#Eomer x OC

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 5 of 7

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

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

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

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

(it remains fluffy though)

Word count: 10,500

Read it on AO3 here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how he must have been suffering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Was it me you were afraid of?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I know.’

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

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

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

‘I never jest!’

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

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

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

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

‘Oh? Thank you. I, um…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she paid that no mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Éomer’s gaze flickered to hers.

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

Éorhild clasped her hands together to eclipse their trembling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To hell with the crown.

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

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

‘What in the world makes you question it?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And I love you.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘N-No, I…’

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

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

‘How… are you feeling?’

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

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

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

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

‘Tell me what you are thinking about.’

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

‘But what if I do?’

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

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

‘Éomer, please.’

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

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

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

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

‘Give me the order.’

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

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

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

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

And yet, this situation demanded more.

Her expression softened into a compassionate display.

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

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

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

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

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

‘I despise this eventuality,’ he sighed.

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

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

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

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

Éomer placed a kiss upon her brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are you absolutely certain?’

‘I am.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do proceed, min heortan frean…’

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

‘May I disrobe you, leofre healsmægeth?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I am. Are you?’

‘What a question.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Not even behind closed doors?’

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

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

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

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

There it was indeed — his new treasure.

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

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

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

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

‘You look ridiculous.’

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

Oh, how he loved her.

‘What prompted you to do such a thing?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are you afraid?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Then claim it.’

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

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

[zepskies]

Any Lord of the Rings (LOTR)/Hobbit Fans?

Hey there! Happy almost Friday. 🥳

I just rewatched Lord of the Rings -- extended edition of course -- and it's still one of my favorite series ever. It also got my muse flowing in a different direction. 😂 Trust me, I still have plenty of Jackles and SPN stuff coming your way, now through February!

Now, I polled my lovely Patrons on this, and quite a few of them are interested in reading LOTR/Hobbit fanfiction from me in the future. But I'd also like to know what all of you think!

If not, it's TOTALLY fine. 💜 But if yes...

If not, I may just make a separate blog for posting LOTR/Hobbit fanfiction when the mood strikes me... 🤔 (After posting on my Patreon first. 💖)

[tvertimot]

Éomer x OC - Deep down chapter 8

TW: mild se*ual suggestion but i hope no one here minds it ;)

Chapter 7 | Masterlist

It has been over a month since the legation has come back to Edoras with the good news.

The whole court was working at high speed ever since - they were getting ready for the royal wedding, the related trip, as it was to take place outside of the royal city and above all for the reception of the new queen and her retinue. 

Rohan, who was still getting back to its shape after years of crisis and war, has long waited for a queen.

Éomer was lying in a bathtub next to the fireplace in his chamber. He tried to soak out the blood and dirt. He just got back from hunting - a quite successful one. He managed to shoot a mighty deer and a few foxes. From the latter he planned to have a beautiful fur made for his future bride - she will  definitely appreciate it once the rohanian winter comes.

He closed his eyes and drifted away into an intoxicating mist of memories and dreams. He recalled the first time he saw Lady Nartíhl at the coronation of King Elessar.

He saw her from a distance during the ceremony and he couldn’t turn his eyes away for the whole night. From her long locks shining in the sunlight as if they were made of a precious metal. From her delicate, symmetrical face and piercing eyes. From her gracious posture, the way she moved - Éomer almost saw flower petals floating from her lilac robe every time she moved. And however the young king was ashamed to admit - he could not look away from her round hips and breasts. The more he tried to ignore this, the more he caught himself glancing in her direction and noticing how beautifully her robe was coating her. Later during the celebration he saw her dancing with other men. Her moves were elegant and hypnotizing, but no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on other details the most of his attention was brought to her cleavage bouncing with her every jump. Later on, he managed to get a closer look at her when he had a few words with her father. 

They met during the Great War. Lord Idhoril led a very brave and skillful troop. 

They exchanged some pleasantries and made some typical military-related small talk, as you would on such occasion. Throughout the  whole conversion Éomer felt a pair of eyes stinging him from behind lord Idhoril‘s back. 

-I’m happy I was able to talk to you, Lord Idhoril, but it seems like my sister is trying to get my attention - Éomer pointed over to Éowyn waving to him on the other side of the hall. - I hope we will have a chance to speak again soon. 

He smiled and nodded his head, the older Lord mimicking this movement. 

Éomer took a step closer to Nartíhl. 

-I hope we did not bore you with the political talk, dear Lady.

He held out his hand, to which she responded placing her palm in his. 

He kissed her hand gently and looked her straight in the eyes, thinking to himself: don’t look down, don’t look down!

-Not at all, my lord. It was both an honour and a pleasure to meet you. 

Mhm this was a very nice memory. It warmed him up enough to not notice the water in the bathtub almost getting cold. He repeated her words in his head. 

-It was both an honour and a pleasure to meet you. 

Oh, a pleasure. He was about to give her pleasure, if only she would let him. 

He felt the arousal building up inside of him. He knew he was dreaming more of a fantasy than the real girl but he did not care. She was about to be his either way.

Just as he was considering following his desires, letting himself go into the fantasies and releasing a bit of this tension growing inside of him he was brought to reality by a knock  on the door. He shook his head and adjusted his position to sit more straight in the tub.

-Enter.

It was one of his servants, holding a letter. 

-Sorry to interrupt, my lord, but a  letter from lady Éowyn has arrived, I am providing it right away just as ordered.

He approached Éomer, bowed his head down trying not to stare at the naked king in front of him and handed the letter over.

-Yes, thank you. 

The king took the letter and startet to open it when he noticed the boy was still standing next to the bathtub. 

-You may go. - he said, slightly annoyed. What a man got to do these days to get properly trained servants! He shook his head and proceeded to read the letter,

Dear Brother, 

I have never been this happy for you as I am now. Please accept my and my husband's sincere congratulation on this amazing news.

However. I know you better than anyone. 

The next time we see eachother I expect a full story! 

All hail king Éomer. 

Love, 

Éowyn (Faramir sends his regards as well).

She knew him so well. She has seen right through him. As he expected. 

But it was ok. The next time they were to see each other was on the lands belonging to his future bride. Right before their wedding. 

Chapter 9

***

If you enjoyed the story please like/reblog <3

TAGLIST: @konartiste @emmanuellececchi

[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.

[severussnapedamagedlove]

To Lord and Land

[eomer x OC] [friends to lovers] [war and grief] [Besties with Eowyn] [horse 🐎] [hidden relationship]

first look

The lands of the Riddermark were touched by the early morning frost, the lifting hold of winter’s cold. The barren stretch of lands were soon to be all green. Now, it was alive with sparkling gold.

A hefty breath escaped her parted lips. It gave life to a wisp of cloud that dissipated before her eyes.

Her palm patted the thick neck of the horse below her. “Good boy.” She cooed.

Their pace was slow; each needed a break from the breathtaking elopement that pushed their bodies to utter exhaustion. Her eyes still stung from the fast air. The dull ache in her thighs spoke to how long it’d been since she’d rode so hard. Working at her own stand in the market took up time that used to be used for riding.

Endless vast stretched from Edoras. The only tell of stopping was from mountains on one side. Their tops were coated with a dense white. It would still be months before they were relieved of their snow, and thus a wet season would wash the Kingstead with a flood.

Her outer layers were stripped. She was left in a simple brown wool gown to air out the built heat of the ride. Sudden chills traveled down her spine in a powerful zip. It gave her an excited thrill.

In the distance, a figure emerged. It split the early morning golden light with the color of red and brown leather. The red tunic was bright and brilliant. Long flaxen hair flapped in the wind at their shoulders. The horse was thick, still young. It excitedly galloped in a way the rider excitedly rode.

They tried to wave her down. She turned her back and continued on her ride.

Her nostrils stole a long inhale of the rising warmth of the grasslands. Her eyelids drifted closed to linger in the joy of it.

            “Hey!” A voice finally sounded. The hasty clobbering of hooves against rock came nearer. “Hear me, did you not, back there? I was talking to you.”

The rider was a young man. About sixteen, same as her.

            “No,” she replied as she kicked her horse past his.

            “I screamed halt five – nay, ten times,” the rider declared.

He urged his horse to follow hers. They walked alongside her, though she kept her eyes decidedly on the distance ahead.

            “I had no reason to. I’d done nothing wrong.”

            “Where are you going?” He countered. He tilted his head. It dropped a length of his wavy hair from behind his shoulder. It fluttered in the light breeze that now brushed against them. His round face was red. The sharp winds of the ride pulled the color to his cheeks.

The boys of Edoras were all the same. It was unlike her small town on Eastfold where girls were respected as people, not chased down and given constant tokens of attention. She deplored the compliments on her smile and ‘glittering’ eyes. It was better when she went unnoticed back home.

She remained quiet to his question. A fact he seemed unbothered by.

            “What’s your name?” He asked next.

Again, she kept her eyes trained to the distance.

            “My name’s Eomer.”

A morning ride was meant to be peaceful. It was time to be awash in the beauty of a new day. To feel the lifting chill of the earth to the rising of the sun.

Peace. A thing that he was ruining.

He swallowed thickly as he followed her line of sight. “You know, my sister and I ride out here all the time. Alas, it is not morn. Eowyn likes to sleep. You should ride with us sometime.”

She bit her cheek, already growing irritated with the sound of his voice.

It was her morning. Her only time alone with her horse. Ever since her mother and her moved to Edoras, she was in that stand at the market until the sun went down. She woke especially early just for this ride. The time of year was her favorite, the perfect time of day for a long strong ride, to forget it all and just run.

This rider – this boy – was ruining that.

            “I’ve never seen you around before,” he said. “Edoras is not very big. New, are you?”

If it was small, and he’d never seen her before, then she was obviously new.

Her hands tightened at her reins and jerked them back tight. The experienced horse responded, stopping short. He repeated the action, dark brow flexed curiously, but his stallion responded wildly. It did not like being redirected so suddenly. It gave a warning grunt as it slowed.

            “Do the mothers of you Eorlingas not teach you manners?”

The rider was stunned. His eyes wide and big at her sudden tone.

His eyes looked downward. “My mother died.”

The anger zapped away to embarrassment. Her mouth. She knew better than to be so blunt. It was a source of contention between her mother and her, as it was wielded very sharply for how powerful it was.

She swallowed and tucked away a thick section of hair half torn from her braid. “Oh.” The sting across the bridge of her nose turned hotter. “Well, sorry.”

Eomer gave a small smile. The light catching in his big green eyes. “That’s alright. Atleast it’s got you talking.” He urged her horse to walk alongside hers once more. The action felt personal and entirely irritating once more.

Who the hell was this Eomer and why was he so frustrating?

            “Care to tell me your name now?”

The way the smile spread across his face, lazily, as if smug to have gotten her just in the position to be told what he wanted. It riled her all over.

Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Ugh!” She groaned before she kicked her horse and rode away as hard as they could manage.

She rode back to the city to her family’s stable. “Good boy, Eryx.” He was awarded his treat for riding so well. She went through the turn-down chores, giving him a good brushing and washing before placing him back in his stall with some hay.

The sun was higher in the sky when she emerged. She cursed herself for lingering so late. Her dress was damp with sweat and entirely improper for the market. It was a quick change to a nicer, thicker dress before she rushed to her family’s stand. The air was dense with yeast and warmth as she neared.

