#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]

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

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 6 of 7

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

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

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

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

Word count: 8,430

Read it on AO3 here.

‘You are not Éorhild.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Are you not hungry, your Majesty?’

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

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

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

‘I am. Thank you for, um… breakfast.’

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

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

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

‘Are you sure?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she had blushed. And she had kissed him.

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

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

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

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

No response.

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

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

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

Only what had remained upon his chair.

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

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

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

‘I-I do not know, my lord, honest!’

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

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

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

‘No. Take me to Edelmer.’

‘But—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Your Majesty, Éorhild left Meduseld at dawn.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crown.

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

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

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

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

Unless…

Somebody had had a hand in her disappearance.

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

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

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

‘How did she seem?’ he intoned.

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

The chamberlain turned his scroll between his hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I am not blind, your Majesty.’

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

‘FALLACY!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Has it truly occurred that many times?’

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

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

‘Have you encountered others like us?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Does she still serve him now?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Éorhild… His sweet, beautiful Éorhild…

He had lost her.

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

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

Alone.

For good.

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

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

‘A note?’

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

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

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

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

Edelmer responded with a brief chuckle.

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

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

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

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

‘Can you decipher it?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are you trying to tell me, beloved?

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

‘That should be it…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But how can I be when she is gone?’

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

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

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

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

Edelmer offered him a ceremonious bow.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Erkenbrand!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Clear as day, your Majesty.’

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

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

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

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

‘You stole everything from me.’

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

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

And Éomer was king of Rohan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Very well.’

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

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

‘Speak plainly, Fréaláf.’

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

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

‘What of the woman?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for Éorhild.

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

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

[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

[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!!

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@zepskies

"Join me!!!" I'm DEAD- if I wasn't already back on the Eomer/Karl Urban rekindled addiction train, the first gif of of Eomer kidnapped me 😂

omg you're the best, thank you!! 😭😭 I'm so glad you liked the premise! Yeah I want to adapt more of the OFC outline into different one-shots in this same "arranged marriage"-verse lol. At least some parts of that story will get realized. 💓💓

YES! I'm so ready for the rest of their relationship to develop 😊

Everyone talks about Aragorn, but Eomer is a Good Man too! 🥹 I just feel like we didn't get to see enough of how he would be courteous with a woman/his spouse. Maybe not as "gentle" as how we think of Aragorn, but I feel like as a hardened warrior, he'd take pains to be gentle with his (new) wife. 💕

Also this 👆🏻 is so true! Everyone simps over Aragorn- lets be real he IS also very attractive- but Eomer is amazing too! Oh yeah, definetly, Eomer would be gentle in a different way. He's a little bit like Soldier Boy/Ben in that way, that Eomer might be a bit rough around the edges and trained to be a hardened warrior, but he does care deeply about people and you cannot tell me that Eomer wouldn't simp over his wife 🤣

And I'm glad you liked that detail of her not being totally comfortable being that exposed with him yet, despite the fact that he's already "seen it all" lol. I feel like the morning after has a bit more vulnerability to it.

It did have "more vulnerability" and it came across very well 💗! It makes sense because yes they are "married" but they don't know each other very well. They're exploring what's there between the two of them just as much as we are when we read about them!

She's making an impossible feat, amirite? 🤣 (I'd ALSO say thank you for the "snapping" lmao.)

LMAO 🤣

I'm glad that you had fun writing it! It was a lot of fun to read and literally after I had to watch Two Towers to see the man in action lol 👀❤️‍🔥

AS TRADITION DICTATES

Pairing: Éomer x Reader 

Summary: Your marriage to the Third Marshal of the Mark has been arranged in the hopes of renewing political ties between Rohan and Gondor. The morning after the ceremony, your new husband continues to defy your expectations.

AN: I’ve been wanting to write something for Éomer for a while now, so here we go! Confession: this one-shot actually comes from an Éomer x OFC story I have fully outlined, called The Appeasement Bride. I adapted this snippet into a reader insert story.

Word Count: 1.7K

Originally posted on Patreon: 1/21/2025

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Spiciness, fluff, newlyweds trying to suss each other out lol.

You woke just after the dawn, the sun peeking over the horizon and filtering through the open window. Its light began to wash over your face and stir you from a deep, well-earned sleep.

Your hand slipped out from under your head and drifted over…and you frowned. Opening your eyes, you realized that your husband’s side of the bed was empty and cold. Already, it seemed, he didn’t care to be with you when you woke. Had you done something wrong?

Flashes of memory from the night before conjured in your mind; of the surprising carefulness in his calloused hands, of hot, sweat-slick skin against yours, and the rasp of his beard as his lips and deft fingers taught you more of pleasure.

A shiver ran down your spine, blooming some warmth between your legs. Surely, if you had displeased him, he would’ve told you so. Or maybe he was polite enough to withhold that from you, along with most of his other thoughts. Éomer was often so stoic, it was difficult for you to learn your husband, even before the wedding ceremony yesterday.

You had come to Rohan over a month ago, and in that time, you had been able to glean precious little about him other than the ones he seemed to value most: his sister, his cousin, his uncle, Théoden King, his country, and his horse.

Not that he told you any of these things in words. You saw it in his actions—by the way he carried himself, and the way he spoke to you and others with fairness and courtesy, not arrogance. You’d heard gossip of his infamous temper, but so far, you had not seen it.

Nor did you see him now.

Perhaps he had more pressing work to do. In these past few weeks, you saw a bit of how demanding his station could be, and you understood his duty to patrol the Riddermark as Third Marshal of these lands. However, if he could’ve just been courteous enough to wake you before he left—

The heavy door of the bed chamber opened to Éomer himself. He wore only breeches and boots, his wheat-blonde hair loose and unadorned down his back. You swallowed a surprised gasp and watched him from the bed, unconsciously bringing the fur blanket up to your shoulders.

