#Faramir x Éowyn | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

not-ur-manic-pixie-dream-girl · 28 days ago

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Lay me down gently

Pairing: Faramir x OFC (can be read as Faramir x reader too)

Word count: 4,518 words

Premise: As Faramir stays at the Houses of Healing Líreth, a fellow ranger doesn’t leave his side. As he recovers she is his rock. She sees him one day in the gardens with Éowyn and mistakenly assumes they’re in love. She decides Faramir has to know how she truly feels about him even if he doesn’t feel the same.

It's a part of a longer story that can be found on my profile, but it works as a standalone fic as well. It contains implied sexual contents though no graphic descriptions.

***

The room in the Houses of Healing was filled with the faint golden light of early morning, but its warmth barely seemed to touch the shadow that lingered over the sickroom. Líreth sat beside Faramir’s bedside, her green eyes fixed on his face. His features were pale, carved with a strain that had not left him since that fateful day in Osgiliath. His breathing was steady now, but faint, as though his spirit wandered far from the reach of the waking world.

Líreth had been at his side through each long day and longer night, her heart aching with the burden of fear and doubt. She had bathed his brow, bound his wound anew, and sung to him softly, though his face gave no sign of hearing her voice. She had whispered prayers to the Valar, though she was not certain they would listen. Now, as the light touched his features, she bowed her head, whispering to him as though she might will him back to life by sheer strength of will.

“Hold on, Faramir,” she murmured. Her voice trembled, and she bit her lip. “Gondor still needs you… I still need you.

The door to the chamber opened softly, and Líreth turned, startled, to see Lord Aragorn enter. He moved with quiet purpose, his face calm though lines of weariness creased his brow. Behind him came Gandalf, his white robes glowing faintly in the light. The wizard’s sharp eyes softened as he met Líreth’s gaze, and he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Lady Líreth,” Aragorn said, his voice low and steady, like a calm current beneath stormy waters. “You have done all that could be asked of you. Now it is my turn to aid him.”

She rose reluctantly, glancing back at Faramir’s still form. “Can you truly help him?” she asked, her voice thick with doubt and exhaustion. “He burns with a fire that no herb nor salve has quenched.”

Aragorn smiled faintly, though his weariness was plain. “There is hope yet,” he said. “Even in the darkest hour, hope may be found. Trust me.”

Líreth stepped back, her hands trembling as they fell to her sides. She watched as Aragorn set a hand lightly on Faramir’s brow and closed his eyes. For a moment, he stood motionless, as though listening to a voice that she could not hear.

From his belt, Aragorn drew forth a small silver vial. He uncorked it, and at once, a fragrance filled the room—sharp yet sweet, like the mingling of sea air and the breath of a spring garden. Líreth inhaled sharply. It was at once foreign and familiar, a scent that seemed to carry the memory of distant lands and forgotten peace.

“Athelas,” Aragorn said, his voice reverent. He crushed the leaves in his hands and dropped them into a basin of steaming water. The aroma grew stronger, spreading like a soothing balm that seemed to lighten the very air.

Líreth stood frozen, her heart pounding, as Aragorn began to speak in a low, rhythmic voice. The words were in a language she did not know, but they wove through the room like strands of light. Aragorn bathed Faramir’s brow with the water, his hands steady and sure, as though he called forth life itself.

At first, there was no change. Líreth’s breath caught in her throat, her hope faltering. But then, slowly, she saw the lines of pain ease from Faramir’s face. The feverish flush faded from his cheeks, and his breathing grew deeper, more even. A faint light seemed to settle over him, and Líreth’s doubt gave way to wonder.

“He stirs,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Aragorn straightened, his face alight with quiet triumph. “His fever is broken,” he said. “The darkness has passed, though his strength will return slowly. The rest lies with him—and with the grace of the Valar.”

Líreth fell to her knees beside the bed, tears spilling down her cheeks as she took Faramir’s hand in hers. “Thank you,” she said softly, her voice trembling. Whether her words were meant for Aragorn or the heavens, she did not know. ***

Days passed, and though Faramir slept, his color began to return, and his breathing grew stronger. Líreth remained at his side through it all, her vigilance unbroken. She spoke little, content to watch over him, smoothing his brow when he stirred and singing softly to ease the quiet hours.

One morning, as the first light of day spilled into the chamber, Faramir’s eyes opened. Líreth, who had been seated beside him, rose sharply, her heart leaping at the sight. His gaze was clouded with confusion, but as his eyes met hers, a faint smile touched his lips.

“Líreth?” he murmured, his voice hoarse and weak. “Am I dreaming?”