Oh, yes. She was late.

She slipped inside, tied an apron at her waist, in the hopes it might escape her mother’s notice.

Several batches of dough rested near an open fire. They were covered with cloths. One more was spread on a back table dusted with flour. She helped herself to the dough and began to knead. It used to hurt her arms to knead all the dough in the morning, but with the many weeks of constant bread work, her arms were strong enough to stand it.

Her mother exited the back flaps of the white canvas stall and entered the open air section. Steaming loaves were in her long apron as she carried them to the display tables. It was still early. There were plenty of people who would be in need of bread, the day after a holiday. The prior feasting often left them all in need of more.

            “Those are for buns,” her mother stated.

Instead of kneading one large mass, the dough was then separated into smaller batches.

The smell of raw flour was a mixture of emotions. It reminded her of time in the kitchen with her grandmother, back in the East Fold, on the farm, where they would bake little sweet rolls together and eat them greedily. Of course, it also reminded her of the constant work at her mother’s stand now that they moved to the city.

A rush came later that morning. People awoke with the realization that their partying left them without breakfast. They bought loaves and sweet rolls and buns and flat breads. All of it was equally purchased.

She kept the front of the house for the customers as her mother stayed in back and prepared more dough, kneaded and baked more of everything.

The market lined the main path of the city with dozens of tents and canvas stands selling wares of every imagination. It was the life blood of the people. Every day, Eorlingas poured through the path to purchase their daily needs of milk and flour and eggs and fabric and leather and even horses. It was the most important path of their life. Most of the city people made their living from their stand. Her own family was no different. The money they made from their baked goods paid for their own way of life.

Her fingers were busy braiding strands of dough that she forgot to keep her eyes on the open stream of people filtering by the stand. She felt a sensation crawl across her face. Her skin tensed, went hot. The dough fell away from her grasp as she casually raised her eyes.

            “Hello.”

She rolled her eyes. “Are you following me now?”

Eomer leaned against the table looking at her work. “What’s that?”

            “Challah bread,” she replied hiding it beneath the spread of her fingers. Braiding dough took patience. Sometimes it did not turn out as perfect as she liked. The last thing she needed was him noticing the uneven sections. “What are you doing here?”

            “I am not the only. Everyone is in market.” His arm gestured at those around them. “You ride very fast, you know. I tried to catch you.” He followed her as she turned from the front table, deeper into the tent with the other tables of baked goods. “If you don’t want to tell me your name, that’s okay.” She hesitantly raised her eyes to his, uncertain where he was going with it. “I can make one up.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Make one up?”

            “I have to call you something.”

The tenacity of Eomer was starting to feel less annoying. She felt the slight slip of her own, and even contemplated answering his question, when a loud hum sounded outside the front of the stand. It was the hum of voices over top one another. The source of excitement: King Theoden and his son, Theodred. They were traveling down the main path when Theoden turned to the stand.

            “Ah. My newest acquisition,” he told his son.

            “Oh my,” she mumbled beneath her breath. “The king.”

King Theoden entered the bakery tent and gave a small smile when she bowed low to his arrival. “Mildritha. Your mothers’ breads make the city smell sweet.”

She blushed. “Thank you, my lord.”

His eyes then jumped to Eomer to her side. “I see you’ve met my nephew. Eomer. Has she enchanted you with her sticky rolls?”

She cocked her brow. Nephew of Theoden. Unbelievable.

            “I haven’t had the pleasure,” Eomer replied.

Sticky rolls were her own specialty. Not her mothers. Her own.

She carefully grasped the nearest one, struggling not to tremble under the pressure of the many lordly eyes upon her. “Allow me, your grace.”

Eomer’s fingers brushed her own as he took the offering with a small smile. “Thank you, Mildritha.”

The way he said her name made her heart flutter strangely. She felt her flush as its sound slid all over her. The heat of the tent grew tenfold.

Thankfully, her mother entered from the back. Her eyes went big with surprise. “Your grace.” She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “You honor us again with your presence.”

Her dull brown eyes looked at her daughter with a tense stare. A warning of the king’s arrival would have been appreciated, it said.

            “My love of your bread brings me yet again. Your lovely Mildritha was just showing my nephew her sticky rolls. What say you, boy?” His chin tilted.

Eomer’s head bobbed in delight as he ate the sticky sugary bread. “Delicious.”

Her mother gave a sharp elbow to her side. It was accompanied by a sharp stare.

            “You flatter me, my lord Eomer.”

His chewing slowed. A small curl toyed at the corner of his mouth. Sparkles glinted inside his eyes in the split moment they lingered in hers.

            “Nonsense,” King Theoden interrupted before more could be said. “I’ll take a dozen. My niece Eowyn will love some.”

            “Of course, your grace.” Her mother turned to her. “Mil, pack up the kings order.”

She did as she was told while her mother showed some new bakes of the day. He listened intently. The man held a softness in his stare. A calm piece of heart, it appeared. It lived in his son, also. There was an air around them that perfumed not only respect but of their gentle nature.

King Theoden was a figure in her life as long as she remembered. He’d ride through her small town with his riders and buy so much bread that her mother worked for hours just to replenish what he’d bought. His smile was that of a kind man. He’d hand her a coin or two if she lingered around. Sometimes he’d offer her pieces of the bread as a small token with a smile.

            “I’ll send my servants to come fetch my things,” the king proclaimed.

He gave a thankful expression before he bid his leave and moved on down the line of tents. She leaned against the table to watch him go. A teenage boy lazily followed after, still taking bites of his roll. He looked over his shoulder more than once. She pretended not to notice his stare despite the traveling warmth it left down the backs of her arms.

            “Such a good man,” her mother hummed beside her.

Read more at a03 or ff.net

[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.  

[mags-writes]

━━ [ao3] ━━ [wattpad] ━━

━━ Marvel:

Sunlight - Frank Castle x Reader OH, YOUR LOVE IS SUNLIGHT prologue/masterlist "wow, matt, your frank is pretty skilled. he talks and he can smile. I didn't know they could do that." frank castle finds his match in a woman from another dimension

━━ DC Comics

Lights Are On Universe: THERE AIN'T NO LOVE LIKE OUR LOVE "it is refreshing not being on the receiving end of harley." Unconfirmed - Rick Flag x OC part 1 || part 2 || part 3 || part 4 || epilogue rick flag is forced to play by amanda waller's rules and his best friend isn't happy about it

━━ Game of Thrones:

Strange Trails - Gendrya I'VE BEEN SEARCHING FOR A TRAIL TO FOLLOW AGAIN the night we met || frozen pines || meet me in the woods || love like ghosts "as you wish, m'lady." canon divergence of gendrya in season 8 and of arya in general I couldn't stand how calm and collected she was no way that hot-blooded girl was that level-headed

━━ Lord of the Rings:

End of Begining - Eomer x OC - WIP JUST TRUST ME, YOU'LL BE FINE masterlist "I haven't been little in over fifty years, greenleaf, watch your mouth." aragwen finds herself drawn to the vastness of rohan

━━ Edits

Born of War [ERROR: FIC NOT FOUND] Princess Blodwyn of House Targaryen || Lady Vaesella of House Tarlahrys || Lady Aerona of House Bracken

[scyllas-revenge]

Where I Am Needed Most

Pairing: Eomer/OC

Rating: T

Word count: 3,221

Summary: The battle for Helm's Deep is about to begin, and Eomer has enough to worry about without Eowyn and her stubborn, willful, defiant lady-in-waiting, Asta, trying to sneak away from the caves to fight. Asta seems to live for no other purpose than to get under his skin- how can he possibly convince her to stay where she belongs?

Written for @sotwk​ for my 200 follower celebration- thank you for being such a kind, supportive, wonderful person!!

Read on Ao3!

“Is everything ready, Asta?” Eowyn whispered the question into her lady-in-waiting’s ear.

Eomer frowned, her words half-drowned out by the clamor coming from the armory half a hall away. He sidled closer to better hear Asta’s reply, dodging crowds of soldiers distributing armor and sharpening blades.

Their loud yet somber work was nearly complete: the last of the men were dispersing to the ramparts, the women to the caves. A sense of urgency was rising in the halls throughout the fortress, as though Helm’s Deep itself knew its end drew near.

“It is all as we planned, my lady. Your things are hidden with the other supplies in the caves.”

His frown deepened. From afar the pair looked to be doing nothing more than pausing to share a final, hurried conversation, but he knew his sister and Lady Asta too well. Chaos followed wherever they went, and a whispered conspiracy between them could mean nothing good.

“And what of your things?” Eowyn prompted.

Asta laughed. “As though I would forget them. They are stowed away alongside your armor.”

“Oh? Whenever you bring our armor to the training yard, you always forget my vambraces—”

“Please!” She hit Eowyn’s arm. “I forgot them once, four years ago! My real concern is how we will get away in the first place. Come, we must hurry if we are to–”

“How you will get away?” Eomer repeated. He had heard enough at last, and approached them coldly, arms folded. “What are you two discussing, eh? Have you forgotten that Theoden King ordered you both to stay in the caves?”

The two women jumped. “We were—discussing how to get the heavier stores of food from the inner gate and into the caves, to distribute to the women and children,” Eowyn said smoothly. “Nothing more.”

“Is that true, Lady Asta?”

“I don’t understand, my lord,” Asta said, tilting her head and adopting a puzzled expression. “You would not accuse my mistress of lying, would you?”

Her full lips twitched in a suppressed grin, and Eomer clenched his fists. Oh, he’d been a fool to think his sister’s lady-in-waiting would be at all more inclined to honesty with him. Lady Asta had lived in Meduseld for close to a decade, and she’d always had an uncanny ability to get under his skin. He had tried, in recent years, to avoid her, hoping a bit of distance might cool the furious heat that rose under his skin whenever they spoke.

It had done little good.

“Asta is right,” Eowyn said, patting Eomer’s shoulder. “We have a great deal to prepare if we are to outlast the night, and I’m certain you do too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, dear brother—” And with that she fled, dodging his attempt to pull her back.

“Not so fast.” Eomer grasped Asta’s wrist as she tried to dart after Eowyn. “I am not deaf, you know, nor am I a fool.”

Asta offered him a wry smile, twisting out of his grip with ease. “Oh? I am glad to hear you are in possession of all your faculties, my lord.”

“Do not mock me,” he snapped, his fingers flexing on air where her wrist had been—he willed himself not to dwell on the warmth of her hand, or the smoothness of her skin. “I heard you and my sister discussing your armor!”

“Armor?” She blinked innocently. “Why would we need armor, my lord? I’m not certain I could find armor to fit me in this fortress if I tried, in any case.”

“I know full well both you and my sister have fitted armor, as well as swords and shields! You have trained as a shield-maiden nearly as long as Eowyn has. But the king has given you both an express order, and if you are even thinking of disobeying it—”

“You need not worry, Lord Eomer. I am well aware that we are wanted in the caves.” She patted his arm placatingly, then tried to sidestep around him again. Her touch left him dizzy once again, but he blocked her escape easily, a burning, impatient heat swelling in his veins.

“You are wanted in the caves, yes. But where will you and Eowyn go?”

“I go where Lady Eowyn goes, my lord.”

“You are being deliberately obtuse! Where does Eowyn intend to go tonight that you will follow her?”