He met you with a polite, “Good morning,” before he continued inside to stoke the fire. He held more kindling wood in his arms, and he laid it on the platform before the fireplace.

“Good morning,” you nodded, though your cheeks warmed in a blush at the sight of his bare chest (you remembered that slightly wooly patch well). The defined muscles of his shoulders and arms shifted with his movements.

You were also a little embarrassed for overthinking.

“You rose early,” you added belatedly, for lack of something better to say.

“I am accustomed to it,” he said.

He finished with the fire and stood. You couldn’t help the way he captured your gaze, his measured steps bringing him closer to the bed. You sat up to meet him, the furs draping from your body, covering only where you held the soft fabric over your breasts. His eyes were an interesting shade of green as they roamed over you.

“How did you sleep?” he asked.

Somehow it was not what you were expecting, though it was perfectly agreeable. Your blush deepened.

“Very well, thank you.”

He nodded. Then, something almost hesitant passed through his gaze.

“I’ve drawn a bath for you, unless you prefer to rest longer,” he said.

You blinked. “Really?” That was a kindness you did not expect.

Éomer’s lips tugged upwards. He offered you his hand. Though you hesitated, you slipped your free hand into his. Instinctively you took the furs with you to cover yourself, your face warming down to your neck under the weight of his amused stare.

Your hair was a tangled mess along with the sheets remaining tousled on the bed, and you realized that your body was sore in places you had never felt so. He led you around a simple wooden partition to a wide bath that was built into the ground. Your eyes widened at the luxury of it.

You had noticed that Rohan largely valued comfort and efficiency over ornateness in their architecture, but it seemed they lavished some things with greater detail.

Éomer helped you step into the bath. He took the furs from you, still with that amused glint, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking note of your bare, supple form, what glimpse he was able to get before you lowered yourself into the steaming water. He had explored each and every lovely curve the night before, but you were lovelier to behold in the morning, he thought.

You looked up at him with some hesitance, but there was a question there that he thought he would like to answer.

“Have you already bathed?” you asked.

“Yes,” he nodded, “I will leave you to your leisure. Breakfast will be brought up in a little while.”

“Oh. Yes, thank you,” you said.

Was that a note of disappointment in your tone, in the downturn of your face?

Éomer paused, but he did as he set out to do, leaving you to your bath in peace. He went over to his side of the bed to continue dressing himself, slipping a long shirt over his head that he tucked into his breeches. Though he tried not to let them, his thoughts of you remained.

Meanwhile, you relished in the hot water relieving your sore muscles (and other places). You washed and hummed a little tune to yourself, forgetting that you weren’t entirely alone, despite the partition.

By the time you left the bath, dried off and dressed in a heavy robe over a thin dressing gown, your new husband was already munching on bread and fruit and other good things that were brought up from the kitchens. He welcomed you to sit with him by the fire, where two wide chairs were draped with furs to make them comfortable. You joined him, and the tray of goods rested in between your seats.

“Do you have much to do?” you asked, while buttering a slice of bread. The crust was hard and somewhat sour, but the inside was soft and delicious.

“The only business I must attend to today is to remain kept with my wife,” Éomer said. He glanced up at you, once again capturing your gaze. “As tradition dictates.”

By the Valar, was there no end to how you blushed around this man? You only couldn’t tell if being kept by you was a duty he relished in.

You almost didn’t hear him when he added, “Tomorrow we will see your family off. They ride back to Gondor.”

Belatedly, you nodded. Éomer saw the note of melancholy cross your face.

“I am sure it is…a sooner parting than you would like,” he said.

You offered him a rueful smile. “Yes, but…not as difficult a goodbye as I thought it would be.”

One of his brows rose. “Why is that?”

Drawing in a deep breath, you mustered a little courage to answer him honestly.

“I did not know what to expect when I arrived in Rohan, but its lands have beauty of its own. Its people have integrity and courage, and its noble house is noble indeed,” you said. A small, true smile brightened you when you looked at him. “It is honorable, and kind.”

Éomer blinked in surprise. On his face it was still muted, but it was there. Your words touched him. He cleared his throat, for some reason finding his face a bit warm. In his eyes, you continued to be a wonder. He too hadn’t known what to expect from a woman of Gondor. He knew what many in your country thought of the people of Rohan—simple folk at best, and horse-wild barbarians at worst. With you, he’d mostly expected a haughty, spoiled brat.

He’d never been more willing to be proven wrong. In fact, the more he learned about you, the more beautiful you became.

He reached over, almost hesitant to cover your hand with his larger one. He was suddenly very conscious of his rougher palm in contrast with your soft skin.

“Regardless of how we were entered into this arrangement, I stand by my vows,” he said. “I will honor and protect you, and do my utmost to make you comfortable here in my home.” 

You smiled. Your hand turned under his to curl your fingers around his palm.

“I will also honor and protect you in whatever way I am able. And I will do my utmost for your house, for it is now mine as well,” you replied.

Éomer brushed his thumb over the back of your hand. He rose out of his seat enough to lean over, and he kissed you. It was sincere, but all too brief. You leaned towards him after he broke away, left wanting more as your eyes slid open.

Recognizing that look of desire stirred his own, deep in the pit of his stomach. He tugged on your hand meaningfully and guided you out of your chair, over to him. You tentatively sat across his lap, uttering a laugh when you slid backwards and landed against his chest. Your hand flew there to steady yourself. Éomer clasped it against his heart and claimed you in a deeper, rougher kiss, one fueled by a craving he couldn’t name.

You held his bearded face and hummed sweetly into his mouth. You matched his fervor, your fingers slipping into his hair and instinctively tightening a stronghold. He groaned in response. His hands, large and strong, moved over your side and down your back, while the other squeezed the supple flesh of your hip through your thin gown.

Soon, it wasn’t enough. He slid his arms around your waist and under your knees before he stood with you in his arms. He smiled at your squeal of surprise. It was the first real smile you’d ever seen upon his face. It delighted you to be the one who put it there.