Tears filled her eyes as she leaned forward. “No, my captain,” she said softly. “You are awake. You are safe.”

Faramir blinked, his brow furrowing. “I thought… I thought I heard you… in the dark. You said… you said you loved me.” His voice faltered, and his gaze wavered. “But that must have been a dream.”

Líreth froze, her breath catching. For a moment, she could not speak, and then she forced a faint smile, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You were fevered,” she said gently. “Dreams often seem real in such a state. Rest now, my captain. You need your strength.”

She rose, intending to leave and give him peace, but as she turned, Faramir’s hand reached out, his fingers closing around hers. “Do not go,” he said, his voice soft yet firm. “Stay with me… please.”

Her heart melted at the look in his eyes, and she sank back into the chair beside him. “I will stay,” she said quietly, her voice warm with relief and affection.

Faramir leaned against her, his dark blonde head resting on her shoulder as she cradled him gently. She began to hum a soft tune, a melody from her childhood in Gondor, and her fingers traced soothing patterns through his hair. Faramir sighed, his body relaxing as he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Líreth’s gaze lingered on his face, her heart full of gratitude and quiet longing. “Sleep well, my captain,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his brow. “For now, all is well.”

As Faramir leaned against her, the world seemed to fall away. Líreth sat utterly still, her breath shallow, her heart pounding in her chest as though the silence itself might shatter. The golden light of the morning spilled through the high windows of the sickroom, bathing them both in a soft, otherworldly glow. The air was thick with the scent of athelas, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender and thyme that clung to Faramir’s linens. His weight against her was slight, as though he were still caught somewhere between the waking world and the shadow he had wandered through, and yet the warmth of him—the undeniable presence of him—felt like an anchor drawing her out of the depths of her own fears.

Líreth’s hand trembled as she smoothed a stray lock of dark blonde hair from his brow. Her fingers lingered longer than they should have, tracing the contours of his temple, where the pulse of life beat steadily now. She swallowed hard, her throat tight with emotions she could scarcely name. How many nights had she sat by his side, praying he would wake, longing to see his blue eyes open once more? And now, here he was, fragile and weary yet undeniably alive, his strength faint but growing with every passing moment. The ache in her chest, once filled with fear, was now something else entirely—something far deeper, more perilous.

As Faramir’s breathing softened into the rhythm of sleep, Líreth gazed down at him. In repose, his face seemed less burdened, the sharp lines of duty and sorrow etched there smoothed away. A strange, bittersweet beauty lingered about him, a quiet nobility that seemed untouched by the grief and turmoil of their age. Her heart ached at the sight, not with sorrow, but with a yearning so fierce that she could hardly bear it. She brushed her fingers lightly against his cheek, her touch feather-light, as though afraid to disturb him—or reveal the depths of her own longing.

Her thoughts swirled like the currents of the Anduin in flood. How foolish I am, she thought, her lips pressing into a thin line. He is Gondor’s captain, a man of high purpose and great honor. I am but a warrior, a ranger, unworthy to hold his regard. And yet… Her gaze dropped to his hand, still loosely clasped in hers, and her chest tightened as she recalled the look in his eyes when he had pleaded with her to stay.

“Líreth,” he had murmured, her name a fragile thread of sound that had sent her heart reeling. It had been no command, no formal address from lord to servant, but a plea, a whisper of something unspoken. The memory of his voice still echoed within her, as though it had been woven into her very soul.

Faramir stirred faintly, his brow furrowing for the briefest of moments, and Líreth instinctively leaned closer, her hand moving to his shoulder. “Hush,” she whispered softly, her voice scarcely audible over the faint rustle of the leaves in the basin. “Sleep now, my captain. You are safe.”

She began to hum once more, the melody slow and plaintive, an old song of Gondor that spoke of far shores and the coming of dawn. Her voice was low and lilting, barely more than a murmur, but the sound seemed to soothe him, for he relaxed again, his features easing into tranquility. Líreth’s fingers found their way to his hair, trailing through it in idle patterns, though she dared not let herself think too deeply on the intimacy of the gesture. Yet even as she tried to steel herself, her resolve faltered, and she felt the faintest brush of tears against her lashes.

Faramir’s breath deepened, and for a long while, she sat silently, listening to the quiet rise and fall of his chest. Yet when his lips parted faintly, and his voice came once more, soft and broken in sleep, her heart froze.

“Líreth…” he murmured, the name a whisper of longing, of trust. “Stay with me…”

The words were like a flame igniting deep within her, fragile but unyielding, illuminating the shadowed corners of her heart. She leaned forward, her forehead nearly brushing his as her tears fell, unbidden, onto his cheek. “Always,” she breathed, her voice trembling with a tenderness she could no longer conceal. “Always.”