“I’m certain she has many places to go tonight, my lord. She is very busy, as she’s already told you,” Asta snapped, trying to slip around him again. Eomer thrust out his arm and blocked her path.

She pressed forward again like an advancing army, and he gripped her shoulder, stepping forward and forcing her back—he would sacrifice no ground to her. “Béma take it all, do you plan to go to battle this night? Tell me plainly, Asta!”

Her breath hitched, and Eomer would have attributed it to the steely command in his voice, but a heat flickered in the deep brown of her eyes that made him suspect it had been something else entirely: rarely had he ever used her name without her title before, and now, all of a sudden, he wished he’d said it more often.

He repeated it now, low and intent—and she trembled under his hand, confirming his suspicions. “Asta, please tell me. I would not see you or my sister come to harm.”

She rallied herself quickly. “Your worry for us is very heartwarming, my lord. I shall be sure to pass on your concern to Lady Eo—”

“Always you delight in angering me!” Eomer pressed forward again until she had to tilt her neck up to meet his eyes. He gripped her shoulders with both hands, his chest heaving, and a fierce heat rose to his face at the warmth of her skin under his fingertips, burning through the layers of her dress. “Will you truly disobey my uncle’s orders? Your king’s orders? You and Eowyn are needed in the caves with the other women—”

“And Lady Eowyn and I will be exactly where we are needed most,” Asta hissed, her eyes like fire as she glared up at him.

“Béma, you stubborn fool—” Eomer’s grip tightened on her shoulders, and he leaned closer, though no one remained in the hall to overhear him. “Would you be imprisoned for treason?”

“Treason!” she snorted. “What crime have I committed?” Her breaths were coming quick and uneven, an angry flush on her cheeks. “I will confess only to following my mistress’s orders.”

“If Eowyn is forcing you to disobey my uncle—”

But Asta laughed at that, willful and proud, and jabbed at his breastplate with her finger. “No one will force me to do anything,” she snarled. “Not my mistress and certainly not you.”

“Oh no?”

“No!” She pressed closer than ever now, rearing up on her toes until their faces were nearly touching, her finger still jabbing against his chest, her head craned back. “If I obey anyone’s commands but my own, it shall be because I wish to.”

He swallowed, nostrils flaring, his patience threatening to snap. “Now you speak of treason in earnest!”

“Then go to your uncle!” she goaded him, her voice low and breathless. “Throw me in prison, lock me up, go on! Silence me, Eomer! Or are you all words, and not a man of action—”

Eomer bared his teeth in a snarl and silenced her, his lips parting hers to taste the insults still gathering sharp and wild on her tongue. She kissed him back without pause, fiercely, furiously, her nails scrabbling for purchase against his breastplate while her other hand wound into his mane of blond hair. A prickle ran down his spine at the sensation, and he crushed her tight against his chest, arms encircling her waist, fingertips digging into soft skin. She gasped against his lips in response. He tightened his hold on her, nearly laughing in relief at her enthusiasm—perhaps she’d wanted this as long as he had, after all.

Feeling him smile against her lips, Asta snarled and redoubled her efforts, pulling Eomer so close that he swayed on his feet, and he nearly collapsed entirely as her teeth sank into his lower lip. “Eomer,” she hissed into his mouth, her voice infusing his body with heat. “Béma, Eomer, you…”

Keep her safe, he thought feverishly, clutching her tighter than ever. Despite all her bravado he could still feel her trembling in his arms, her fingers shaking as they threaded through his hair. Béma, wherever she goes this night, keep her safe—

“Eomer?”

It took him a moment to recognize Aragorn’s voice, and another to register that Asta had drawn away, fleeing the hall so quickly that Eomer was left wondering if she’d ever been there at all. His arms were outstretched into empty air, his lips parted like a dying fish.

“Eomer, there you are.” Aragorn stepped into the room at last, raising an eyebrow. “Are you well? You look shaken.”

“No, I—I mean yes.” He coughed and dragged a hand down his face. “I am well.”

Aragorn frowned, then nodded. “Good. Come, let us make our way to the battlements. It is time.”

It is time. Eomer repeated the words under his breath, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. It was too late, then—he could hardly drag any of the soldiers away from the ramparts to rein in Eowyn and her unruly lady-in-waiting. Perhaps, with any luck, cowardice would overtake them at the last, and they would come to their senses. Or perhaps they would be caught slipping away from the caves or joining the battalions of men and boys along the wall as they formed ranks under the darkening sky, waiting for the end to come…

Perhaps there was nowhere she could go that would keep her safe.

-

“Retreat!”

Eomer bellowed the call as he lunged forward, slicing through the foul flesh of first one Uruk-hai, then a second. Chest heaving, he steadied himself on the ramparts, but he had barely a moment to breathe before he and his men were overtaken again, making their halting way back to the upper causeway.

“Back to the gate!” he called again, his voice hoarse but cutting sharp through the sounds of battle, the ringing of swords and the pounding of footsteps and the screams of dying men. “Retreat!”

Far away he could just make out his uncle’s voice booming the same command—the White Wizard’s forces were overtaking them at last. Fallen bodies slumped against the battlements and sprawled grotesquely along the stairs, little more than shapeless masses in the unrelenting darkness. The sight of them chilled Eomer’s blood, and he forced his focus back on his assailants, his arms leaden and aching with the fatigue of prolonged combat.

He hung back as his éored obeyed his command, barely holding the enemy at bay with every backward step. He took up the retreat last of all, parrying a bone-rattling blow from another of those vile creatures, then another blow, and another—then all at once he lost his footing on the ramparts, made slick with spilled blood and rainwater and muck, and he fell hard at the enemy’s feet.

His ears rang, the sound ricocheting in his helmet as he rolled onto his side. The dark silhouette of an Uruk-hai loomed over him, steam curling from its crude helmet with each grunting breath, and a cold, familiar panic seeped into Eomer’s blood. The beast raised its sword to cleave him in two, the dim light of a faraway torch glinting on the notched metal. Eomer’s fist tightened on air—Béma help him, he had dropped his sword in his fall—

The clash of steel on steel rang above his ears, and he scrabbled for his sword in the darkness to see one of his men knock the Uruk-hai’s blade away, his feet planted wide for balance on the slick stone. Blow by blow the man drove the creature back, at last slashing through its piecemeal armor.

Not pausing to watch the Uruk-hai collapse, the soldier pulled Eomer to his feet with a wiry arm, then tugged on his hand. “Come,” he urged him, his voice more a boy’s than a man’s. “To the gate, hurry!”

“Aye, to the gate,” Eomer huffed, still rattled from his near miss with death. “As I’d ordered you before!”

To his surprise, the soldier snorted heatedly. “Please, my lord. I knew where I was needed most.”

Eomer's blood froze. “You—”

But the enemy was still pressing upon them, and his upstart savior pulled on his arm again, brown eyes flashing mockingly in the low light of a faraway torch, and dragged him back toward the gate. Eomer followed, fury and fear roaring in his ears. The other soldiers urged them on, holding the gate open just wide enough for them to slip through, and they slammed and barred the gates shut behind Eomer and his companion without a moment to spare. The Uruk-hai crashed upon the gates like a wave against a rocky shore, but the old, gnarled doors held firm.

Eomer turned from the gates to confront his savior, but all he saw was a slender, wiry form vanishing among the crowd of soldiers.

“You’ll pay for this, Asta,” he snarled under his breath.

-

The battle lasted days—or it seemed to, for by the time dawn came, Eomer felt far older and more haggard than he’d ever been. As the last of the enemy was driven from the great fortress, he breathed a sigh of relief, exchanging exhausted smiles with his uncle and their soldiers. But even then, they had no time to rest.

Now freed from Saruman’s forces, Helm’s Deep sprang hurriedly back to life, like the rush of spring after a late winter frost. Citizens clamored to heal the injured, distribute food and water to the soldiers, and bury the dead. Lamentations of grief and worry echoed from every quarter, and Eomer swallowed hard as he tore through the crowded halls, nearly shoving people aside in his haste.

Victory in battle always came at a heavy price, he knew, but this scarcely felt like victory at all.

But his worst fears were proven false—Eowyn and her lady-in-waiting were in the caves with the other women, right where Theoden had ordered them to be. They stood weary but unhurt, wearing the same simple, unadorned riding dresses as last night, their hair pulled back into simple braids. Their faces were arranged into carefully innocent, industrious expressions as they laid out bedrolls and blankets for the injured soldiers.

But Eomer wasn’t fooled. He stormed up to the pair of them, searching fruitlessly for the words to match the depths of his anger—

And instead he found himself hugging Eowyn so tightly her feet left the floor. She yelped in surprise and hugged him back, laughing in relief. “You’re alright,” she squeaked out, her voice strangled by her brother’s iron embrace. “I knew you would be, dear brother.” Eowyn extracted herself from his arms at last, wiping at her eyes.

Eomer moved instinctively to hug Asta next—she jumped in surprise, and he withdrew, clearing his throat. “It is—good to see you both safe,” he said awkwardly. Eowyn looked from him to Asta and raised an eyebrow.

Then, like fog in the rising sun, his relief dissipated, and he recalled his earlier anger. “Eowyn, Asta, tell me at once! Did you—were the two of you—”

“Were we what, brother?” Eowyn asked.

“Béma’s sake, do not play coy now! I saw you, Asta, on the ramparts!”

Asta blinked. She exchanged a puzzled look with Eowyn, then turned back to him. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, my lord. We had so much work to do when we arrived yesterday, I haven’t yet had a chance to visit the ramparts. Though I have heard they have an excellent view of the surrounding mountains.” She met Eowyn’s gaze, and their eyes twinkled.

“You will not make a fool of me,” Eomer barked. “You changed out of your armor rather carelessly, Eowyn, for there is dirt on your dress. And Asta—” He grabbed her hand, just as slender as his soldier’s on the ramparts—“There is blood under your fingernails!”

“Eomer, calm yourself!” Eowyn folded her arms imperiously, though Eomer did not release Asta’s hand. “I am covered in dirt, dear brother, because you just hugged me in your filthy armor. And Asta and I have blood on our hands because we are busy tending to the wounded. Very busy,” she added threateningly, and his scowl deepened.

“This is not over,” he thundered. “You both have committed treason—you could have died!”

“That’s quite enough, Lord Eomer!” Asta’s eyes blazed in a frightening imitation of her mistress. “I would like to speak with you. In private—now!”

Eomer was so taken aback that he could only nod mutely. A flush had risen to Asta’s cheeks, though whether because he had accused her of treason or because he was still gripping her hand, he wasn’t sure. She shared a sharp look with Eowyn that he couldn’t read, then stormed away, dragging Eomer behind her by the wrist.  

“What is this? Where are you taking me?” he demanded as she led him out of the caves, then down a nearby corridor. He rather suspected she had no idea where she was going.

“You still accuse me of treason, my lord?” she cried, at last ducking into an alcove tucked out of sight down an adjoining hallway and pulling Eomer after her. “Treason—even still, after everything that took place last night?”

“So you admit now that you went to battle?”

“Will you go to the king, my lord? You have no proof!”

“I should have gone to him at once,” he growled. “I still have half a mind to.”

Asta gripped his armored shoulder and pulled him close, her breath coming fast. “Then I will admit to nothing but being where I was needed most.”

“Will you,” Eomer hissed, and then her lips were on his once again.

