TITLE: Masquerade

AUTHOR: Zion’s Starfish

RATING: PG-13

ARCHIVE: Muses’ Compilation only

SPOILERS: RotK

NOTES: Extra special chocolatey thanks to Belladonna Underhill and Luzmaria. For Jaimie.

SUMMARY: After the war, Éomer tries to rebuild his country and his life

One upon a time, there was a beautiful and thriving country named Rohan and her King was wise and brave and good.

Ha, Éomer thought, as he swam up to the surface of the lake, dragged in a breath and dove down again. If only that were true.

Correction: the first part was, in fact, true. It had been nearly a year since War of the Ring and Rohan was flourishing. Where there had been a barren landscape, gardens and fields of crops now prospered. Even the ancient trees of Fangorn forest were throwing fast-growing offshoots and saplings into Rohan’s borders, mixing with the trees of Rohan that had suddenly seemed to sprout out of nowhere. Éomer had heard of Samwise Gamgee’s gift from the Lady Galadriel, the enchanted dust. Perhaps a speck or two had been carried by the wind all the way from the Shire to Rohan. It was a silly notion but the proof was all around. With the trees had come streams and then rivers, and this one lake.

Éomer surfaced again, blinking as the sun reflected off the shimmering water. He wiped the water from his eyes and drifted on the lake’s surface, eyes closed.

He hadn’t planned on going swimming when he’d set out from the castle this morning but when he’d ridden by on Elsafal, the lake seemed to call to him.

He’d left Elsafal to graze on the long, sweet grass and wandered out, pulling off his clothes and weapons and leaving them by the boulder on the shore as he stood at the lip of the water, scrunching his toes in the mud and letting his hair be lifted by the gentle breeze.

The lake was deserted. The mornings were still too chilly but by mid-summer, Éomer expected the waters to be brimming with wide-eyed children.

Things were improving steadily for the people of Rohan, but Éomer was feeling more and more disquiet though he couldn’t pinpoint why.

The clear, chilly water was a perfect counterpoint to his disconcerted mind but he couldn’t linger much longer. Éowyn and Faramir were visiting from Gondor and his sister had demanded (in her sisterly way) time with him. Not to mention that he had his daily meeting with Brenelan. Éomer was extremely grateful that the Steward of Rohan had taken it upon himself to help Éomer ease into his role as King.

A quiet rustling drifted through his awareness and he looked around, treading water, seeing only a family of silver-spotted turtles sunning themselves on a log and the wind moving through the grass. He sighed and lay back again in the water’s embrace.

All this meant that he had very little time for himself, though he knew that his needs were secondary, tertiary, even, to the needs of Rohan and its people. Brenelan had suggested a daily morning ride and Éomer had become increasingly dependent on the solitary excursions for his sanity.

There was a quiet splash on the far side of the lake and the sound did more than just drift through his awareness this time. Wariness prickling through him and using the boulder as a shield, he peered out at the far side of the lake.

He gasped.

He was not alone.

A woman swam through the water, causing ripples to reverberate across the lake, meeting the ripples caused by Éomer’s body. He watched her, aware that a King of the Mark would never behave this way but he was unable to stop himself.

She was a good swimmer. Every now and then, she’d dive under, swim several feet and then surface. Her smile was evident even from Éomer’s vantage point.

When the log with the turtle family drifted down to her, she stopped to smile at them before wringing the water from her cinnamon-dark hair and stepping out of the water.

Éomer wrenched his eyes from her lithe form just as her shoulders cleared the surface. Blushing furiously, heart in his throat, he put his head against the rock and took three deep breaths. He knew he should either leave or introduce himself.

Éowyn’s voice rang in his head from the last time she had visited. He wasn’t going to meet anyone while hiding behind some rocks. His heart pounded at the thought of introducing himself and wished desperately for a hoard of Nazgûl or a band of orcs to appear and save him from his sister’s nagging voice.

He made up his mind to meet her and exhaled sharply. Except he didn’t move. It was just a woman, he chided himself. There was nothing to fear. He peered out at her again. She was back in the water, floating on her back and looking up at the sky.

And he still didn’t move. Elbereth, he was a coward.

He lay back in the water and closed his eyes. He tarried several minutes longer before deciding to head home. There would be another time, he tried to convince himself. Besides, he was going to be late if he didn’t leave immediately.

Just as he decided to go, he bumped into something solid and yet warm and there was a shriek so close and so loud he startled and dunked himself as he struggled upright. The water closed over his head before he had a chance to take a breath. Ordinarily he would just swim up to the surface except this time... well, this time an arm was around his neck, cutting off his air.

Someone’s very naked female body was pressed up against his back and he startled, gripping the arm with both hands, pushing upward and swimming a distance away. He broke the surface, gasping for air, flinging his wet hair out of his eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?” he yelled.

His eyes widened. In front of him was the woman he’d seen from behind the... um... boulder, which was now at the other end of the lake.

Oops.

Apparently he’d drifted with the current like the log with the turtles on it and... smacked right into her.

Her eyes flashed angrily as she treaded water several feet away.

“I could ask you the same question,” she said. “You sneaked up on me!”

“I did no such thing. I.... drifted.”

“You drifted,” she said, skepticism dripping from both words. Éomer knew how pathetic it sounded.

“It’s the truth,” he declared lamely.

“Ha,” she said, and like an afterthought, she splashed him with water.

Éomer’s jaw dropped. Didn’t she know who he was? Oh—wait—she had no idea who he was. He splashed her back.

She gasped. Then her eyes narrowed. And then... she swam closer. And closer. And closer. And Éomer thought he was going to get an earful... except... she laughed and splashed him hugely and he got a faceful of water instead.

When he’d wiped the water out of his eyes Éomer looked to see the woman swimming for the shore. Grinning, he swam after her and splashed her back. She shrieked again, but this time playfully. Soon it was an all out splash war and Éomer was losing.

When he’d finally wiped the water out of his eyes for the last time, Éomer looked around... but the woman was nowhere to be seen. He had that prickly feeling at the back of his neck... there was only place she could be and he wasn’t safe in the water. He swam for shore but he moved too late; two slender hands closed on his hips from behind and yanked him under.

This time Éomer had a chance to take a breath before the water closed over his head. There was no need to panic; he twisted around, enjoying the way the sunbeams shone through the water and rippled, and she was right behind him, smiling impishly, her hair fanning out. He grabbed for her a split second before it finally registered that they were both completely naked, completely and utterly, and his arms were around her very bare midsection for a second which was two seconds longer than was appropriate.

Éomer gasped which was unfortunate as it forced water into places water shouldn’t go and he surfaced, coughing and hacking and sputtering. Apparently she was no better off; he could hear similar sounds coming from her.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out between gasps.