He carried you to back his bed. Our bed.

But still, it was only a matter of lust, if twined with mutual respect and…curiosity.

You did not love him. (Yet.)

AN: Love me some blonde, medieval cowboy Karl Urban. 😘💜

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LOTR/The Hobbit Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Eomer Tag List:

@kmc1989 @eddie-munson-stories @thebiggerbear @lamaudite

[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.”

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[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

FTH Tolkien Creators

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

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[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!

[kylobith]

Engraved on my Heart (Éomer x femOC)

Part 7 of 7

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

Summary: As the King of Rohan journeys to Ithilien to celebrate Elboron's birthday, the whispers of the willow tree in his sister's garden unveil a tapestry of hidden truths and untold tales.

Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character

Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love

Word count: 6,764

Read it on AO3 here.

Another four years had passed since Théoden’s funeral, and King Éomer Éadig was riding through fair Ithilien, the shadows of the leaves dancing upon his face. Rarely had he seen lands so green, bathing in the sunlight filtering through the lofty branches of mighty trees. It was a much welcome respite from the dim setting of his court. 

Amidst the draining grind of his early days as a monarch, the signing of decrees and documents, the councils, the enunciation of edicts, the royal visits, the grievances, and other emergency measures, he found some reward in knowing that his people were cared for. He had reimagined the traditional ruling system, dissolved the titles of Second and Third Marshals, instead appointing Lord Erkenbrand and Lord Elfhelm as Marshals of the West- and East-marks. Things were changing for the better, and only few had opposed his decisions. But Éomer was a king willing to compromise — a quality that stubborn Théoden did not possess.

As he had once been foretold, he was a king loved by most and celebrated as a remarkable monarch. Life made a habit of keeping him on his toes, but he did not dislike it. Not even when, at the end of particularly hefty days, he would crash onto his bed, still dressed and with sore limbs, only to fall asleep the second his head would hit the pillow. Most of his role, albeit nerve-wracking at times, was something that he felt that he was born to do. It surpassed the duties of a prince, which he would never want to be burdened with again.

It was at the pinnacle of a new reform project that he had received a letter from Éowyn, inviting him to celebrate his nephew’s birthday at the prince’s court in Ithilien. At first, he had been hesitant to leave Edoras behind without a ruler, but when Elfhelm had offered to oversee the realm in his stead during his absence, he had accepted his sister’s summoning.

And so, he had ridden all the way from the capital on horseback. As a skilled rider, the prospect of being granted a luxury carriage to journey abroad was an offense to his person. If tragedy was to strike him then, then he would have a soldier’s death, as he had always willed it. It had been a long expedition, but as soon as the prince’s court was in sight, nestled among the trees and with ivy snaking up its columns, he felt relief that he could finally walk.

No sooner had he steered Firefoot onto the paved path to the modest palace, lined up with wildflowers and blue daisies, than a shrill voice resounded throughout the forest.

‘Mother! Uncle is here!’

Éomer lit up and advanced towards the porch, where he hopped off his steed to greet the little blond child darting towards him. His nephew threw himself into his arms and he picked him up effortlessly to embrace him, before emitting idiotic grunts and twirling the boy around, holding him upside down and tossing him onto his shoulder. All the while, the boy roared with laughter, more than delighted to see his uncle.

‘Happy birthday, little rascal!’ he cheered, gently rubbing his knuckles against the child’s scalp. ‘It has been far too long, how you have grown! Soon enough you will be towering over me!’

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ Elboron chuckled, while he was being adjusted to sit on Éomer’s shoulders instead.

Éowyn appeared on the doorstep, her long golden hair framing her shoulders even more gracefully than ever before. Being a mother and a healer had done her well — he had never seen his sister as merry as since she and Faramir had married and come to live in Gondor.

‘Elboron, give your uncle a moment to breathe,’ she called out. ‘Your auntie needs to descend from her horse, too.’

‘Listen to your mother,’ Éomer advised the boy, giving him a playful wink, ‘she is always right. Auntie will not be able to carry you this time, but fear not, I have all my strength to spare.’

‘Deal.’

Elboron clambered down from his uncle’s shoulders and ran up to his mother, clinging to the skirt of her dress and pressing his head to her thigh. Éomer watched him with a fond smile and turned his attention to the other horse that had been trailing behind his own. His eyes softened as he beheld its rider and felt butterflies in his stomach as though it had been their first encounter. He extended his hands towards her, letting the sunlight reflect upon the ornate golden band around his finger.

‘Come, beloved, let me help you,’ he murmured.

The woman atop the black mare — gifted by him on their wedding day — grinned down at him, her cheeks still flushed from the ride. Lothíriel slipped her delicate hands into his, trusting him to lift her off the saddle. His strong arms steadied her as she dismounted, and he held her longer than was necessary, solely to gaze into her eyes and savour the closeness.

‘You spoil me,’ she teased, her voice as light as the sea breeze.

‘Always,’ he responded, before capturing her lips with his, his fingers cupping her chin.

When they parted, Lothíriel’s mirth chimed along the rustling of the tall grass around the estate and the soft nickering of the horses in a harmony unlike anything Éomer had ever witnessed. He brushed a strand of her raven black hair behind her ear and placed a kiss onto her temple. Elboron rushed back towards them, followed by his mother, and the king released his queen from his embrace, although he laced a protective arm around her waist. After a brief greeting for his aunt, the boy began to spin around in circles around them with his arms outstretched, as though he was trying to hold the whole world.

The sight filled Éomer’s chest with an indescribable contentment that he had once thought beyond his reach. For all the trials and sacrifices that had marked his journey, moments like these reminded him why he endured them. His kingdom, his family, and the woman by his side — these were the treasures that made every burden worth bearing.

And in the warmth of her smile, Éomer found a peace that even the weight of the crown could not diminish.

Éowyn greeted them in turn, giving her older brother a tight hug, burying her face into his chest.

