#eomer x you fanfic

[system-to-the-madness]

Not my King - Éomer x Reader

Pairing: Éomer x Rohirim!Reader(can be read as any gender, no pronouns used) Genre: fluff Word Count: 2 213 Warnings: mentions of war and the Nazgul, Implied, that Reader joined the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, Summary: While you keep wake at the fire throughout the night, Éomer joins you A/N: Part of the winter solstice event 2024

It had been well over half a year, since the ever approaching shadow in the south east had been banned. The darkness that crept now over the green lands of Rohan was of no evil making, but the sun’s seasons. Still, you felt a shiver run down your spine as you stood at the tops of the stairs that lead up to Meduseld, and watched darkness claim the land beyond the city gates, even though it was only early afternoon. It still felt unnatural, the same way any darkness felt unnatural now, ever since you had seen the Nazgul with their winged beasts. Even now, shivers ran down your spine when you had to walk alone at night and thought to see teeth emerge from deep shadows.

Shivering at the thought, you tore yourself away from dark memories. Tomorrow the days would grow longer again, you reminded yourself, but for now you had to guard the fire in the Golden Hall so it may not be extinguished during the longest night, when the shadows felt so much deeper than they usually did.

The door to the Hall suddenly swung open, music and cheering pouring out into the twilight, making you flinch. The feast was in full swing, and you were standing out here alone, drowning in dark thoughts!

Shaking yourself loose, you tore your eyes away from the mountains behind which the sun had sunken and slipped through the closing door into the Hall.

The air inside was heavy with the smell of wooden fire and roasted meat, spilled beer and drunken songs. The shortest day of the year demanded celebration until late into the night, so the nights knew to grow shorter again. For many years the old tradition had not been held under the evil spell the white wizard had cast over the former king. Now the current king, Éomer, had brought that tradition back to life.

King. 

You almost snorted at the thought. What a king he was.

It was easy, as always to spot Éomer in the crowd of drinking and celebrating men, his hair the fairest, his voice the loudest, his cheer the brightest. Had you not known him as well as you did, you might have respected him more, now that he was on the throne. But it was hard to take the man seriously, who as a boy had fallen face first into horse dung or been carried off by his mare through half the Riddermark.

The first time you had met him alone after his coronation, you had laughed into his face, at how ridiculous it was to have him of all people on the throne, and he might have been angered had these words been spoken by anyone but you. Instead, a rueful smile had graced his lips, and his dark eyes had glanced at you from under his lashes like a little boy's, who was embarrassed for an objectively failed project he was proud of nonetheless. 

Oh no, you had to stop thinking about this moment. Your heart grew all too soft at the memory of his gaze, or the way he had teasingly threatened he would need a queen one day and if you were not to stop mocking him, he might put that crown on your head just for revenge. It had been mockery; you were sure if it. But you were scared your reaction to the thought of getting to be married to Éomer might have been too honest for such jokes. Either he had not noticed or not cared because if anything the time he had spent with you from then on had not shortened but increased instead.

On evenings, when the wind was especially harsh, he had come to meet you by the fire, sharing a loaf of bread and stir-fried vegetables. But when the weather was fair, he had invited you for rides, challenging you for races and never taking a no for an answer.

"Any rider who faced the battle on the Pelennor Fields against their king's and their captain's will shall not turn down a race against me, don't you think?" And when you came back, hands red from the cold, he had taken them between his, rubbed warmth into them, and blown his hot breath against your skin to warm you.

Those were dangerous moments, when he was standing just close enough for you to lean over, press your lips to his and reveal that aching longing in your heart. You never had, but it had always been a hard fight. Especially when he had looked up at you again from underneath his black lashes with eyes as brown as one might imagine, seeming to beg you to close the distance. Maybe you would have, had he not been king. But he was, so you had not.

Now he was clicking his mug against those of his companions, face split into a wide smile, no care in the world seeming left on his shoulders, and you turned away, determined to not pay him any more thought on this night. An impossible task as it would prove.

-

The Golden Hall had calmed down long ago. The music and singing had ceased, the tables been freed of the weight of food stacked upon them. The people who had celebrated until late at night had retired, most of them more swaying than walking. Parents had carried children, who had spent the whole evening dancing and laughing, now asleep, to their beds, and two dogs had curled up by the fire which you were tasked to guard. Under no circumstances was it to go out or else bad fortune for the coming year would come over Rohan and the beings trapped in the shadows of the longest night would slither over, wreaking havoc in every city and village they would come across.

Why you had been chosen to protect Rohan through the fire in the Golden Hall tonight, you were not sure. In years long past, it had been Éowyn and you together, but with her having stayed in Gondor, it was your task alone now. A while ago your eyelids had gotten heavy, but one of the dogs' suddenly scratching behind his ear had woken you up again, and since then the thought, that failure in keeping the fire burning might lead to another encounter with a Nazgul, kept you more than awake. 

You had long lost all sense of time, only staring into the flickering flames and occasionally putting on more wood to keep the fire strong, so when you heard footsteps approach from one of the corridors, you almost assumed it was turning morning. But then the door got opened and the speed and force used told you it was Éomer, which in turn meant it was more likely late night than early morning.

"How's the fire going," he asked, walking over to where you were sitting wrapped in a blanket. 

"It's strong. The wood burns well this year," you told him, putting you head back to be able to look up at him. He was wearing a simple red tunic with gold and green embroidery, a pair of linen trousers and light shoes. His hair was freshly brushed and unbound, his beard neatly trimmed. From this angle he did look like a king, majestic and yet kind, the light of the fire dancing in his eyes as he looked down on you sitting at his feet.

"Why are you up," you wondered, "the night is late, shouldn't everyone have gone to bed long ago?"

"Sleep evaded me," Éomer answered, but you were not sure how much truth his words held. He did not look like someone who had spent hours tossing in bed, chasing dreams. His hair was too neatly brushed, his tunic too smooth.

Without another word Éomer sat down next to you, facing the fire, and grabbed an iron poker, moving around in the ashes that had gathered at the side of the fire pit.

"You can think why I tasked you to care for the fire tonight, can you not," he suddenly asked, his voice quiet, lacking the usual force behind his words.

"I cannot," you answered truthfully, "but I shall not complain. Guarding the fire is an honour and allows for relishing old memories."

You left it open, the implication that it was the memories of the nights you had stood guard by the fire with Éowyn, not the memories of the sword-like teeth of the winged creature you had encountered on the Pelennor Fields.

"Can you really not," Éomer wondered. 

"You know me, my lord," you laughed quietly. "If I knew, I would tell you with no hesitation."

Éomer turned to look at you, studying the play of light and shadow on your face, the warm light of the fire and the cool shadows of the night.

"It was a selfish act," he admitted, turning away again and fixing his eyes on the fire. "I was hoping to get us time, just the two of us, to talk. And then I spent the better half of the night pacing through my room with thoughts running wild in my head instead of facing you."

"Facing me," you echoed, furrowing your brows. "What kind of creature am I that I am to be faced?"

"The fairest of them all," Éomer answered without missing a beat, "the most beautiful being that has ever walked this earth. And not even Master Gimli shall be able to convince me the lady of the woods could ever be more beautiful than you are to me."

Surprised you blinked. Éomer had never been one for sweet words of praise, not when it came to you at least. His words towards you always used to be filled with jest and mirth. Was he jesting now? Your eyes flickered to your hands, rough from cold water and with rims of black under your nails from where you had cleaned your horse around noon. Beautiful he had called you, and even praised you above the fairest of the many races that populated Middle-earth.

"Whatever the punchline to this joke will be-"

"There is none," Éomer interrupted you. "None but my heart. I've known it for too long, and I wish I could have made my heart known earlier. There was fear, of what Wormtongue would do to you if he were to know the extent of my care for you. But since he has been cast out, it has been pure cowardice of your rejection that has kept my tongue from revealing my heart. When I saw you protect my sister's lifeless body against the Orcs, I knew there was no hand I would ever wish to hold but yours. I had hoped the past months had made that plain, but you neither responded nor pulled away, leaving me to hope against hope-"

"I don't know you as one to make long speeches," you interrupted Éomer with your heart beating in your throat. Could it really be he meant the words he had spoken? "Say what you mean to."

A smile pulled at Éomer's lips as he turned to look at you again. 

"See, this is one of the countless reasons I love you. Never afraid to put your king back in line."

"You're not my king, never were. Not like that anyway."

"No, you're right. I'm not. I'm just the man asking with a fool’s heart for your permission to court you."

At his words you fully turned to him, finding he was smiling at you fondly, an expression which you had, now that you thought about it, never seen directed at anyone but you.

"Not my king," you repeated, and reached up, brushing your fingertips over the neatly trimmed beard on his cheeks. "But my Éomer."

It seemed like your words had ignited a fire much stronger than that burning before you inside Éomer's chest, because he broke into a smile, his whole body tensing with held back joy.

"You mean it," he asked, disbelievingly, "you really mean it?"

"As much as I have ever meant anything! Had I known that those were your intentions all along, I would never have held back on my own!"

"Oh, two proper fools we are," Éomer cried. "How much precious time we let pass by! All these times I had held back from sharing the sweetest kisses with you!"

"You needn't hold back anymore," you laughed, amused at his despair. "No evil shall befall you were you to kiss me at any time, but perhaps the stares of others."

"At any time," Éomer asked, as if to assure himself of the meaning of the word.

"At any time," you repeated, and only when Éomer lent forward to press his lips to yours did you understand his intention behind asking again.

His beard was rough against your skin, but his golden hair like the finest silk between your fingers as you wove your fingers between the strands, and let his gentle but eager lips guide you.

And so the sun eventually rose in the east in a clear, cold morning without you noticing, as Éomer's kisses kept you distracted by the still brightly flickering flames of the fire in Meduseld.

[gloomwitchwrites]

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

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

A Sudden Spark

Éomer x Female Reader

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

Word Count: 1.4k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

The Great Shadow is fading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dancing?”

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

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

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

“And you are not partaking,” he comments.

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

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

By the Gods, he should have realized sooner.

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

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

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

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

Perhaps forgetting for a bit is a good thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is power within you along with the soft.

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

She’d be a fierce queen.

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

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

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

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

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

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @miaraei @coffeecaketornado @cherryofdeath @berarenado @therealbloom @ninman82 @thewulf @ferns-fics @beebeechaos

[myabsurddreamjournal]

Luck (part 1)

Éomer x Female! Reader

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

.....

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

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

But she always liked this kind of duties.

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

She liked silence,

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

But this,

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

And the gentle night breeze on her hair.

Its almost magical to her.

.....

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

She smiles to herself thinking this was a beautiful night,

she feels calm. Her mind feels calm.

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

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

Éomer, the kings son.

The powerful Éomer,

The one everyone adores.

The fearless, and strong

And kind.

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

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

I never seen him this close, he is beautiful.

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

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

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

Thanks Eru, he is leaving.

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

Her mind races.

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

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

Dont be a coward this is the simplest duty.

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

Very badly.

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

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

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

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

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

To his hand.

Oh Eru, please no, this might be a nightmare

...

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

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

She has no choice but open them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eomer opens his mouth but she beats him to it.

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

...

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

Also This is Éomer looking down at her

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 2 of 6

Part 1 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

Summary: Éorhild and Éomer hold a secret rendezvous on the hillside of Edoras to enjoy the sunset while drinking tea. But some truths, once unspoken, are burning their lips.

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

Word count: 11,472

Note: I warned you that this was going to be a long chapter

Read it on AO3 here.

As Éorhild stumbled upon the view of Éomer perched atop the rocky hillside, his golden hair dancing in the wind and his gaze absorbed by the landscape darkening under the orange and rosy hues of the sky, her heart fluttered within her chest. His early presence caught her off guard, as though he had been even more eager to share that cup of tea than she had been.

After a day filled with pouring, cleaning, washing, scrubbing and polishing, she had ensured that all of the tasks demanded of her were promptly completed. Left with ample time to indulge in a bath and bake some delicacies for their rendezvous. When Dúnhild, chambermaid to Lady Éowyn, volunteered to collect orders during her visit to the market, Éorhild shared her list, slipping a few golden coins into her fellow servant’s palm.

With the ingredients fetched from the stalls, she dedicated the remaining time she had before her secret meeting with the prince to cooking biscuits that, with experience, she had learnt that he delighted in. It was a relatively simple creation, nothing especially fancy – batter delicately infused with a touch of vanilla and cinnamon, then sprinkled with chocolate crumbs. She had often caught him stuffing himself with her biscuits on harsh winter days when he remained unaware of her presence. Even later at night, when everybody had retired to bed except for her when she was doing her sweeping duties, she had glimpsed the prince as he discreetly left his chambers in pursuit of the much-coveted treats. Once or twice did she generously sacrifice the few she had set aside for herself and placed them in a bowl in the Golden Hall for him to find and feast upon.

Naturally, this gathering presented the perfect occasion for her to treat him to such delicacies, especially considering the purpose of their meeting − to help him ease the doubts and pain burdening his heart. Admitting to a hint of selfishness, she harboured the hope that he would recognise the biscuits and her baking. That, somehow, their taste would evoke the realisation that she had been the anonymous treat provider when the sole memory of the biscuits would make his mouth water and drag him out from the comfort of his bed.

Would he take a greater liking to her then? Would he demand to meet with her more often? Would they share some peaceful moments of contemplation on the hillside again?

Such questions left her feeling rather foolish. These concerns should have remained insignificant to her, yet she could not resist her desire to spend even more time with him than they already had. What good was it for a maid to dwell in the company of her lord? Her duty was to ensure that he was well-fed, warm enough in cold seasons, refreshed in warmer times and that he would never have to care about his chambers being unkempt or his hall being unfit for visitors. She was merely one of the many pairs of hands working tirelessly to promise him comfort and honour. It was believed that a lord without a proper household would insult Rohan’s nobility, and a king without a tidy palace would be the joke of his entire realm. Éorhild wished none of it upon Éomer. Nor did she upon Théoden and Éowyn.

Returning to her senses, she cautiously descended the steps of Meduseld, carrying the tray with the teacups and the plate of biscuits. The soles of her shoes softly pressed against the parchment-thin layer of ice that lingered upon the ground and uneven patches of grass on the hilltop of Edoras. It crackled under each of her steps, soon heralding her presence to the prince.