“No, I’m sorry,” she sputtered.

Finally, they stared at each other. “Um, I’m going to—” she started, just as Éomer said, “I think I should—” and they both swam in opposite directions for their clothing.

Éomer grabbed his clothes and drew them on, wringing out his hair. He looked up to see the woman was walking towards him, barefoot, dressed in a simple pale tunic and skirt, head tilted, an amused smile playing on her lips. She wore a scabbard as well and the hilt of the sword peeked out from behind her left shoulder.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Linnea. And you?”

“É—Edan.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said.

He opened his mouth but movement in the trees caught his eye and the words that came out were much different than he’d intended.

“Get down!”

Éomer tackled her and they both went crashing to the ground as an arrow flew overhead. The breath was knocked from his body but there was no time to spare. He grabbed the woman’s hand and half ran, half dragged her behind the rocks. He looked where he’d left his sword and cursed. Of course, against an archer, a sword was fairly useless.

Éomer sighed and vowed to take up archery.

“Who are these people?” Linnea said.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” An arrow smashed against the rock and with a flash of inspiration, Éomer grabbed it and placed it inside his jerkin.

He suddenly had an idea. He whistled loudly.

She gave him a harsh look. “Are you mad? Do you want them to be drawn to our position?”

“Either we stay here and wait for them to come after us or we move.”

“I don’t wish to state the obvious, but we cannot hope to outrun an arrow.”

“That may be true. But perhaps with a little help we can avoid them.”

“What are you talking about?”

And there, in the distance, Éomer heard hoofbeats. “Can you ride?”

“Excuse me?”

“Can you ride a horse!”

The hoofbeats grew louder. An arrow whistled overhead.

“I can... hey!”

Out of the brush galloped Elsafal, brown mane and tail streaming, truly a welcome sight. Éomer got up and grabbed the reins, forcing them into Linnea’s hand and boosting her onto Elsafal’s back. He grabbed his sword and dove behind the rocks as an arrow flew by, slashing his arm. The sound of hoofbeats faded.

Éomer knew that Elsafal would not fail though a stranger rode him without a saddle. Perhaps the sight of Linnea on the King’s royal steed would summon help in time. Even so, he clutched the sword and waited for his chance.

It wasn’t the sound of approaching footsteps but the sound of hoofbeats. Again. Coming towards his position and quickly. He heard only one beast approaching... it couldn’t be, he thought, even as another arrow streamed by.

He risked a look. What he saw amazed him. There, riding his horse like she’d done it her entire life, was Linnea.

She held out her hand and he took it, landing lightly behind her.

“Fly, Elsafal!” he cried and the three of them became one with the wind.

His arms felt at home around her waist and he tried very hard not to think about that.

After a few minutes of riding at a blinding gallop, Linnea said, “Where are we going?”

“Give me the reins,” he said. She put them in his hands and gripped Elsafal’s mane. They swerved back into the forest where Elsafal slowed to a nervous trot but he knew the way and moved steadily.

Ten minutes later they were deep in the forest where the canopy was so thick sunlight barely penetrated it. The trees grew so close together Elsafal just barely fit between them. It had been a while since either of them had come here, Elsafal as a colt and Éomer as a young man.

And then, as if by some kind of sorcery, the dark thicket opened up into a bright clearing. Two temples sat in the middle of the clearing. They had been once used for worship by the ancient inhabitants of the forest many centuries ago. Ruins of statues and other structures were covered in moss and ferns. It still held that ancient mystique which had drawn Éomer to it as a child.

He dismounted and helped Linnea down. Elsafal wandered off to graze.

“What is this place?” she whispered.

“I’m not sure what it was called back then or if it has a name now. But I used to come here as a child with my sister and we’d play for hours. It’s well hidden; we’ll be safe.”

She nodded. Her expression changed to one of concern and she walked up to him and fingered his torn and bloodied sleeve.

“Looks like we didn’t escape entirely unscathed.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “We should conceal ourselves in case we were followed.”

“You said we were safe here.”

“We are. It’s just...”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s better to be safe. Come on.”

He put out his hand and she took it so naturally it made Éomer’s breath catch. He led her around the ruins of the temple and up the cracked stairs.

This secondary temple was smaller than the main one and it looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in years. They walked, careful not to disturb the foliage and leave tracks. The stairs led to an expansive chamber. The roof had long caved in and rubble littered the floor. One of the support beams had fallen across the chamber and Éomer led Linnea behind it. They crouched down to wait.

And they waited. Éomer’s wounded arm began to throb and he touched it, wincing as pain lanced though him. He hoped the arrow hadn’t been poisoned.

The arrow... Éomer opened his jacket and pulled out the arrow fragment. It looked familiar but before he could draw any conclusions, he looked up at the sound of fabric ripping; Linnea was tearing a strip off the bottom of her skirt.

“What are you...”

“Shh,” she said.

He watched as she widened the tear in his sleeve and tied the strip of cloth around his arm.

“Too tight?”

He shook his head.

Éomer couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d done this before but he kept the thought to himself. He returned to listening for footsteps or voices. Still he heard nothing.

“I think they’re gone,” she said.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Well, we’ve seen neither hide nor tail of them in... how long has it been anyway?”

“It’s better to be safe,” he said.

“You keep saying that! They’re not out there.”

“I have to get home,” she said.

Éomer’s eyes widened. Home. Brenelan. Éowyn! He was so dead!

Linnea got up and brushed past him. Éomer grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?”

“Home. I have things I must do. I didn’t exactly allot time in my daily schedule to be chased around the woods by... whatever those were.”

“They could still be out there.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Éomer sighed. This was impossible.

“At least let me escort you home.”

He frowned as she scoffed at the suggestion.

“I don’t need an escort.”

“They could still be out there.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I’m not saying you can’t.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That you are utterly and exasperatingly stubborn.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

Éomer threw up his hands and sighed.

“If you will not allow me to escort you home, let me give you these for protection.”

Éomer pushed up his sleeves to reveal twin sheaths that were strapped to his forearms. He unbuckled one and slid out the blade.

“I have a sword, in case you haven’t noticed,” she said.

He snorted. “I have noticed, believe me. But daggers such as these may be hidden until needed. Here. Please.”

She took the hilt and hefted it tentatively. “It’s so light. And the design... it’s exquisite.” She sheathed the dagger and Éomer buckled it to her forearm.

“They’re elvish. They were a gift from a friend.”

“Elvish?” Her mouth fell open. “Now I know I cannot accept these. You are kind. But I cannot.”

Éomer considered. “A compromise, then. I will lend them to you. You may return them to me the next time we meet.” He buckled the second sheath to her arm.

A small smile crossed her lips. “And when might that be?”