She bent her head, pressing her lips gently to his brow, her touch lingering there for a moment that felt like eternity. The kiss was not bold or possessive, but a quiet promise, a vow that she dared not speak aloud. As her lips brushed his skin, she felt his hand tighten faintly in hers, as though even in his dreams, he heard and understood her unspoken words.

When she drew back, Líreth’s gaze lingered on his face, now serene in the golden light of morning. Her heart was full, too full, and she could not help but wonder what the days ahead might hold. Would he remember her words, her presence, when he woke again? Would he see her as she truly was—not merely a warrior, but a woman whose heart had long since been given to him?

For now, she could only watch over him, her spirit a silent guardian as he rested. And so she sat, humming softly, her hand clasped in his, her heart caught between hope and a love as deep and boundless as the sea.

***

The light of a fading day cast long shadows across the quiet gardens of Minas Tirith, where the scent of blooming flowers still lingered in the cool air, carrying with it the promise of peace. The battle for the Pelennor Fields was behind them, its echoes now only a distant memory, but the toll it had taken remained etched in the faces of all who had survived. Among those recovering was Faramir, whose strength had returned with the help of Aragorn’s healing hands, though there was a quiet weariness still in his eyes.

Líreth had found herself walking through the garden that evening, drawn by the beauty of the place and the need for a brief respite from the weight of the war. Her steps were slow, her mind occupied by thoughts of Faramir. She had cared for him through the worst of it, had stayed by his side through the battle and the healing, and yet she had never truly spoken the words that had been growing in her heart. Words she feared would be too much for him, too much for a time when there was still too much war, too many uncertainties ahead.

But that evening, as she rounded the corner of the garden path, her heart seemed to stutter in her chest at the sight before her.

Faramir was walking slowly along the stone path, his hand resting gently on the arm of Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan. The two of them were deep in conversation, their heads bent together in quiet discussion. Éowyn’s golden hair caught the light of the setting sun, her fair face radiant, and Faramir… Faramir was smiling. The smile was not the weary, burdened smile she had come to know over the years, but one that was brighter, softer, filled with a warmth that sent a strange pang through Líreth’s chest.

Her breath caught in her throat. A jolt of something unfamiliar twisted in her stomach, and she felt her steps falter. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. There they were, Faramir and Éowyn, walking together as if they had all the time in the world, as if they were… something more than just allies in the struggle against darkness. The sight made something tighten in Líreth’s chest, a feeling she couldn’t quite name, but one that gnawed at her with painful clarity.

He’s in love with her, Líreth thought, the words bitter on her tongue.

She could see it now—the way Faramir looked at Éowyn, the way she smiled back at him. The affection between them was unmistakable. And for the first time, Líreth realized the depth of her own feelings for him. But she had never thought there would be room for someone like her, someone so… different, in Faramir’s heart. She was a warrior. A Ranger. She had been the one to bandage his wounds, to fight beside him in the trenches of Ithilien, but she had never been the one to walk beside him in the peace that followed. That would be Éowyn, the Lady of Rohan, with her noble blood and the grace that Líreth could never hope to match.

A heaviness settled in her heart, and she turned away, determined to escape the suffocating swell of emotions rising within her. But as she made her way back to the citadel, a quiet resolve took root inside her. If Faramir was in love with Éowyn, then she could never hope to be anything more than a friend to him. But she could not leave things unsaid. She could not go on hiding her feelings, pretending that everything was fine when it was not.

By the time she reached her chamber, the resolve had turned into something stronger, something she could no longer ignore. She would tell him. She would confess. Even if he could never love her in return, at least the weight of her silence would be gone.

***

The evening had deepened by the time Faramir returned from his walk with Éowyn. He entered the citadel with the same composed demeanor he always had, though there was an unfamiliar softness to him now. His eyes were warm, as if some quiet peace had settled over him. He had changed into a simple tunic, his sword belt now absent, and there was a quiet relief in his bearing that Líreth hadn’t seen in him for many long weeks.

He made his way toward the small library where he knew she often spent her time. It was there, sitting in the corner of the room, that she heard his soft knock.

“Líreth?” Faramir’s voice, warm and steady, called through the door. “May I come in?”

Líreth took a deep breath, gathering her courage. She had made her decision. Now, she had to speak. “Of course, Faramir,” she replied, keeping her voice as calm as possible.

He stepped inside, his eyes immediately finding hers. His smile was kind, but there was something hesitant about it, as if he sensed the tension in the air between them.

“I—” Faramir began, then stopped himself, his brow furrowing slightly. “Is everything well?”