Éomer peered over his shoulder, and his face illuminated within a heartbeat. He rose and climbed on the rocks, careful not to slip. He extended both hands to gently take the tray from her so she could hold on to the cold stone to keep her balance. One miscalculated step, and one could fall to their death at the foot of the capital.

Once he placed the tray on a flat enough rock, the prince gently took his maid’s hand and guided her towards him, ignoring the blush dusting her cheek.

‘Careful, my lady.’

Éorhild smiled to herself and finally found a stable spot to place her feet. She patted the dust off of her dress and bowed to him.

‘Thank you, your Majesty. But I am no lady.’

‘Titles are but words, Éorhild. Do not give them more weight than they deserve.’

She grinned and locked eyes with him for a brief yet meaningful moment before he turned to fetch the tray and find a seat.

‘Is this place where you intended to meet?’ he asked with curved eyebrows, as though Edoras was an enigma to him and not his birthplace and where he had spent his whole life.

‘Yes, my lord, although I usually climb higher, just beneath the wall. But it is more than fine here.’

‘Well, let us savour this tea before it turns cold, shall we?’

Éorhild nodded and lowered herself to the rocky ground of the hillside. Careful not to sit on sharp stones, she found a comfortable position to stay and watch the sunset with Éomer. The latter offered her one of the steaming cups, helping himself to the other, and gently clinked them together with a teasing grin. As he dipped his lip into the warm beverage, letting its minty flavour roll on his tongue and coat the insides of his cheeks, he admired the sunset again.

‘How was your day, Éorhild?’

‘Busy, but I had enough time to prepare what I wanted for our encounter,’ she replied with a peaceful grin as her gaze followed his and fell upon the rosy sky. ‘Did you have a fine day, my lord? Not too tiresome, I hope?’

Éomer’s mouth twitched, and he hastened to drink more tea to conceal his unfiltered expression. He warmed his reddened hands around the ceramic cup, feeling the tiny ridges of wear underneath his fingertips. His heart was in turmoil again. Not only did his nightmare from the previous evening still haunt him despite Éorhild’s comforting words, but another council session in Théoden’s presence the same morning had weighed on his mind.

‘This day was rather intense, I must admit,’ he sighed. As he watched his tea swirl in his cup, he ran a hand through his hair, which he wore down for once. ‘My marriage is being finalised.’

‘Is it not a good thing?’

‘From a dynastic and political perspective, it is. But from mine… I sure wish it was not happening.’

She sipped her tea and searched his gaze, resisting the urge to touch his shoulder in reassurance. She could not fathom the responsibility of marriage being bestowed upon one’s shoulders. Having sworn an oath of celibacy when vowing to serve the royal household at Meduseld, she found solace that she would be spared such harrowing strife. Being baseborn would have rendered such concern much less nerve-racking, however. Éomer was in a situation which she would never have wished to know.

‘May I enquire why you do not want to marry, or would I be overstepping your boundaries?’ her soft voice whispered in the wind, careful not to startle him and cause further anguish.

The prince glanced at her and smiled.

‘Not at all,’ he responded with an equally gentle tone. ‘Truth be told, I was hoping that, for once, marriage could have been something I could have chosen of my own volition. That I could have chosen my bride myself, out of affection.’

‘It sounds rather reasonable to me. After all, it is a life partner you will gain, and not every pair is compatible.’

‘Precisely. Besides, I have spent my life being dedicated to duty. As a soldier and marshal, I obeyed orders I did not always agree with because I knew that they were demanded of me and that it was my responsibility to carry them out. My whole life I looked up to my parents and my uncle and tried to fit the mould of their expectations for a prince. Even when I was banished from the land, I protected my realm anyway, out of service and love for my kingdom and my king. So, marriage was the only thing that I would have wanted to lead with my heart and not with the need for heirs and political allies.’

Éorhild finished her cup of tea, her eyes fixed upon him, brimming with concern. She picked up the plate of biscuits and raised it to his level, inviting him to pick one, and he did without even glancing at it. He twirled it between his fingers before breaking it in two and biting into it. He momentarily closed his eyes as he savoured it, recognising the taste in an instant.

Yet, he did not comment on it, despite what she had hoped. Instead, he continued his heartfelt confession, his voice straining in his throat.

‘Out of duty, I mistreated my own sister. I could not understand why she resisted orders, why she would not conform to the role expected of her sex, and why she reacted so emotionally to many things,’ he blurted out, unable to stop himself. ‘When I nearly lost her and realised that she would rather have died on the battlefield than return to Rohan as a Lady, I understood how much pain I had caused her. I was among those who had made her life so difficult here that death appeared a sweeter option. My little sister… The apple of my eyes, even if I would never admit it to her face. Perhaps I should. She deserves to know.’

‘She seems to love the man she is betrothed to.’

‘Faramir? Oh, yes. If anything, I am happy that she had the chance to choose her groom herself. Nobody deserves to choose more than she does.’

‘Everybody does.’

He nodded and savoured the last droplets of his tea as he delicately motioned to place the cup on the tray. Then, he picked up another biscuit and absentmindedly nibbled on it, not bothering to break it into smaller pieces this time.

‘You are lucky that you will never know this pain,’ he mused with a slight tilt of the head. ‘This is perhaps one thing which I envy commoners for, for a lack of a better word. You possess a freedom denied to the nobility – a choice.’

‘Not all are granted it.’

Éomer arched an eyebrow, turning his gaze towards her with evident surprise. Was he this ignorant, he wondered? Had his life diverged so significantly from that of his people that he could no longer discern his own fortune? He prayed not, for such a realisation would cast great shame on his honour but, above all, to his feeble confidence in his ability to rule. How could a king, entrusted with the weighty responsibility of governance, make judicious decisions if his understanding of his subjects’ struggles was skewed? How could he, even as heir apparent, allow himself to remain uneducated on such a crucial matter?

So, in silence, he chewed on the last morsel of the biscuit he held between his fingers until his mouth was rid of crumbs, and it became appropriate for him to speak again.

‘How so?’

Éorhild rubbed her forearm, belatedly realising that she had left her mantle upon her mattress. As the sun descended on the horizon and vanished behind the majestic peaks of the Rohirric mountains, its fading rays cast a deep purple glow around the prince and the maid. The warmth bestowed by the star lingered for a moment, embracing them until the encroaching darkness finally settled to exhale its cold winds upon them.

‘It is a matter of vocation,’ she responded, the braids in her hair lifted by the first shy evening breezes. ‘We, the maids of Meduseld, are forbidden from taking husbands or lovers.’

Her declaration, as patient as it was in the face of his blatant ignorance, caught him off guard. The arch of his eyebrow collapsed into a deep frown, forming furrows on his forehead that narrowly obscured his eyes.

‘This cannot be!’ he exclaimed in disbelief. ‘Surely our laws are not so severe towards our good women that they deny them such fundamental rights!’

‘You would be surprised to hear what our oath entails, my lord,’ she added, resting her elbow upon her knee and her chin on the crook of her palm.

Éomer reached out for a biscuit but halted mid-air. It suddenly felt rather inappropriate to indulge in eating when confronted with such revolting knowledge.

‘I do not comprehend why you would be forbidden to love.’

‘Well, it is believed that a woman would be too engrossed in her wifely duties to properly tend to the royal household. Whether in opulence or in poverty, it is expected of us that we bear children to our husbands. Such a task, it was argued, would interfere with our service to Meduseld.’

‘Do these rules apply to the male servants, too?’

‘I am afraid not. Should they marry, the task of raising their children would be bestowed upon their wives.’

The prince scoffed, crossing his arms as he leant forward and rubbed his index across his lips. The crease upon his brow persisted, and Éorhild longed to smooth it away with a gentle touch of her thumb. It became increasingly challenging to refrain from touching him. With each passing day, their interactions had grown warmer, and their evenings by the fire were now filled with laughter. How could she not yearn for more? How could she demand of her heart to still when his mere presence and the playful words rolling off his tongue whenever he addressed her incited such excitement and joy?

But it was already revolting enough for a maid to gaze upon him; she could not allow herself further excesses. Losing her function would bring her great sorrow.

Her resolve waned as she perceived another jeer from Éomer. She attempted to decipher his expression. She wondered why the reasoning behind the oath she had had to pledge offended him so.

‘Such archaic laws are a plague to our realm,’ he muttered through gritted teeth. ‘They are what confined our maidens and mothers to such reductive tasks and robbed them of their individuality. Of their passion.’

Éomer wove his fingers through his hair, his nostrils flaring in anger as his pupils swept through the landscape before him.

‘Such is the world that my sister has grown up and suffered in. It revolts me. When I become king, I will ensure that these rules are erased from our culture. I must set our women free.’

‘But you alone cannot put an end to generations of customs and deeply rooted traditions,’ she remarked in a kind tone. ‘This cannot be done, even by one as powerful as you. Centuries of conventions will take centuries to be undone. Even if you raise your heir to be as rightful as you aspire to be, you cannot even be sure that your successors will not re-establish the very rules you sought to eliminate.’

The prince contemplated her words and sighed. Even in the darkness, she discerned the glistening of his eyes and the strain upon his features. Deciding to forsake her restraint after careful consideration, Éorhild extended her hand and gently placed it on his forearm in a gesture of solace. The pad of her thumb gently brushed against the coarse linen of his sleeve.

Her eyes remained fixed on her own fingers, bracing for his rejection; at any second, she expected him to swat her hand away, retract his arm, or reprimand her insubordination. However, none of these anticipations unfolded. Instead, she sensed the tension in his body yield under her touch as he exhaled to soothe himself.

Until this moment, Éomer had not known how much he needed this. Despite the absurdity and idiocy of his statement, she showed him utter kindness, a gesture he knew that he would never have extended had their roles been reversed. His heart was engulfed in a surge of gratitude and unadmitted affection for the woman he had so long ignored and yet breathed such benevolence into his undeserving life.

As he felt her touch, his eyes brimmed with tears. What good would his ascension to the throne bring if he could not deliver his people from the archaic and severe laws of his forebears? His thoughts shifted to Éowyn. Had she not endured enough? Could the insights he had gleaned from her confessions after the war truly not aid her kin?

Éomer’s eyes lowered to Éorhild’s fingers on his sleeve. How he longed to hold her hand! To return the favour and make her feel as valued as she did him! But the words caught in his throat, tangled in the lump forming there, threatening to break down the walls he had built around himself. No sentimentality, his uncle had often told him, for it is not worthy of a prince.

He could not deviate from protocol. It would be improper. Moreover, if he were to demonstrate such vulnerability, he realised that she would be the one to bear the repercussions, for in Rohirric law, he was nearly untouchable.

Something poked his hand and drew his attention away from his spiralling thoughts. Éorhild was handing him a biscuit with an encouraging smile playing on her lips. Reciprocating the grin, he thanked her with a nod and took it.

‘You know, even if your reign might not make a drastic difference, the fact that you try to understand and learn already holds significant meaning,’ she murmured, leaning forward just enough for her voice to reach him, unperturbed by the rising breeze. ‘It is a quality that few of our kings have possessed, yet that I would gladly bend the knee for.’

The prince grinned and gently patted her hand with his own. Surely, this much he was allowed to express, was he not?

‘I am sorry that I did not know about the sacrifices demanded of our maids. You are an integral part of our household, and knowing that you are not allowed to have families of your own sounds utterly ridiculous.’

Éorhild chuckled, a blush gracing her cheeks as she felt the fleeting tapping of his fingers on her knuckles.

‘Have you not had servants pledge their oath to you?’

‘Yes, I have,’ Éomer admitted in a nervous laugh, ‘but I fear that I have not lent a keen ear to them then.’

‘That is well. I probably would not have listened either had I been in your position. Such matters can be rather… repetitive. And boring.’

Their soft laughter rose in the air as they let their gazes wander the darkened landscape before them. The sun had long since set, rendering the earth wintry and bleak. Without the elusive shadows of the grazing wild animals in the distance and the nimble beasts on the flanks of the mountains, Rohan appeared ensnared in stillness.

Edoras was hushed, the clamour of the streets confined to the taverns farther into the city. The sizzling of the torches dulled in the gale; their flames wafted and bowed in the howl of the breeze, lapping at the rims of their hearths and leaving soot on the bronze.

Flocks of nocturnal birds fluttered their wings, allowing the wind to carry them across the land in the palm of its hand. Above the prince and the maid, a few alighted at the foot of the Golden Hall to peck at the weeds growing between the marble bricks in search of edible prey. Éorhild smiled at their sight, observing them take flight and vanish into the night.

Strangely stirred by her innocent enthusiasm, Éomer felt his face redden as he witnessed the twinkle in her eye. Inside his chest, his heart quickened. Confusion seized him; why was he reacting in such a strong way? Why did he feel the urge to touch her hand again? He could not. No, he had to keep to himself. It was but a fleeting impulse, nothing more.

‘May I ask you something rather personal?’

The words flowed off his lip before he even thought them. For an instant, he hoped that the wind would carry them away from her before they could reach her. But when the maid looked up, her curiosity piqued, he cursed himself for speaking in the first place.

‘Anything, my lord.’

Blast. There was no escaping it. He scratched his beard and eluded her gaze. Embarrassment turned the rosy hue of his cheeks a deeper shade of red. He could swear that had she dared to graze her fingers above his skin, she would have sensed the heat radiating from it.

‘When comes the day that Béma summons you to him, will you not resent the life you led?’

‘Because it was devoid of romance?’

The prince knew not how to respond, and his hesitation conveyed enough for her to understand that she had grasped his sentiment.

‘Do not pity me, my lord, for I am content with my life. It is but romance that I shall be bereft of, not love.’

‘What difference is there?’

Éorhild faced the mountains again, her eyes tracing their peaks. Her long golden locks wafted in the wind, almost entwining with Éomer’s.

‘Love is not something which I lack. I once received it from my family, and I now receive it from my peers and friends at Meduseld. I feel it every day with every task I complete,’ she spoke with a peaceful and solemn grin. ‘My role as a maid is no burden to me; had I found no fulfilment from it, I would have long resigned. I pour my love into everything that I do. In every cup of wine that I fill, in every garment that I wash, and in every floor that I sweep. It must sound rather silly to you, but I feel at peace in my position. Knowing that the people who entrust me with their well-being are satisfied with my services fills me with joy.’

Éomer absorbed her every word as though they held the key to unlocking his mind to a new vision of the world he inhabited. He nodded along, considering her perspective yet not finding much sense in it.

‘Do you not want a family of your own?’