“How about tomorrow morning?”

“I cannot. There are things I must do.” Her face grew distant and Éomer worried he might never see her again but just as suddenly, her sunny smile returned. “I can meet you in the evening. Seven, perhaps. Here.”

“I’ll be here.”

She waved and started down the path and Éomer watched her go, wondering at the pounding of his heart. For the first time in a long time, he had felt like... himself. Not the King of Rohan. Not the King of the Mark. Just Éomer.

***

“I just want you to be happy,” Éowyn said.

She’d met him at the stables as soon as Éomer had returned. ‘Ambushed’ might have been the better word, he thought ruefully.

“I am happy.”

“You’re absolutely miserable. Anyone with eyes can see that. That’s why I’ve organized a party.”

“A what?”

“A party.” He tried not to squeak.

“And you think a party is going to improve my disposition?”

Éowyn frowned. “Your disposition can’t get much worse.”

Éomer exhaled.

“You’ve given your life to Rohan,” she said. “But if you don’t take time for yourself and you burn out, what more will you have left to give?”

Éomer sighed and looked at his sister. He knew when he was cornered. “Fine. Fine, when is this party?”

She smiled. “Tomorrow night. The invitations were sent two weeks ago.”

“Tomorrow night? Two weeks ago?” Éomer had just thought he couldn’t get more incredulous.

“And it is not just a party. It is a costume party.”

“A what?”

Éowyn burst out laughing. “You needn’t look so mortified. All the details have been taken care of. All you must do is attend and have fun.”

“Fun,” Éomer snorted. “Look, I have a meeting with Brenelan I must attend. I’ll meet up with you later, okay?”

He tried not to run to the conference chamber where Brenelan, the Steward of Rohan, awaited him.

“You look tired,” Brenelen said, after they’d reviewed the monthly reports. “Perhaps you need to take a few days for yourself. Rivendell, perhaps.”

Éomer frowned. Was his unrest so utterly transparent? He sighed. “It is tempting... but I cannot. Not yet. My sister has organized a party and I have been commanded to attend.”

“A... party?”

“A party. Complete with costumes, music and...”

“And...”

Éomer shuddered. “Dancing.”

“When is this party? And why wasn’t I informed beforehand?” Brenelan yelled, his dark eyes flashing.

Éomer put a hand on Brenelan’s shoulder. Though Brenelan was several inches shorter than him, the Steward’s presence more than made up the difference in height. He was an intense man and Éomer was grateful for his guidance.

“Éowyn wanted it to be a surprise. She means no harm or disrespect.”

Brenelan took a deep breath. “You are right, of course. I apologize for my outburst. If you will excuse me, I will speak with her about scheduling more guards for this event.”

Éomer nodded. There was a knock at the door and Éomer turned to see his brother-in-law peering through the door.

“If you are almost done,” Faramir said, “I have orders from your sister to make sure you eat lunch.”

Éomer exchanged bewildered glances with Brenelan. “Go,” Brenelan said with a smile. “The Lady of the Shield-Arm has spoken.”

“Family,” Éomer said with a laugh, and joined Faramir.

***

They walked down the hall to the dining room.

“How have you been?” Éomer said, filling his plate and sitting down. Faramir did the same.

“Fine. There isn’t much for me to do; King Elessar always seems to have things under control.”

Éomer cleared his throat and nearly knocked over his wine glass.

“That’s good to hear.”

“And how about you?”

“I met someone today,” Éomer said, before he could stop himself.

“Did you?”

“At the lake. She was quick-witted and smart and her cheek dimples just so when she smiles or she’s stroking—”

“Éomer, stop! Are you sure you want to be telling me about the dimpling cheeks and strokes of a woman you just met?”

Éomer stared open-mouthed at Faramir’s mortified expression. He began to laugh and continued laughing until he was doubled over, seeing sparks and colors behind his eyelids and choking for breath.

“I meant when she’s swimming, dear brother-in-law,” he said, when he could speak without coughing.

“Oh. Well, that explains why you were late. Doesn’t it?”

“Not entirely. I was swimming and I saw her at the other end of the lake. We bumped into each other. We’d just introduced ourselves when we were attacked by gorlash.”

“Gorlash?”

“Yes. I’ve ordered the perimeter patrols to be extra vigilant. Brenelan is organizing the duty shifts.”

“Gorlash... it troubles me. The last time gorlash were seen outside the Ash Mountains blood was shed over a broken agreement over horses promised to them. King Theoden resolved the issue but that wretched creature Wormtongue was advising him at the time.”

Éomer’s blood ran cold at Wormtongue’s mention. “I will discuss it with Brenelan.”

“If you need any additional troops...”

“I know I need just ask King Elessar. Thank you.”

Faramir nodded. “So tell me more of this woman.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather discuss infrastructure? Agriculture?” Éomer narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been talking to Éowyn, haven’t you.”

“She is my wife,” Faramir said with a laugh.

“You are incorrigible.” Éomer sighed long-sufferingly. “Well, there is not much more to tell. We waited for the danger to pass at the temple ruins.”

“How...” As Faramir struggled for a word, Éomer thought he might be wracked with laughter once again, “romantic?” Faramir finally offered lamely.

“I felt a connection,” he said softly, unable to contain his amazed tone. His gaze fell on Faramir once more. “You stare at me as if I am an infatuated schoolboy.”

Faramir held up his hands. “Of course not. I have not seen such joy lift your spirits in many months. Tell me, what is her name?”

“I, err—”

“You don’t remember her name?”

“I—”

Faramir arched an eyebrow. “Just how pretty is she?”

“It’s Linnea,” he said with a sigh. He didn’t know what was wrong with him; he wasn’t forgetful like this.

He sighed. Everything was reminding him of Linnea: the sunlight filtering through the windows reminded him of the sparkle in her eyes; the mahogany wood of the table reminded him of her hair.

Faramir was right: he was acting like an infatuated schoolboy, thinking nonstop about a woman he’d just met while Rohan needed his undivided attention.

Perhaps he wasn’t cut out to be a king. He could ride into battle and slay a hundred enemies but Éomer the soldier was not needed now. Rohan needed Éomer the king. The trouble was, Éomer wasn’t sure who he was anymore.

***

The next day, Éomer followed his usual routine. He saddled up Elsafal and went for his morning ride, finding himself drawn back to the lake. Linnea wasn’t there. He waited as long as he could but finally he rode back to the castle. The meeting with Brenelan dragged on into the afternoon as they reviewed the guards’ duty shifts for the party, the trade reports with Gondor and the crop rotation schedule. He barely had time to eat. After the meeting with Brenelan ended, Éomer found himself in another meeting, and then another; if it wasn’t infrastructure projects it was health care or exports. He was exhausted by the time evening fell and didn’t expect to be ambushed again by Éowyn, who dragged him to the tailor for his costume fitting.