All the fight left him at once as he kissed her back, threading his fingers into her hair—still damp with sweat and rainwater, damn her—and tilting her face up to his. But as tightly as they clung to each other, their kiss now was nothing like their stolen moment outside the armory the night before. Eomer was exhausted, his shoulders slumped and his breathing labored, and he felt the same strain in Asta as she wrapped her arms around his torso. He rested his forehead against hers, kissing her gently, again and again, until at last her shoulders relaxed and her heartbeat slowed, and for a long moment they merely stood there, holding one another upright, their breaths falling softly into sync.

Almost dreamily, Asta cupped Eomer’s face, then trailed her slender hand down the side of his neck. “I should return to the caves,” she murmured. “ Lady Eowyn will need my help.”

He shook his head. “Stay,” he whispered, smiling softly as he brushed his lips over hers. “For just a while longer. This, right here, is where you are needed most.”

Asta returned his smile, and—just this once—she obeyed him.

[megraen]

I have been on a LotR craze, so over the last few days, I have made some outfits for my girl, Aylin.

The variations of her Dunedain outfit. I took inspiration from Aragorn and Boromir. She tends to have the hood up and a mask covering the lower half of her face to hide her gender. Middle Earth humans are a bit sexiest.

Next is Rivendell, which was inspired by Elvish fashion. Next, Eowyn gives her a dress to wear during the celebrations in Edoras after the battle of Helms Deep.

The last two dresses are of Gondorian fashion. The first dress is a more relaxed gown to be worn after the defence of Minas Tirith. She would wear the last dress at Aragorn's coronation, as she needs to wear something fancy.

[starryeyes2000]

Aeres: Chapter 2

Read on AO3 or FFN or Wattpad

Pairing: Eomer x OFC (Seren)

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1.6K

Summary: The events in this story take place beside the War of the Rings and in its aftermath.

Millenia ago the handmaiden Ilmarë brought a gift to the world of men and foretold of its heiress. And of great need among all races after the darkest of times.

Shipwrecked on a small island, Éomer vows protection for a stranger. Neither speaks the other’s language. When a dark army invades, they flee to the safety of his principality in Aldburg. But enemies hunt them. Unraveling why sends them on a journey to the southlands, to Gondor, to Elven domains, and to the ravaged northern country.

Excerpt:

Éomer opened his eyes. Sunlight overwhelmed his sight; a blurred figure closed the shutter. Instinct raised a hand to his brow as shield. This small motion taxed an exhausted body beyond its limit and unconsciousness again claimed him.

On waking flickering candlelight cast shadows through the darkness of a room he did not recognize. Training surfaced and his muscles tensed, preparing for action be it offense or defense. Without moving head or body, his eyes roamed the space. His hands explored the firm surface where he laid, shoulders and head elevated and supported by thick padding.

A woman sat in a nearby chair. Hearing the change in his breathing, she smiled and spoke. Neither her face nor language were familiar. Instead of forming words his parched and irritated throat croaked. Propping on elbows he pushed up and forward. Winded and sapped of strength he sagged onto the bolsters.

Continue Reading on AO3 or FFN or Wattpad

OC Masterlist | Author Masterlist

Taglist: @arrthurpendragon @ocappreciation @ocappreciationtag @bardic-tales @themaradaniels @chickensarentcheap

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 6 of 7

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Epilogue

Summary: In the dawning hours, Éomer confronts a reality he never anticipated.

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

Warning: Light NSFW passages in the beginning, but no smut.

Word count: 8,430

Read it on AO3 here.

‘You are not Éorhild.’

Éomer fixed the freckled young maid with a guarded gaze as she set the breakfast tray before him. Effluvium of scorched bread had awoken him with a start, its odour having offended his nostrils and disrupted his dreams. A sense of unease had stirred within him, and his instinct already heralded that something was amiss in Meduseld.

Éorhild would never have allowed the yeast to scald. She knew his tastes better even than her own, and if a dish had gone awry, she would have swiftly replaced it with something far more fitting. Yet here it was, this imperfect offering, placed upon his lap as though nothing differed from the ordinary course of his day. Something was wrong.

The girl curtsied, her awkwardness apparent as she stumbled upon her own feet. As he blinked away the last remnants of his slumber, recognition dawned. It was Wídrid, one of Edelmer’s newest recruits, whose arrival Éorhild had announced to him on one of their regular meetings by the hearth. The sight of her — so unsteady in her duties — gave him pause. The chamberlain must have been caught well unawares to assign such an inexperienced pupil to serve the prince.

‘G-Good morning, your Grace,’ she stammered, her voice barely rising above a mumble. ‘Indeed, I am not she; my name is—'

‘Wídrid,’ he cut her off coldly, regretting his attitude towards her within a heartbeat. ‘I have heard of you. Tell me, why is my chambermaid not attending to me today? Is she busy?’

The servant, not older than fifteen by the look of her, twiddled with a loose thread from her apron, her eyes downcast.

‘I reckon she’s fallen ill, sir — I mean, my lord. I think. Edelmer… he wouldn’t say.’

A glacial wave washed over him as Wídrid’s words sank in. Ill? Had he, in his unknowing eagerness, caused her more harm than he had assumed? The thought tightened around his bleeding heart like an iron band, and for a moment, the world around him began to spin.

He had seen little of the realm of the female body, had scarcely understood its fragility, its delicate composition. What if his ignorance, aggravated by the lustful impatience of an enamoured lover, had already brought her suffering?

The weight of the unknown bore its weight on him, curling his shoulders beneath its mass. Air eluded him, and he sat there, bewildered and suffocating, wrestling with the unsettling idea that he had been too reckless, too impetuous in his desire. Another eventuality presented itself to him, far more dreadful.

Could it be? Could he have already rendered her heavy, so early? His breath faltered. His stomach churned. Late at night, it had oftentimes occurred to him to imagine the two of them raising a bright little girl in the countryside. Their daughter would have been the jewel of Rohan, with her mother’s eyes and his nose. He would have Éorhild name the child, listened to her listing names while rubbing her sore feet, secretly hoping to find that she considered Olwyn or Widwena — his favourite choices. He would have cradled her all the way through her painful labour, held her up to aid with the delivery, whispered words of encouragement and reassurance into her ear. And he would have been proud — oh, so proud — to see the woman he loved above all else, weeping with joy while she held the fruit born of their union to her heart.

The beauty of the image turned sour at once. A child in their circumstances would constitute a threat — a precious but dangerous vulnerability. It would expose them, unveil their secret to the prying eyes of the court, and the consequences would be swift and unforgiving.

Théoden would not hesitate. He would strip Éorhild of her dignity and banish her as though she were but a discarded garment. And if the child was born, he would be no less cruel. He could see it so clearly — his uncle, with his icy glare on her, tearing the child from her breast, condemning her with a finality that left no room for mercy. And for Éomer, if he were lucky, he would only endure the king’s disapproval and the scorn of Éowyn’s reproaches.

But if the worst came to pass, if the full extent of his actions were to be discovered, if it reached the king’s ears — then no punishment would be sufficient to mend the ruin he had caused. The defence they had crafted to justify their joining would not change a thing. Her life would be forfeit. He would lose her. Lose everything.

And the bairn? It would be thrown into the arms of the guardians of an orphanage, far from Edoras, so Éomer would never find it, should his folly lead him to wish to raise it. Or, it would be abandoned, somewhere, to fend for itself and die from the cold, or devoured by a beast.

His mind spun in a whirlpool of terrifying eventualities, each one darker than the last, as he sought to quell the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm him. Were the consequences of this forbidden, consummated bond, too much for them both to bear?

‘Are you not hungry, your Majesty?’

Wídrid’s voice lured him back to reason. Surely, it could not be that — Éorhild was not with child. The prospect was too far-fetched, and much too soon. No, this had to be something else. Something common, that he could explain.

Perhaps her excursion through the halls of Meduseld clad in naught but a worn-out shift and a thin robe had made her susceptible to the usual winter afflictions that plagued anyone exposed to them during these harsh months. That was it. She had awoken in pain, gathered her clothes, and returned to her quarters to preserve him. That was an attentive thing she was most capable of.

He let out a sigh and begrudgingly stirred his fork into the unappetising mush on his plate.

‘I am. Thank you for, um… breakfast.’

‘I will pour you a bath while you eat.’

The girl had barely finished talking before she turned swiftly, heading towards his private washroom. Caught off guard, Éomer dropped the fork into the plate, its loud clank stopping her in her tracks.

‘There is no need,’ he said, struggling to pass the raw meat down his throat. ‘You may take your leave. I shall first pay a visit to Éorhild to enquire about her state.’

‘Are you sure?’

His insistent stare dissuaded the maid from proceeding, and she bowed.

‘Very well. Please do tell us when you need something.’

Without further ado, the servant exited, her nonchalant footsteps echoing down the hallway. Éomer, vexed, spat out the disintegrating and bland food, its taste now bitter in his mouth. With a frustrated grunt, he shoved the tray aside and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. Stretching his fatigued limbs, he gathered the discarded clothes from the floor and draped them over his footboard, his mind still reeling. Much to his relief, he caught a glimpse of the garments he had taken off her when she was still unconscious after her journey to Master Guthláf’s office. He would bring them to her, he decided, when he would pass by her chamber.

As he dressed, his eyes lingered on the disordered bed, with its sheets untucked and ruffled. The vivid memories of the previous night rushed back to him — the warmth of her body, the caresses of her hands along his spine, the cautious clawing on his shoulders now marked with red, the refrains of her moans. What a delight it had been.

By merely glancing at the disarray of his bed, Éomer could envision the two of them once more. The crumpled linens still bore the imprint of their entwined bodies, their lingering whispers woven into every fold and crease.

A startling clarity was unfolding in his mind’s eye, and he could view himself, inebriated from the astounding velvety warmth that enfolded him when he first joined her. The sensation had been so profoundly arresting that it had momentarily disarmed him. His initial, unpractised movements had been erratic and clumsy — yet she had guided him with a hand cupping his buttocks, as if to remind him of the same confidence he wielded astride his steed.

It was then, with her soothing encouragement, that he had reclaimed the poise of a seasoned rider. Éorhild had taken her turn to lead him, too, for a brief moment — briefly mounting him with an elegance that left him awestruck, she had offered him the privilege to witness her abandon, to revel in her unguarded delight. He had traced the contours of her silhouette, explored the places his earlier attentions had overlooked, savoured every curve.

But it was as the commander of this unbridled dance that he had finally surrendered to her. He had come undone with a force he had not suspected, spending himself while desperately chanting her name against her lips. He had cradled her in his arms, holding her head as though she were the most precious treasure on Arda, even as they both trembled in the aftermath of the tempest of their own making.

Then, she had nestled against his torso, her golden head resting tenderly upon his heart, her delicate fist loose upon his sternum. He had crowned her silken tresses with reverent kisses, his fingers tracing soothing patterns upon her upper arm. They had remained in silence, the weight of words unnecessary, basking in the stillness infused with the afterglow of their earthly and spiritual union.

The quiet had stretched on, planting a seed of doubt within him. Though her warmth against him spoke of contentment, he dreaded the unspoken. Fearing that the first words to break this solemn moment would be an expression of regret, he had been the one to speak first, seeking to shield her from the burden that loomed over the pair.