‘But I do have a family, my lord,’ she chimed. ‘One of my own choosing! One day, I shall raise children, only I will not have birthed them. Yet I am confident that I shall also receive their affection.’

‘You are a carer at heart, Éorhild, this much is certain,’ Éomer responded with a smile playing on his lips. ‘But will you not long for someone to care for you in return?’

‘This I cannot ascertain. I can only speak for my past and my present, and so far, I have no complaints.’

They exchanged a compassionate glance and settled into a shared silence for a moment. Éomer reached out for the last biscuit, casting her a beseeching look. With a merry chortle, she bowed her head and watched as he claimed it, holding it up before him.

‘These biscuits have been my weakness for years,’ he said, his voice tinged with amusement.

‘I know,’ she grinned. ‘That is why I made them.’

Genuine surprise graced his face. Her heart swelled with pride; he had indeed recognised her treats!

‘How did you know?’

Rosy hues dusted Éorhild’s cheeks as she lowered her head, unable to restrain the smile that illuminated her face. Unbeknownst to her, Éomer admired her, his heart filling with affection. If its rhythm had quickened earlier, it was now faster than ever, akin to the pace he only experienced when adrenaline rushed through his veins. He dared not approach any closer, fearful that she might perceive the frenetic pounding within his chest. His heart was fated to beat along the drums of war, not to flutter in the company of a woman.

But the realisation that she had remembered one of his preferences without him needing to divulge them was overwhelming. It evoked a sense of sheepishness within him, more profound than ever before.

When Éorhild confessed to being the one to have baked the biscuits over the years solely to witness his enthusiasm, hiding them in plain sight for his enjoyment, she felt somewhat foolish. She wished she possessed enough self-control to halt the torrent of words pouring forth from her mouth. He regarded her with intense scrutiny, the obscurity failing to conceal the reddening of her face as she continued to speak. Why did she feel the need to tell him such things? What conceivable benefit could it yield for her?

Why did her limbs feel both weightless and awfully heavy? Her gut churned, undulating as her chest did with each quivering breath she drew. This sensation was unknown to her; painful yet pleasant, fearful yet bold. She was at her most vulnerable, yet wielded incredible strength to dissimulate the dizzying state that she was in.

While his countenance remained impassive, she pondered whether he felt repelled upon learning of these little gestures she had bestowed upon him from the shadows of the Golden Hall all this time. Was the thought so revolting that he would forsake her and have her banished? In all honesty, she would not find it in her to blame him. The very oath she had once sworn was now betrayed by her heart and her mouth.

And, for once in her life, defying it no longer appeared inconceivable. If anything, it evolved into an irresistible compulsion. Something she needed to do.

But it was much too dangerous. There was no reason for her to risk her stable vocation, the roof over her head, and her own neck for an unattainable fantasy.

Éomer observed her with wide eyes, incapable of organising his thoughts into coherent words and phrases. Had he already opened his mouth, he was aware that he would have stammered like an utter imbecile. He could not allow that; his poise, typically so effortless in her presence, suddenly felt overly calculated and measured. He grew conscious of every blink of his eyes, every twitch of his lips, every breath. What a fool, he thought to himself; what an outright fool.

‘So it was you all this time,’ he finally managed to whisper, still struck with awe by the revelation.

‘Indeed. I apologise for embarrassing you, I should have kept it to myself.’

‘No, Éorhild, not at all.’

She looked into his eyes and distinguished nothing but kindness in their twinkle rivalling the brightness of the stars above them. The corners of her mouth rose in a bashful grin. Éomer mirrored them, causing her heart to quiver further.

‘Rest assured that I feel no resentment for it,’ he added, feeling as though she needed to hear it as much as he needed to utter the words himself. ‘If anything, I am comforted by the idea that I had you as a friend before I saw you.’

His gaze remained fixated on her, although he found himself distracted by the waves in her hair. He imagined running his fingers through them, feeling their soft texture against his roughened skin. One of his fingers jolted, eager to take the leap, while his hand remained tied to reason.

Éorhild spoke again, halting the shameful meanderings of his mind.

‘What will you do about this marriage, then? Do you have the freedom to refuse it?’

‘No,’ Éomer sighed. ‘In the eyes of the law, I should be able to decline it, but there would be too many consequences to such a foolish act.’

‘Do you know the Lady Lothíriel?’

‘Aye. Although it is her father I know better. He is a close friend of mine, despite us originating from such different lands. He was kind enough to offer me his daughter’s hand in marriage, but…’

The prince shook his hand, the movement of his mane releasing its unsuspected perfume that cast a powerful spell over her within an instant.

‘Lady Lothíriel is kind, sweet, and beautiful,’ he continued. ‘But there lacks a connection between us. There is no passion, no desire.’

‘And this is what you wish for. To have somebody that you truly cherish.’

‘Of course. Ah, you must think me selfish…’

Éorhild yearned for the brief meeting of their eyes, resisting the impulse to reach out and graze his arm anew. To indulge in another fleeting touch would seem rather blasphemous. Royals were on the brink of sanctity to the Rohirrim; her servant’s hand would mar his regality. Though she had found a sense of boldness in the course of their conversation, she hesitated, realising that she lacked the courage to take this risk once more.

‘Not in the slightest, my lord,’ she attempted to reassure him instead. ‘In tales of old, the most benevolent kings often owed their virtue to the happiness they found in their marriage, too. One blissful in his home brings bliss to his kingdom.’

‘Hah, that is one way to see it,’ he reacted with a hearty chuckle. ‘Perhaps a bit optimistic and idealistic, but you might be right. Besides, I do not want her to be trapped in a loveless marriage. She deserves much better than that.’

Éorhild’s gaze returned to the birds as they soared above their blond heads. The notion of Éomer’s marriage induced an ache within her. Though her dedication to tending to him and his kin would endure nonetheless, it became evident that the evenings conversing around the hearth in the hall were numbered. No longer would they share pleasantries over cups of wine and water. No longer would he permit her gaze to linger upon him, aware that such scrutiny was already forbidden. To behold a married royal of the opposite sex outside the bounds of personal service verged on the sacrilegious.

Despite her satisfaction with her role at Meduseld, a realisation dawned upon her that her days would soon revert to a quiet solitude. Certainly, she had made companions among her peers with whom they occasionally unburdened their hearts. Labour assumed a more delightful hue thanks to them. Mundane tasks transformed into playful games and friendly challenges meant to motivate one another into productivity while finding genuine enjoyment in their endeavours. No one within the servants’ quarters could elicit laughter from her quite like Éomer. In his presence, her limbs found a certain lightness that eluded her elsewhere.

Silently bidding their friendship farewell, Éorhild spoke into the night in the most solemn tone she could produce, unwilling to let her pain show.

‘Are you going to decline the proposal, then?’

Éomer shifted in his position and drew nearer until she could discern the faint warmth of his mantle so green. Evading his gaze, she remained unaware of the flames of torment ablaze in his eyes. He stared as if unwilling to witness anything else, as though, by his merely looking away, she would slip away like a fleeting wisp from between his parted fingers.

‘I suppose that I could, but I do not believe that I have the courage to do so,’ he conceded in a hushed whisper. ‘It is a matter of duty. When my time comes to reign, Rohan will need a queen and reinforced bonds with Gondor should war return to our lands.’

‘I understand.’

‘But it is not what my heart wants.’

A trace of desperate longing lingered in his voice; of that, she was certain. Something absent even a mere moment prior – a subtle tinge of affection. Deciphering Éomer’s sentimental nuances was a most arduous task. Although his body language often spoke volumes, particularly to her expert eye, his facial expressions and inconspicuous cues remained a mystery.

Drastic emotions were the most effortless to discern. When he harboured deep displeasure, the aura of his discontent was such that it pervaded even those engrossed in tasks on the opposite side of Meduseld. Similarly, in the midst of rare, unbridled joy, a perpetual smile would grace his youthful face, accompanied by the most contagious laughter the realm had ever seen.

So Éorhild quelled any budding hope that it was indeed yearning she had perceived. She knew all too well that the prince would never favour her. It was a sole maid’s fantasy, a childish wish of her eager heart.

As she held his gaze in deliberate silence, his hands deftly unhooked the mantle secured at his collar.

‘Poor Éorhild, you are freezing! I can hear the chatter of your teeth from here!’

In a swift motion, he enveloped her in his mantle, his fingers working to fasten the clasp below her throat. Both of their faces flushed, and they seldom dared to behold each other. As the fabric unfolded and the heavy silk graced her drooping shoulders, the aroma ensnared within reached her nostrils. It was the same fragrance she had frequently caught from his hair, albeit in a subdued essence, whenever his head abruptly shifted.

It embodied what she imagined as the very perfume of Valinor – a blend of its tranquil rivers and verdant plains, its blossoming trees and the lofty peaks of its mountains. It encapsulated nature and life itself. The caress of the summer breeze and the thundering gallop of a horse, the blizzards of the harshest winter nights and the crackling in the hearth. It was the refined grace of a lord and the unyielding strength of a soldier’s grip — the stroke of the feather and the slash of the blade.

It was Éomer.

Éorhild’s heart hammered inside her chest, momentarily leaving her dizzy, as her prince struggled to secure the ties of his cloak around her. His face hovered near, close enough for his warm breath to touch the bare skin of her neck.

‘My lord, will you not be cold yourself?’ she asked sheepishly. ‘You are wearing nothing but linen.’

‘I will be fine, I promise,’ he replied with a comforting smile, an expression which might have persuaded her had he not been gripped by a shiver coursing through his spine.

‘Nonsense. I see your trembling! Please do take your mantle back, my lord. If one is to catch their death tonight, it must be me, not the heir to the throne.’

Éomer laughed while observing her unfasten the cloak and hold it up to him.

‘Would you consider a compromise?’

The maid’s eyes locked with his as curiosity piqued their interest.

‘A compromise, my lord?’

‘Yes. This cloak is ridiculously large. I am quite certain that we could both fit underneath if we come a little closer,’ he suggested with a twinkle in his eye. Not one of malice, she could tell.

Éorhild snapped her head in the opposite direction, peering above her shoulder towards Edoras in a futile attempt to conceal her flustered state. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out the hooting of the snow owls on the prowl.

Beside her, Éomer awaited her answer, alarmed by her sudden withdrawal. However, he remained patient. Had it been anybody else, he might have shrugged it off, but this woman was worth the wait, he found himself musing. There was nothing she could do that would displease him.

‘It would not be proper, my lord,’ she intoned at last. ‘A prince and a maid under the same garment… It is unheard of.’

‘Do not trouble yourself with what our people might think. Nobody will even know. Let me warm you. Please,’ he implored in a gentle murmur in the quietude of the moment, the wind having finally bestowed them some respite.

Éorhild pinched her rosy lips, batting her eyelashes as she contemplated the exquisite fabric crumpled in her hands. She acquiesced with a nod, her fingers loosening around the silk extracted from between them by the prince. He drew nearer until they sat thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder. In a swift flick of the wrist, he covered her shoulders with the cloak, firmly holding the opposite hem in his fist against his upper arm.

‘You may press against me if the mantle slips off,’ he whispered with a warmth that equalled the cloak's protection. ‘I shall think nothing of it.’

‘Then slip off it will.’

A sigh rolled off his lip and manifested in a twirling gust of vapour before him.

‘Éorhild, may I ask you a question?’

She shifted her shoulders to find greater comfort beneath the cloak, her fingertips delicately tracing the embroideries adorning its hem.

‘Always, my lord.’

‘Why do you flee me so?’

Éorhild crossed his gaze, sensing the lump in her throat reappear. There was a tinge of pain to his otherwise gleeful irises. The sole sight of it weighed upon her heart.

‘I do not flee you. I only fear being close.’

‘Why? Do you not appreciate my company?’

‘My lord, I do!’ she gasped, determined not to let him believe that she could ever be reluctant to spend even a minute with him. ‘But your touch and proximity do scare me. You have already led me to break a sacred rule of my oath by asking me not to avert my eyes in your presence. What other rules will you demand me to break? It is I who shall bear the consequences, not you. I could lose everything: my home or my head.’

Her voice was heavy, bearing the weight of the conflict within her heart. Thoughts raced and collided inside her mind, creating a cacophony when she longed for the solace of silence. She could not bear the embarrassment. Her desire to rise and run surged, but the cold paralysed her feet.

Before she spiralled into oblivion, she felt the soft touch of his finger curling underneath her chin, gently turning her head towards Éomer. Her eyelids drooped as the mintiness of his exhale enveloped her. Her breath caught in her throat, and the visible sparkle in her eyes twinkled with the emotion of this unexpected gesture.

‘I demand one more rule to be broken, Éorhild. It is that you never call me by my title again when it is just the two of us,’ he requested, his words carrying a sincerity that resonated with a desire for intimacy.

‘What am I to call you?’

The prince chuckled and smiled broadly, lips parting to uncover his teeth. His expression softened, yet a hint of playfulness lingered in his eye.

‘My name would be a good start.’

‘My lord, I could not−’

‘It would mean the world to me, dearest Éorhild, to hear my name upon your lips.’

His heartfelt plea stirred something in the deepest recesses of her being. The tremor that shook his soothing voice betrayed an inner turmoil similar to her own. Could it be that he was experiencing the same upheaval as she did? Was his heart, maddened by conflicting desires, on the verge of bursting?

No, it could not be. She was thinking ahead of herself. Éomer was reasonable. But again, she used to believe the same about herself until this very night.

Gripped by guilt and fear, the prince withdrew his hand and crossed his arms against his lap, digging his pointy elbows into his thighs to ground himself.

‘I apologise,’ he muttered, ‘I should not have touched you so.’

He sighed again and ran a hand through his golden mane, which turned silver in the moonlight.

‘I meant to thank you for listening to my idiotic rants tonight. You express such patience and benevolence towards me, and I fear I do not quite deserve your kindness. But I appreciate it all the same.’

Éorhild gulped and brushed her fingers against his forearm. He jolted, and his eyes darted to his sleeve. While his heart skipped a beat, his hand crept upon hers and offered it a comforting squeeze despite the iciness of her touch. Their gazes met once more, and giddy smiles blossomed upon their reddened cheeks.

‘You need no longer suffer alone, Éomer,’ she intoned, daring to trace the outline of his thumb with her own.

‘I cannot suffer when you are near.’