“Éowyn, I don’t need a new shirt.”

“Shush. Let Ilien take the measurements.”

Éomer sighed dramatically but held out his arms like he was asked.

“So...” Éowyn said, in the way that Éomer knew she was setting him up for something.

“Faramir tells me you got into a bit of a scrape in the woods yesterday.”

Éomer bit his lip, glad his back was turned. “Did he now?”

“Yes. He did.” He could hear a sly note in her voice.

“Was it orcs again?”

“Oddly, no. I examined one of the arrows. It appeared to be gorlash made.”

“Gorlash?” Her tone was suddenly serious. “They haven’t been seen in decades, maybe more. Are you certain?”

“The shaft was made of serin wood. That is certainty enough for me.”

“Why would they fire upon the King of the Mark?”

“I do not know. Though there is no reason we should jump to conclusions and assume I was the target. I wasn’t exactly dressed in a kingly fashion. Perhaps the target was...”

Éowyn tilted her head. “Yes?”

“...someone else.”

“Possibly. Still, I do not want you going anywhere without an escort. Preferably a heavily armed escort.”

“Go anywhere? At this time of night? I—”

Éomer’s heart jumped into his throat and he hopped off the stool. He had to meet Linnea! “I apologize... I forgot, there’s something I must... I must go.”

Éowyn cast him a puzzled glance but before she could speak he was already halfway down the staircase and gathering speed.

He kept running, past guards who gave him perplexed stares but kept their posts, past the gates of the castle.

He leapt on Elsafal bareback and rode through the woods while the sky became tinted with sunset; amber and crimson tinted wisps of cloud feathered the sky.

He closed his eyes and let Elsafal find his way; the wind was cool and bracing against his face. When the dark forest opened up into the clearing, he was struck by its beauty: pomegranate and peach colored light played with the lengthening shadows. There was a strange noise coming from the edge of the clearing. He dismounted, left Elsafal to graze and went to investigate.

Linnea was throwing the daggers into the heart of a dead tree. He watched, impressed by her skill and accuracy.

“Are you going to make this a habit?” she said, not taking her eyes off the target.

“What’s that?”

“Spying on me from afar and not saying hello.”

Éomer chuckled. “I was going to but I didn’t want to disturb your concentration.”

She almost smiled. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“A challenge? No, just an observation.”

“If you insist.” With a flick of her wrist, she threw the dagger. It struck with deadly accuracy a finger’s width above the first.

“Isn’t it a little late to be throwing daggers at trees?”

“Not really. I like to be prepared. Practicing in a variety of situations helps me achieve that.”

“Prepared for what?”

She shrugged. “Anything.”

She went to the tree, pulled out the daggers and offered them to him.

“You can keep them a little while longer.”

She tilted her head at him but shrugged. “If you say so.” She wiped them down and resheathed them.

She spotted Elsafal grazing nearby and ran up to him.

“Elsafal,” she said fondly, patting the horse on the nose. She reached into her bag and brought out a bright yellow apple. She looked at Éomer. “Do you mind?”

Éomer smiled; Elsafal was already nudging Linnea’s hand. “He’s terribly spoiled already.”

“He deserves it.”

He laughed. “Go ahead.”

She smiled and held the apple flat in her hand. Elsafal made short work of it, crunching enthusiastically.

She glanced at Éomer and laughed. “You’re not jealous of your horse, now are you?” She pet the white stripe running down Elsafal’s forehead and scratched behind his ears.

“Of course not.”

She laughed and dug into her bag. “I didn’t forget you.” She threw him a bright yellow apple too and he caught it.

“Thanks,” he said. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

He led her up the stairs of the main temple. At the top of them there was a ledge and he helped her onto it.

Linnea gasped. The western-facing trees parted naturally, giving them a clear view of the landscape and the setting sun. Her face and hair were washed in golden light. Éomer watched her instead of the sunset.

Suddenly there was an image in his mind that was so crystalline it felt like a cherished memory. He was standing in a garden with Linnea and the air was laden with the scent of new blooms. As her hair fluttered in the breeze, a sweet smile crossed her face as she leaned to kiss him.

He shook his head to clear it.

When the sun itself had set but the golden light still remained, Linnea turned to him and said, “What do you know of the King of the Mark? Is he a good man?”

Éomer glanced at her. “I know... little. Only what I have seen on the battlefield.”

“You were at the Black Gate.”

“Yes.”

“You followed him into battle; is he an honorable man? Is he a good king?”

“He... is a man. He has strengths and weaknesses like all men. As for being king...” He laughed. “Truth be told, I don’t know what kind of king he is. Rohan has not known peace in years. It has always been about defenses, soldiers, strategies, and fighting. War.”

“I understand,” she said carefully, “that soldiers come back changed.”

“I came back... different. I haven’t been able to put a label on it.”

“Labels aren’t always necessary to understand something.”

“I suppose.”

She exhaled. “I have a... friend who fought in the wars. But I cannot seem to reach him. My words are useless. Every time I try to talk to him he puts up this wall between us I cannot break through. I know he is wounded inside. But he won’t let me help him.”

“Perhaps the wall isn’t for you to break.”

“Then what can I do?”

“Keep letting him know that you’re on the other side.”

The last of the golden light vanished, leaving a bluish tint to the landscape. Twilight fell gently.

“And what about you?” he said. “What have you heard of the King of the Mark?”

“That he is arrogant, pompous and egotistical.”

Éomer choked and Linnea paused, frowned and patted him on the back. “Is there something wrong?”

“Um, nothing. What makes you say that the king is arrogant, pompous and egotistical?”

“As a soldier, I have no doubt of his proficiencies. But as a king... I have my doubts. There is more to being a leader than leading an army into battle, even if it is to victory.”

Éomer smiled. “Then, with victory in hand, the people of Rohan will learn how to live in a time of peace. And so will the king.”

Linnea stared at him a moment, then matched his smile. “You are smarter than you look, Edan.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” he said with a laugh.

“Indeed.” She sighed. “I have to go.”

“Go? But we’ve only been here a short while.”

She laughed. “By my estimation, it’s been over two hours.”

“Two hours?” The party started in forty-five minutes. Éowyn was going to kill him. A lot. “I have to go too. But...”

She turned around. “But?”

He ducked his head and felt his ears burning. “I’d like to see you again.”

“So would I. But...”

“But?”

She sighed. “These past months have been a period of transition in my life. This is where I am today; where I will be tomorrow I do not know. Perhaps we should say goodbye now.”

“Goodbye? I will not say goodbye to you.”

She gazed sadly at him. “Then I will. Goodbye, Edan.”