‘I have missed you terribly, Mer…’

‘And I you, Wyn.’

As she pulled away, he beheld his little sister and gave her cheek a loving stroke.

‘You look like Mother,’ he said. ‘You seem well, and happy; it warms my heart to see you this way.’

‘And you do not eat nearly enough!’

Lothíriel snorted behind the back of her hand.

‘If you have any recommendations on how I could shove a meal down his throat once or twice a day, I will never thank you enough,’ she jested.

His sister’s playful retort died on her lips as her eyes fell upon his wife. The queen stood poised and radiant, clad in her lavender gown and sapphire blue cloak. But it was not her beauty, nor her impeccable taste in garments that held her attention. Between the parted folds of the richly embroidered fabric, was a gentle curve that was unmistakable to her knowing eye. The Lady of Ithilien’s breath hitched as her hands flew to cover her mouth, her heart leaping with joy.

‘By the Valar!’

Lothíriel blushed, her elation more than apparent, and she instinctively cradled her belly.

‘The healer said that it should be a little over three months until I deliver.’

Éowyn lowered her hands, her smile breaking free like a dawn through the hills. She closed the distance between the expectant mother and herself to give her a warm embrace. As soon as she pulled away, still grinning at Lothíriel’s pregnancy, her surprise shifted into indignation. She slapped Éomer’s shoulder with the reverse of her hand, with no small amount of force, her lips pursed at her brother.

‘How dare you make your pregnant wife travel all the way from Edoras on horseback!’

Another slap thudded against the leather of his light armour.

‘And how dare you not send a letter to announce that she is with child!’

‘Ow! Wyn, ow!’ he winced, rubbing the spot, despite the snorts he could not conceal. ‘I thought that it was a matter deserving more respect than to be announced by an unknown messenger.’

‘More respect? Really?’ his sister protested with a tilt of her hip. ‘Had I not sent you an invitation for my son’s birthday, would you have bothered to come to Ithilien at all to announce it?’

‘Perhaps not, my duties have occupied most of my thoughts and time, through no fault but my own, I will admit. But I intended to invite you and your family to visit us.’

‘Mh. But, at least, you should have allowed Lothíriel to take a carriage to travel. Queen of the Rohirrim she might be, but this bairn will not fare well if its mother is subjected to such exhausting travelling. No arguing — when you return to Edoras, I shall arrange transportation for her. You are free to ride if you so wish.’

The king and the queen shared a knowing look and reluctantly accepted their host’s help. A few servants, both from Ithilien and Edoras, rushed to their side to take away the horses to the stables and carry their luggage inside. Éowyn overlooked the helpers as they bustled around and furrowed her brow.

‘Did Théodil not accompany you? Eithriel was looking forward to bake with her again.’

‘I have allowed her to take a leave of absence,’ Éomer responded. ‘She and Fréagar are travelling to his family’s farm in Dunfast to celebrate their wedding.’

‘Their—?’

For the briefest of moments, her features froze in startled disbelief, her brows arching as though caught between astonishment and doubt. Then, as brightly at the sun shone beyond the trees above their heads, her expression softened into a beaming smile, her pride unfurling with unrestrained warmth.

‘Good for them,’ she intoned with the utmost sincerity. ‘What a comforting change for Meduseld, that all may now thrive as equals.’

Éomer shrugged with a bashful grin. Indeed, many things had evolved under his reign. Oaths to be sworn by new servants had been abolished, and both maids and manservants enjoyed identical privileges and rights. All were free to take lovers and marry, although the matter of liaisons between diverging social ranks remained a delicate question, especially among courtiers. Temporary leaves were allocated to them so they could visit distant families, without having to worry about replacing them. Orphans from a house in Edoras were given the opportunity to step in until their return and a generous salary for their hard work. Those who desired to continue to serve the royal household were evaluated by Edelmer, who would then decide which position to assign them.

A year into his reign, Éomer had visited one of his lords and former brother in arms on his deathbed at his manor in Aldburg. When sitting by his side until his dying hour, he had recognised Théodil, his former chambermaid exiled by Théoden, among the maids. Since her master had no heir, she was fated to lose her livelihood once more. Éomer had approached her when she was alone to present a heartfelt apology for the harshness of her punishment under her uncle’s rule and offered her to follow him back to the capital to occupy a stable position at the Golden Hall. She had hesitated at first, then gave her own condition; Fréagar, the guard with whom she had entertained the affair that had resulted in their banishment, would have to be reinstated as a palace guard. Éomer had not hesitated — the wrong had to be righted for them both.

Now reunited, the whole family entered the Gondorian palace and enjoyed some well-earned rest after such a heavy journey. On the following day, they celebrated Elboron’s fourth birthday and spoiled the little boy. Wooden shields decorated with the arms of the House of Eorl, a pony, and a Rohirric rider’s helm brought by Éomer and Lothíriel had elated the child beyond compare.

In the late afternoon, when most of the cake had already been savoured, Elboron placed a small slice onto a plate and tugged at his uncle’s sleeve while the others were talking and Lothíriel was taking a nap, exhausted by her dizziness.

‘Come with me bring cake to Hillie?’

‘Hillie?’ his uncle repeated with an eyebrow arched. ‘Who is Hillie?’

‘My friend! She loves cake!’

Éomer glanced around for any indication of whether his sister or brother-in-law approved. Since Éowyn and Faramir were in a deep conversation with Prince Imrahil and Beregond about the reconstruction of Osgiliath, he eclipsed himself from the table with his nephew. The boy led him by holding his fingertips, holding the plate in his other hand, guiding him through the corridors of his father’s court.

‘So, who is Hillie, ‘Ron?’

‘My friend, I told you.’

‘Why did she not come to celebrate with us? She could have had cake then.’

‘Mother said that she was ill, and she was sleeping.’

‘Are we not going to disturb her rest, then, Elboron?’