‘I wonder what it is that lovers typically discuss after they…’

The candour of his observation had drawn forth unrestrained laughter from them both, a sound as pure and liberating as the first rays of dawn breaking over the horizon. She had buried her smile against his chest, the succinct spurts of her mirth the sweetest alleviation of all of his worries. Her joy had become his solace, and he felt their complicity strengthen with each pleasantry they shared afterwards.

‘It must be said,’ he had suddenly remarked after they had conversed for a minute or two, their gazes lost in each other, ‘minstrels and bards do not sing the praises of earth-coloured eyes often enough.’

And she had blushed. And she had kissed him.

‘I love you, Éomer,’ she had murmured, mere seconds before her body surrendered to sleep.

Once more, a grin graced his lips. How extraordinary it felt to be cherished so ardently by one as pure as she. His heart swelled with the power of his love. All he could wish was to prove himself worthy of her by attending to her every need while she was ailing, with the same tenderness and dedication she had shown him for sixteen years, whether he saw it or not. If she lay unwell in her solitary bed, he resolved, he would not leave her to suffer alone. The world and its expectations could be damned, and the king could grumble all he wanted. It was his turn to care for Éorhild, and he would see it done. Duty could wait one day longer.

Éomer collected the clothes she had left behind in her haste, folding them again with care before departing his quarters. Each step he took closer to her lonely bedchamber was accompanied by a storm within him, a mighty swarm of butterflies thrumming and fluttering with the strength of a dozen spirited stallions. As the distance between them dwindled, their fervour only grew, his heart hammering against his ribs in anticipation.

At last, he stood before her door, the polished wood gleaming in the torch-lit corridor. He paused, smoothing the folds of his tunic and brushing a hand through his hair, a futile attempt at taming both his nerves and his appearance. With a deep breath, he raised his knuckles and gave the door a knock.

No response.

Assuming that she might still be asleep, he pushed the latch in a slow motion, not wanting to startle her, and the door opened. But as he peered into the room, the garments he carried slipped from his grasp and collapsed to the ground in a muffled thud.

The chambermaid’s chamber was vacant, its bed stripped bare. Éomer entered with urgency, his boots thumping upon the stone. His hands darted to the nearest drawer, flipping it open with little regard for decorum — but it was filled with nothing but neat and perfumed linens. He moved to the modest wardrobe, wrenching his doors apart and finding naught but bare hangers and folded head coverings, their pristine arrangement mocking his search.

No gowns, no personal tokens, no trace of Éorhild remained.

Only what had remained upon his chair.

A frost settled inside his chest, sinking deeper with each empty compartment he inspected. Bearing it no more, he fled the room, neglecting to even shut the door behind him or take her belongings with him. As he took the first corner in the hallway, he collided with Wídrid, who was on her way to bring him fragrances.

‘Your Majesty!’ she gasped in sheer shock. ‘I apologise for not looking where I was going.’

‘Where is Éorhild?’ he barked, grabbing her by the shoulders, barely refraining from shaking her.

‘I-I do not know, my lord, honest!’

The girl’s cry prompted him to release her. He buried his face into his hands and drew in a deep breath to steady himself. If Éorhild was in danger, he had to keep calm for her. He would be of no use to her if he lost his mind.

‘I am the one to apologise, Wídrid,’ he said, suppressing a sob.

‘That is quite alright, my lord. Come. I will pour you a bath.’

‘No. Take me to Edelmer.’

‘But—’

‘Will you not cease questioning my every command?’ he roared, losing his footing in his restraint. ‘Am I not your prince?!’

Frightened by his outburst, she gave a hasty nod and led him towards the hall. Her trembling hand dabbed at the tears pouring from her youthful eyes. There would come a time for him to offer her a sincere apology, but that was not this day. Urgency overshadowed contrition.

Servants leapt out of their course as they passed them by, celebrating his passage with respectful curtseys. Even as he entered the kitchens, where the royals seldom would set foot in, the maids and cooks were startled into dropping pans and brooms to bow in a cacophony that exasperated him to the highest extent. Among them, one figure stood, hunched over a ledger, his quill scratching away at a piece of parchment.

‘Edelmer,’ Éomer called out, drawing the chamberlain’s attention, ‘may I have a word with you?’

Edelmer dipped his quill back into its pot and dragged his chair against the gravel to rise. He acknowledged the prince’s presence with a single nod of his head and turned to the expecting personnel.

‘Now, now, do not stand rooted to your stations,’ his nonchalant yet firm voice ordered them, ‘back to work!’

As the raucous activities resumed, Edelmer, with the flick of his wrist, grabbed a single rolled-up scroll from his desk, and motioned for Éomer to follow him out. The prince obeyed, his eyes flickering around him, hoping for a glimpse of his lover. But there was, again, no sign of her.

Since neither Théoden nor Éowyn occupied the great hall, the chamberlain chose to take the conversation to the refuge beneath the lofty arches, where the light barely reached, and ears could not pry.

‘How may I be of service, your Grace?’ he enquired, although there was a glint in his grey eyes that the prince took for recognition.

‘Perhaps you could clarify an unfortunate situation for me, Edelmer,’ Éomer started. ‘This morning, it was not my chambermaid that brought me my meal. Why? Has Éorhild not fulfilled the expectations of her position? I would have preferred to have discussed it with you, first, considering that I appointed her myself.’

Edelmer let out a long, drawn-out sigh, his gaze fixed on the prince for an uncomfortable amount of time. His lips were pinched and twitched every few seconds, caught in a nervous tension that tightened and released with each passing thought. Éomer knew that look all too well — it was that of a man at war with himself, weighing his words in fear that they might breach a trust or cause offense, or spill out against his will before they were fully formed and crafted.

‘Your Majesty, Éorhild left Meduseld at dawn.’

‘And when is she set to return? Why not send another servant in her stead for whatever task you gave her? Surely, somebody else could have gone into Edoras. She would not have ruined my meal the way Wídrid did.’

The chamberlain leant heavily against one of the intricately carved columns, with a furrowed brow digging deep creases into the ageing skin of his forehead. His voice dropped to a whisper, cautious and measured, as though the very walls were prying.

‘You do not understand, my lord,’ he interrupted himself, his eyes darting to the three maids bustling past them. Each carried a chair fit for the king’s breakfast, their chatter and hurried steps resounding within the Golden Hall. Edelmer’s fingertip traced idle patterns upon the varnished wood, his tension most obvious as he braced for the prince’s reaction to what he would next unveil. ‘She left Edoras altogether, of her own volition.’

Éomer staggered back, his strength deserting him as the wall behind him cushioned his collapse before it occurred. The bitter tang of his ill-fated breakfast clawed its way up his throat, mingling with the violent churn of his stomach. Cold sweat broke over him, trailing down his spine and temples in icy rivulets. His quivering fingers curled tightly into his palms to stave off the urge to heave. The hall narrowed down upon him, his mind a battlefield of shock and horror.

Why would she leave him? The questioned hammered at his skull, slurring the distant blather of working servants. Its seething venom poisoned every drop of his blood, rotting him from the inside. All the light that had enlivened his gaze vacated it, rendering him hollow, an empty carcass that he no longer wished to fill.

Had the demonstrations of his adoration proved insufficient to anchor her to his side? The festering thorns of doubt snaked around his heart. Perhaps, as he feared, he had been too brutish in his ways — as the man of the saddle and the sword that he was, unskilled in the finer touch that love demands. Had his passion, raw and unrefined, overwhelmed her, leaving her to feel caged rather than cherished?

Or worse, had his hold upon her, born of desperation and yearning, been so fervent that he had bruised her in both body and spirit, proving to her that he was incapable of the gentleness she deserved?

Had the ecstasy they experienced betwixt the sheets been a mere figment of his longing heart? Two of his fingers pressed against his shoulder blade and there it was — that faint ripple of pain, a souvenir of her passion. Her nails had carved this reddened mark, left when her cries of delight crescendoed with the accelerated pace of his thrusts. And her scent — flowery and salty — still infused his hair, testifying of the hours she had spent nestled against him. No dream, however sweet, could have conjured this evidence. It had been real. Without a doubt.

Yet, what force could have compelled her to flee the capital at sunrise? Could he, unbeknownst to himself, aggrieved her spirit so profoundly that she could no longer bear to remain in his vicinity? Had she seen for herself no other path than that of a fugitive?

His chest cramped, a knot of bewilderment and sorrow constricting his breath. No. It could not be as simple as his shortcomings. She loved him — he knew it, as surely as he knew that the sun would set for the moon to rise. Her every word, the tenderness of her caress, and the unconcealed devotion in her gaze had spoken for her in ways that words would have failed to convey.

If she had awoken forlorn enough to relinquish her sanctuary and livelihood, then something far more harrowing than his clumsiness must have befallen her. His mind, frantic in its quest for truth, circled one looming spectre — something that had shadowed their bond from the very start.

The crown.

The realisation struck him like a hefty mace’s blow. The very thing promised to give him power and status was the shackle that had bound them to secrecy. If his inkling proved right, then her departure was not a rejection of him but an act of self-preservation — a desperate flight from the peril their love had burdened her with.

After all, she would have been the only one to truly suffer its consequences. While he might endure scolding from Théoden or Éowyn’s sharp tongue, judgement from his peers or disgust from the other servants, their transgression would have fallen squarely on her shoulders.

Society would not have seen her as the woman he loved, but as the temptress who had overstepped her station to corrupt the prince’s attention from matters of state. They would have branded her as a schemer, a filthy whore, a manipulator. No one would care that their union had been forged in love instead of ambition or depravity. For her, there would be no reprieve, no tolerance. Her livelihood stripped away, her reputation destroyed, and her safety imperilled. While he, as heir to the throne, would emerge unscathed.

So, he reckoned, the forecast had pervaded her and forced her to leave him.  

Unless…

Somebody had had a hand in her disappearance.

‘Tell me the truth,’ Éomer hissed, ‘was it by my uncle’s decree?’

‘No, it was not,’ Edelmer replied earnestly, hardly raising an eyebrow. ‘As I do every morning, I arose in the dark hours still and came to the hall to craft my usual list for task distribution. I had yet to complete the first column when she appeared to me, dressed hastily and with her hair dishevelled.’

The prince exhaled a breath of relief, his shoulders sagging. Éorhild lived. The haunting vision of her lifeless body, executed in secret and concealed from him so he would have no grave to mourn or flowers to lay, dissipated like a shadow chased by the dawn.

‘How did she seem?’ he intoned.

‘Terrified beyond belief. I had never seen her in such a state, not even in our exile to the Hornburg.’

The chamberlain turned his scroll between his hands.

‘All she did,’ he continued, his voice subdued, ‘was return her uniform. She was crying, apologising to me that she could not bring herself to continue in this task — or that of a servant — for a moment longer. I swear to you, my lord, that I did try to draw more from her, to understand the root of her anguish. But her weeping… it had stolen all coherence from her words.’

His eyes lifted, clouded with a deep sorrow that aged him beyond his years. Éomer had never witnessed such a disturbance within this steadfast man, the eternal voice of reason in Meduseld.

‘It was as if madness had struck her. That brilliance in her eyes, that spark that I have seen in her since she was a child under Hilda’s care and mine… it was gone. I no longer recognised her. That radiant and trustworthy woman was but the ghost of herself.’

