#pre-war poltical marriage AU

[theemightypen]

my dear @heckofabecca asked for 11) reunion kiss but tumblr ate the ask, so here you go, bb! hope you like it <3

(for anyone keeping track, this is in the same pre-war political marriage as this fill which you may want to read first!)

The air is thick with the smell of blood and fear. Lothiriel is so tired she can barely stand, but stand she must. They need all the hands they can spare to help tend to the wounded and to soothe the children. The noise from the battle is muted by the caves’ walls, but she is the daughter of a war-time Prince, sister and cousin to seasoned soldiers--she knows what the sounds mean, and it is not a good omen. 

The odds were impossible to begin with--an army of hundreds, a good portion of them withered old men and boys too young for beards, up against thousands of Orcs, if Lord Aragorn is to be believed. Hope has been dwindling for them all as the battle has raged on. Eowyn is brittle, defiant, in her anger at the situation they’ve been pinned into, but it is clear she has put her faith wholly in Lord Aragorn’s skill and luck.

It is clearer still that she thinks she loves the Ranger, but Lothiriel knows her sister-in-law well enough by now to know she will not appreciate her saying such a thing. 

As it is, it is hardly the time to think about such matters. She should be focused on keeping her wounded charges comfortable, with offering comfort to the mothers and wives who may be widows and childless even now. It is what her father would want her to do. It is what Eomer would want her to do. The thought of him, riding across the Plains, unaware of what his people are suffering is like a dagger at her breast. The thought of never seeing him again is even worse. 

At least he will not die here, she thinks, smoothing a whimpering boy’s hair as gently as she can, at least his fate will not be like so many others--

“Lady Eowyn! Lady Lothiriel!”

She blinks in surprise as Gamling--faithful, unwavering Gamling--limps towards them. He is covered in blood, likely his own and others’, and his face is grim. 

“Gamling, what news?” Asks Eowyn, efficient and forthright as ever. 

“The keep is near lost. Gather the supplies and people you can. You must take the people through the caves. I do not know how much time we can give you, but we will fight--to the last man--to keep you all from harm.”

Lothiriel swallows thickly. “But what of you? What of the King?”

“The King’s mission is to protect his people. Mine is to protect him. You must go, now, my ladies, and quickly.” 

“We can fight!” Eowyn argues. “We are just as able as our brethren--”

“Eowyn, these are your king’s orders. Obey him--for what may be the last time.” 

Eowyn’s jaw settles, mulishly, but Lothiriel suspects she is reacting this way to keep from crying. There is the very real possibility she will lose yet another member of her family in a matter of hours--if they are even alive at all to know it. Lothiriel is biting her own lip to maintain her composure, and her self control is nothing compared to Eowyn’s iron grip on her own. 

“We will do as Theoden King asks,” Lothiriel confirms, because what else can she say?

The relief on Gamling’s face is painful. “Good. Bema be with you--you both are the Riddermark’s hope, now.” 

That seems to snap Eowyn out of her pout and she turns, barking orders to any who are able to ready to move for fresh torches and all the water they can carry. Gamling vanishes back the way he came, leaving Eowyn and Lothiriel to manage the now frantic crowd. The sudden deep thrum of a horn makes her jump.

“What is that?” 

“The horn of Helm Hammerhand,” Eowyn says, sharp with nerves and impatience, “it is said that Helm would kill Dunlendings barehanded when it was blown. If only we had a warrior like that now, perhaps we would not be scurrying away like frightened rabbits.” 

“There is no shame in saving what life we can,” Lothiriel says, aghast at her sister-in-law’s position, “for the sake of those we lead and the sake of those who we have lost, Eowyn--”

“They are my people,” she snaps and ah, here it is again, this one jagged thing between them, “mine in a way that you cannot understand, Lothiriel, no matter how much you love my brother.” 

The mention of Eomer stings, deeply, and Elbereth help her, this is not the conversation she wants to have right now. Not when it could be one of the last things she ever does, not when she knows, in part, Eowyn is only saying this because of the visceral fear she too must be feeling. “Perhaps that is true. But I will help you save them, care for them, as if they were mine in that way. Not only for the love I bear Eomer, but the love I feel for you. And for them.” 

That softens her and she squeezes Lothiriel’s hand. The horn still echoes as they begin to herd the people towards the narrow passage. It would be slow going even with the fully healthy, but between the old and the wounded, it is nigh panic-inducing.

“Send the children first,” Lothiriel suggests. “The children and the most able-bodied young women--the rest of us can guard the back.”

Eowyn nods, reaching for her sword, but Lothiriel stops her. “Eowyn, you must go with them.”

“I am not afraid of a fight! I am a shieldmaiden--”

“And perhaps the last member of the House of Eorl. They will need you to lead them.”

Lothiriel is glad she has not had the time to mention her suspicion that has been growing in Eomer’s absence, for Eowyn would fight her if she knew--would likely fight any woman potentially carrying a child for not being among those going first through the passage. But Lothiriel has come to understand Rohan since her marriage. They will not follow her for the promise of a child, but Eowyn is as close to a princess as they have, at present. A daughter of kings. Their kings, unbroken for generations. They will follow her, as they followed her uncle, into battle and even death. 