‘No. We leave the cake, and she can eat later.’

Éomer chuckled and kept following his nephew until they exited the palace from the western wing. Before them stretched a green garden, adorned with a multitude of colourful flowers, which he knew Éowyn and Faramir had arranged themselves. Birds chirped from the branches, fluttered their wings between them, and butterflies passed along the neat rows of purple blossoms. In its centre, a marble fountain, enclosed in an arched gazebo bearing the arms of the couple’s lineage and realms, spouted water, its gurgling sounds adding to the serene atmosphere of the terrace.

Elboron stepped down the short stone staircase leading down to the garden and sauntered onto the gravel. His uncle followed him, admiring the magnificence of the place. What a shame that the soil of Edoras does not allow for such a display, he thought to himself, I would make a neat bed of flowers for Lothíriel.

The boy came to a halt on the opposite side of the fountain, by the edge of the garden, and crouched to place the piece of cake on a stone slab there. His curiosity piqued, Éomer approached and observed the surroundings for a silhouette, but he and his nephew were alone.

‘Where is she? You said she was sleeping. Is Hillie a hound?’

‘No, silly! She is here, Father said.’

He came closer and noticed that the plate had been set down at the foot of a tombstone covered in ivy. His heart ached for Elboron, whose innocence had been preserved from the reality of death by his parents. He crouched beside the boy and grinned at him.

‘This friend of yours, is she kind to you?’

‘Very! She tells me stories sometimes. And she sings lullabies when Mother and Father cannot.’

‘Then she sounds like a beautiful person within.’

‘Yes… But I have not seen her in months. Her nap is long.’

Éomer patted the boy’s back and turned to the headstone. He bowed to it to pay respect to the deceased and reached out towards the stone to free it from the invasive plant. As he did so, brushing his fingers against the engravings, his heart stopped. With a frown, he frantically scraped away the thin layer of moss that had grown since the burial, and, the name offered itself to his view, in full clarity.

Éorhild.

Stumbling back, he withdrew his trembling hand from the marker at once. Everything rushed back to seize him then. The swarms of butterflies in his stomach whenever he would find her waiting for him on the bench inside the hall. The long conversations where both she and he dared to bare their hearts for once, without fear of judgement. The scent of her hair caressing his senses when the wind blew through it on the hillside. The two of them huddled under his cloak when she shivered from the cold. Their first kiss and first tears. The morning that he woke up to find her working as his chambermaid despite her reluctance to accept. When he carried her back to Meduseld on Firefoot’s back when he had seen her collapse on the pavement. Their lovesick pleas to each other. Their single night between the sheets. Their burning skins against each other. The laughs and the embraces.

Inevitably, the heartbreak of losing her. The years spent chasing her across the kingdom for a chance to tell her that he loved her. The obligation to abandon all hopes of ever beholding her again. His unconsolable state on the morning of his wedding, when he had hidden from his servants to weep, biting into a rolled-up towel to muffle his anguish. His soft cries stifled by the pillow, which he knew Lothíriel pretended to not have noticed, as he lay with her on their wedding night.

Having not uttered a word after his startled fall, his silence worried Elboron, who gently shook his arm to pull him out of his reverie.

‘Uncle?’

Éomer covered his little hand with his own and placed a kiss into his blond curls. He wrapped a protective arm around the child’s small frame and pressed him to his side, as if to anchor herself as much as he did his nephew.

He could be misconstrued — Éorhild was a name from the Westfold, and she most likely was not the only woman to bear this name. Yet the presence of a Rohir, other than Éowyn herself, at Faramir’s court was unsettling. None of the maids that he knew there hailed from their land, all were Gondorian in origin, whether from Minas Tirith or other regions.

‘Tell me, Elboron, what sort of songs does Hillie sing to you?’

Reassured at last, the boy nestled further against him, twiddling with the folds on his uncle’s sleeve.

‘Many songs,’ he exclaimed. ‘She sings about horses, about the stars, and the moon… My favourite is the happy song.’

‘The happy song?’

The child nodded and hummed a tune, tilting his head from side to side and tapping his foot onto the gravel to mark the rhythm. Its haunting familiarity confirmed his suspicions. The woman buried under this stone, on the edge of the regal gardens, was his Éorhild. And she had taught his nephew his mother’s lullaby as well.

Éomer’s eyes filled with tears, but he forced himself to shield Elboron from them. Instead, he forced a brief smile, rubbing the child’s arm.

‘Is she good to you?’ he muttered, fighting against the tremor in his voice.

‘The best! She bakes nice pastries, and she is funny — we laugh a lot. When I am sad, she comes to hold me and sing to me, when Mother and Father are busy or absent.’

‘Elboron?’ a feminine voice rang out.

Simultaneously, they turned their heads towards the side of the palace, where they saw a distressed Éowyn, wrapped up into a shawl, calling out for her son. She had paused in the doorway, her hand still heavy on the iron latch. From the moment that she caught sight of them, a loud sigh rolled off her lip and her shoulders relaxed. However, when she saw where they were sitting and what they had been paying attention to, her concern re-emerged, and Éomer could perceive it even from where he sat.

‘Elboron, come inside, my love,’ she chimed towards her son. ‘Ask your Father to give you another slice of cake, mh?’

‘Yes, Mother!’

The child ran back to his mother and disappeared inside the house, eager to feast on another piece of the lemon cake that the maids had baked for him. Before Éowyn could close the door, Éomer’s deep voice thundered across the garden.

‘Éowyn, here. Right now,’ he commanded her with an icy glare.

‘One moment, Mer.’

His sister upheld a collected composure as she shut the door and descended the stairs. When she reached her brother, he had already risen from the ground, clenching his fists with his nostrils flaring with fury and the veins of his forearms taut. The mere sight of his cherished sister, who had dared keep such a secret from him, was beyond devastating.