Líreth stood from her chair, her hands trembling slightly as she folded them in front of her. She could feel the weight of her decision pressing down on her chest, but she refused to look away.

“No,” she said quietly. “Not everything is well.”

Faramir blinked in confusion, his gaze narrowing slightly as he took a step closer. “Líreth, what is it? You’re… you’re upset.”

Her heart pounded, but she knew that she couldn’t retreat from this. Not now. “I am upset because I’ve been lying to myself,” she said quickly, her words spilling out before she could stop them. “I’ve been pretending that nothing has changed, pretending that I am content with everything the way it is. But I’m not. I—Faramir, I can’t pretend any longer.”

Faramir’s brow furrowed further, his concern deepening. “What do you mean?”

Líreth stepped forward, her eyes now bright with the storm of emotions she had been holding in for far too long. “I mean that I can’t keep hiding how I feel about you,” she said, her voice trembling with raw honesty. “I’ve tried to keep it to myself, tried to ignore it, but I can’t anymore. I love you, Faramir. I’ve loved you for so long, and I—”

“I know you’re probably in love with Éowyn,” she blurted, her voice tight, the words falling from her lips in a rush. “I can see it in the way you look at her, the way she looks at you. And I—I know she’s everything I’m not. She’s noble. She’s beautiful. She’s a lady of Rohan, and you’re a man of Gondor. She’s everything that’s right for you. And I—I can’t compete with that. I’m just a Ranger, a soldier with no family, no name beyond the one I made for myself. I—”

But then, to her shock, Faramir stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup her face. His touch was warm, almost tender, but there was a deep intensity in his eyes that made her heart skip a beat.

“Líreth,” he said softly, his voice low and almost reverent. “Stop. Please, just stop talking.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he gently tilted her chin up, his fingers brushing lightly over her skin. She could see the struggle in his eyes, the conflict, the emotion he was holding back.

“I love you,” he said, his voice firm now, as if the words themselves were a release he had long been waiting for. “I have loved you for a long time. I’ve just been too foolish to admit it to myself.”

Líreth’s eyes widened, her mind struggling to catch up with the flood of his words. For a moment, neither of them moved, and then Faramir pulled her closer, his hand moving to the back of her neck. Líreth’s breath caught, and before she could even process what he had said, he leaned in, his lips capturing hers in a kiss. It was not gentle; it was desperate, filled with all the yearning they had both been holding inside for so long. Her hands moved to his chest, pulling him closer, her heart hammering against his.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting against each other.

“I love you, Líreth,” Faramir whispered again, his voice thick with emotion. “I always have."

Líreth smiled through the tears that had gathered in her eyes, her heart swelling with a joy she had never known. “And I, you,” she replied softly.

In that moment, the world outside the walls of Minas Tirith ceased to matter. For there, in the quiet warmth of their shared love, all that mattered was the bond they had forged, the future they would now walk together, side by side.

Faramir’s lips lingered on Líreth’s, and as they drew apart, his breath was warm against her skin. The room seemed to shrink around them, the flickering light of the lone lamp casting golden shadows that danced across the walls. His hands moved gently, as though memorizing the curve of her face, the line of her jaw, before trailing down to rest lightly on her waist. He hesitated, his gaze searching hers for permission, for certainty.

Líreth gave him both, her fingers slipping into the dark blonde waves of his hair, tugging him closer with a need that defied words. Their lips met again, and this time the kiss was deeper, more urgent. Faramir’s hands tightened at her sides, drawing her against him as if he feared she might vanish. His touch was firm yet reverent, like a man holding something both precious and fragile.

As their kiss deepened, his lips moved to the corner of her mouth, then to her cheek, trailing a line of warmth down to her jaw. Líreth gasped softly as his kisses found the curve of her neck, her pulse quickening beneath his touch. He murmured her name against her skin, a sound that sent a shiver through her, though she was already flushed with heat. His voice was low and rough, carrying all the longing and tenderness he had kept hidden.

“Líreth,” he whispered, his breath grazing her ear. “ Líreth... my brave, beautiful Líreth... I never thought I could have this. Never thought I could have you." He broke off, his words caught in the tangle of emotion, and instead pressed his lips just below her ear, his hands steadying her as her knees weakened.

Líreth closed her eyes, her head tilting back as her hands tangled deeper into his hair. “You are all I’ve ever wanted,” she breathed, her voice trembling with the weight of her confession. She tightened her grip on him, pulling him closer still, as though the space between them were unbearable.

Faramir’s lips found hers again, and this time there was no hesitation, no lingering doubt. He lifted her effortlessly, his strength a quiet reminder of his warrior’s frame, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, feeling the taut muscles beneath his tunic. He carried her to the low couch by the fire, its cushions a soft cradle as he laid her down. The golden light flickered over their faces, highlighting every curve, every line, every shadow.