Still, Eowyn hesitates. “Eomer will not forgive me if I leave you.”

If Lothiriel’s last words to him must be ‘I love you’, she is content. She cannot regret them, even if he does not feel the same. “I will not forgive myself if we do not do what’s right for your people.” 

Eowyn opens her mouth to say something, but she is drowned out by a sudden burst of cheering, intermingled with tears.

“My lady!” Someone shouts. “My lady, there is no need to take the passage!”

“What?” Asks Eowyn. “Explain yourself at once.”

“Gandalf has returned with a full eored! He and Lord Eomer--”

Lothiriel’s knees nearly give out and she slumps against the wall even as the women around her give cries of alarm. 

“--they have defeated the Uruk-hai! We are saved!” 

The tears begin in truth, now, and dimly she’s aware of Eowyn dragging her back towards the doors to the keep. There is a mad press all around them, of people crying and laughing and cheering, but Lothiriel can think of nothing else other than Eomer is here, Eomer is safe, we are all safe--

“Uncle!” Eowyn cries, and then she is gone, throwing herself at the weary yet triumphant form of Theoden King. A gentle hand on her arm has replaced Eowyn’s desperate grip and Lothiriel blinks a few times before recognizing that it is Gimli who is frowning up at her in concern.

“Lass, you’re white as a sheet. Come, come, let us find you somewhere to sit--”

“No,” she says, her mind foggy with relief and grief, all at once, “no, I must find--I must find my husband--”

“Your young horse master will find you soon enough, my lady,” he insists, gently shepherding her to a barrel and all but forcing her to sit upon it, “I do not think he would be overly pleased to find you in a faint when he does.”

That makes her laugh, a little. “I have never once fainted in my entire life, Master Dwarf.”

“No sense starting now, then,” he says. “Now, where is that confounded Elf? He had best not be trying to up his score…”

 Lord Legolas is, in fact, poking at a few corpses with an arrow, and Lothiriel laughs herself nearly sick when Gimli explains why. Then Lord Aragorn arrives and Eowyn is throwing herself at him, too relieved to guard her more tender emotions. Gandalf appears, miraculously untouched by the grime covering everyone else, grumbling about something as is his wont. Behind him is--

Behind him is Eomer, broad-shouldered and magnificent in his armor. A few other soldiers are with him, clearly asking for his input on one matter or another, and he looks near to losing his impressive temper.

“Deorwine, enough,” he finally barks, “I will answer these questions later--I want to find my wife!”

Valar, she is so happy to see him whole and hale that she cannot speak. Gimli seems to know this and winks at her before crying over the din, “Your wife is here, laddie.”

She’s vaguely aware of standing, of starting to walk towards him, but Eomer is there before she can so much as blink, crushing her against his chest so tightly she can scarcely breathe. She knows she’s crying, messily and without reserve, and she should be embarrassed to behave in such a way, in front of so many people, but she cannot bring herself to care. Not when Eomer’s arms are trembling around her, or she can feel the rasp of his beard against her temple, and the deep rumble of his voice as he says something in Rohirric to her is overwhelming her senses. 

“Hello,” she finally manages, leaning her head back just enough to meet his eyes, “oh, Eomer, hello.” 

“Lothiriel,” he says, and then he kisses her. Dimly, she’s aware of a small smattering of applause and a happy hoot that sounds suspiciously like Eothain, but that’s of little consequence when Eomer is kissing her like he’s been desperate for it. Like he’s missed her as much as she’s missed him.

He rests his forehead against hers when he finally lets her up for air, and Lothiriel has to reach up to take his dear, dear face between her hands. He is plainly bone weary and smells strongly of horse. There has never been a more welcome sight. 

“You came back to me,” she whispers.

“You asked me to. How could I do otherwise?” 

She huffs a laugh--of all of the times for him to tease! But then Eowyn is pushing herself into both of their embraces, and they are all crying, even Eomer. The rest of the day is such a blur that she cannot recall all of the dear faces she has seen, the words of relief and love and joy shared. She blinks in surprise to find herself all but pressed into bed, stripped of her filthy gown and left in only her somewhat less dirty shift.

“I should change,” she murmurs, flinging a leg over the side of the bed with the intention to stand.

“You will rest,” Eomer says, falling upon his side of the bed heavily and managing to drape an arm around her waist in the same instant. “You looked near enough to sleep this morning and an entire day has passed since then.”

“I smell.”

“So do I. I do not care if you do not.” 

She cares, but she cares more to have him close, stink or no. Sighing, she settles back onto the bed, pleasantly pinned under the weight of his arm for the first time in what feels like years. Rolling onto her side, she reaches for his face, cradling his still somewhat dirt-encrusted jaw in her hand. “I missed you. Oh, Valar, I have missed you so much.” 

Eomer swallows, drawing her closer until his nose is pressed against her temple and she is tucked too tightly against him to see his face. “I have missed you more than I thought possible. Lothiriel...Lothiriel you must know, I should have said it long before Wormtongue’s damned machinations separated us, but I love you.”

She cannot help it--she sobs, just a little, against the hollow of his collarbone. Eomer tightens his arm around her and she thinks, I am home, he is home, he IS home--

For now, anyways. And for now, that is enough.