The words flew out of the prince’s mouth before he could even form them in his mind. They held an inevitable truth that he no longer wished to deny. It caused her breath to hitch, her heart to flutter, and her limbs to tremble − except for the hand he held. The ends of her hair, still carried by the rising wind, came to caress his cheek. She broke the silence with a soft laugh and gathered her hair onto her other shoulder.

‘My apologies.’

‘No harm done.’

Éorhild grinned and sighed, slumping her shoulders while maintaining his gaze.

‘I know I am a mere servant, but if you ever need somebody to lean on, I am never against sharing a cup of tea on the hillside.’

His eyes softened and seemed to delve into hers as though scavenging for crumbs of thoughts within her soul. Anything that could either confirm or deny an idea that had already taken root and burgeoned in his mind.

‘You cannot be.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘You cannot be a mere servant. You are more than that, more than you believe.’

Éomer found himself on the verge of a breaking point. His emotions had grown too overwhelming to contain, too apparent to escape her notice, and he no longer cared to dissimulate them. He desired her by his side and was determined to make it possible.

‘The Valar cannot even see all that you are,’ he continued in a hushed scoff and a smouldering glance. ‘In heart and mind, you are all that a man would and should want. And none would deserve you.’

A beaming blush dusted her face, tinting it in the deepest scarlet. His thumb searched for hers, bending and tracing her knuckle.

‘Your perception of me is unfounded,’ she responded with a titter.

‘Is it?’

He shook his head and pried his eyes away from her, feeling incapable of leaving her out of his field of vision. In this instant, she was the only sight he wished to behold, her hand the only thing he wished to hold, her closeness his only weapon against the cold.

He needed her. There was no other word for it.

Silence settled again as they grappled with the tumultuous swirls of emotion ravaging their thumping hearts. Éorhild redirected her attention to the dance of the birds of prey, oblivious that her hand lingered captive in his, a detail unnoticed in the tapestry of the moment.

It rested so small within his grasp, a fragile thing, delicate and gentle despite the ruggedness of its daily toll. Her nails were kept conveniently short yet meticulously groomed, creating the illusion that her fingers were briefer than their true length. Though it lacked the refinement of a noble lady’s hand, Éomer saw it as the embodiment of the tenderest care, a conveyor of the kindness residing in her heart. It was this that poured his wine and never missed his cup, that which prepared the treats known to mend his troubled heart.

The spaces between her fingers captured the prince’s attention. In his mind’s eye, he envisioned his own filling these sweet gaps until their hands would fit together seamlessly. He imagined the warmness of her smooth palm, almost feeling tingles in his free hand as he indulged in the fantasised sensation.

He pictured her fingertips combing through his hair, skimming along his scalp until her thumb would rest on his cheekbone, and he would abandon himself to the depths of her earth-coloured irises. In them, he would see the whole world. No land would be left unexplored. He would witness the birth of new trees on the edge of the Entwood; he would feel the coarse sand of the coasts of Haradwaith under his bare feet. He would hear the merry tunes of the Shire and taste the sweetest wines of the Dale. She would ground him like none ever did and sweep him off his feet within the same hour.

Cursing himself for thinking of her in such a manner again, Éomer nibbled on his upper lip. His brow furrowed, creasing his forehead, while his leg began to bounce of its own volition, his heel occasionally slapping the rock underneath. He needed a distraction from the unreasonable longings of his heart. Anything would suffice.

Éorhild inhaled deeply, instantly detecting the palpable nervousness that seized him. She wished for nothing more than to alleviate his anguish, as much for his sake as the solace she sought in her own.

In that instant, a memory unfurled within her. Over the course of her sixteen years of service, there was one thing she had learnt that would assuage the nervous prince. It was a melody; Hilda had taught her that it was a song his late mother once tenderly sang to him and Éowyn when they were little. Remarkably, even throughout his adolescent and adult years, he would find consolation by softly humming it in moments of great distress.

Perhaps this song was the key.

Mustering the courage and recollecting the lyrics, Éorhild gently pressed her shoulder to his, her fingers twitching around his forearm. And then, she sang:

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.

Éomer’s head sharply turned towards her, a cascade of his luscious locks of his hair swirling between them. His eyes widened in astonishment, for never had he fathomed hearing these words from her.

Thus, the realisation dawned − she knew.

Of course, she did.

And she continued, her voice elevating in the air, amplified by the breeze:

May his bed never be cold May his head always find rest; Whether in halls or the wold, May his path ever be blessed.

Enraptured by her singing and the sight of her serene expression as she uttered the words, Éomer paid no heed to the tears brimming his eyes. It had been long since anyone had intoned it to him. Upon reflection, the last person had been his mother during her last days on her sickbed.

And so, he listened. Éorhild may not have been the finest singer in the land, but her voice was in tune, still carrying a melody enchanting enough to captivate him. One by one, his muscles relaxed, and his breath deepened anew. The storm that had gathered within his heart dissipated, allowing the moonlight in.

A moment later, she concluded the lullaby with the last verse he had always cherished most.

May your soul blossom and never know strife, May your candle be evermore alight; May you find peace in the arms of a wife, Whose embrace your anguish shall always smite.

Éorhild’s eyelashes fluttered open as her lips closed again. Flustered and sheepish, her eyes slid towards Éomer’s in anticipation. Would he be vexed that she had discerned his fondness for the song?

‘I hope that I did not spoil it,’ she ventured with a trace of uncertainty, her gaze searching his for any sign of disappointment.

No words came to reassure her. Not a peep. Instead, he acted on impulse, an action that would astonish anyone familiar with his name and status.

Éomer closed the gap between them, weaving his fingers through her hair and bestowed the tenderest kiss upon her lips. The chilled tip of his rosy nose delicately grazed against her cheek in a bashful caress. A warm palm cradled the side of her face while his other arm encircled her waist beneath the mantle, urging her ever nearer. The moment he felt her form nestled against him and the warmth of her gentle breath upon his skin, the butterflies once fluttering in the pit of his stomach transformed into galloping stallions, stomping and thundering their hooves.

Stiffening at first, Éorhild found herself uncertain about how to proceed. A surge of joy boiled within her, but she dared not abandon herself to it. However, as his grasp grew affectionate, she yielded to the kiss. Her hand found its place on the back of his head, her thumb caressing his hair while the other rested below his collarbone.

This was neither a dream nor a figment of her imagination. Underneath his linen shirt, each beat of his heart reverberated the brisk quiver of a hummingbird’s wings. And she knew hers to be forced into the same maddening dance.

It was Éomer who broke the kiss first, withdrawing his face just a few inches away from hers. The distance maintained him at her mercy should she desire to claim his lips once more while allowing their shy eyes to meet.

‘Éorhild, I…’

Words eluded him, his mind still in the midst of the storm that the kiss caused within him. The last thing he wanted was to scare her away, and a nagging conviction gripped him that he had achieved precisely that, even if she had reciprocated his advances.

And scared she was. Fear twisted within her as it dawned on what they had just done. All the rules of her vocation had been violated. Not only had she touched royalty, but she had ventured into inappropriate behaviour towards the prince. She was acutely aware of the price to pay for such an offence.

Death.

Her hand slid from his hair onto his cheek as she regarded him with a gaze that treated him as though he were the most exquisite artwork in the realm, if not in all of Middle Earth itself.

‘You will cause my ruin; do you know that?’

‘I do.’

Éomer swallowed hard and gently nuzzled her nose, releasing a soft exhale. It was as if the kiss had left him inebriated. His head bore the weight of an exhilarating heaviness while floating with a lightness that defied any sane and reasonable explanation. He knew that he never wanted to let her go.

‘Are you willing to take this risk?’

The maid sighed and leant her forehead against his, her hands trembling. This was her choice as much as it was his, if not more. Should the truth about their endeavour be revealed, the king’s wrath would not be unleashed on his nephew but on her.

‘I cannot,’ she cried, ‘I swore an oath to your kin never to take a man. I am forbidden to hold a man’s hand, and here I am, receiving my first kiss!’

There was a strange yet deep joy within him as she pronounced the last words. It occurred to him that she could never have indulged in such things; she was but a child when she entered Meduseld to be trained as a maid. And he had been her first kiss. He felt a profound honour in that.

‘I am touched that you gave it to me,’ he murmured.

‘You claimed it for yourself more than you received it,’ she responded in a teasing tone. All traces of the smile that had just graced her lips then vanished in an instant. ‘We cannot be together, my lord, for I am baseborn.’

Éomer clung to her face with the expected desperation of an enamoured man, his pupils penetrating hers.

‘I do not care, Éorhild. Nothing changes how I feel,’ he whimpered. ‘If you are not to be mine, then I shall ensure that I will have no one.’

Her heart leapt inside her chest. While she had somehow intuited the prince’s burgeoning affection for her – although she had thought it confined to friendliness − she had never imagined that she would elicit such intense passion from him.

‘Do not be daft, my gentle prince,’ she whispered, her voice trembling from the realisation that she had harboured false hopes after this fateful kiss. ‘You are the future king and will need a queen.’

‘A king must have a queen at his side, or he is a lonely man, as the saying goes, I know. But what if I do not want that life, Éorhild? I want none of it if it means I must return to my chambers unwanted.’

Tears spilt onto his cheeks as he offered her a heartfelt smile. It was not one of joy, she knew. It was one of sheer longing.

‘Please, you must be with me,’ he begged. ‘You must.’

Éorhild planted a fleeting kiss on his lips, eager to savour them again yet restraining herself to tasteless pecks. Salty drops coursed down the curve of her face in turn.

‘My lord, I wish not to cause your ruin, for there is the brightest of futures ahead of you. Besides, the king could have me executed for even beholding you.’

‘But I could protect you! Let me bring the matter to my uncle; I am sure that he will understand. Please.’

She shook her head in refusal but offered a comforting smile.

‘In the best of worlds, it would have been something worth considering. But Rohan is still in the healing process. Alliances are of utmost importance in its journey back to strength. Without this marriage to Lady Lothíriel, you will inherit a weakened kingdom that your actions might not suffice to support.’

She closed her eyes, the swelling lump in her throat stifling the words she intended to express. Together, they wept, forehead to forehead, unwilling to let go yet afraid to hold on.

‘I wish not to cause you pain,’ she sobbed, the ache such that it echoed through her limbs and stung her fingertips. ‘Believe me. Please, believe me.’

‘Yet you are causing me more sorrow by refusing me. Éorhild, I need you.’

Sniffling and patting her eyes dry with her fingertips, she withdrew her face further until only their hands allowed contact.

‘It is but a passing infatuation, your Majesty. You shall recover in no time and laugh whenever you think back on tonight.’

Éomer refused to accept that. His hands attempted to hold on to her as though she were the sturdy branch amid the river’s current, threatening to drown him. She was his solace, comfort, and only source of joy for the past months. Her voice and words soothed him like no other; her laughter enticed him like no other.

He could not possibly let go.

‘Let us abandon this world of worry and fear,’ he urged in hopes that she would succumb to her affection for him. He knew it existed; it could not have been a dream. ‘Let us follow the path our joined hearts guide us onto.’

‘We cannot, my prince. Oh, lovely prince… You are destined for great achievements, and I for scrubbing latrines and chamber pots.’

A soft chuckle escaped her throat as her fingers encircled his wrist to pry his hand away from her face gently. There was a resistance, a strength greater than she possessed.

‘You must be the great king that Rohan so desperately needs. The peacemaker and peacekeeper. You shall be named Éomer the Great, not only by your servants but by all!’

‘I do not want great things if I do not have you by my side to share them. I need not be a great king; there have been many greater kings before me, and more will come. I only want to be a happy man.’

‘Ruling does not counter happiness. There will be a wonderful woman by your side, one so fair that you will forget all about me.’

‘I do not want another woman; I only want you. Is that so hard for you to grasp? No one can compare to the emotions you stir in me. It is almost sickening!’

‘And that is because you have yet to know better. One day, you shall encounter a woman of high birth so beautiful and bright that your world will be turned upside down. No longer will you know left from right, or north from south. Hardly will you remember your own name when she enquires about it!’

The maid sighed and placed a kiss on his brow.

‘And I shall forever be haunted by my first kiss and the knowledge that this evening belonged to us and us alone.’

His eyelashes fluttered shut, the weight added to his eyelids mirroring this on his heart.

‘I never want to meet the woman you describe. I much prefer to remain aware of the direction I am heading towards, and as far as I am concerned, it shall always be north. North to you. Every day.’

A muffled sob slipped through her lips. Desperation gripped her like never before. How she yearned to indulge in this affection, to allow it to guide her every motion and infuse into her every breath! She would have gladly let its light seep through the curtains of her mornings and illuminate each day. Alas, it was a mere fantasy, a thirst to be left unquenched.

How it ached…

Éomer held her. His hand cradled the back of her skull, beckoning her to his chest and resting his cheek against her hair. Agonising as much as she did, he felt the urge to press his face so tightly to her mane that each strand would be engraved on his skin, a fleeting memory of their tender embrace to which he could hold on a little longer. Even a minute would be most precious.

‘Let me hold you tonight, Éomer,’ she murmured his name against the crook of his neck. Éorhild shed a tear, but a resolute smile lingered upon her reddened cheeks as her fingers came to weave through his hair. ‘Let them execute me in the morning. Tonight is ours, and if I am to break the rules of my rank, I would much rather break them with you.’

No additional prompting was required from her. He willingly disengaged from their embrace, allowing his lips to seek hers once more, surrendering to another tender kiss. No longer would he deny his desires that night. A subtle recoil marked her initial response. Yet, within the ensuing heartbeat, she succumbed to the magnetic pull of this ardent communion of their mouths, seamlessly melding into the intimacy of his grasp.

In their fervent clasp, the prince settled her between his legs, enfolding her in the shelter of his mantle, praying that she would never choose to depart from its sanctuary. To his immense satisfaction, the back of her knuckles delicately brushed the stubbled skin of his cheek. One of her fingers unfurled, long and as pale as mountain snow in the moonlight, tracing the contours of his jaw with intoxicating precision, descending to the end of his sharp chin.

The mighty doors of Meduseld creaked above their heads. Footsteps stomped against the white stone. Halted. Waited, then resumed. Somebody was searching for another. Éorhild tore herself away from Éomer’s lips and cast a fleeting glance toward the palace. She curled against him, obeying his urgent plea to diminish her presence as he cloaked her entirely beneath the folds of his mantle.

Alerted by the subdued rustle of fabric, the intruder advanced upon the ledge, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny. Upon recognising Éomer’s figure, he stiffened and executed a deferential bow.

‘Good evening, your Majesty.’

