his neck. He inhaled sharply.

“Very well,” she said. “But if you refuse my advice to rest your hip for the day, then surely you would not also deny me just a few moments to attend to it myself?” Standing on her toes, she brushed her lips lightly across his and looked up at him plaintively from beneath her lashes.

He laughed, almost a nervous giggle. “Mereliss, I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work. I have many things still to do this afternoon.”

“Of course you do,” she murmured. “So do I. Just say the word, then, and I’ll step aside and we will both go about our business. Or…”. She snaked her free hand down and pulled the riding boots from his grip, dropping them to the floor with a thud. “You could stay here for a few more minutes and allow me to help you feel better.” The hand trailed slowly back up the inside of his leg.

“Mere, Hildred is expecting me.” Even as he protested, he leaned down to nestle his chin into the crook of her neck, breathing in the sweet floral scent of her hair. “He is waiting as we speak.”

“Oh, that is no cause for concern.” She pulled his shirt from his waistband and slid her hand underneath the fabric and onto his bare skin. “If I know Hildred, he is happily chatting up whatever woman happens to be nearby, and he’ll be glad for the extra time.” She pushed forward, her body against his chest and thighs propelling him backward step by step until his legs made contact with the edge of their bed. “Besides, it will ease my heart to lessen your pain, and a little tardiness can be forgiven if it is necessary to please your wife. Don’t you agree?” She pressed her lips to his jaw, to the dimple on his right cheek, to the corner of his mouth.

He turned his head ever so slightly to meet her lips, and she knew then that she had succeeded and he would do anything that she asked of him. Breaking their kiss, she grabbed his waist with both hands and slowly turned him around. “Lay face down for me,” she whispered into his ear. He looked over his shoulder at her, one heavy brow drawn up in surprise, but she shook her head. “Just do as I ask.”

He climbed onto the bed, face down, and she clambered up after him, shifting her skirt so that she could sit astride the back of his thighs.

“Mereliss, what are you—”. His question was cut short by the deep, guttural moan that escaped his lips as soon as she sank her fingers into the muscles around his left hip.

“Now is that a good moan, or a bad moan?” She already knew the answer, but she would enjoy hearing it nonetheless.

“It’s good,” came the muffled reply, his face buried in the mattress while his hands clung tightly to fistfuls of the sheets. “Very good.”

She smiled and set about working her way methodically through all of the tense, rigid muscles in his hip and lower back, alternating between light circular motions and smooth, deep arcs. The more she worked, the more she felt the rigidity start to give way until eventually the whole area was soft and pliant beneath her fingertips and his occasional grunts or groans sounded less of desperately needed relief and more of contented enjoyment.

When she was at last satisfied that he would be able to walk and ride that day with little or no pain, she lay forward onto his back and tucked her chin over his shoulder. “Éomer King, you are released now from my care and may go about your duties for the rest of the day as needed.”

He turned his head to look at her from the corner of his eye. “You know, it’s very strange, but all of the sudden I can’t seem to recall any duties.” He reached an arm back and put a hand on her leg.

“Oh, allow me to refresh your memory. Hildred is waiting for you to go to the earthworks.” Smirking, she put her hand atop his and moved it further up her thigh. “You’re already late.”

A low rumble came from his chest, and he suddenly rolled beneath her. In an instant, they had somehow reversed positions, and she was on her back below him, the weight of his body pressing her down into the soft sheets. He tucked a few curls behind her ear and smiled at her. “Well, fortunately, a very wise woman once told me that a little tardiness can be forgiven if it is necessary to please my wife.”

[queenariesofnarnia]

a drinking game and pretty names 🍻

legolas x f!reader

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

gif not mine

wc:375

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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