A single tremor in his voice betrayed his grief and confusion. It was not only Éomer’s loss, but a tragedy striking Meduseld as a whole, echoing into the small, interconnected lives within its walls.

‘My lord,’ Edelmer spoke again, ‘I will say this out of the deep respect and paternal fondness I bear you too — too often have I watched my girls bestow their hearts and fancy upon the wrong men, and my boys waste their emotions on uncaring women. And it pains me beyond compare to witness Éorhild, my brightest pupil I thought immune to such folly, and yourself fall for the oldest trick of the heart.’

 ‘I know not of what you speak,’ Éomer dismissed his accusation, steeling himself for whatever questioning he might be subjected to.

‘I am not blind, your Majesty.’

‘All I did — I will confess — was to order her to share my bed in a bout of loneliness. But there is nothing in our laws forbidding a master to enjoy his maid’s body when he so desires.’

‘FALLACY!’

For the first time in his life, the prince saw the chamberlain’s composure shatter beneath a surge of rage. The greying man, who had always carried himself with ceremonious dignity, now stood rigid, clenching his fists. He straightened to his full height, his weary frame brimming with a defiance that was rare for one of his station addressing his lord.

When Edelmer cast him a glare, as frigid and cutting as a northern gale. It was not that of a mere attendant reprimanding his master; it was the expression of a man driven to his limit, the pain and fury behind it no longer bearable. For a moment, Éomer felt himself falter under it, as its sharpness rooted him to the spot. Even as the heir to the throne, he dared not challenge it.

‘She was not the wrong woman,’ he sobbed, his own vulnerability emerging. ‘She was the best of all. And I want her with every ounce of my being, Edelmer.’

The two men stared into each other’s eyes, shaken to the core and dropping their shields.

‘Every day, I awake with the wish that I had not been born with the privileges of my rank, or that she, too, had been granted them, so our love could have blossomed without restraint. If only you knew how far I would go for her. I would gladly forsake my throne for even a single second in her presence.’

‘I know all about it,’ the chamberlain whispered, his earlier defensiveness dissipating into a resigned tone. ‘From the start, it was plain to me how smitten you both were with each other. You were never subtle, no matter how much you may have tried. As I told you before, I have seen enough maids break their vows to recognise the signs.’

‘Has it truly occurred that many times?’

‘More than Éorhild cared to believe,’ he laughed bitterly. ‘She was too naïve to notice — she was not one to fathom the betrayal of promises, especially in the royal household. Most times it bears no consequence, I am here to swipe the evidence under the rug, and if courtiers are involved, I do hold the king’s trust, and I could unleash his wrath upon them. Rarely does a royal come to fancy a servant, however.’

Éomer buried his face into his clammy hands. Unburdening his heart to somebody who bore him no harsh judgement despite his actions proved much more of a relief than he had presumed. Better the chamberlain than the king, he thought.

‘Have you encountered others like us?’

‘Yes,’ Edelmer admitted, coming to lean against the wall beside him. ‘I remember your cousin, Théodred, in his youth — flirting with Ealida, if you can recall who she was.’

‘The maid who had shrunk Éowyn’s favourite gown,’ the prince snorted. ‘My sister was so furious that I thought she would set fire to Meduseld! And I was the one to commission a new one for her to stop her wailing.’

‘Precisely. Well, that incident had been caused by Ealida’s distraction. Théodred had sought her at the wash house to present her with a bouquet of flowers he had plucked on his return to the city after a patrol. That dress had soaked in the cold water for far too long, and the wool had shrivelled.’

The two men shared a brief smile at the recollection, before Éomer drew a long sigh, the conversation’s weight crushing him like a sodden cloak. The knowledge that he was not the first to have succumbed to the charms of a servant in Meduseld offered a strange solace to his gashing wound, but it came laced with an unsuspected sting.

Never had his cherished cousin confessed to such a liaison. They had shared much over the years, their confidences unshaken by the disparities in their ages and responsibilities. Edelmer’s admission now planted a seed of doubt within Éomer — perhaps he had not known Théodred at all.

While he understood, from experience, why the secret had been buried with him, the omission left Éomer with a hint of resentment. Much heartbreak could have been spared if the man he had admired most of his life had chosen to recount this shadow from his past.

Not that he would trade Éorhild’s presence in his life, not for all the wisdom in Rohan. Her disappearance did not make him repudiate her in the slightest. Every fibre of his being still yearned for her, an ache he would neither deny nor diminish. Yet had he been armed with his cousin’s cautionary tale, he might have protected her from the agony of their love. Her losses, her anguish — all would have been avoided had he not naively risked her life for a bond as doomed as it was precious.

Théodred could have taught him so much from his own missteps. And he had chosen not to.

‘No punishment befell them, I assume,’ Éomer reflected, focusing back on the core of the subject. ‘Théodred… he died beloved by all. His reputation was intact.’

‘Indeed, nothing,’ the chamberlain confirmed with a nod. ‘I ensured that the king knew nothing of it — treason, I suppose. But Lord Théodred was clever — he took the incident as a stark warning against his infatuation. He ended the dalliance and severed all ties with her. As for Ealida, she made her own choice — she demanded to serve the house of Lord Elfleth in Middlemead.’

‘Does she still serve him now?’

‘I was told that he forbade her from leaving his estate, fearing to lose his riches when the town came under siege during the war,’ Edelmer added grimly. ‘The town was razed, and she perished in the flames, scorched beyond saving.’

The image of the maid, her cries swallowed by the roar of the flames ravaging the estate, clawed at Éomer’s thoughts. He envisioned her silhouette, hands pressed against the excruciating heat of the barred windows, her voice hoarse from her desperate pleas no one would hear. The bile rising in his throat was more than just nausea — it was guilt, cold and unrelenting.

What if Éorhild met the same fate? Had his selfish longing set her upon a path leading to another master, one who might exploit her or view her only as a cog in the machinery of his household?

Would she, in the absence of Meduseld’s rigid orders, thrive in her new life? Would her wit and her diligence win her the favour she deserved, or would she toil unnoticed, her talents wasted?

Perhaps she was right to leave him. Without him, she might find the happiness he could never have provided her. What did he have to offer her? A love cloaked in secrecy, a bond that could never be celebrated. Over time, it would have crushed her spirit — the constant shadows, the endless whispers, the perpetual vigilance.

The tears she would have shed in moments of loneliness, her laughter growing strained by the day, her light dimming under the pressure of their foreordained love — she would have fallen prey to each instance.

And he? He would have lived in agony, torn between the life that his crown demanded and the consolation he could not procure her. Even worse, the day would have come when duty would force his hand — his marriage to another, a union born of obligation. How could he have let her endure such humiliation? She would have lived bound to a man whose affection she could no longer claim. Their closeness would have become a curse, an ever-present reminder of what they had lost. And they would have had no hope to move on.

Indeed, she had been wiser than he, in fleeing before it had all turned bitter. But the idea of her absence, of a life without her smile, her care, her affection, was a wound he could scarcely endure.

Éomer pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, as though by applying force, he might dam the tide of tears threatening to overcome him. His lip quivered, trembling like a fragile leaf caught in the first stirrings of a storm in early winter. Deep within his core, his stomach twisted in a sickening knot, a vortex of anguish boring ever so further into his soul. His chest burnt from a laceration caused by Fate’s halberd, cleaved through his flesh and bone, but Death was too cruel to let him fade away. It would never heal, and he knew it.

Éorhild… His sweet, beautiful Éorhild…

He had lost her.

Would he behold her again, other than in his dreams?

He felt as vulnerable as a child, drowning beneath a misery too vast for him to comprehend, or for his fragile heart to sustain. At his age, there was no loving mother to run to, no lap upon which to lay his weary head and spill his grief. There was no gentle hand to stroke his hair, no soothing voice to quiet the storm within him as he wept. Théoden, though fiercely cherished by Éomer, was not the solace he craved in matters of the heart. Soon, Éowyn would leave for Gondor, leaving him adrift and untethered.

Alone.

For good.

Before the sob could claw its way free from his throat, Edelmer interrupted the storm brewing within him. The chamberlain nudged Éomer’s arm gently with the rolled scroll he had fetched from his desk in the kitchens, a subtle gesture that pulled the prince back to the present.

‘Éorhild wanted me to give you this,’ the chamberlain intoned. ‘I believe it is the only thing she has left behind.’

‘A note?’

‘She did not say, and I wished not to pry.’

Éomer dabbed at his tears with the rim of his sleeve and felt the parchment between his fingers — the final remnant of her presence, her farewell note. A brittle smile ghosted across his cheeks. These words, hastily scrawled in her hands in her rush, were all she had left for him to cling to, a fragile bridge between her absence and his mourning. This letter held the power to unravel the entangled threads of his tormenting speculations, to affirm or dispel what he believed to have prompted her to leave. It was a key to the locked chamber of her heart, a faint hope that the mystery of her departure would be elucidated. So, with a trembling grip, he unrolled the parchment, but what he found there left him speechless.

Arranged in three rows and two columns were six sinuous lines, identical to one another. Above each were squared dots, haphazardly distributed on various levels — some would appear higher than their predecessors, yet lower than their successors, in multiple combinations. He turned it upside down, sideways, eyed the reverse, but no words had been written for him.

‘Are you certain that it is what she gave you?’ Éomer cast a puzzled glance towards the chamberlain. ‘This is no letter.’

Edelmer responded with a brief chuckle.

‘Such passion and devotion to one another, and yet she had kept her illiteracy from you,’ he teased. ‘May I see it?’

Unlearned in letters… Considering her path in life, it did not surprise him at all to learn it. Such simple things about her he had never deigned to enquire — would it have enhanced their connection? Most likely not. While he enjoyed ballads, he was not one for poetry, and he would not have wanted to outrage her sight with mediocre verse.

Éomer presented the odd note to Edelmer, whose eyes instantly brightened up in recognition.

‘Now, that is something that I have not laid eyes upon in decades,’ he muttered.

‘Can you decipher it?’

‘Aye, I can. I hail from a musical family, you know? Let it be a lesson, your Majesty, for when your turn comes to sit upon the throne of Rohan.’

His well-groomed finger pointed at the first series of dots, following their irregular curve above the single line they hovered above.

‘This is a series of musical notations, characteristic of the communities residing near the mountains in the Westfold. Usually there would be a marker to denote the starting tone, but here, I see none. Each dot represents a note, ascending or descending, weaving together the melody.’

‘Why would she leave this to me?’ Éomer pondered aloud, his confusion growing by the second.

‘That, I cannot say,’ Edelmer admitted with a shake of his head. ‘She scribbled it right before my eyes as she was about to depart. Truth be told, I was surprised to see her pick up my quill at all.’

The prince peered intently at the improvised music sheet, his brow furrowing as he crossed his arms. The neat arrangement of dots and lines mocked him with their cryptic simplicity. Grasping at threads of reason — or at least desperately reaching out for them —, his mind whirred. Why this? Why now?

What are you trying to tell me, beloved?

A hushed vocalisation startled him out of his introspection. Beside him, Edelmer’s voice wafted between them with remarkable clarity, as it investigated for the opening pitch of the scripted music.

‘That should be it…’

The chamberlain hummed the last tone, then proceeded to follow the sequence on the parchment. With each rise and fall, his hand floated, retracing the combinations that Éorhild had marked onto the scroll, as though conducting an unseen orchestra. The chant, at first elusive like mist over the plains, came alive.