Faramir leaned over her, his hands framing her face as though she were a treasure unearthed after years of searching. “Are you certain?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse. His gaze was intent, searching hers with a fervor that made her breath hitch.

Líreth reached up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw before resting lightly on his cheek. “I have never been more certain of anything,” she replied, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within her.

At her words, the last restraint seemed to fall away. Faramir bent to her again, his lips claiming hers with a hunger that matched her own. The room grew warmer as the fire crackled beside them, though neither seemed to notice. Her hands moved over his back, tracing the lines of his shoulders, the muscles beneath his tunic, until they found their way beneath the fabric, seeking the warmth of his skin.

His breath caught at her touch, and he drew back just enough to meet her gaze. There was something unspoken in his eyes, a vulnerability that made her heart ache with love for him. “Líreth,” he said again, her name a benediction on his lips. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, as though he might weave his devotion into every part of her.

Líreth’s hands returned to his hair, threading through it with a desperation that mirrored the intensity of her own feelings. "Faramir," she whispered, his name a prayer on her lips, "I've loved you for so long. I never thought-"

"You are all I have ever wanted," he interrupted, his voice rough with emotion as he lifted his head to meet her gaze again. The weight of his words settled between them, and she Felt tears prick at her eyes, not of sorrow but of a joy so profound it left her breathless.

The moment hung between them, fragile and unbreakable all a t once, until Faramir leaned forward again, his lips claiming hers with renewed fervor. This time, there was no stopping the fire that ignited between them. His hands roamed from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer still, while hers slid beneath the fabric of his tunic, the warmth of his skin sending a shiver through her.

The world outside the library faded completely. There was only the soft rustle of their movements, the mingled sound of their breaths, and the unspoken promise in the way they clung to one another. As Faramir pressed his forehead against hers, his lips brushing hers even as they caught their breath, he murmured, "Líreth... will you stay with me? Tonight?"

Her answer was silent but certain. Her hands, now trembling, moved to the clasp of his tunic, unfastening it with a deliberate care that spoke louder than words. Faramir's hands followed, slipping to the laces of her own garments, his touch both reverent and steady as he bared her to him.

The hours of the night stretched long,but they passed unnoticed by the two souls now bound together in heart and spirit. In the quiet sanctuary of the library, beneath the soft light of a single flickering lantern, Faramir and Líreth gave themselves to each other, the barriers of war, pain, and fear falling away.

Their breaths mingled, their hearts racing in tandem, as the world outside faded completely into shadow. The moments that followed were filled with whispered promises, quiet sighs, and the closeness of two souls finally united. The warmth of the fire wrapped around them, but it was the heat of their love, long denied and finally given voice, that filled the room with a light brighter than the sun.

And as the night deepened, the city of Minas Tirith lay still under the stars, its defenders and people unaware of the quiet triumph within its walls—the victory not of swords or shields, but of love unbroken, love unyielding, love at last fulfilled.

#fanfiction #ao3 #faramir #faramir x reader #Faramir x oc #lotr fanfic #fanfic #lotr #Éowyn #lord of the rings

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kylobith · 3 days ago

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Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 5 of 7

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

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

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

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

(it remains fluffy though)

Word count: 10,500

Read it on AO3 here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how he must have been suffering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Was it me you were afraid of?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I know.’

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

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

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

‘I never jest!’

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

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

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

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

‘Oh? Thank you. I, um…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she paid that no mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Éomer’s gaze flickered to hers.

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

Éorhild clasped her hands together to eclipse their trembling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To hell with the crown.

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

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

‘What in the world makes you question it?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And I love you.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘N-No, I…’

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

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

‘How… are you feeling?’

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

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

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

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

‘Tell me what you are thinking about.’

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

‘But what if I do?’

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

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

‘Éomer, please.’

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

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

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

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

‘Give me the order.’

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

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

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

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

And yet, this situation demanded more.

Her expression softened into a compassionate display.

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

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

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

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

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

‘I despise this eventuality,’ he sighed.

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

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

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

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

Éomer placed a kiss upon her brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are you absolutely certain?’

‘I am.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do proceed, min heortan frean…’

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

‘May I disrobe you, leofre healsmægeth?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I am. Are you?’

‘What a question.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Not even behind closed doors?’

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

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

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

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

There it was indeed — his new treasure.

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

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

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

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

‘You look ridiculous.’

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

Oh, how he loved her.

‘What prompted you to do such a thing?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are you afraid?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Then claim it.’

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