She turned and fled down the stairs. Éomer stared after her, frozen to the spot. He had to go after her; he had to go to the party. He was torn. But it all came down to his duty to his people. Sighing heavily he whistled for Elsafal and rode back to the castle with a heavy heart.

***

Getting dressed in the costume wasn’t as terrifying as Éomer had expected. With a long brown cloak adorned with brown and red-mottled feathers, a brown jerkin and pants, he was a hawk. Right.

Ilien handed him the brown feathered mask.

“Where is Éowyn?,” he said. “I’d like to speak with her before the party officially begins.”

“She is in the west chamber.”

“Thank you.”

As he walked down the corridors he could hear the growing din of voices coming from the hall. He could survive this, he thought forcefully. He had survived a brutal war; surely he could survive a simple party.

“Pippin said I should talk to you,” Éomer heard just as he stepped foot into the west chamber. He stopped short, recognizing the voice as one of the perian, Meriadoc.

“Whatever it is, I will listen,” Éowyn said. “Now hold still while I fix your fur.”

Merry laughed but there was little humor in his voice. “I keep having dreams about the battle of the Pelennor fields. Sometimes it’s like it’s happening for the first time... sometimes I know it’s a dream but I can’t wake up and there’s just mud everywhere and book and the Black Captain is twice as large as he was and I don’t know where my sword is. And sometimes... sometimes you’re not there and it’s just me.”

There was silence. Éomer risked a look and saw Éowyn gently embracing the hobbit. She looked up and caught Éomer’s eye before he faded back into the shadows.

“Nightmares are not unusual, Merry. I’ve been plagued with similar dreams.”

“It’s not the dreams themselves,” Merry replied. “It’s what they make me wonder about.”

Éomer bit his lip as he waited for the next sentence.

Merry blew out a breath. “I keep thinking I should have done more.”

“What more could you have done?” she said incredulously.

“I don’t know! Something other than crawl about in the mud like a blind worm, too frightened to make a sound.”

“Like what? Pick up your sword though you were scared to death? Strike the foul monster in its one vulnerable spot though all other men had failed and lay dead or dying around you? Give me the chance to kill the Black Captain of the Nazgûl where it stood? You did that, Meriadoc Brandybuck. You gave everything you had. You were beyond brave.”

“King Theoden still died,” Merry said hoarsely.

“You could not have prevented his death. Think of all the lives you saved that day. Including mine.”

Merry took a deep breath. “I shall try.”

“Good.”

“Pippin was right.”

“You feel better?”

“I’m not sure about better... but I am hungry. I think I’ll return to the party. And you, Éowyn?”

“I’ll be along shortly.”

Éomer peeked out and saw Éowyn kiss the top of Merry’s head before the hobbit exited through the double doors to the hall.

When the doors had closed, Éomer walked out of the shadows and joined Éowyn on the stairs.

“You never mentioned you were having nightmares,” he said.

She played with the feather detailing on her skirt. “There wasn’t much to say. Is this what you wanted to speak to me about?”

“No... not exactly. But listening to you helped me put a few things into perspective.”

“Such as?”

He sighed. “That despite this title, I am only one man. That asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness. But most of all, that as much as I wanted to, or tried to, I couldn’t save everyone.”

“That’s a healthy perspective.”

“It’s taken me a while to see it, I’m afraid to say.”

“Don’t. It’s all right.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Now. I think you have an entrance to make.”

“But—”

She stood up and hauled him to his feet, half pushing, half dragging him. “No buts. Now off you go.”

***

Éomer took a deep breath and headed out (or, perhaps he was pushed by Éowyn, he really wasn’t sure).

The hall was simply decorated but beautiful: lush tendrils of evening-blooming vines curled around the stone pillars from floor to ceiling, flowering shrubs in earthenware pots sat in each corner of the hall and long reams of shimmering cloth were strung around the room.

He gazed out at the expectant faces... well, the masked faces but he knew expectant when he saw it. He was well aware that over a hundred pairs of eyes were watching him and he searched the crowd for a familiar face.

He spotted Legolas first... and if it wasn’t Legolas, he didn’t care, if he could trick himself into thinking it was, he’d be okay, and maybe his heart would stop beating so hard. The elf was sporting a pair of iridescent wings and his body language said he was vaguely discomfited but had reluctantly deigned to the situation at hand. Gimli looked even more bewildered in his wings and Éomer was struck by the sudden mental image of Legolas trying to convince the dwarf into the costume and was suddenly very hard put not to start giggling hysterically.

He sucked in a deep breath. Elbereth, he was losing it.

He spotted the two hobbits next in their grey fur dappled cloaks. Predictably they were at the food tables and one of them was holding a carrot.

Okay, next familiar face, he thought wildly, before he gave in to the urge to laugh so hard he broke something.

He stood next to Brenelan, who wore a red cloak and held a red mask with a long snout and triangular ears.

“How are you holding up?” Brenelan whispered.

“Never better,” he whispered back, trying very hard not to look at the hobbit nibbling the carrot.

A moment passed.

“My lord,” Brenelan prompted.

Oh. Right. Éomer cleared his throat.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said, glad his voice wasn’t shaking. His knees were another matter entirely. He caught sight of the group of women Éowyn had invited for him to meet and his heart lurched into triple time. “Let the festivities begin.”

The crowd applauded, the music started up, and Éomer breathed a sigh of relief. He might just survive this night, he thought, just before Éowyn snagged his arm and escorted him down the stairs to meet the women.

“And this is Ashiyla,” Éowyn said, and Éomer smiled and nodded for what felt like the hundredth time. They were all beautiful, all adorned with feathers or wings, but all he could think of, more and more, was Linnea.

“Is that everyone?” he whispered, aware he sounded a bit desperate to fade into the background, find a nice wall to hold up, muck out the horses’ stalls, anything.

Éowyn scanned the crowd. “For now,” she said. “But don’t you dare slip away, Éomer. Relax. Dance. Have fun. Or else.” She kissed him brightly on the cheek and went to dance with Faramir.

Éomer made a direct line for the buffet table. The hobbits were still there, sampling the food and Éomer was relieved to talk to them.

“Is Sam here?” he said, gratefully sipping from the cup of wine that Pippin handed to him.

“No. He has a new baby to look after. Plus, he’s still...” Merry’s voice trailed off.

“Grieving,” Pippin finished for him.

Éomer nodded sadly. He understood; he still missed King Theoden greatly. “Send him my regards, won’t you?”

“Of course.” And then Pippin was taking the cup of wine from Éomer’s hands and before Éomer had a chance to say anything, he was being swept away on the dance floor by a feathered and winged guest.

“Ithira, right?”

She nodded, smiling that he’d remembered her name. He looked over her shoulder to see Faramir and Éowyn waving at him from across the hall and laughing conspiratorially.