A language without words, it plunged Éomer back into a haze of grief. His chest constricted as recognition bloomed in his heart, scathing and nagging. This fragment was no idle gesture. It was his mother’s lullaby — his anchor through the impetuous tempests of his youth and the gravity of war. It was this same song that Éorhild had sung that fateful evening on the hillside to put his restless mind at ease. It was what had compelled him to brush his lips against hers and drape her in his arms for the first time. It had been the start of everything — the fragile, forbidden love they had nurtured in the shadows, even for such short a time — and now, it marked its harrowing end.

Wind in the willows, glimmers on the streams, Clouds against the moon, moss on the burrow, Bestow on my bairn the sweetest of dreams, Bring forth delight; away with his sorrow.

Through this lullaby, Éorhild was reaching out to him across the vast distance that now separated them.

‘She remembered,’ Éomer wept now without restraint. ‘She remembered my mother’s song.’

Edelmer ceased to sing and lowered the parchment, placing it back into the prince’s hand.

‘Then she must have known that it held meaning to you, my lord,’ he said with quiet compassion. ‘Perhaps it is her way of saying goodbye, or—’

Éomer did not wait for him to finish. He clutched the scroll tightly to his heart while his shoulders trembled, hoping that the notes would become his lifeline in the storm of his sorrow.

‘She is telling me that she loves me,’ he whispered hoarsely, his thumb caressing the parchment as though he could feel her presence through the ink. ‘She is telling me that no matter the distance, I will be in her thoughts as much as she will be in mine. And that both she and I will be alright.’

His gaze lifted to find Edelmer’s, but the light that once enlivened his own had been snuffed. His reddened face, drenched with tears, contorted as another sob wracked him.

‘But how can I be when she is gone?’

The chamberlain placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

‘Then that must truly have been love, my lord. Not even the wide expanse of Rohan nor the dangers that lie within it can take that away from you.’

He stood up straight, smoothing his uniform with gentle pats, then puffed up his chest. And when he spoke, despite his calm composure, his words had lost every ounce of his sympathy.

‘Éorhild was a good person — too good for her own sake at times —, but you must not let her be the woman to capture your heart. She is baseborn and thus unfit for marriage with the heir to the throne, and I believe that you seldom need my reminder on the matter.’

Edelmer offered him a ceremonious bow.

‘Forget her, your Majesty, for her sake and your own.’

And he disappeared through the door to the kitchens, leaving Éomer at the mercy of Melancholy’s fangs. They pierced through his skin with such brutal force that his bones shattered under their might, while its maw reduced his limbs to a lifeless mash. He writhed in agony, his howls subdued in his prison of secrecy. It left him without hands to drag himself away; without legs to flee; and soon enough without eyes to see through the bleakness. All he could hear was the horrid squelches as the beast feasted upon him, hollowing him out of everything that made him Éomer, and leaving behind nothing but the empty shell of the man he once was.

The one who, merely hours prior, had found peaceful slumber in the arms of the woman he loved. The man who, despite the variety of obstacles in his path, would have willingly worked to make Éorhild happy.

She was all that mattered to him. And now, he was alone, pushed to the ground, biting the dust.

When, after long minutes of mourning, Éomer regained a semblance of composure, he harshly wiped his cheeks and nose dry and staggered out from beneath the arches. Across the hall, he caught glimpse of one of the men he had ridden with to Helm’s Deep, one that he knew he could trust with his life, should it depend on it.

‘Erkenbrand!’

The soldier, alerted by his calling, turned and came to meet him, nodding his head in respect upon beholding the prince.

‘Your Grace. How may I be of assistance?’

‘I shall spend the day in my quarters and overlook the relief of the Fold, and I wish not to be disturbed,’ Éomer declared, firm and stoic. ‘Tell my uncle’s advisors that I wish to further delay my engagement to the Lady Lothíriel — I refuse to hold celebrations and regal affairs when our people are suffering and homeless. Our treasury must serve them first and foremost.’

‘What of Lord Imrahil’s patience, my lord? I fear that he might soon retract his offer.’

‘Lord Imrahil is a generous man towards his people, he will understand.’

Erkenbrand bowed and scrutinised his lord’s face, not out of defiance, but rather concern. Truth be told, he looked a mess — his hair, still tousled from laying on his pillow, was untamed, and his eyes had swollen from crying. He was not himself, and the chief lord of could tell — but he would not disobey.

‘I shall ensure that your will be done, your Majesty,’ he acquiesced.

‘One other thing,’ Éomer said sharply before Erkenbrand left, ‘despatch a group of riders to search our lands and every village and town for a woman. Her name is Éorhild, she was a maid here at Meduseld and I know that she left Edoras during the night. Bring her to me, unscathed and in good health. If I learn that any of the men displayed any aggressive, violent, or obscene behaviour towards her, he will suffer my blad. Am I clear?’

‘Clear as day, your Majesty.’

‘And I do not want to see them return to Edoras unless they have found her.’

Erkenbrand nodded and departed to carry out the tasks now bestowed upon him. Left alone once more in the Golden Hall, Éomer dragged his feet towards the door leading to his chambers, his shoulders sagging anew. On his path, he found himself face to face with the throne of Rohan, presiding over the grandeur of the palace between two smaller chairs allocated to him and his sister.

Upon beholding it, rage boiled within him. If it had not been for his birth and his rank, Éorhild would have never left. None of the sorrow that now befell him would have had reason to exist.

He fell to his knees at the foot of the steps that ascended towards the throne, his arms limp and his heart dejected at the sight.

‘You stole everything from me.’

Nigh on two years later, he found himself kneeling at the same place. Clad in black, groomed, perfumed — only his appearance differed. His desolation had merely been amplified over time.

Théoden had died. After battling a terrible disease for a little under a year, the king who had led his impoverished army at the Hornburg, ridden to the Pelennor Fields and renewed the Oath of Eorl between Rohan and Gondor, was gone. The realm mourned their beloved king, and those who had the means had come to Edoras on a pilgrimage to pay a last tribute to one of the mightiest kings in their history. And that day, they had buried him beside Théodred, for father and son to rest for eternity under a canopy of simbelmynë.

And Éomer was king of Rohan.

His coronation awaited, not yet arranged, but inevitable. From that moment forward, the life he had known, the relative freedom he enjoyed, were forsaken for the welfare of the Rohirrim. He would lead his people, as was his duty, whether his heart willed it or not. Théoden had been a king whose wisdom and valour, although compromised at times, inspired men to follow him into hopeless battles and turn the tides. Éomer was determined to lead with that same fervour despite his fear and doubts, to uphold his uncle’s legacy and that of his forebears. The people of Rohan deserved a monarch who would brave the most tumultuous storms and ride at their head through peril for the promise of peace and sunshine.

He knew that to be king entailed sacrifice — not just of his desires, but himself. And yet, his heart did not yet belong to his people in its entirety — it still ached for Éorhild.

Beyond the doors of Meduseld, a solemn chatter of voices reached his ears, but he did not move. When it died down, the guards pushed the gates open, and slow and irregular steps made their way towards Éomer. They stopped behind him and a gentle hand came to rest upon his shoulders.

‘Rise, Éomer,’ Éowyn whispered, ‘and find your bed. I have seen the last guests out. Tomorrow will be unbearable if you do not rest.’

‘If anybody in this city deserves to find their bed, it is you, beloved sister,’ he scoffed. ‘Faramir should have helped with the mourners and let you rest. One more step, and your bairn will be born right here on the stone.’

He lifted his gaze up to behold Éowyn. Grief and exhaustion marked her delicate traits, and the pallor of her complexion was most alarming. She placed a hand over her round belly holding her and her husband’s heir, soon to enter and brighten up her life.

‘Do not be harsh towards Faramir,’ she scolded, flicking his jaw. ‘He did help, tremendously. Only, in your grief, you did not see it.’

‘Very well.’

At the same moment, Lord Fréaláf, one of Théoden’s chief advisors and now in Éomer’s service, appeared by their side. He bowed to the siblings and fidgeted with a scroll in his hand.

‘Your Majesty, I wish not to trouble you at this sombre hour, but there is a matter that can no longer wait.’

‘Speak plainly, Fréaláf.’

The advisor handed him the parchment, which he seized begrudgingly and unrolled to read, allowing Éowyn to read above his shoulder.

‘Prince Imrahil will no longer wait for the engagement to his daughter,’ he spoke softly, almost in fear that a regular volume would disrespect the memory of the deceased they had just buried. ‘Rohan does not only need a king, your Grace. Your line must be secured, now that you and Lady Éowyn are all that is left of the House of Eorl.’

‘What of the woman?’

Éowyn tutted and forced herself to look away to contain her nerves, at least for the sake of her unborn child. Fréaláf shook his head.

‘It has been over a year, your Majesty, and none of our men has found her. They have searched the whole kingdom under your orders, to no avail. Abandon the search, your Majesty, I beg of you! It is a folly to pursue it — it could jeopardise Rohan’s alliances.’

Being king entails sacrifice, indeed. And it was high time that Éomer dedicated himself to the task from which he had recoiled for so long.

‘Very well, tell the men to return to Edoras.’

Éowyn nodded her approval, her eyes sustained by the advisor’s.

‘And tell Prince Imrahil that he needs no longer wait,’ Éomer said, rising from the cold ground. ‘I shall marry Lady Lothíriel and have her crowned queen.’

Without awaiting the acknowledgement of his declaration, his first as king, Éomer bowed one last time to the throne, as though the phantom of his uncle still sat upon it. Then, he turned and proceeded towards the doors of Meduseld, each step bringing him closer to his destiny. His path had been set, and though it was steeped in uncertainty, Éomer resolved to walk it with unshakable purpose. For Rohan. For its people.

And for Éorhild.

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[avastrasposts]

Fluffy, mushy, gooey Éomer indulgence

This fic started as a one shot just to fill my need for a soft moment with Éomer in the shape of Karl Urban (who else?). But it's grown in to a slightly longer fic that's probably got two more chapters to go before I let Éomer go off in to The Two Towers territory. As this the titles suggests, this is just pure fluff (with some sexual tension thrown in for good measure).

[tvertimot]

Éomer x OC - Deep down

LOTR imagine - chapter 2

Chapter One

Éomer was sitting on a chair next to the fireplace, a cup of ale in his hand, deep down in his thoughts again. 

He wandered around a very dangerous neighborhood of his mind, the one that he very rarely visited, much rather pretend that those memories did not exist. But they have and whether he liked it or not they had an impact on him. He started to think once again if he was being a good king. How did it even happen that he was one. Well, first his cousin died, then his uncle. But that was not true. The first who died was his father. And then his mother. 

He tried so hard to be brave. To be strong for his sister and to be a proud, brave Rohirrim. But he was a child. As much as he would like to forget he remembered every single minute of that day.

-Your highness? - a knock on the door and an anxious call of his servant brought him back to the present. 

-Hmm - was all he managed to get out of  his throat before taking another sip.

-Lord Dúngar sends his notes from today's meeting.

Yes, please leave them there - he waved lazily in the direction of a wooden table on his right. 

Once the servant was gone he took a final sip of his ale and stood up. 

He read through the notes. Ohhh so that was the plan he just agreed to earlier on. Nice. Planned for the next session: enforcement of the western border, possible alliances, marriage. Hmm ok sounds reasonable. WAIT WHAT?! 