‘You lied to me,’ he seethed, restraining himself from pointing an accusatory finger at her. ‘You, my own flesh and blood! How long was she in Ithilien?’

Éowyn met his fiery glare with a patience that only battle, heartbreak, and the building of a new life could have instilled.

‘Let me start from the beginning,’ she responded.

But he was not ready to listen. Not yet. His emotions, unfurling within him deafened him to any word of reason.

‘For years, you watched me rot into insanity over her absence,’ he screamed, his grief too great to mask. ‘You were the only one I confided in — about her, about everything. And that is how you treat me? By concealing Éorhild and her death from me?’

Tears streamed down his reddened cheeks as sobs wracked through his guts. Pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, he attempted in some way to contain this bereavement, but it was much greater than he. By casting a mere glance towards the grave, he felt his strength wane and found himself sinking to his knees onto the hard stone, his eyes reading the name over and over in hopes that it would eventually spell another.

‘You let me mourn a ghost for so long, and now she is gone. And you did not allow me to bid her farewell,’ he cried.

She raised a hand to silence him with the same authority that he used to still men on the battlefield. Her voice was steady, but it softened when her gaze landed onto the lone grave between them that, unbeknownst to him, she had dug herself.

‘Before you cast your judgement, brother, I bid you to listen,’ she said while fixing the tomb, as though it, too, deserved a confession. ‘You are not alone in your mourning, for I held her hand in her final moments. I bore witness to her last words, keeping them secured within my own heart and carrying the burden for her. Do you think it has cost me nothing to keep this truth from you? To shield you from a truth that I knew would break you and prompt you to act harshly?’

Éomer’s jaw tightened as he stared at the headstone.

‘How could you do this to me? Why, Éowyn? Why let me believe that she might still be out here, somewhere? Living a life I knew nothing about?’

‘Because you needed hope,’ she retorted, ‘and you had a duty at hand that you were ready to forsake altogether! You confessed to me that you would abandon the throne if you would find her, yet you thought not about the consequences of such an act. Who else would have ascended? We have no family left; it has been only you and me for the past four years. And Rohan would not accept a queen, let alone a Gondorian king. You would have ended an entire bloodline for a forbidden affair, and you would have broken Lothíriel’s heart in the process. Let us not mention the diplomatic crisis that it would have entailed!’

‘You robbed me of the chance to properly say goodbye!’

‘Éorhild had begged me to!’

The siblings held each other’s gaze in an eerie silence, as Éomer’s animosity vanished within a second. Why would Éorhild demand such a thing from his sister? Had she not loved him as much as he had loved her?

‘She would never have done such a thing,’ he muttered.

‘And yet, she did. She understood as well as I did that you were setting yourself for failure if you pursued her after your coronation. She did not want to see you shackled by guilt or haunted by her memory. She firmly believed that your reign would be a blessing from Béma himself.’

Éowyn stepped closer, her hand brushing against his arm.

‘And if you had been there when she passed, would you not have taken her death as your own failure? Would you not have cursed yourself for not protecting her, though her fate was never in your hands?’ She paused, squeezing his shoulder. ‘Her final wish, Éomer, was for you to live as a king and as a man who could carry her love with him, not her loss. As one who knew duty from folly, who would remain faithful to his wife, no matter his contempt for her. Honour her memory as a selfless woman who forsook her happiness for your own, who preserved my family and yours from afar.’

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths and shared pain. Éomer traced the letters of her name, aching to call it out and see her return to him. For a long time, neither spoke. The only sound was the whisper of the wind, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the faint echo of distant songbirds.

‘She loved you, Mer,’ she said softly. ‘Enough to let go, so that you might pave your own path.’

Éomer closed his eyes, bowing his head as the weight of her words settled within him.

‘Tell me how you came across her. How she came to join you in Ithilien. I cannot wrap my head around it.’

She crouched beside him, wrapping her shawl tighter around her arms as the breeze rose.

‘Faramir and I were returning from Edoras after Elboron’s first visit when he was a baby, and I had decided to guide him through the Eastfold and the Rohirric towns I had visited in the past to teach him about our traditions, our language, and our culture.

‘One morning, as we ventured towards the market of Beaconwatch, we came across this feeble baker’s apprentice, with her hands bruised and burnt. I had a vague memory of her face, and she revealed to me that she had worked as a maid at Meduseld. When I asked her about the state of her hands, which I instantly tried to heal, she admitted that the baker she worked under showed little patience towards his apprentices, and he did not refrain from beating them if the pastries or the bread were not prepared exactly like he demanded.

‘So, knowing that our home in Ithilien would soon be finished, I offered her a position as my chambermaid. She refused at first; naturally, she expected the same restrictions as in Edoras, but I decided against upholding the same unreasonable standards imposed in Rohan. After negotiating her tasks and rights — which required nigh on no concession on our part, since I knew the quality of her work already — she followed us to Ithilien and helped us build our home here.

‘Éorhild was at the centre of our household as much as we are. When I could not find rest because of Elboron’s crying and teething and Faramir was not home, she would stay up with the baby and soothe him to sleep. She never complained. Not even once. She learnt to make our favourite meals and treats, and we would let her introduce us to new dishes in return. She became acquainted with Gondorian delicacies, and she would cook the best feasts when we did not yet have cooks here.

‘Faramir taught her to read in his free time. The ballads from every corner of Arda that she could decipher, she would sing to Elboron or to herself when washing the laundry. Sometimes, she and I would sing Rohirric chants while Faramir accompanied us on various instruments, when he was not frantically writing down the lyrics to save them for future generations. Truly, she was a delight to be around. She was family.’

Éomer listened attentively about his sister’s account of Éorhild’s life, which he had not been allowed to witness himself, not even from afar. It seemed that in the years they had been apart, she had found some joy in her life, and he could not help but rejoice at the idea.

‘Elboron said that she fell ill,’ he responded, prompting his sister to explain how his beloved Éorhild had come to pass.