Three dances later with three different women and with Éomer’s head swimming a bit from the wine he’d had on an empty stomach, he was ready to leave the dance floor and use any means necessary to do so.

Legolas was suddenly beside him and drawing him away and Éomer was about to express his eternal thanks but the look on the elf’s face stopped him.

“Éomer,” he whispered, “something is amiss. I can feel it.”

“Amiss? What is it?”

Legolas shook his head. “I’m not sure. I will have a look around the castle, if I may have your leave to do so.” He drew off the wings and tossed them into a corner, retrieving his bow and quiver from the weapons locker.

“There is a full complement of Rohan guards outside,” Éomer said.

“It is not the outside which worries me.”

“I will come with you.”

But when he turned, he collided bodily with someone and reached instinctively to steady her.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking. I was just—” His voice trailed off.

It wasn’t one of the women Éowyn had introduced him to earlier. No feathers, no wings. She was dressed in a grey skirt and a grey tunic. Her long brown hair was drawn up and cascaded to her shoulders. His mouth dropped open. Her costume reminded him of Elsafal, oddly enough, and the grey mask with the white stripe down the forehead only made the image stronger.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I was just...” She looked up and her voice trailed off.

Heart pounding, Éomer reached up slowly and pushed her mask away.

His breath caught.

Slowly, very slowly, she pushed his mask away and she gasped.

Éomer barely noticed Éowyn come up beside him. “Ah, you made it—”

“Linnea,” he whispered.

“—Lothíriel. Éomer, this is Prince Imrahil’s daughter, Lothíriel.”

His jaw dropped. “We’ve... already met.”

“Éomer,” Legolas whispered.

“Legolas, now is not the time.” He tore his gaze from the woman standing in front of him and looked at the elf... and paused. Legolas’ face was ashen.

“What is it?”

“The doors. They’ve been barred shut.”

“What?”

“That is not all. We are not alone.”

Just as the words left Legolas’ mouth, a band of gorlash bashed open the upper doors and poured into the room. They were huge creatures, black and hunched, and they walked on clawed feet and had short sharp beaks. Pandemonium struck.

Éomer grabbed his sword and saw Legolas unsheathe his daggers as the unarmed guests screamed and ran for doors which wouldn’t open. He didn’t understand how the gorlash could have gotten past the perimeter guards and then the exterior guards.

And then everything became crystal clear as Brenelan strode down the stairs, completely unconcerned. The gorlash hadn’t slipped by both sets of guards. They’d been given free passage.

Éomer stood stock still as Brenelan approached. Merry and Pippin sprang in front of him wielding their swords but two gorlash pointed swords at their necks and Brenelan simply stepped around them.

Éomer was aware peripherally of Éowyn and Faramir, Legolas and Gimli, and the guards who had been locked inside with them trying to calm the guests.

“Brenelan... what have you done?”

“I am fulfiling my destiny. Which is more than I can say for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You aren’t supposed to be King.”

“King Theoden appointed me his heir—”

“Those were the ramblings of a dying man. I am the rightful king!”

“All these months... you were plotting behind my back?”

“And you were too blind to see it.” Éomer shook his head. This was uncomprehendable. He then noticed that Legolas was no longer beside him.

“It is time you let destiny take its proper course,” Brenelan said. He motioned to a gorlash and it stalked forward, brandishing its sword.

“What’s in it for you?” Éomer said.

The gorlash growled. Black slime dripped from its maw.

“What else?” Brenelan said. “Horses. Land. Revenge.”

The gorlash raised its sword. “Don’t do this!” Éomer said.

“It is already done. Seize him and kill all who get in your way!” Brenelan vanished into the slavering crowd of gorlash.

Éomer braced himself for a blow that never came. The gorlash bearing down on him swung wildly, an arrow in its shoulder. Éomer looked up and saw Legolas where he’d concealed himself on the stairway notching another arrow into his bow.

Éomer threw himself to the side and sword intended for his heart and the sword grazed his arm instead. White hot fire surged from the wound but he barely noticed. He clamped the hilt of his sword with both hands as one faltered.

The gorlash snarled and swung its sword again; Éomer blocked the blow and as the gorlash stumbled off balance, he hewed its head from its body.

All around him, swords clashed and blood spilled.

Blood had barely begun to flow from the severed neck when two more gorlash charged him. He saw the staircase as a means of gaining more maneuvering room and took the steps three at a time.

The snarling gorlash took the stairs four at a time.

His sword found refuge in the gut of one gorlash and stinking blood poured from the wound. He threw the gorlash off the staircase and turned to face the other.

He slammed his foot into the gorlash’s knees and stabbed it, sending it tumbling down the staircase.

He heard a scream and wood smashing. He looked over the railing and saw Lothíriel, a dagger in each hand; a gorlash with a slashed throat falling to the floor.

He ran down the stairs.

It seemed to take forever. Another gorlash met him on the stairs, and as soon as he’d dispatched that one, a gorlash was sneaking up behind Pippin, and just as he’d drawn his blade from that gorlash’s back, there was another, and another.

But finally there was an opening, and he ran towards Lothíriel. He wondered at her widening eyes and realized too late she was trying to warn him.

Steel pierced his side.

Time seemed to slow.

His sword dropped from numb hands.

He turned to look at the slavering gorlash and saw the fire burning in its eyes before the blade twisted and sent him to his knees.

He clutched at the wound. The sword sliced his hands as it was withdrawn.

The gorlash dragged Éomer to his feet, one hand around his waist, the other across his neck. The hand on his throat tightened and he could barely draw in enough air to stave off the black spots clouding his vision. He couldn’t hold back the strangled scream as claws dug into the wound, gouging cruelly.

The battle around them suddenly stopped.

“Lay down your weapons or he dies!” Brenelan reappeared. He had blood on his sword and Éomer had a sudden flash of old buried fear. He wondered who he’d lose today.

Legolas dropped his bow and resheathed the arrow he’d drawn. Merry and Pippin tossed down their swords and exchanged worried glances. Faramir and Éowyn threw down their swords. The rest of the guards did as well.

Something dawned on Éomer. There was something so very... staged about this entire thing and he now knew why.

“No,” he said. “He won’t kill me.”

Brenelan said nothing but his eyes glittered with a greed Éomer had never seen on his face before.

“You need me to ratify the crown. Now I understand why you were so eager for me to leave Rohan in your hands and go to Rivendell. If something were to happen to me while I was away, accidental or otherwise, the crown would be yours. But why attack now? Why not wait till I was gone?”

Brenelan’s gaze locked onto Lothíriel. “Because if the King were to have an heir, all my plans would be ruined.”