Éomer stumbled, lost his balance for a moment and hit  hard with a side of his thigh on the edge of the wooden table. 

What marriage? His marriage? With whom? 

He felt a big purple bruise forming on his thigh. But he did not care about this. What he cared about was that his council was planning on arranging his life for him. And that the first thing that came to his mind when he saw the word ‘marriage’ was lady Nartíhl.

Oh boy, he was indeed deep down in.

Chapter 3

[sotwk]

Hello, you wonderful, thoughtful, sneaky busybody! I’ve read the letter that you snuck into my room—in fact I may have read and reread it until my eyes went crossed. I can hardly believe you took such risks for me, spying on Lord Eomer and taking his private writing—but I’m certainly glad you did.

Grateful as I am, I have another favor to ask of you—though I know you’ll accept gladly, given your love for meddling in other people’s business. I have a letter for Lord Eomer—oh, Bema help me, I knew you’d be insufferably smug about it. Yes, you were right—you’ve been right all along! Are you happy now? 

I know what you’ll ask next, and yes. If you must, you can take a peek—I suppose I owe you that much, since you were the one who brought me his letter in the first place. Just make sure he gets this, won’t you? I won’t be able to rest until he does.

.

.

.

Lord Eomer,

Last night, my friend gave me a curious gift: a letter, crumpled, torn, and painstakingly pieced back together. A letter written and nearly destroyed by your own hand. I do hope you can forgive her actions—for my part, I have never been more grateful for her meddling.

I was determined Forgive my penmanship. My hands have not stopped shaking since I read your words.

I was determined to speak to you at once. I’d decided to sneak to the Golden Hall and throw pebbles at your window until you awoke. Would you believe that I’d donned my cloak and had a foot out the door, with no thought that midnight had long since passed, when my mother caught me and herded me to bed like an errant foal? Trapped in my room as I was, I resolved to write to you instead.

I slept not at all. 

For months, I have endured the attention of the suitors my parents paraded before me. Foolish man, had you made known even a word of that letter to me, I would have sent them all away without a second thought!

I am—I was resigned to do my duty to my family. But you cannot think I wanted to marry one of those men! If ever I smiled at them, I was thinking of you. If ever I looked attentively at them, I was studying their faces seeking some trace of you. 

I underst  Bema, my quill grows unsteady again. You cannot know what your words have done to me.

I understand your reservations, truly. But I am of a mind with your cousin, that our duties need not rule us entirely. Nor must they be the enemy of our hearts.

Do you recall the midsummer feast last year, when you asked me to dance? We spoke afterwards in the garden below the north balcony. I don’t recall a word of our conversation, for you had kissed the back of my hand when our dance was done and I could think of nothing else. You must have known how your touch would haunt me, how I would drive myself mad with thoughts of how your lips might — 

Bema, I am not myself this morning! But there, you see? I do not cross out words in regret, not when I mean them. 

I will be waiting in that garden tonight, at sundown. If you have the courage to stand by the words you tried so desperately to destroy—if, Bema help me, you are as seized by your passions as you claim—you will meet me there. I make no demands of you. Only that you speak the truth to me, without reservation, as I am doing now. 

Enough of prudence, enough of patience! What good have those miserable words ever done us?

I don't know if you will receive this letter in time (don't know how legible it will be, I have never scrawled so fast in my life), but even with the hour being late, I HAD to write and reassure you that:

I survived reading it, though it got hairy there for a second, my poor heart was not ready.

I delivered the letter.

I did more spy-work and lingered in the halls all morning until I was sure Eomer had returned to his rooms and found it.

I got caught. No, no, not by him, thank Bema. By the other one.

No worries, I handled it. He went all high and mighty, telling me I "should not meddle so much", but he didn't rat me out right there. He went into Eomer's room and chatted with him for a good while. Alas, door was too thick for me to hear a peep. Why are these doors so damn heavy.

I managed to corner him later on, but he wouldn't confirm anything other than that Eomer read your words. I then rushed off to get this note to you, but I'm gonna run back to talk Theodred's ear off until he spills everything. I don't care if he is the Prince. I know for a fact that he meddles as much as I do if not more, that sweet hypocrite.

Please just show up in the garden as you said you would and this would all be worth it I'm sure. I'll meet you on the other side, girl! GO GO GO!!!

Tagging parties who are probably interested in this crazy drama: @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @morethantheycansay @emmanuellececchi @celeluwhenfics

For the other confused readers:

The "Anon" who wrote the gorgeous letter in response to my own "Letter from Eomer" is actually the incredibly talented @scyllas-revenge. It started as a letter writing Ask Game, and is now blowing up into a co-written Eomer x unnamed OC fic.

I've posted my work of Eomer's letter as a ficlet on Ao3 called "A Salvaged Letter", but now I'm probably expanding that into a SMALL multi-part fic. We'll see. Now that I've pulled my beloved Theodred into it, it's hard to resist the urge to write more.

Oh, and the busybody gossipy friend will definitely be an OC self-insert of yours truly. Shamelessly, I'm doing that.

[severussnapedamagedlove]

Eomer Eadig fic!

To Lord and Land

Come on.... you wanna give it a try!

just a little read..

Karl Urban thinks you'll like it.

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

Fluffuary 2023 Day 5: “Marry Me?”- Eomer x OC

Eomer x Kitra

Description: While on a visit to Edoras Eomer asks Kitra a life changing question.

Word Count: 1.3k

Challenge made by the lovely @darthglitterfanfiction

Kitra was back in Edoras visiting the new King and his sister once again. She and Eomer had been courting for nearly two years, so visits were semi frequent by this point. They took turns making trips to each other’s respective kingdoms when they could. Of course, since Kitra was not royalty, she had more free time on her hands. That meant she was fine with making more trips to Eomer than vice versa, and yet she still felt so awkward walking the Golden Hall sometimes. She still hadn’t quite gotten used to such lavish halls without woods surrounding them. The MapleElm realm was definitely much more secluded than Edoras.

Not to mention the fact that she didn’t actually know that many people. Sure, she knew most of the people of the court and some of the staff, but she didn’t know them well enough to do more than smile politely and nod a hello as she passed them. She supposed she should probably get used to everyone considering she was courting the King. 

Speaking of which, he was actually the reason she was walking the halls at this very moment. Just as she was leaving dinner with Eowyn (the Princess said they needed some girl time alone) one of Eomer’s lords-in-waiting, Eltaern, walked up to her. 

“My Lady, King Eomer has requested your presence in the gardens at your nearest convenience,” he informed her. His words surprised her. Kitra hadn’t actually seen much of the King since she’d arrived. As far as she knew it wasn’t either of their doings, he’d just explained that he’d been doing a lot for the past few months and it would likely continue during her stay with them. Despite her initial surprise, Kitra nodded and thanked him nonetheless. She thought better than to ask about the sly look Eowyn shot her before she began her trek through the maze-like halls of the Golden Hall. 

It actually ended up taking her much longer than she cared to admit. Nevertheless, once she made it to the back doors of the Golden Hall she took a moment to make sure she looked presentable before allowing the guard stationed there to open the door for her. Eomer was standing at the front of the gardens in casual attire, which made her smile. After seeing him in royal garbs so much the last few days it was a nice change. Eomer finally noticed her when she was only a few feet away from him. 

“I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to show,” he half joked as he held out both of his hands for her. 

“Hey, it is not my fault that the founders of the Golden Hall decided to make a maze out of it,” she shot back playfully, resting her hands in his. They shared a small laugh at that, then an earnest smile formed on the King’s face. 

“You look beautiful tonight, my darling,” he muttered much more sincerely this time, making her blush. 

“Well thank you. It was a gift from your sister,” she responded, looking down at the dress the Princess had gifted her earlier that day. “And you look rather dashing.” 

“It is just my casual attire,” he said amusedly. 

“And you look more handsome in that than any royal robes,” she retorted, amused. “Now, care to tell me why you’ve asked me to the gardens at such a late hour?”

“Is it such a crime to wish for an evening walk with the woman I love?” He asked rhetorically, holding out his elbow invitingly. Kitra shook her head amusedly, but still rested her hand in the crook of his elbow and allowed him to lead her around the royal gardens. 

They walked for quite a while, just enjoying each other’s presence. The gardens were rather beautiful at this hour. The moonlight shining seemed to set a certain sort of romantic mood for them and the flowers that bloomed around them were just beautiful in general. After a while they finally came upon the middle of the gardens, where a carved stone bench sat beside a small yet still beautiful fountain. They didn’t sit down at first, instead continuing to just stand beside the fountain and stare into the water for a few minutes before Eomer faced her. 

“May I ask you something, Kitra?” 

“Of course.”

“Are you happy when you are here?” His question confused her, and it finally made her face him. He held a rather nervous look on his face despite his best efforts to hide it. 

“I am,” she responded, earning a nod from the King. “Have…Have I accidentally given some sort of indication that I am not?” 

“Hmm? No, of course you haven’t. I just wanted to make sure. It’s important for my next question,” he explained. 

“Oh, well what is it?” Eomer didn’t answer at first, but instead took a deep breath. One of his hands found hers while the other went to the pocket of his tunic, keeping it there. Kitra found the movement odd, but chose not to question him as he spoke. 

“Kitra, the entire time we have been courting has been the happiest I’ve been in a long time. Before Sauron was finally destroyed it felt like my life would be filled with misery. My uncle was wasting away under Saruman’s power, my cousin was dead, and there was nothing I could do to stop my sister’s depression the longer things continued on like that. It felt as if I was trapped despite the fact that I could walk free. I was suffocating, and there was absolutely nothing I could do on my own to stop it. 

And then you quite literally burst into my life like the fresh breath of air Gandalf used to save my uncle. You brought sunshine to my life again, and for the first time in a long time I’ve actually been happy. And it’s all thanks to you. Truly, I believe I owe you my life, for without you I would have had no idea how I could continue. Now all I wish for the rest of my days is to make you happy. 

That is why I am now asking you this. You make me a better person and you’ve helped me navigate so many big changes in such a short amount of time. I do not know what I would do without you by my side and I love you more than life itself, Kitra Underlake. Will you do me the greatest honor I could ask for, would you become my wife?” 

As he finished speaking he finally pulled his hand out of his pocket and held it up for her. It was a beautiful and ornately designed ring with a pear shaped aquamarine stone surrounded by silver leaves. For a moment Kitra could do little more than stare at him in shock. Though she’d had a creeping feeling that this was coming during his speech, she still couldn’t believe it. It seemed that Eomer had taken her stunned silence the wrong way because he quickly continued. 

“I know that it is a daunting ask to marry a King, and I understand if you need time to think it-”

“Yes,” she interrupted him without hesitation. Eomer’s mouth snapped shut, only to fall agape a second later. 

“Yes?” He repeated as if he’d heard her incorrectly. The girl couldn’t help but giggle at him as she nodded. 

“Yes, I’ll marry you, Eomer,” she confirmed excitedly, throwing her arms around him in a hug that he gladly returned. He only pulled away enough to slip the ring onto her right hand, admiring it for a second before looking at her again with a wide smile. 

“Words cannot express how happy you have made me,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. Kitra couldn’t help but smile as she stared into his eyes. 

“I think I have a pretty good idea.”