‘Indeed,’ Éowyn sighed. ‘In the winter, she was coughing much more than usual, and the sounds of it began to worry me. As a trained healer, I tried my best to ease her pain and find the source of her ailment. When I found myself at a loss, I sent for one of the best healers in Minas Tirith to come urgently. But her lungs were beyond saving. There was nothing that either he or I could do. Sometimes, no matter how much effort and research you put into a patient’s case, it is simply not enough.’

He sniffled and rubbed his nose on his sleeve.

‘When did she die?’

‘In early spring.’

‘Did she suffer?’

Éowyn placed another loving hand upon his shoulder.

‘She did, but I did all I could to ease her pain.’

She turned to the grave as well, and smiled joylessly at the name inscribed into the stone.

‘Faramir called me urgently one afternoon, telling me that the end was near. I rushed into her chamber, and I sat by her side until the moment came.’

‘You mentioned her last words,’ he hiccuped. ‘What were they?’

‘First, she confessed her affair with you, apologising to me for having offended the House of Eorl with her affront. She was inconsolable, she would not listen to my saying that there had been no harm done, besides your anguish, which I thought gone.’

He scoffed.

‘But,’ she continued, ignoring his brief intervention, ‘after a moment of unconsciousness — so weak was she — she became aware of her end.’

And in every detail, she reconstructed the event as it happened, as faithfully as she could.

When her maid had awoken with a start, Éowyn had placed a hand over Éorhild’s forehead and felt that her twilight was approaching faster than she had assumed. With bated breath, her patient had held out her hand.

‘Draw near to me, my lady, for I feel my strength waning,’ she had pleaded. ‘Receive my last words to ease my soul and let it soar.’

The Princess of Ithilien had sat by her side on the bed and squeezed her hand as she leant closer, supported by Faramir’s touch on her shoulder. Éorhild’s eyes had illuminated with a twinkle as she gathered the last bits of her energy to utter her final words in her lady and lord’s confidence.

‘My lady, if ever there is need to cut me open once I have departed this unjust yet beautiful world, you shall find the name of Éomer Éadig engraved on my heart.’

And in a last rattling exhale, Éorhild was no more.

Tears streaked Éomer's face at the realisation that, even after nearly six years apart, his beloved Éorhild had borne him in her mind and soul until her very last breath. His sister held him, laying her golden head upon his shoulder for comfort. Her hand held his skull to hers as she let him express his grief, but there came a time when she pulled away and rose to her feet.

‘Cry for as long as you want, Mer. This grief is your own,’ she murmured. ‘But remember that a loving wife is waiting for you in your room, and that your heir is on their way. Do not lose sight of them. Embrace them like Éorhild wanted you to. Do not lose sight of what matters, Éomer. In your bed lies your expecting wife who loves you more than she does the sea — and that is quite telling, coming from her. Do not neglect her for a ghost that shall bring you nothing but grief. Rejoice that Éorhild passed surrounded by people who loved her like family, and not like yet another maid to replace, or worse, beaten to death by that damned baker. She never ceased to love you, and everything she did, even saving you from her own presence, was in your best interest. Do not throw away all she worked hard for in your name.’

And, she departed, leaving him to mourn alone by the grave.

Éomer pressed his forehead to the cold stone and bit his closed fist to stifle the howl that wracked him as he wept. His tears dripped onto the rim of the small, ornate plate that Elboron had brought for his Hillie.

What a sweet nickname for such a wonderful person.

One by one, all the reunion scenes that he had imagined along the years dissipated into smoke, wafting through the sky. In consolation, he found solace in the idea that, somewhere beyond the sparse clouds, her soul collected and nurtured them. Perhaps, when his day would come, she would welcome his own spirit in a way he had so long yearned for. And then, only then, could they love freely.

But Éowyn was right. He had a family to protect and raise, a realm to lead, and all the Rohirrim to provide for. His desolation could not be an obstacle. As much as he had loved her — and did —, Éorhild was to remain someone from his past, regardless of how much she still influenced his present. In order to ensure his own thriving and that of his people, it was Lothíriel he had to build a future with.

And, in truth, he was rather content with the prospect. His heart, although haunted by Éorhild, now beat for his goddess from Dol Amroth, the woman who had infused so much joy into his existence and never ceased to amaze him. Now, he had to concentrate on supporting her during her pregnancy and holding her hand while she would insufflate life into their child. He had much to look forward to — the countless stories she would recount to him at bedtime, the moments of complicity they would share, the celebrations of their love, the gatherings of their families, holding their newborn and watch it grow into both a gentle and kind person and a fierce and firm ruler who would do anything for the good of the land.

Even the hardships were something he would love to endure by her side. Arguments, fear, grief, tempests and famine, war and death — he could sustain it all with Lothíriel. He would let himself be pierced by all the arrows of fate to shield her from evil. If a single tear was to grace her cheek, he would defy anybody who had caused it to even form in her eye. He would read every manuscript in the realm and in her father’s archives to encourage her in her passion for them.

His kingdom for her hand.

Éomer sat back on his heels to catch his breath and caressed the stone under his fingers. It was time for goodbyes. Final farewells.

‘Good day, Éorhild,’ he whispered, his eyes flickering between the headstone and the sky, unsure where to turn. ‘It is I, your Éomer.’

Another wave of tears seized him. He hastily halted their course with the back of his wrist.

‘This is not how I wished for our paths to cross again,’ he whimpered between sobs. ‘Oh, Béma, you have no idea how much I have missed you and miss you still.’

He shifted his knees closer to the marker and sat beside it, leaning his head onto it.

‘What to say… I am a married king, but you knew that already. Lothíriel is expecting our first child. The whole realm is blessing us with wishes for a boy, but truth be told — and you will be the only one to know, so do not tell —, I would much rather raise a daughter.’

He let out a chuckle and brushed a fragment of moss that had caught in the inscription of her name.