“You’re crazy,” Lothíriel said. “We’ve just... met.”

“No, my dear. I know about your little clandestine meetings.”

Pieces of the puzzle fell into place with astonishing clarity. Brenelan’s support of Éomer’s morning ride. Brenelan offering to schedule the guards. The roots of his deceit were insidious.

“Now, Éomer. Give me Rohan.”

A fierceness Éomer hadn’t felt since finding his sister and his King lying motionless on the battleground of the Pelennor Fields glittered like ice in his body. He matched Brenelan’s cold stare with one of his own. Destiny or not, he knew what must be done.

“Do. Your. Worst.”

He drove his foot back, shattering the gorlash’s kneecap. In the grey confusion of swords being seized and arrows being notched that followed, Éomer expected the searing pain of claws ripping open his throat but they never came. Instead, the gorlash made a gurgling noise and fell. Éomer was crushed as its weight bore him to the floor.

Éomer choked back a cry. The pain was constant now and the mere act of breathing shoved crystal shards of agony into his body. He crawled out from under a disgusting limb and realized the gorlash had a dagger in its maw. An elvish made dagger. Dread filled him. When he lifted his head, his throat closed as his worst fear was realized: Brenelan had Lothíriel in a mirror grip that the gorlash had held him, except where the gorlash had claws, Brenelan held a knife that gleamed in the torchlight.

“I will have my kingdom, Éomer. If you do not give it to me, I will take it.”

“None will follow you, Brenelan. Rohan will not follow you. This is no way to forge a kingdom!”

“Then Rohan will fall into chaos. It will destroy itself with civil wars. Is that what you want? Your legacy, King Éomer. The destruction of an entire country. You will choose now. Or I will make the choice for you. Exile and her life. Or her blood and the blood of all your people.”

Éomer was stricken by the dilemma. How could he make this choice? One woman’s life for Rohan.

He caught Lothíriel’s gaze and studied her, trying to etch her into his memory. He wondered how it was possible to feel like he’d known her forever when it had only been two days.

“Now!” Brenelan said.

Éomer remembered that precognitive flash of standing in a garden with Lothíriel, the smell of citrus blossoms mingling with the scent of her hair as it was ruffled against his face by the breeze; her eyes meeting his and a small smile meant only for him crossing her lips as she leaned to kiss him.

The images mocked him, drove him to fury, and when he dragged himself to his feet he was beyond pain, beyond fear.

He didn’t notice Brenelan’s sneer as Éomer struggled to keep his balance. He didn’t hear the collective breaths of everyone surrounding them deepen, preparing for anything.

Every sense, every fiber was tuned to Lothíriel.

“Elbereth, forgive me,” he whispered. Then he cried, “I. Choose. Both.”

At the word ‘choose’, Lothíriel slipped the second dagger from its sheath. She was barely breathing. At the word ‘both’, she drove the dagger into Brenelan’s side.

The knife at her throat shifted wildly as Brenelan pitched forward in shock and pain. But it moved not from the killing zone.

Éomer was riveted to the two bodies before him. He heard and saw nothing else.

And then he saw his chance.

He hefted the dagger he’d pulled from the gorlash’s corpse. There was no need to aim; his sight had contracted to that small exposed patch of Brenelan’s neck. There was no time for second thoughts, no margin for error.

A scream clawed out of his throat from his bones and he flung the dagger.

Pain exploded like fireworks. Not even the flood of adrenaline could deny the gaping wound in his side any longer. He crashed to his knees.

He could not lift his head to see if his aim had been true. The tiny part of him that wasn’t consumed with the raging fire burning in his body was utterly terrified. What if he’d missed. What if Brenelan had slit Lothíriel’s throat despite their best efforts. He would not be able to live with himself. He would let the burning darkness consume him.

Two pairs of knees hit the floor in front of him along with Brenelan’s knife. Éomer strained to see the blade, see if blood covered it, but he could not.

Darkness began edging out his vision. He struggled against it.

Brenelan’s body fell to the side. Lothíriel fell forward. Éomer tried to scream but he had no voice left.

She looked at him. For a terrible moment Éomer thought her horrified expression meant she was staring death in the eyes. But it was meant for him.

Lothíriel scrambled forward and Éomer had never known such relief as he did when she gathered him into her arms, clutching him.

She was alive, he thought wildly. Nothing else mattered.

The battle raged around them but they took no notice.

Éomer lifted a shaking hand to her face; she took it, kissed it—her face was wet—and pressed his palm to her cheek. She crammed a swatch of cloth to his side, trying to stanch the river of blood. The pain sent inky blackness seeping into his vision and the spill of blood from his side seemed endless.

He slumped into her embrace and she cradled him.

He struggled against the darkness. He couldn’t die. He clung to that prescient moment with both hands, willing it into reality. He opened his mouth to share it with her but she shushed him.

“Don’t speak,” Lothíriel whispered. Droplets of moisture sprinkled his cheek. “Save your strength.”

The last thing he felt before the darkness overwhelmed him was the warm touch of her lips on his.

***

The first fingers of sunrise drifting across Éomer’s face awakened him. The pale silver and cream beams that arched along the ceiling of Rohan’s house of healing loomed overhead; he decided he knew them all too well.

After rubbing the sleep from his eyes he saw a figure sitting by the windowsill. He blinked once. Twice.

It was not at all who he expected.

“Sam?” he said weakly. His throat felt like it was made of cotton.

The hobbit sat on the windowsill, one leg trailing down, the other tucked underneath him. The sun streamed across his face, and the breeze that trickled in from the open window ruffled his hair. A plate of dark bread and cheese was before him and an open book was on his lap. He had just broken off the crust of the bread and was just about to put it in his mouth when Éomer called out his name.

Sam closed the book, dropped crust on the plate and scampered over to Éomer’s bedside, eyes sparkling and mouth open.

“King Éomer! You’re awake!”

Éomer struggled to sit up but was able to manage only a slight recline before his side ached. He lay back on the pillows.

“How long have I been here? I’m sorry to say that your presence confuses me, Samwise, but I mean no offense. Merry and Pippin said you weren’t coming to the party, but here you are.”

“No offense taken. It’s been several hours since you were brought here. You’ve got everyone fluttering about regarding your healing abilities. And... I did tell Merry and Pip I wasn’t coming but changed my mind at the last moment. I arrived a bit too late for the excitement, if you’ll pardon my expression.”

Éomer’s eyes widened as remembered details of the party washed over him. “What of Lothíriel?”

Sam gestured with his chin. Éomer looked and saw Lothíriel deeply asleep in a chair, covered with a blanket. It had slipped off her shoulders somewhat and Éomer could see that she still wore the grey tunic from the party. Her hair was loose and curled around her shoulders, one lock falling across her forehead. A bruise colored the side of her face. She looked breathtakingly lovely.