Glancing over his shoulder, Éomer beheld the silhouette of one of his personal guards — a youth, slightly junior in years but compensating for a lack of stature with a robust physique. Bereft of a helm, his ashy blond locks wafted in the gnawing breeze, compelling him to lift his shoulders in a futile bid to shield his exposed neck from the cold. The prince cleared his throat and responded with a solemn nod.

The ensuing silence caused perspiration to form on Éomer’s temples. What if the guard discerned Éorhild nestled against his chest?

‘Your Highness, are you well?’ he inquired, his head tilting with curiosity and concern. ‘Is it not dangerous to descend to this portion of the hillside?’

‘I am well, Hámer. I only sought some fresh air and tranquillity.’

An itch crept over Éomer — he needed to laugh, cry, and scream. The entirety of this situation struck him as absurd. Why the imperative to conceal her? She was a gentle soul and kindred spirit, not some pilfered treasure from another’s trove. She was a woman; he, a man. Was it not often asserted by his kin that such unions were in harmony with nature’s design? So, why, then, was their devoted affection deemed unlawful?

Their kisses wrought no harm, nor did their exchanged glances. Then why, he pondered, did she risk her life by simply being in his presence?

Hámer did not pry further.

‘I see,’ he responded. ‘My lord, have you perhaps seen Théodil recently? The other maids are searching for her, but it seems she is nowhere to be seen.’

‘Théodil? My chambermaid?’ As Hámer nodded, Éomer pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘I fear not. I discharged her early today. Did she perhaps venture to the city? Go outside to watch the sunset?’

‘Do servants care about such things?’ the guard scoffed. ‘I would imagine that they only find beauty in dirty dishes needing to be cleaned.’

Dissimulated under the cloak, Éorhild bit the inside of her cheek until it bled, a manifestation of the boiling rage within her she struggled to contain. Maintaining her fragile composure, she remained hidden and resisted the urge to rise to her feet to reprimand the haughty soldier.

Unbeknownst to her, she was not alone in her indignation. Éomer clenched his jaw and glared at the younger man.

‘Curse your tongue, Hámer! Have some respect for the gentle souls tending to us every minute of our days! Perhaps it would do you good to spend even a day by their side until you realise the value of their hard work.’

The guard blenched under the rebuke, audibly swallowing his discomfort. In a gesture of apology, he offered the prince a bow. Éomer emitted a grunt and waved his hand in dismissal.

‘Go and continue your search for Théodil at once. If she still eludes you, inform me without delay. Can I count on you, or does her safety hold so little significance to you?’

‘You can trust me, your Majesty,’ the guard replied with his head low. ‘Good night.’

Hámer returned to the Golden Hall, letting the hinges of the doors howl in the night until they slammed. Éorhild emerged from underneath the woollen folds, glaring at where he stood.

‘We are nothing but animals to them!’

Éomer drew her to his heart and kissed the crown of her head, seeking to soothe her vexation. If only he could dispel all her worries with a mere stroke of his fingers through the cascade of her hair. Selfishly, he pondered whether she could be his at last if he gained such a power.

Life seldom adhered to such simplicity. As enchanting as the fantasy was, it remained an ephemeral dream. With the advent of daybreak, she would inevitably depart his embrace to complete her daily tasks, and never would they hold one another again. These tender moments of shared affection would become nothing more than a poignant memory. Intangible. Out of reach. Vapour slipping through their fingers.

Éorhild hissed sharply against his shoulder. A jerk of her knee compelled her to pull away and hold him at arm’s length. Mist regained her brown irises, stirring concern within Éomer’s pounding heart.

‘It is late, and my limbs are frozen,’ she whimpered as her palm flattened over his chest. ‘Our only night together is coming to an end.’

A pang of disappointment tugged at his very guts, awakening every craving. The memory of her touch, the sensation of her cold nose against his flushed cheek, their chests clasped together, the mingling of their breaths, the echo of their tender words and sweet-nothings — all surged within him, fuelling the pyre of his pain.

‘I suppose I cannot talk you into staying. Very well. May I request to hold you one last time, beautiful Éorhild?’

A smile played on her lips as she endeavoured to clutch him first. It carried a different tenor this time. It transcended the delicate gesture they shared over the evening, transforming into sheer evidence of their yearning for one another. A desperate need to embed their affection into their very flesh, limbs, and spirits. Nothing more than the bittersweet taste of a love that had never fully blossomed, dead in the bud, to which they steadfastly clung, unwilling to ever leave it to die. Their tears of mourning blended as they were shed.

Her fingers intertwined with his as she contemplated his face, distorted by pain.

‘I shall never forget tonight,’ she intoned. ‘I care not if it causes my downfall. Let them sentence me to death if they find out, and I shall depart this world with joy, for I will have loved you tonight.’

‘I shall carry the memory of your kiss with me for the rest of my life. No matter what happens, how many years I live, know that I will remember tonight and the woman who stirred my frozen heart so.’

‘And I will never be far. If our secret is not discovered, I will remain at Meduseld in your family’s service. I refuse to leave, even if I am condemned to avert my eyes in your presence again.’

Éomer held her chin between his fingers and pressed his mouth to hers. All that they could not utter aloud, they engraved on each other with this last kiss. They poured all their buried sentiments into it, hoping the other would understand, drinking from their lips as though they were the finest wine until they felt raw and swollen. As the prince parted from his maid, he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear.

‘I do not wish ever to be apart from you,’ he groaned with a husky voice as the desire to kiss her again flooded his veins anew. ‘You mean the world to me.’

Éorhild granted him a grin and bestowed a loving kiss on his brow.

‘And you are my world.’

The prince helped her to her feet and retrieved the tray bearing the cups and the now-empty plate. As she accepted it from his hands, she drew in a sharp breath, shivering in the absence of his cloak and body that no longer enveloped her. Was this the prevailing sensation of her life from that moment forth? A pervasive chill and desolation, akin to being kicked out of the nest, naked and frail, expected to navigate the world and survive it with no sense of direction?

Curse this world, she thought. Curse it and all its laws.

Before she turned away, too pained to even whisper a goodbye, Éomer delicately caught her chin once more, coaxing a smile upon his own face.

‘At least we had tonight.’

Éorhild sniffled and mirrored his expression, their hearts uniting in a poignant symphony of shared regret.

‘At least we had tonight,’ she repeated in a strained murmur. Balancing the tray on her forearm and tilted hip, she clasped his hand and kissed his knuckles as though paying homage to him. ‘May these hands mend Rohan once you become king. May they know nothing but victory and tenderness when your marriage comes.’

Her fingertips granted his mouth a fleeting caress imbued with unspoken sentiments.

‘May these wonderful lips pronounce only words of truth, kindness and justice. May they receive even more love than they provided me tonight.’

And, at last, their gazes met, bringing warmth to their aching souls even for a moment.

‘May these eyes continue to see the best in people. May they gaze upon the land and never miss a threat. And may they one day behold a radiant bride, who will ease your heart and reign by your side.’

New tears drenched her face as she bowed one more time.

‘I shall never forget the warmth and affection you graced upon me this night, my lord. Thank you for it. May our paths cross again, even if we should avoid each other from now on.’

Éomer stepped forward as she commenced her ascent up the hillside, reaching out to grasp her hand, only finding nothing but the cold night air. Powerless, he remained there, a silent witness to her leaving. His heart was on the verge of bursting, and his throat constricted painfully as he found difficulty in uttering his ultimate words to her.

‘Stay with me.’

But his plea was lost amid the creaking of the palace doors.

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

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

[essenceofarda]

To Be Loved: Ch12

Chapter 12 | Read from the Beginning

Before she was born, it was foretold that Princess Lothiriel would suffer greatly from the love of men. Her mother's dying words were words of power, to keep her daughter safe from suffering, to never trust the love of men. Now the Princess Lothiriel has become the Queen of the Riddermark. And though her heart is filled with love, will she learn to accept the love others have for her? An Eothiriel + Post-War-of-the-Ring Fic

New chapter up :) We're (finally???) getting to the more meaty part of the actual plot now haha. Only taken me like 4.5 years 😳😅😬

Anyway, would love to hear y'all's thoughts!!

[scyllas-revenge]

Sneak Peek: Taken, Chapter 2 (Eomer x Reader)

I normally don't do previews like this, but you all have been so kind and patient waiting for this long-delayed update. And let's face it--I'm just bursting to complete and share this new chapter with everyone!

Riding Firefoot into the white-stone square courtyard that connected the galleries of stables, Eomer quickly saw that she was already waiting for him, standing alert beside her own horse. Greywind, a dappled mare that bore no meager resemblance to her equine brother, tossed her head and whickered softly at Firefoot's approach. It was a warmer reception than his master received. "Good morning, my lord," the shield-maiden acknowledged with a nod as curt as her tone. Royal protocol satisfied, she turned and swung up into the saddle of her own steed.  Her cold shoulder was to be his comeuppance, then. So be it. Her silent rages were nothing Eomer had not seen, borne, and successfully navigated before.  But today, this time, would be different. Everything was sure to be different after that kiss, which, after a sleepless night of pondering and self-debating, he would still swear on Bema was no mistake. Clumsy perhaps, but an action he did not regret leaping into. There was no part of Eomer that did not desire to repeat it, over and over.  First, he must resolve the confusion his recklessness had caused. "Follow my lead,” he said, and spurred Firefoot on toward the exit gates.

(Chapter 1 HERE for those new to this fic. When it's Eomer's POV, I switch out of Reader's "You" 2nd Person to "She/Her" 3rd Person.)

Now... back to work to finish the darn thing!

[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. 💖)

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

FTH Tolkien Creators

Check out these awesome creators for Tolkien works for @fandomtrumpshate! You can bid on them starting 8:00AM EST, 5 March 2024, to 8:00PM EST, 9 March 2024. All the money goes to nonprofits! Also feel free to check out their full summary here!

Adwen (@captainadwen)- Fanfic for The Silmarillion; Specific pairings mentioned: Russingon

Allium-phyrzz (@allium-phyrzz)- Fanfic for The Hobbit (book/movies)

Alruin- Podfic for Lord of the Rings (books/movies) and The Silmarillion

Alsephina (@hobbityalse)- Fanart and Fanfic for The Hobbit (book/movies) and Lord of the Rings (books/movies); Specific pairings mentioned: Bagginshield, Frodo x Sam, Kili x Tauriel, Faramir x Eowyn

Augenblickgotter- Fanart for any Tolkien work

Forelevenses (@forelevenses)- Fanfic for The Hobbit (book/movies) and Lord of the Rings (books/movies); Specific pairings mentioned: Sam/Frodo, Legolas/Gimli, Merry/Eowyn, Sam/Rosie/Frodo, Bilbo/Thorin, and Bilbo/Bofur.

Isclanel (@isclanel)- Fanfic for The Hobbit (book/movies); Specific pairings mentioned: Bilbo/Thorin, Bard/Thranduil

Khorazir (@khorazir)- Fanart for The Hobbit (book), Lord of the Rings (books), The Silmarillion, The History of Middle-earth, and Unfinished Tales

Lalaith_Quetzalli- Fanart for The Hobbit (book/movies), Lord of the Rings (books/movies), and The Silmarillion; Specific pairings mentioned: Bagginshield

LordOfTheRazzles (@lordoftherazzles)- Fanfic for The Hobbit (book/movies); Specific pairings mentioned: Bagginshield

Lucigoo (@lucigoo)- Fanfic for The Hobbit (book/movies), Lord of the Rings (books/movies); Specific pairings mentioned: Bagginshield

Sandalwoodbox (@sandalwoodbox)- Video for Rings of Power

SunnyRose- Fanfic for The Hobbit (book/movies); Specific pairings mentioned: Bagginshield

Swordbreakerz (@swordbreakerz)- Fanart for Lord of the Rings (books/movies)

Tathrin- Fanfic for The Hobbit (book), Lord of the Rings (book), and The Silmarillion

Temporoyales (@temporoyales)- Fanart for The Hobbit (book/movies), Lord of the Rings (books/movies), and The Silmarillion

Treescape (@treescape)- Fanfic for The Hobbit (movies); Specific pairings mentioned: Bagginshield

Xenomorphic (@xenomorphic-warrior)- Fanfic for The Hobbit (book/movies) and Lord of the Rings (books/movies); Specific pairings mentioned: Bard/Thorin, Bilbo/Thorin, Tauriel/Thorin, Beorn/Tauriel, Eowyn/Faramir, Boromir/Eomer, Aragorn/Arwen/Boromir

[dreambigdreamz]

fanfic idea for future reference 😌 it’s a swanlake x eothiriel

This is completely rough draft and I have a lot to work on, but I just found it again amidst my profile from long ago and just had to keep it for sake. And maybe I’d like to share it too — especially @meluiloth because you so kindly tag me everytime but I am always lazy to do anything related to writing 🥲 this one’s in honour for you and all your kindness in tagging me.

So like, the latest one is a Swan Lake plotline where it will start off as a suspense story. (No one else would be reading this and it will be a long time when I finally write and any who read will have forgotten about it so I'm going in all spoilers yes?) Éomer visiting Dol Amroth, the seat of his new friend Imrahil, and when he goes on his solitary late night walks on the beach, he keeps sighting a mysterious silver figure dancing, yknow. And when he tries to follow her once, he sees that she vanished as she ran into the Palace Garden. Now this Palace Garden is the beautifullest of places with flowers, shrubs, and fountains. But there is a big golden cage too, and in it is a snow-white swan that the whole royal family seems to love so much. THAT SWAN IS LOTHIRIEL CURSED BY A WITCH AND HER SOUL WILL BE A SWAN UNTIL SHE FEELS THE LOVE OF A MORTAL MAN AND RETURNS THAT LOVE. 

Like, whenever a young man asked for her hand, she always refused and one young man went to ask help from the witch to make Lothiriel love him back but instead the jealous witch turned her into a swan and she now only has human form in the absence of daylight and ahhhhh

Very simple and plain, Iknow but. For some reason I'm so excited for it to play out. 

I mean, everything about Eomer is simple and plain but so beloved in my eyes 😍

Yeah like a sort of Beren and Luthien meeting. Very simple, but when made with care and love, it makes my heart burst eek I feel like what will hinder Lothiriel's falling in love with him is her being so foreign to that. For sixteen years she was kept safe under the watch of her spinster aunt and doesn't lift an eye at a young man unless her elders permittedly tell her so. So I'm sorry but this girl's mentality was wrecked very beautifully and she simply doesn't know how to handle love

And for the next six years she was a swan, so very very unused to human company in general. Lol me materialising introverts in a poetic way. I think you'll be onboard with that idea. I don't know about you, but I feel so frustrated that I want to go out and mix in with people but it's so difficult to let go of the old restraints that had been for so long.

