#yooooo guys guess who's going to write a Persuasion AU now

[theemightypen]

miserable + "They're wrong about you"!

Lothiriel truly never thought to find herself in this position.

After he’d broken her heart–and their all but certain betrothal–two years previously, Eomer, son of Eomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark, had not been high on the list of people she would expect to find herself defending. Even now, with the truth behind his sudden change of heart revealed by Eowyn–Wormtongue’s quest for Eomer’s estrangement from his uncle had not been limited to things in the Mark, it would seem–she cannot bring herself to forgive him in full.

Oh, she understands it had been an impossible situation. He could never have married without the blessing of his uncle and king. And that combined with Wormtongue’s less-than-subtle hints of harm befalling her should he maintain the connection had pushed him to it. But he had lied. Painfully so, saying that he did not love her, that she had been little more than a passing amusement, too young and too flighty to have truly won his heart–

Well. It still stings, even now.

But that does not–cannot–matter now, not with the murmurs flying unchecked before her.

“He is handsome enough, I suppose,” Lady Candis whispers, “but Elbereth knows all of those Northmen are savages.”

“I heard tale he has a terrible temper, as well,” Lady Himmeth says. “Likely as much a brute in the bedroom as he is on the battlefield!”

His shoulders–broad as ever, much as she hates to find that she remembers that, that she can still be affected by the sight of him–are stiff, rigid with the effort of not reacting. It is highly likely the women are unaware of how keen his hearing is, but the fact that they are saying such things at all rankles her to the core. Eomer and his people had sacrificed so much so that Minas Tirith might stand, that all of Middle Earth would not fall into darkness, and yet they still spew such venom!

It does not help that she knows, perhaps better than anyone, that their statements are false. Oh, Eomer has a temper, fierce and bright, but he is no raging monster! He is kind, despite it all, and brave and intelligent. And gentle–Valar, how gentle he had been with her, before it had all gone so wrong.

Lothiriel knows Eomer well enough to recognize the signs of his discomfort, even if he is not exactly the same man she had loved so ardently two years before. Hardly a surprise, considering the death of his cousin, his uncle, and sudden ascension to the throne. But his discomfort is tinged with something else–

It is misery, she realizes, that keeps him silent. Misery and loneliness, and Valar help her, she cannot stand idly by while these two vipers have it in their power to wound him.

“Tell me, my ladies,” she says, gratified when both women jump, clearly having not noticed her quiet approach. “What would your brothers say, to hear the King of the people who saved their lives so maligned?”

“Lady Lothiriel,” Lady Himmeth recovers first,  her dark eyes alight with spite, “I am surprised to hear you defend him! Especially considering the rumors surrounding the pair of you. I wonder if it was not just your heart he rode off with two years ago, if you still can find it in you to speak well of him.”

Lothiriel looks at her evenly, even as her stomach twists with anger. Before she can even open her mouth, however, a tremor of awareness snakes up her spine. Eomer is suddenly beside her, looking as stern and foreboding as she has ever seen him. It jars, sharply, with the memories of the gentle suitor he had been, and even with the cruelty of their last meeting. Her heart gives a painful–and shameful, she thought she was passed this, over the loss of what could have been, over him–lurch.

“Say what you will about me, my lady,” he says, voice tight with barely controlled rage, “insult my home, my horse, my temper. But you will not speak of the princess in any way other than with respect.”

Lady Himmeth turns bright red and Lady Candis appears to want to sink into the floor. “We beg your pardon, Your Grace,” the younger woman murmurs. “And yours, Princess Lothiriel.”

“As you should,” Lothiriel says, latching onto her anger to prevent herself from feeling anything else. “And consider yourselves lucky that you are more wrong about Eomer King than you could possibly understand.” At that, she turns to face him fully. His eyes are as dark as ever and bear into hers with the same intensity as they had two years previously.

Oh, Valar, it hurts. It hurts to see him so close, it hurts to still be so angry at him, it hurts to not be able to rage at him the way she wants, or to kiss him as she used to.

But to reveal that would break her and that Lothiriel will not allow.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she says, sinking into a flawless curtsy.

Lothiriel turns on her heel as soon as she has risen, not giving him or either of the women time to speak. Elphir catches her eyes from across the room, his face a study in worry, and she makes her way towards him.

“Lothiriel,” he starts to say and the concern in his voice nearly undoes her.

“Don’t,” she whispers. “Please, Elphir, a drink.”

“You know, the point of these balls is to enjoy yourself,” comes Eowyn’s voice.

Eomer grits his teeth. “I am aware of that, Eowyn.”

“Then why do you look as if you’ve been kicked in the arse by Firefoot?”

He turns his head to glare at his sister. “I do not.”

“Well, you’re doing a remarkable impression of an Orc’s scowl, then,” she says, unaffected by his glare after years of being on the receiving end of it. “What has upset you?”

Eomer swallows, thickly, and risks a quick glance across the room, towards dark hair and bright eyes that are as every bit as beloved now as they were two years ago. Her back is to him, of course, but he would know her anywhere. In any world.  

Eowyn follows his gaze.

“Oh,” she says, in a completely different tone. “Oh, Eomer.”

“Don’t,” he manages to choke out. “I have no one to blame but myself.”

Eowyn frowns. “Is it truly so hopeless? I told her of Wormtongue’s machinations myself and she seemed to believe me.”

“I broke her trust. And her heart,” Eomer mutters. “Thoroughly enough so that she would have no cause to care for me again. Wormtongue had little to do with that.”

She squeezes his hand. “Perhaps. But both hearts and trust can be mended. If you are willing to try.”

There is nothing he would try harder for, but that matters very little if Lothiriel is unwilling.

“Try,” Eowyn insists. “I do not think it is as impossible of a feat as your thick head is making it out to be.”

Eomer snorts, despite himself. “Thank you for that ringing endorsement.”

“And,” she adds, something dangerous in her voice, “you will not forgive yourself if you do not.”