“Has she been here all this time?”

Sam nodded. ”Éowyn tried several times to convince her to rest but she wouldn’t even hear of it: she’d only allow the healers to put a poultice on her hurts. I managed to talk her into sharing a piece of bread and cheese with me though.”

Éomer sighed. “What do I say to her?” he whispered, the words meant for himself only but Sam hearing them too.

“How about ‘hello’?” Sam said.

Éomer smiled. “Perhaps.”

“Good. Now... would you like me to call for the healers?”

“I will call them myself... but in a few minutes.”

Sam smiled. “I understand. I’ll go then.”

“Sam. There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” The hobbit sat down on the edge of the bed.

“How have you been? I mean, really.”

“If you’re asking about my family and work, I’ve been very busy. But... you’re not, are you.”

“No.”

“I miss him. Every day. And sometimes it hits me really hard that he’s gone. But I try to bear in mind that while he’d want me to remember him, he’d want me to be happy too. And it’s easy, because remembering him makes me happy.”

“And then?”

“And then I move on.” He smiled wistfully. “I try to, anyway.”

“Thank you.”

“Y’welcome. I think I’ll see if I can catch Merry and Pip. I’m glad you’re on the mend.”

The hobbit collected his book and plate and left, leaving Éomer alone with Lothíriel. He hated to wake her but he could feel the fuzzy pull of sleep and wanted to be coherent.

He raised himself on one elbow, wincing. “Princess Lothíriel.”

She stirred and opened her eyes, blinking in the burgeoning sunlight. Her gaze fell on him.

“King Éomer. You’re awake.”

“Just Éomer,” he said. “Please.”

“Just Lothíriel.”

She stood and approached slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed. She put something on the coverlet. The daggers, he realized.

“You were right,” she said, and her voice trembled.

He gently pulled her into a hug and she embraced him in return. He could feel her heart beat racing... or was that his?

“You should keep them,” he said.

“You said they were a gift to you.”

Éomer smiled slightly. “I want you to have them. I assure you, Legolas wouldn’t mind In fact, I think he’d be glad.”

She hesitated a moment longer, then put the daggers beside her on the bed.

“How are the others?” he asked.

“Several of the guests were injured but you were injured worst of all. I was afraid I would lose you.” Her breath caught. “I should call for the Healers...” She rose but Éomer reached out his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, she slipped her hand in his.

“Wait. Please. There is much I must explain.”

She slipped her hand from his grasp but it wasn’t a rejection. She sat down, closer this time, and caressed his cheek lightly.

“There is no need. I understand how much pressure there has been. How your heart longed to be loved by someone who could...”

“...understand. And... if not, would try.”

“Who would love you wholly, not for your name or title, not out of obligation or duty.”

“Yes,” he said. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears and he was fairly certain he was crying too.

“See?” she said, laughing lightly. “There is nothing to explain. I will call for the Healers.”

She squeezed his hand, smiled, and left.

***

A few days later, Éomer was permitted to roam the gardens, provided he didn’t overexert himself. The fresh, crisp air flooded his lungs and the smile on his face was completely spontaneous.

“King Éomer! You’re just in time for afternoon tea. Or... is it elevenses now, Pippin?”

He turned at the sound of Merry’s voice and saw him and Pippin unloading a huge picnic basket onto a blanket. There were various breads and fruit, even two bottles of wine.

He stepped up and greeted them. “To what do I owe this bounty?”

“To your health, of course,” Pippin said, taking out a giant wedge of cheese and Merry laughed.

Éomer wondered what it would be like to experience life so innocently after such a terrible thing as war

“How do you do it?” he said absently.

“Do what?” Pippin said.

“Stay so... wide-eyed after everything that’s happened.”

They looked at each other. “We’re hobbits,” Merry said. “It’s how we are.”

“Perhaps in part. But... perhaps it’s because you always seem to remember what’s important.”

“Such as?” Pippin said with his mouth full and Merry whacked him in the arm.

Éomer laughed out loud and it was worth the twinges in his side. “Such as family, of course. And...”

“...an ice cold pint on a warm summer’s day,” Pippin said;

“...apple pie straight from the oven,” Merry said;

“...friends. Old and new,” Lothíriel said as she walked up the path.

Éomer stared openly at her, ignoring the hobbits who were gaping and elbowing each other.

“Would you excuse us, please?” he said.

“Of course,” Pippin said. Éomer chuckled as the two hobbits grabbed some food and wandered off into the gardens.

Lothíriel smiled and held out her hand. A bright yellow apple was in her palm. “For old time’s sake?” she said, looking up at him from under her lashes.

Éomer took the apple and returned her smile. “Shall we walk a bit?”

She nodded and they walked slowly through the garden, a distinct space between them.

“How have you been?” Éomer said finally. “I haven’t seen you since... that night.”

“I went home,” she said. “I talked with my father.”

“And?”

“The wall between us is still there.” She sighed.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. He thanked me for caring and told me that he just needed time.”

“An improvement,” Éomer said.

“An improvement. How about you? How have you been?”

“It hurts... less.”

“I’m glad.”

She turned to look up at him and he felt like pieces of himself were unfolding, being revealed.

“Éomer,” she said with a smile.

Then she raised herself up on tiptoes, put one hand over his heart for balance and pressed her lips against his; or was it that he put one arm around her waist, tilted his head down and kissed her? He didn’t know and it didn’t matter. His awareness narrowed to this one moment.

It was perfect and scary and different from the Linnea-dream because maybe when you want something so badly it’s scary to hope and your mind goes ahead and plays a hundred thousand rounds of ‘what if’ but none of it, none of it can prepare you for when it really happens.

“May I have the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight?” he said, inspired.

Lothíriel smiled. “Are you sure you’ll be hungry by then?”

Éomer glanced back at picnic and laughed. “Probably not. Would you like to join us then?”

“We don’t mind at all,” came Pippin’s voice from behind them.

“Pippin!” Merry said, dismayed.

Éomer turned and there were the hobbits, hiding behind some bushes.

“We would be delighted to have you,” Merry said.

Lothíriel laughed. “I would be honored.”

The hobbits took her by the hand and led her back up the path. Éomer watched them go and smiled.

He was a different person now. War had jaded him, hurt him. It had forced him to lock away parts of himself, things like trust and innocence, that were too vulnerable to leave exposed. And even now that the war was over, integrating the man he had been with the man he had become was proving to be more difficult than he had ever imagined.

“Éomer, are you coming?” Lothíriel called, laughing.

But with patience, determination and a little help, nothing was impossible.

“I’ll be right there,” he called back, and hurried to catch up.

The End

(And by the way... they all lived happily ever after.)