AND YES HAHAHA I am so making her foreign to love, and even a sequel where, after they have already admitted to each other's love, the curse still isn't broken and she begins to suspect it's because her love for Eomer is really imaginary. She 'loves' him only because she wants to break the curse. She has never known what is love to actually realise what she is feeling is really love. She doubts it. And truly, yes, she is a little selfish and she begins to be scared she'll never love anybody truly and this curse is to be forever. And they set out on a quest to find a way to break the curse and on the way she finds out what it truly is to love someone selflessly, without expecting anything in return, to want someone to be happy even if it means without you in their life. 🤓🤓 I just had to go and add that bit of angst in.

Like the first fic could be called 'So this is Love' and will end as they admit their love. So it's an open ended ending for everyone, those who wants to have the happily ever after can stop there. But the second fic sequel is gonna be like 'What is Love' and will start off with her still turning into a swan even after everything. It does have a happy ending though, I just have this scenario in my mind that they're coming back from the sea on a raft and she runs throgh the water up the beach to her gasping parents, IN DAYLIGHT. She's human in daylight so it means the curse is broken!! And they just share a hug :) I have this quote 'No I've never loved anyone before. If my parents died, I'd cry, but only because I wouldn't know what to do with my life next. Only because I would feel so lost without them to take care of me.' And in the end she finds the true meaning of loving :))) Because, whatever it is, love is love, selfless or selfish. If you love someone, for whatever reasons, it is still love, isnt it?? But for her she's been trapped in the cage of her mind for so long, not trusting anybody in case 'it doesn't work out'. Like, most of my heroines they are scared because they've been hurt before. For her, she is imagining all the hurt that could happen and limiting herself from the joy that was possibly waiting. Ahhh me 😁😁😁

I feel like this is going to be my healthiest pairing yet. They both admit to their flaws in so honest a way and come to terms with their imperfections. Like they actually got to talk!!! The quest symbolises their journey to compatibility, yknow, learning more about each other, and not only that but adjust to each other's problems. For example, Eomer himself realises he did not expect some selfish outbursts from this angelic creature and realises he had fallen in love with her shadow instead, her beauty and dancing in the twilight. He soon learns a lot more about her and learns why she is this way and also like why she is selfish and how to remedy that (she hoards up her favourite cakes all to herself and threatens him not to touch them).But that is bc she has been brought up privileged and not had any contact with anybody outside the world that she doesn't know how to fit in.

I'm so proud of it. 

Like first, you fall in love with someone for their outside. Then you have to endure and try to get to know their inside and then once you know what they are like, it is up to choice to try and get along or leave then. I think that's the three crucial steps to love :] And only after that, can you attest whether that love is 'true' as in compatible for the long run.

Yeah! I need a real life 🫠

Eomer’s flaw is chiefly that he takes things at face value because that’s how he was brought up. The Rohirrim doesn’t have much disguises and are straightforward and honest, you know. And he takes it that way. And when he first saw Lothíriel, that was the case: he took her to be a beautiful creature, a heavenly being. He has to learn the depths and layers of everything. 

And like, one incident is when he’s to leave the next day and asks if she’d wish him to return some day. She says, what would it change if she wish or not? That he’d try to come back at all cost if he knew she wished for it. She starts saying something like ‘But I could tell you that I wish for you to never come back here again. Would that prevent you from doing so?’ 

‘It would.’ 

Startled, she asks ‘Why?’ 

‘Because you said so.’ 

‘But I could be wishing something entirely different and may voice something else because of . . . propriety. And I am only saying this for example, mind you. Would you still take it at face value of what I said, when you probably know it to be otherwise?’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘Then you are disregarding my— the person’s genuine wish?’ 

‘No. Though you may be wishing something different, I respect the decision you made to not speak of that wish. For whatever reason you thought it fit to keep your true feelings a secret, I will have to respect that decision of your mind that chose to not tell me your wish.’

Is this too cheesy—

I’m sorry I’m so proud of this atm tho

please let me know what you think 🥹🥹

[gloomwitchwrites]

Burnt Bread

Éomer x Female Reader

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

Word Count: 2.4k

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

A/N: Dedicated to @firelightinferno

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist

“I’m leaving. Watch the shop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This constant distance is tiring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is this?” comes the sneering voice.

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

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

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

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

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

“Father—”

“Do you do this to me on purpose?”

“Father. Please—”

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

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

“Get out!”

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing on the ground?”

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

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

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

Éomer is real and whole and with you.

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

Hissing, you draw back, clutching at your hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It hurts.”

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

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

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

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

“Éomer—”

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

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

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

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

“Could we walk?”

He nods. “If that is what you wish.”

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

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

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

“He didn’t. I promise.”

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

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is. I’ll take care of it.”

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

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

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

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

“Would you prefer that as well?”

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

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

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

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

He is always so gentle with you.

“You spoil me,” you murmur.

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

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

Éomer glances up. “How so?”

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

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

“Don’t tease.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perfectly.”

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

taglist:

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

[emmanuellececchi]

So about loving or not loving Rings of power...

You know, I think we all have the right to love or hate something. As long as we show respect to the other side.

We should have the right to say we don't love the show, for X or Y reasons but we should also have the right to say we love the show, without having people barging in.

I have no interest in it, because the few I've seen of it, didn't fit with the canon I read. Does that make the show bad? I don't know, I don't watch the show. But people I respect and love around here, love the show and have fun watching it. And create really fun fanart for it, things that I enjoy.

True, sometimes I don't understand or agree with what I see: Elrond is friend with the dwarves? Since when? Shouldn't it be Celebrimbor? Galadriel is under Sauron's influence? Wtf?

But then I remind myself : those are not the characters I read about. And this is where we should all put a line in order to enjoy the fandom. For all I know this Galadriel has been written with exactly that in mind and is follwing her own destiny, and same for Elrond and Celebrimbor. They're not the one I read about, they are those that exist in Rings of power.

in the same way we change canon characters when we write about them in our fanfic. Like my Gimli might not be 100% canon, nor my Faramir or Eomer.

Does that mean Rings of Power is a fanfic? Some says it is, some says it is canon. No idea. I don't watch it (yeah I repeat myself to make a point) and I didn't read enough beside the Silmarillion and LOTR. But we shouldn't insult each other because we think differently.

Anyway. this is the same for all adaptation. I'Ve seen pretty much the same nasty things for the Fallout TV show and the Halo TV show and even the future new Yakuza movie, inspired by the franchise.

Maybe we should just remember that we are in a fandom to have fun. Not to bash on the head of each other because we do not agree on something.

Okay Old Lady out!

[absentmindeduniverse]

Much Ado About Nothing you say?

It did things to me this whole story. It felt tender and soft and pretty. Thank you for that 😊.

Alive & Alight

Request/prompt from @tolkien-fantasy: Aragorn or Eomer x Reader but the reader is a disabled girl who can't ride horses because of her illnesses, so she becomes a leatherworker who makes saddles instead because that's the closest she can get to working with horses. She gets commissioned by Elrond/Theoden to make Brego or Hasufel a saddle and they fall head over heels for her.

A/N: It's... finally here... idk why I even try to limit myself to <3k words when things just always overflow. I tried to keep the disability vague, and based it on my understanding from a relation of mine. If anything comes off as problematic, please lmk. Hope you all enjoy it!

Eomer x disabled!Reader

Fem reader

Content warnings: Non-graphic/detailed mentions of chronic pain

5.5k words

---

The evening sun streamed through the windows into the workshop, casting long rectangles of orange across the workbenches. The sweet, earthy scent of leather lingered in the air above the sharp tang of metal. You rocked the head knife, slicing through the buttery leather. Pain shot through your body and the blade clattered to the table. 

Across the room, Deormund looked up from his work, a frown on his face. His dark blonde hair was pulled up in a haphazard bun and stray strands brushed the top of his shoulders. He was burly and stout, but his brown eyes were gentle. “Girl, are you hurting again?”

“I’m alright, sir.” You stretched and shifted in your seat. “I just want to get started on this saddle before we finish for today.”

He narrowed his eyes at you and shook his head. “You’ve had enough.”

“But—”

“There is no nobility in unnecessary suffering, girl.” He laid his awl down and crossed the room. “Come, you should rest.” He ushered you over to a small table in the corner and lifted the cloth covering a basket of bread. “I’ll finish up the cutting.”

You tore off a piece of bread and stared out the window. Horses trotted by, their heads bobbing and their tails flicking. How beautiful they were, with their braided manes and glossy coats. You eyed the riders, just some simple merchants riding back to their villages, and your chest tightened. If only you were able to ride, if only your body did not ache so. 

Your eyes wandered to the plains just visible through the thatched roofs. Oh, to ride unhindered through the grass, to feel the sting of the wind, to go wherever your heart desired. You sighed and comforted yourself with the knowledge that you still had the pleasure of working with horses in your craft. You could make them beautiful saddles, comfortable for both animal and rider, could see your work on the backs of the most noble horses.

Voices approached the workshop and your eyes drifted to the entrance.

“Uncle, this is unnecessary.”

“Eomer, it is time for a new saddle.”

“I do not see what is wrong with my own.”

“It is… plain. Future kings do not ride on unadorned saddles.”

Your eyes met your mentor’s and your heart sped up. The prince and the king? You tossed the half eaten bread back in the basket and replaced the cloth just as they entered the workshop. They were dressed in their formal tunics, the gold embellishments glinting against the rich green velvet. Theoden was grinning, but Eomer’s lips were pressed in a hard line. 

“Your highness,” Deormund tugged his dirty apron off and bowed deeply. 

You forced yourself to stand, wincing as you did so. You managed a short curtsey before the dull throb of pain began to grow. 

Theoden gestured at the rickety chair. “Please, sit. I understand that you suffer from an illness.”

Eomer’s eyes drifted over to you and your breath hitched in your throat. He seemed to fill the room in a way that was not evident when you saw him from afar. He was tall, taller than his uncle, and his broad frame seemed to make the room smaller. His gaze fixed you where you stood and for a moment all you could do was stare back into his hazel eyes.

You glanced away, willing your heart to slow, as you lowered yourself back down.

What were they doing at the workshop? It was rare of the king and his family to personally visit merchants and craftsmen. Was it the saddle you had made for one of the Marshals of the Riddermark? Were they dissatisfied? Your fingers twitched on your lap, wishing you had one of your tools to fiddle with. 

“I’ve come to convince my nephew to have a new saddle made.” Theoden shot a look at Eomer. “I thought perhaps if he saw the level of craftsmanship that went into the saddles you make he would be won over.”

Deormund nodded and walked over to the bench where the half-finished saddles sat. “These are all hand-carved by our young lady over there.”

Eomer’s eyes met yours again, intense but with a spark of curiosity in them. He joined Deormund by the bench and cast his eyes over the saddles. You fidgeted with your thin apron. Would they be to his liking? To have one of your saddles on the horse of the prince, the future king of Rohan… It would be an honour of the highest regard, one of the greatest compliments to your work and skill. You swallowed as you watched his face. 

His brows slowly relaxed and his jaw loosened. He reached a hand out and traced the ridges and grooves of the pattern. “These tell a story,” he muttered, voice full of wonder. “A woman’s journey across the plains, an encounter with another, injured. Caring, healing, building a home together.” He looked at the next one. “And this, of a young boy and his father, from travelling merchants to wealthy shop owners.”

His eyes cut to yours and you nodded. “Horses are the centre of our people. I wanted to pay homage to the way they serve us, the way we work with them. They carry more than just our bodies on their backs, they carry our lives, our stories.”

He held your gaze, his hazel eyes alight with something you could not name. 

“Alright,” he said, eyes never wavering from you. “A new saddle, I’ll agree to it. But only if it’s you.”

-

Eomer paced his rooms, a frown on his face and his hands behind his back. Candles burned around the space, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The air was filled with Eowyn’s perfume, lavender and some Gondorian flower he could not place, and under that, something familiar and comforting that reminded him of their parents.

The last few days had brought back memories he did not know he had.

He had spoken to you about his life as part of your work for the saddle. The memories and stories had come slow and stilted at first, but encouraged by your soft eyes and smiles, they began to unspool and unfurl. His mother’s hands covering his as they stroked the horse, his father’s booming voice as he acted bedtime stories out, racing Eowyn on ponies across the fields. 

You had sat there, hands folded on your lap, still and attentive, listening. Once again, he had been struck by how beautiful you were. When he had walked into the workshop and set eyes on you, his stomach had fluttered and flipped. Framed by the window, illuminated by the evening sun, you looked glorious, at home among the leather and tools. 

“Daydreaming again, brother?” Eowyn said as she walked into the room and settled on the cushioned bench. 

He clicked his tongue at her. “Do not tease me so. I was not daydreaming, I was… thinking.”

Eowyn snickered. “About the young lady who makes the saddles?”

His cheeks burned and he turned away from his sister. “She is… intriguing.”

“How so?”

“Have you seen her work? It is a marvel how she manages to bring stories to life on the leather. Her carving is so intricate, it is nearly unbelievable.” He spun to face her. “And when she speaks of her work, she comes alive, shines almost, like the Entwash on a summer’s day. And when she smiles, I —”

His sister laughed. “Brother, I dare say you are smitten.”

He grumbled and looked out of the window. Could anyone fault him, truly? He was surprised there was not a line of suitors lingering outside the workshop or your home. 

Homes and shops dotted the hill of Edoras, flowing down from Meduseld. Little squares of light vanished into the distance and darkness and he gazed out wondering which one of those squares might have been yours. Were you whiling your evening away on your own, or was there another beside you, holding your hand, enjoying your smiles?

His stomach clenched strangely at that thought and he whirled around to face Eowyn. “How goes your project with the healing houses?”

“Well enough. The building you have allotted us is more than sufficient. Our apothecaries are not as well stocked, but the women are well trained.” Her eyes softened with understanding. “Uncle has told me she suffers from a chronic hurt. There is not much we can do, but I will be able to brew a tonic to ease the pain a little.”

“I would be most grateful,” he muttered. He sighed and joined his sister on the bench. “I am seeing her again in a few days. She has sketched out a design, I think. She wishes for me to look over it.” 