‘Back in the days, I would have wanted to raise one with you. On a beautiful estate, somewhere, far from Meduseld. A home we would have built together, as we once dared to dream. But life has separated us in a most cruel manner,’ he reflected, running his tongue inside his cheek, finding this monologue to soothe his nerves. ‘I have no doubt that Lothíriel will be a brilliant mother. You know, the beginning of our marriage was rough for the both of us. I was still aching for you, and I did not give her a chance to win me over. Yet she did, and ever since, she has been a beacon of light amidst the darkness I have settled in after you left. There are still times when I struggle with it, but she makes it easier by the day.’

A smile passed onto his lips at the recollection of the sweet moments he has experienced with his wife.

‘We fell in love, she and I. And I thank the Valar every day for her presence in my life, but there is still this part of me that belongs to you and always will.’

Above him, a dove fluttered its wings and circled into the air, before flying away.

‘When you left, I thought that my whole world had ended. I cared about nothing anymore, only about finding you again and marrying you despite it being forbidden. But that did not happen, now, did it? Now, when I find you at last, you are gone and interred. I resent Éowyn for never telling me that you were here all along. One day, I will forgive her, but for now, I need to feel. I need to feel you near again, no matter in what form.’

Emotions constricted his heart once more, and he placed a hand onto the bed of grass under which she lay, to both ground himself and reach out to her.

‘Were you happy, Éorhild? Did Gondor treat you better than Rohan ever did? Did you feel free at last?’

His fingers clutched some of the grass blades as a sob rose in his throat, but he forced himself to release them. Not her grave. Any grass but that growing on her grave.

‘As king, I do everything in my power to overturn the laws that have harmed you and I. All oaths have been repealed, and all servants are free to love and wed. Théodil and Fréagar both returned to Edoras, and now they are married. How I wish you were here to see these changes, beloved.’

Inside the house, voices rose as the maids wished Elboron a happy birthday in the kitchen and sang for him in turn.

‘I am sorry for not holding your hand as you passed. I would have come, you know? Had you or Éowyn said the word, I would have come to see you go in peace. I would have kissed you one last time and said a proper farewell, not one to a deaf stone. I would have sung you my mother’s lullaby in hopes that you would have found it as pacifying as I do. Now, it does not only bear my mother’s memory, but yours too.’

His forehead found the cool stone again.

‘Thank you for everything you have ever done for me, whether from the shadows or in plain sight. Thank you for having brightened up my life for evermore. But, also, thank you for attending to my sister and Faramir with such care, and for helping them raise Elboron. I am sure that he will grow more empathetic and kind thanks to your patience when comforting him. I truly owe you my life, Éorhild, and my life you will always have.’

Éomer pressed a kiss to her name and covered it with his hand before bringing it over his heart.

‘So be at peace, daughter of Rohan, and let your spirit soar, for your memory will be carried on for as long as I draw breath. All my efforts to improve our people’s lives, I shall carry in your name, so nobody will ever endure what you and I suffered. Know that my love for you is infinite and, when I too must die, your name will, in letters of gold, be engraved on my heart. Farewell, my Éorhild.’

Author's note: So... You made it to the end! Thank you from the bottom of my heart for having read this little story, which was challenging when it came to the writing style but also was my first full Lord of the Rings fanfiction. I would like to thank everyone who interacted with it and gave it even a little bit of love. You motivated me to write after so long without writing anything daring or serious, and that means the world to me. Hopefully, you don't hate me too much now that the curtain has fallen, and if you're willing to read more about the silly little ideas in my head, I hope you will enjoy the other stuff I put out there (not all of them are as dramatic, I promise). Thank you again for making this little author happy!

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

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

[emmathefanficgal]

Masterlist/ce que j'écris

For my original works, go see my blog @emmanuellececchi

Loki x Sif (Post Thor movie/Marvel) on AO3 in english :

Two of a kind

It has be elves...

FFXVI/FF16 on AO3 in english

Between a song and a book (Joshua x Reader)

A snowball fight (Joshua x Reader)

Autumn crocus in the meadows... (Joshua x Reader)

LOTR/AU Hallmark movie - in english

Crazy decorator Eomer meets surly electrician Gimli - Collab with @lucifers-legions: inspired by various discussion on tumblr, by Hallmark movies and many other things " helping a Scrooge rediscover his Christmas spirit, and revealing the true meaning of Christmas to those who may have lost sight of it along the way".

Faramir and Eowyn Christmas Story - Hallmark style : a very short one shot inspired by a profile pics I did.

LOTR in english

A momentous Wedding : a collection of short stories, drabbles, prompt and so on. Independant chapters - more or less centered around Eowyn and Faramir's wedding (WIP - more chapters to come).

The white swan of Dol Amroth : a take on the romance between Eomer and Lothiriel. Short stories, multi-chapters and so on. Independant chapters (WIP - more chapters to come).

In dark time we sing : created for a fandom event. Who keeps the lore and knowledge alive in Rohan? (and if you're interested : faceclaim)

The end of Gimli son of Gloin : this is the story of what became of Gimli after the end of the war.

Absurd headcanon : LOTR and hobbit characters and cats

Books review (In case you're curious)

WIP :

Fanfiction

Two Idiots in Love: FF16 Fanfic - Joshua x reader - first edit finish, second soon.

Following a dream : Fanfic FFXVI Joshua x OC - Finished/editing (65 k words)

Lots of other ideas : LOTR, FF16, FF14.

Family (title to change) : set in the Exodus Game Universe

List of Not-yet-written fics

Looking for a beta-reader (français/english)? Don't hesitate to ask. I love reading and if I have time, I'll do it gladly! Fantasy, Sci-Fi, LOTR, FF16, original or fanfiction - Comments, suggestions, continuity, worldbuilding... Et je peux aussi pour les textes en français ;)

If you like this blog and it's content, you can always tip me.

[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. 💖)

[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. :)

[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 🥹🥹

[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?