“Are you nervous to see her?”

He scowled at her. “I am not nervous. I am simply… eager to see what she has come up with.”

“And I suppose your now regularly washed and oiled hair has no relation to your meetings with her?” Eowyn bit back a smile.

Eomer’s eyes darted back to the window. “Nothing at all.”

-

The late afternoon sun poured over Edoras and the thatched roofs below you gleamed gold. A cool wind swept through the small garden, tossing your hair and tickling the back of your neck. You leaned back against the cushions spread on the stone bench, idly playing with the glass vial he had given you, while he looked over your sketch.

“I feel as though something is missing,” he muttered. “Here, in the later sections.”

You leaned over and peered at the sheets of paper. It depicted the victory at the Black Gate, his reunion with a healed Eowyn, his return back to Edoras. The last panel showed him with his uncle and sister, standing in front of The Golden Hall.“I have never been to Gondor or seen Minas Tirith. Is there something wrong with the way I’ve drawn them?”

“I am not sure. Perhaps there is some part else that also needs to be included.” He handed the parchment back to you. “But the earlier panels are perfect. My parents, my family… you have brought their memory alive.”

You gave him a smile as your fingers tightened around the paper. You looked at the figurines, at the vistas and buildings you had drawn. “I can start on the first few sections. Then perhaps in time what is missing will come to you.”

“May I keep them? Reviewing them might help, I think. And I can show Eowyn as well.” You nodded and he rolled the papers up.

He hummed and looked out at the fields. You followed his gaze and tried not to focus on how his knee was pressed against yours. You could feel the warmth coming off him, could smell his scent of leather and sandalwood.

You thought back to the last couple of weeks, to the hours spent talking to him. There was a fire to Eomer, a passion that seemed to overflow from him, and when he told his stories, he told them with a fervour that roused your spirit. It was no wonder then, that he was one of the Marshals of the Riddermark, no wonder how so many were willing to leave with him when he was exiled. 

But there was also a softness to him, a tenderness underneath it all. In the quiet of the evening, by the light of the fire, he had told you stories of his parents and his sister. How they used to terrorise the servants in the house, how they would spend time braiding each other’s hair, how their parents would take them around the villages and towns, acquainting them with their people.

It seemed that he drifted closer to you with each visit. The first time he had sat opposite you, his heavy desk like a wall between the both of you. But soon he sat in the next armchair over, and then some visits later he chose to share the cushioned bench by the window with you. The front of his knees would graze yours, or his hand would rest just a reach away.

You had heard from the gossiping maids at Meduseld that he was yet to find a partner. How was it possible that a man like him did not have countless betrothal offers and arrangements? For a time it seemed as though there were always princesses or noble ladies coming to visit Edoras, especially after Eowyn’s marriage to Faramir.

They were all regal and graceful and soft.

Eomer cleared his throat and turned back to you. “My lady, I was wondering if you had some time to spare after this.”

“I do. Would you like to discuss the design more? Or maybe look over the different leathers that we have?”

“No, ah, I was hoping you’d like to join me for dinner.” His cheeks tinged pink. 

“Dinner?” Your finger tightened around the vial. What a strange thing to ask of you. It was not very common for the royal family to invite mere craftsmen and merchants for dinner. Perhaps he was just being polite since the evening was drawing near and he had taken up any time you would have had to prepare a meal.

It had been a long day; carving in the morning and sketching in the afternoon. Your body ached, and you longed for some rest. But Eomer’s eyes were so wide and hopeful, his slight smile so shy and boyish. “I… Um…”

“I understand if perhaps, I am aware you have been quite busy today, if another evening, or morning, would suit you better…”

You smiled at him. “Perhaps in a day or two? I am quite weary today.”

“Of course, of course.” He nodded, a smile growing on his face. “Simply let me know and I shall clear my schedule.”

-

Eomer fiddled with the reins in his hand as the carriage moved towards the small grove by the Snowbourn. There was still an hour or two before sunset and the river glittered in the strong sun. The air was cool and carried the fresh scent of dirt and grass, and subtly, from you just beside him, a smell of cloves from the balm you used on your muscles and joints.

It had been over a week since he last saw you. Your message had come the day after he saw you, deferring the dinner invitation, citing some urgent work that had come up, and he had been left anxious that you had changed your mind. He nearly drove Eowyn mad with his questions and doubts, and more than once she had chased him out of Edoras, telling him to go for a long ride. 

But then your message had come a few mornings later, and he was left scrambling to prepare what he had envisioned in his mind. You had mentioned before how much you adored horses and how much you wished you could ride. It had been some months since you were last out of the city, when you and Deormund went to source some leather from the neighbouring town. 

He had made certain to load the carriage seat with cushions, to bring a basket of fresh berries and cheese, to plan a path near enough to the city should you wish to return, but far enough that his horse could run unhindered. Everything to make you comfortable, everything just so he could spend some time with you away from the chatter and noise of Edoras.

Just you and him, alone. 

He froze in his seat. Was it not proper to do such a thing? Was there some parent he needed to ask permission from? Or even then, were you willing to be alone with him in such a setting? Arda, he should have thought about it more, but from the moment you had accepted his invitation that afternoon his mind had run away with plans and ideas. 

He fought the urge to glance at you beside him. Did you simply accept his plan because he was a prince? Perhaps you did not actually wish to come out with him, perhaps you simply felt obliged. Eowyn has berated him more than once about his forwardness and rashness. Perhaps he had overstepped without even realising. 

“My lord?” you asked, and he allowed his eyes to dart to you. “Is anything the matter? You have gone stiff and quiet.”

“I was simply thinking.”

“What troubles you?”

He tugged on the reins and slowed the carriage to a halt. He turned in the narrow seat to face you. “My lady, do you truly wish to be here?” You frowned but he continued. “I do not wish for you to feel obligated to… to… accept my invitations simply because I am a prince. I would not wish to —”

You reached for his hand but your fingers curled away. You shook your head. “I feel no such thing. I assure you, I… I do wish to be here.”

His heart sped up. “Well, I am… yes, I… I am glad to hear it.”

“Now, let us go. I wish to stop by the river.” You grinned at him and his chest loosened. “But perhaps… we could go faster?” Your smile turned shy and you glanced away. “I relish the rush of wind in my face, the sight of the land hurtling by.”

“Then perhaps you should take the reins.” The worn leather sat in his open palm. 

You reached out, your fingertips grazing his skin, delicate and feather-light. Your hand curled around the reigns and your smile turned sly. “Are you certain? Deormund never lets me with the reins for fear of his life.”

He laughed. “My lady, I have much experience with Eowyn’s wild steering. I beg you, do not hold back. Go as fast as you please.”

You tugged on the reins and clicked your tongue, and before he knew it, he was thrown back in his seat as you laughed above the roaring wind. 

-

You knocked the mallet against the decorative stamp, shifting ever so slightly across the smooth leather. Mountains materialised over the plains, rising above the ocean of grass. You sighed, thinking about the evening out with Eomer racing wild across the fields. It had been exhilarating, the trundle of the carriage, nearly flying with the speed of Firefoot. And afterwards, windswept and giddy, he had taken you home. 

You thought of how he lingered in the low light of the lantern hanging by your front door, his hair a mess and his cheeks flushed. How he wished you goodnight, his voice low and his gaze alight with something you had not seen in his eyes before.

“Girl,” Deormund said, and you looked up. He glanced away and down at the piece of leather he was working on and fiddled with his knife. “It might not be my place to ask, but that boy…”

“You mean… the prince?”

“Yes. That boy.” He grumbled something under his breath. “Listen child, I am not one for gossip and rumours but even I cannot escape the words flying around Edoras at the moment.”

You flushed a little and glanced away. Deormund was the closest thing you had to a parent, and the weight of his words caused your stomach to turn. Did he disapprove in some way? Was it perhaps affecting the business? “Is something the matter?”

He cleared his throat and you hazarded a glance at him. His face was impassive but his eyes were concerned. “Do you truly care for him?”

Your fingers traced the outlines on the leather idly. “Yes. He is a good friend to me.”

“A friend…?”

You sighed and threw your hands up. “Yes, a friend. I do not know why you prod and poke me so. You are a practical man, sir. Of all people I’m certain that you understand that he and I will be nothing more than friends.”

Your chest tightened as the words left your mouth, the reality of it suddenly tangible in the air. You deflated in your chair, body protesting at the sudden movement from before. 

“Girl —”

You shook your head. “There is no use in it. I know the work we do is important, held in high esteem even, but we are still craftsmen. And craftsmen are not equal to princes. Eomer will find another, and she will make a fine queen for him one day.”

You looked at the panel you were working on. It was one of the last ones, and after the saddle was finished, there was no reason for you and him to keep meeting. Yes, Eomer will find someone else, and all that will be left for you will be the ghost of the memories. Would he bring her into the workshop and commission a saddle for her? Will you have to watch as he gazed upon her with love in his eyes?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to push you. It is just… You have seen happier these past few weeks. I thought perhaps I would have to find a new apprentice.”

A new apprentice, of course. Even if Eomer did return your feelings, what of your work? Leather carving was not the work of a queen; there would be no doubt that you would have to give it up. But to sit in hallowed rooms, silent and still, forever staring out at the plains, what sort of life would that be? 

You looked around the workshop. It was home, was it not? The worn wooden work tables, the comforting scent of leather, the tools that fit so perfectly in the palm of your hand. 

Tears stung at your eyes and you blinked them away. “Do not worry, sir. There will be no need for that.”

-

Firefoot galloped at full speed. The grass underneath Eomer was nothing but a blur of green. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck and dampened the collar of his tunic. His heart pounded in time with his ragged breaths and he tensed his thighs, urging Firefoot to go faster. 

“Enough!” Eowyn shouted as she caught up to him. “Brother, enough!”

He glanced at her. Her hair was wild, streaming with the wind, and her eyes were cold and angry. She was braced on her saddle and he knew she was ready to speed ahead and round her horse to cut him off if he did not heed her words. 

He tugged on the reins and Firefoot began to slow.

“You’re going to run the horses ragged.” She huffed and shook her head. “What is the matter with you?” The horses slowed to a comfortable trot and she drew close to him. “You have been ill-tempered this whole week. Even uncle does not dare to be near you.”

“It is nothing.” He let out a sharp exhale.

“It is that carver, is it not?”

Eomer glanced at his sister. Her gaze had warmed into something soft and sympathetic. He sagged in his saddle and sighed. “Yes. I had thought perhaps… She seemed to like my company, even said so herself. And yet this whole week all of my invitations have been declined.

“She is well within her rights to do so. I am aware she does not owe me anything, but it does… sting somewhat. I do not know if I did anything wrong, if at all. I know there has been gossip circulating. Perhaps she became aware of my feelings and was frightened away? I do not know, and it drives me to madness.”

“Maybe her pain has worsened this week. She simply may not have the capacity to see you.”

“I know,” he groaned. “But in the past she has told me if that is the case. More than once she had rescheduled our earlier meetings. It is unlike her to be so reticent. Maybe I have just been mistaken about her feelings towards me.”

He stared at the horizon wishing he could just ride and ride and ride.

He had never been in love before, not properly at least. There had been little infatuations, charming women who turned his head, but nothing like the feeling that had now rooted itself inside his heart. How was he to love another when you existed in the world? 

Despite himself, he had wandered down to the workshop the day before, just to catch a glimpse of you. He saw you through the window, hunched over the table, working on the saddle. How beautiful you were, your brows creased in concentration, your hands steady and skilled. And when you had laughed at something Deormund said, it took all his willpower not to sweep into the workshop and pull you into his arms. 

He sighed and tipped his head back to catch the cool wind. “The saddle will be finished soon. I will not have any excuses to see her anymore, and perhaps that is for the best. It would be too painful to be by her side and not have her. And she does not need to be burdened with my unwanted feelings.”

Eowyn arched an eyebrow. “Are you certain your feelings are unwanted?”

“I think this past week is evidence of it.”

“It is evidence that perhaps she is… avoiding you. But maybe not for the reasons you think.” She gave a laugh, slightly pained and embarrassed. “When The Ring was destroyed and the sky cleared, there were a few days where Faramir kept his distance from me. He… He thought I would ride out to Cormallen to see Aragorn.”

He blinked at her. “You are suggesting that she is acting in a similar way? But I have not shown interest in anyone but her.”

“I am simply saying that you do not know her reasons for sure. It would do you both good, I think, to speak plainly.”

He nudged her foot with his and gave her a small smile. “I will miss you, sister, when you leave.”

She grinned at him. “We still have a couple weeks yet.”

-

You laid your tools down and swiped at the bead of sweat on your forehead. The second last panel was finished. It showed Eomer’s return to Edoras with his uncle and Eowyn, happy and victorious. You ran your fingers over his carved face and form, unable to stop the small smile from tugging at your lips even as your heart twinged.

Deormund walked over from his station and nodded at the saddle. “You did good work today, girl. Take the rest of the day off.”

You stretched and silently thanked Eowyn for her concoction; your muscles would certainly have been more achy without it. “Thank you, sir. Perhaps I will —”

A shadow darkened the entrance and both of you looked up. 

Eomer stood in the doorway, flushed and slightly out of breath. “Forgive my sudden intrusion. My lady, I wish to speak to you if you can spare the time.”

Your eyes darted from him to Deormund who simply inclined his head. “Is it important, my lord?”

“I would say so, yes. Perhaps we could walk just outside the city gates? But if you are not feeling up to it then —”

“I will go with you.” You stood and tried to slow your heart. It seemed that a week apart from him did not abate your feelings for him. If anything, the sight of him just made you long to be by his side even more. 

You bid Deormund farewell and followed Eomer out of the workshop. The walk down to the city gates was silent, though many openly stared as the both of you passed. You twisted your hands together and kept your gaze fixed on the plains beyond. 

As you passed through the gates, Eomer let out a breath and glanced at you. “Forgive me for taking you out here. I wished to speak to you without the risk of being overheard.” 

You nodded and the both of you paused a few paces from the main road. Simbelmynë waved in the breeze, the delicate blooms rippling where they dotted the barrows. The sun was low in the sky and orange spilled across the land. The end of day bustle and the neigh of horses was just audible through the open gate.

You cleared your throat. “What is it that warrants such a precaution?” You took a breath and readied yourself. Was he unhappy with the saddle so far? Had something terrible happened? Was he being sent away?

“My lady, I hope you will forgive me for being forward, but I simply must know.” He looked into your eyes, beseeching. “Have I offended you in some way? It has not escaped my notice how you have been avoiding me.”

You opened your mouth and then snapped it shut. How could you possibly tell him the truth? It would ruin what friendship you had with him. “I… You have not offended me, I assure you.”

“Then what is it?” He looked askance at you before his eyes trailed over to the barrows. “I know I have not hidden my affection for you well. That much is evident by all the rumours circulating. But if I have made you uncomfortable in any way, please let me know. I shall endeavour to rein myself in better.”

“Affection?” You gaped at him. “You…”

He gave an awkward chuckle. “Perhaps I have not been as blatant as I thought I was. Yes, I am quite fond of you. When you started declining my invitations I thought… Well, if you do not feel the same, please tell me now. I will bear you no grudge and we will never speak of it again.”

Eomer returned your feelings? Your heart fluttered but dropped the next moment. “No, I…” Your voice came out strangled. “I can’t.”

His head snapped up, his hazel eyes intense. “You cannot? I do not understand.”

“My lord, I cannot give up my work.” You clenched your skirts in your fists. “I cannot, I will not sit idle and lonely in Meduseld forever removed from what I love so dearly. Not even for you.”

His frown deepened before his face cleared into what looked like relief. “Is that your only reservation?” 

You nodded and straightened, ready to counter any argument he may have. “It pains me to be apart from you, but it would hurt more should I never carve again.”

A wide grin split his face and he laughed. “I would ask no such thing of you. I have seen my own sister trapped in a gilded cage, withering and wilting. I would not place that on another.” His smile softened and he reached up, cupping your cheek. 

Blood rushed to your face and your eyes fluttered shut. Did you hear correctly? That you could have both Eomer and your work? You felt him step closer and his scent filled your nose. You peered up at him, nearly unable to bear the weight of his gaze. “But… I am not suited to be a princess, let alone a future queen.”

“I could not think of anyone better suited than you. It would be fitting, would it not? That the Queen of Rohan herself saddles the very horses of her people. I know your heart, I have seen it in your work. Your love and respect for our land, our stories, our people.”

“Eomer, I am not… But I am… But what if…”

“Peace,” he whispered, dipping his head as he tipped your chin back. “I will stop your mouth.” His lips hovered a hair’s breadth away from yours, waiting for your permission. 

You gave in to the pull of your heart and surged forward. His lips were soft and warm, and he kissed with a passion that left you lightheaded. He tugged you closer, pulling your body flushed against his, and sighed a little when your hand found its place on his firm chest. 

He drew back to catch his breath and he laughed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “By my troth, I love you as I live and breathe.”

You giggled, giddy and delighted. “Are you glad your uncle brought you to the workshop now?”

“I was glad the moment I laid eyes on you. Ah yes, this reminds me.” He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a creased piece of paper. He unfolded it to reveal the slightly smudged sketch of the final panel you had given him weeks ago. “I think I have discovered what was missing.”

“Hm?” You glanced at him then back at the paper, a little confused. The scene looked perfect, even Meduseld was accurate down to the patterns that decorated the arches.

“You, of course.” He gave you a fond exasperated look. “Arda, I have never met another so oblivious.”

“Oh.” You laughed and pressed your face into his chest. Your feet ached and you leaned a little bit harder on him. “Eomer, may we return now? I am quite weary.”

“Of course.” His smile turned mischievous. “Shall I carry you back?”

“Eomer, there is no need, I—” You shrieked and laughed as he picked you up, his arm under your knees and the other looped around your back. “People will talk.”

He kissed your cheek and started up the road. “Let them talk, then, and let news of their future queen spread.” 

---

The line Eomer says before he kisses you is from Much Ado About Nothing

Taglist: @sotwk

[pegasusdragontiger]

Need help finding a fic. It's a Eomer x OFC fanfic on ffnet.

Women was from Sparta who somehow died and got sent to Middle Earth instead of going into the afterlife. The Fellowship come across her in a cave and she goes with them on the Journey eventually Eomer x OFC, slight Boromir x OFC at the beginning.

I can't find it on the ffnet at all, nor on my firefox browser from 2 yrs ago or 1yr ago? I'm wanting to read it again but having no luck! Google isn't helping much either. Don't think it's on Ao3 as I've not seen it! So if anyone remembers the fic or the title if you can let me know?

[sotwk]

Fanfic writer interview

Thank you @emmanuellececchi for the tag!! 💖 I've been tagged on this game a couple of times in the past, but I never answered them because looking at my Ao3 Stats just made me feel sad.

Stats are a little better now, and I have thicker skin about it, so here we go! :)

How many works do you have on AO3? 23

What's your total AO3 word count? 72,658

Your top 5 stories by kudos/likes:

Taken (Eomer x OC) *most popular by a large margin!

Greenleaf's Day Out (Child Legolas and family)

The Task of Living (Thorin x Reader)

Breathe (Boromir x Reader)

Dandelions (Boromir x Reader)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Umm. I am shamefully REALLY bad at responding to comments. More often than not, I just don't get around to it! I know that's a terrible thing to do as a writer, because commenters deserve so much appreciation! It is definitely one of my resolutions in the coming New Year to improve on this flaw.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending? The Broken Shield - It's a Thorin fic set during the War of the Dwarves and Orcs, and shows the death of both Elvenqueen Maereth and Frerin, brother of Thorin.

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending? I like to think most of the fics I write have happy endings, but I've received feedback about Dandelions being particularly "feel good".

Do you write crossovers? Crossovers are not my thing, BUT I did receive a fic request for one from a friend, so I'm going to deliver it just because they asked.

Have you ever received hate on a fic? Never, thankfully. I don't think my reach is wide enough to attract the notice of haters.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Nope, I leave smut to the experts. M-level spice is the most I can manage.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I know of.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Nope, and I can't imagine anyone would want to.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? @scyllas-revenge and I sorta accidentally co-wrote a sort-of fic. LOL. Maybe we'll formalize the partnership eventually. @heilith and I have been discussing a (her)Lindir x (my)OC collaboration for ages now, but we're both so busy offline! I would love to co-write fics, but only with friends I'm confident can tolerate my slowness and focus issues.

What's your all-time favorite ship? I enjoy MANY ships across different fandoms, but none really stand out. On a personal level, I really love my Thranduil x Maereth ship. It means so much to me that I will forever be insecure about sharing it with others, for fear of rejection or criticism.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will? I want to finish ALL my WIPs and I don't think about ditching any of them. Hope springs eternal!

What are your writing strengths? If you ask me? Worldbuilding and integrating my AU into canon. If you ask others? I've been told I can deliver a decent gut-wrenching piece of prose or dialogue here and there.

What are your writing weaknesses? I am the SLOWEST WRITER YOU WILL EVER MEET. Tons of WIPs. Updates on long fics are a miracle. I honestly question whether I'm cut out for multi-chapter fics, but I keep trying anyway.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? I only do it sparingly, usually using short phrases here and there.

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to? I am chomping at the bit to write for ASOIAF/Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon! I have fic requests waiting for HotD; I just need to get my butt moving on them.

What's your favorite fic you've written? I have yet to write a fic that stands out above the others; I love my fics equally for different reasons.

Bonus: Live shots of me trying to write:

Tagging: @hobbitwrangler @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @heilith @lathalea @missiemoosie

@emyn-arnens @celeluwhenfics @dilettantefeminist @cycas @scyllas-revenge

@cuarthol @entishramblings @lucifers-legions @torchwood-99 @softboiledwonderland

....and anyone who wants to share! I'm not sure which of my writer Moots are on Ao3 or just on Tumblr. :)

[severussnapedamagedlove]

Do people like Eomer (LOTR) fanfics? i have one that is kind of my baby and I want to release it, but it's important that it is loved so I'm nervous

[morwen-elf]

SLEEPY | ARAGORN KING OF GONDOR

SUMMARY ➪ Y/N AND ARAGORN FIND FRODO AND HIS GROUP OF FRIENDS, AND THEY LOOK AFTER THEM.

WARNINGS ➪ MENTIONS OF THE RING, NAZGULS, AND A TIRED READER WITH A LOVELY ARAGORN.

Four hobbits entered the "trampling pony" and they immediately caught the attention of the customers, some made fun of them for their height, others looked down on them, and the others were too busy drinking their beers. Aragorn and Y/n were another story, the couple had immediately set their eyes on the group of friends, while they stayed at the table in the corner.

"What's that?" Pippin asked in amazement

"This, my friend, is a jar" Merry replied, without taking his eyes off the foam on top

"Does it come in jars?" Pippin question, without taking long to get up from the table "I'm going for one"

"You already had half!" Sam exclaimed trying to stop him but he failed miserably

Aragorn and Y/n kept their heads slightly lowered, while their faces were covered by the caps of their coats. A candle was on his table and that illuminated only his lips and nose.

"Those people have been looking at you since we arrived" Sam reported covertly, causing Frodo to turn his head to the right, finding himself in darkness and smoke thanks to Aragorn's pipe

"Excuse me, the couple in the corner, who are they?" Frodo asked one of the waiters

“They are rangers. They are dangerous people, who go from one place to the other. I have never heard their first names, but here the man is called Strider "

Y/n rolled her eyes when she heard the information that the hobbit had received, it was all true, but they made them look like bad people when they were not.

"Aragorn, look at his hands" Y/n indicated, beginning to feel anxious, it was hard to believe what her eyes were seeing

"There he is, Frodo Baggins!" Pippin spoke, pointing with his index finger at the table of his friends "He is my second cousin, from his mother and my third cousin, quite far away"

Frodo got up quickly and ran towards the bar, to stop the hobbit's words. Aragorn withdrew the pipe from his mouth and leaned forward, being followed by Y/n

"Watch out" Pippin warned when his arm was jerked around, causing his beer to spill

Frodo slipped and fell hard to the ground, while the ring he had wrapped in his hand, flew through the air causing the couple to rise with speed from their comfortable seats. The hobbit stretched out his index finger and the ring fell perfectly on his finger, disappearing his body completely, scaring the customers.

Aragorn shared a glance with his companion and they both walked in the direction of the hobbits, watching as Frodo appeared again on the floor. Aragorn took his left shoulder, while Y/n grabbed his right, leading him to their room.

"You draw far too much attention to yourself, Mr. Underhill” Y/n spoke remarkably, pushing him to the ground

"What do you want?" Frodo asked slightly nervous

"A little more caution from you, that is no trinket you carry”Aragorn snapped harshly

"I carry nothing” Frodo denied, hearing Y/n's laugh

"Are you sure about that?" The woman rhetorically asked

"We can avoid being seen if we wish" Aragorn commented, blowing out the candles in the room with his fingers "But disappearing completely is a rare Gift"

"Who are you?” The hobbit questioned, noticing how the caps were removed from their heads

"Are you frightened?" Aragorn asked with a hint of curiosity

Frodo lowered his head "Yes"

"Not enough, we know what is haunting you," Y/n said moving around the room to stand next to Aragorn

The man was about to coat his mouth again, ready to ask another question, when quick footsteps were heard down the stairs before the door was slammed open. The four hobbits were inside the room and they all came armed to rescue their friend.

Y/n drew her sword as she rested her eyes on each of them. Sam had his hands fisted as he raised them into the air, Merry was carrying a candelabrum with three lit candles, and Pippin was holding a bench with both hands.

“Let him go! Or I'll have you, longshanks” Sam exclaimed surprising the couple

“You have a stout heart, little hobbit. But that will not save you” Aragorn answered with a tiny smile

“You can no longer wait for the wizard, Frodo. They're coming” Y/n remember him

•••

Convincing the four hobbits that they would be safe under our protection had been difficult, but after a long talk they all agreed that they will stay with us. Merry and Pippin were the first to go to sleep and Frodo and Sam followed them a few minutes later.

The sky was still dark, but dawn was near. Rain was pouring down from above and most of the town was flooded, while the ground was covered in slippery mud. The fireplace inside the room was lit and that managed to keep us all warm, the beds were occupied and that is why I was still awake keeping Aragorn company.

"It's weird, isn't it?" Y/n asked softly drawing his attention

"We knew that things would change soon”

"I know, but that a hobbit wears the ring is strange and that Gandalf is missing too" She explained watching him nod his head.

"We must make sure they get to Rivendell safely" Aragorn muttered, returning his eyes to the window

Y/n was silent and braced her head on her knees, her body was sore and even though the fireplace was on, she still felt frozen. She had not been able to sleep properly for two days and the way things were going, she would probably spend another four in the same situation, her eyes were struggling to stay open and the task was getting more and more complicated.

"Angel, go to rest, I can see and feel the desire you have to sleep" Aragorn spoke softly

"I'm fine, I can take a little longer" Y/n assured him, hearing him let out a snort

"I don't want you to push yourself to the limit, not when I know that I can protect you and that you can rest in peace" Aragorn murmured noticing how a smile formed on her lips

“I appreciate your concern, strides. But the ground doesn't look very comfortable to me. ” She replied with enjoyment

“Then come here ”Aragorn indicated, patting his leg

Y/n seemed surprised at his action and it took her a few seconds to get up, but when she did, she did not hesitate to approach his chair, being between his separated legs, the man's hands ran over her body with sweetness and remained still on the back of her legs, in one swift movement he pulled her forward and left her sitting on his lap.

"This is better?" He asked gracefully

"Much better" Y/n murmured accommodating her head on the exposed part of his neck, while her hand rested on his chest

Aragorn watched her adoringly and felt his heart melt when he saw her snuggle against him, it was strange that the two were so affectionate with each other, but neither could deny how much they enjoyed and treasured those little moments.

Sleep was already inside her body so her eyes closed immediately, clearly she was not asleep yet and that is why she could hear the angry screams of the Nazgul. Y/n quickly raised her head and directed her eyes to the window.

"They are here, they found us" She whispered

She was exhausted and fighting more than five wraiths was not her ideal plan, aside from protecting the hobbits.

"Hey, lie down" Aragorn indicated, putting his hand on her cheek "They won't find us, they are in another room and they will think that we managed to fool them. They will leave ” he assured her, managing to reassure her

Still, with doubts on her face, she returned to her previous position with a sigh, Aragorn brought his hands to her waist to keep her in place and gently kissed her head.

"We'll be fine" he murmured, absorbing her perfume

Y/n nodded slightly at his words and tried to ignore the closeness of their enemies as she relaxed into the Ranger's arms.