Post by Admin on Oct 9, 2022 19:48:51 GMT
Author: Niliwen
Summary: While visiting his sister, Éomer finds an unexpected kindred spirit when it comes to some personal troubles that come with being royalty – or at least nobility
Rating: K
Characters: Éomer, Éowyn, Lothíriel
Warnings: None
‘Look at a lady’s hands when you meet her. That’s how you’ll know the life they are used to.’
It had been many years since Théodred had uttered these words over a few too many tankards of mead, but the wisdom still rang true in Éomer’s memories of his departed cousin. “You remember how he was – always so practical and would not have a wife who was just a pretty ornament,” the young King of Rohan said to his sister during his visit to her home at Emyn Arnen. “That was one reason he was still unmarried during the War.”
“I remember it differently. He did not want a wife or any children to be turned into Wormtongue’s bargaining chips or hostages,” Éowyn pointed out, looking up from bundling some rather aromatic leafy sprigs with some rough lengths of cord. “But truly, dear brother, is the court at Edoras still so insufferable?”
“Only since you are not there to keep the nobles in line.”
“How many marriage proposals have you turned down already?”
Éomer winced, knowing that she had hit upon the truth of the matter. “Are we talking of the official ones only, or other offers?”
Éowyn laughed and shook her head. “Do you mean to say that the maidens themselves are now outright asking for your hand?” she asked. “That would shock some of the older matrons!”
“You haven’t helped matters much either with your sudden engagement that you simply had to inform me about.”
“An engagement to a captain of Gondor – and not to a crowned king.”
The King of Rohan sighed at the hoary recollections of the effect this news had on his courtiers. ‘But then again even if she married any other lord, or even King Elessar himself, there would still be complaints,’ he reminded himself as he watched Éowyn while as she was hanging up the fragrant herb bouquets to dry at a south-facing window. “All this jesting aside, dear sister, the question of an heir is really the only reason that I am being pressed to this problem of matrimony. If it’s an heir they want, nothing is stopping me from naming any of your future sons as the next prince,” he said after a while, wrinkling his nose at the cloying scents of the medicinal herbs.
“You may want to talk that over with Faramir, and also with King Elessar,” Éowyn said. “But you know that not all will accept a member of the House of Eorl born outside of Rohan.”
“Our grandfather and then our uncle managed it. With difficulty yes, but they were accepted,” Éomer said.
“The King does very well for himself and the Riddermark, but what of my brother?” Éowyn asked more seriously. “It’s good that you have our old friends such as Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, and the other marshals, but they also look to you as their liege-lord now, and not only as Éomer, son of Éomund. You need a friend and equal.”
“And a wife would solve that?” Éomer scoffed. “There has not been a queen crowned in Meduseld since our grandmother Morwen. I do not believe that many still remember how it was to have a queen.”
“Then you have few to no expectations to let down,” Éowyn quipped.
“Other than mine own,” Éomer muttered. He watched for a few moments as his sister now cleaned her hands, using a damp piece of rag to scrub at the stains that had gotten lodged in the calluses on her palms and her fingers. ‘But since a queen need not be a healer and is certainly no shieldmaiden, then what should she be now that the war is done?’ he wondered silently before he excused himself from Éowyn’s workroom and headed outside.
Once he’d stepped out into the open air, Éomer realized that with his sister still busy, there was little else for him to do for the next hour or so. ‘Were the terrain flatter, this would be a good time for a ride,’ he thought as he looked around the small valley where the Prince and Princess of Ithilien had built their home. Although he knew that neither Faramir nor Éowyn were particularly ostentatious persons, the sheer simplicity of their domicile was still surprising. The house itself was constructed with hewn stone on the lower floor, which had a small stable, some storerooms, and the beginnings of a small infirmary that included Éowyn’s herb room. The upper floor was made primarily of wood, with wide windows and large eaves meant to take advantage of the valley’s fresh breezes. On this upper floor were the private rooms of the lord and lady of the house, some rooms for their few servants, and two additional rooms for guests. At the rear of the house was an open-air kitchen, a fragrant herb garden, as well as some stairs that Éomer surmised led to the turrets and spires in the peaks that kept the valley hidden from prying eyes while providing a most excellent view of the vicinity of Emyn Arnen and its environs, all the way to Minas Tirith in the west and the more shadowed mountains in the east. ‘Perhaps more outposts in Rohan can be built like this,’ Éomer reflected as he headed down a path which he heard would lead to a small village where Faramir was overseeing some repairs that day.
As Éomer walked through the cool, shaded woods, he shook his head at how the path twisted and turned, thus further dashing any hopes of ever revisiting this place on horseback. Over the sound of leaves rustling under his boots, he soon heard the unmistakable babble of a rambling brook. The path flattened out when he finally caught sight of this stream, which was narrow enough for him to cross in a long leap. On the opposite bank, atop a large boulder, sat a young dark-haired woman dressed in simple
blue linen, holding a fishing rod. At her side were a small knife and a wooden bucket. “Good day, madam. Is this the way to the village?” Éomer called to her.
The lady looked up quickly but did not lose her grip on the fishing rod. “What is your majesty the King of Rohan doing here?” she replied lightly.
Éomer’s jaw dropped at this greeting, which was delivered with a lilt that he had heard a few times before. “I may ask the same thing of the Princess of Dol Amroth,” he said, bowing slightly to her. Lothíriel laughed before bowing in turn. “I did not know you would be visiting today.”
“I have only just arrived. As for yourself?”
“Three days ago, after I last saw your Majesty in Minas Tirith.”
Éomer felt his cheeks burn at the memory of this meeting, in the company of none the less than King Aragorn and Queen Arwen themselves. ‘Since I hardly could say anything to her then and did not recognize her now, she might think me a fool,’ he thought even as he carefully surmised the distance between them. “Will you need any assistance getting back to this side, my lady?” he asked.
Lothíriel shook her head. “Please be quiet, or you’ll scare the fishes!”
“The fishes?!”
“They do hear people talk, Your Majesty.”
‘Since when?’ Éomer wondered as he looked around, wondering if the Princess of Dol Amroth had brought with her any attendants or at least a companion. “Does Lady Éowyn or Lord Faramir know you’re here?” he asked.
“It was my cousin who told me of this spot,” Lothíriel said. “Have you ever tried fishing before, your Majesty?”
“Not very often,” Éomer said. Instead of making a single jump to the opposite bank, he made the crossing by way of several large stones until he was right next to where Lothíriel was watching him with an amused smile. “Do you do so often in Dol Amroth?” he asked in an undertone as he found a rather less comfortable seat on a nearby rock.
“Sometimes, when we’re not racing our boats,” Lothíriel said.
“Boats?”
“Sailing is quite the pastime there.”
The idea of being out on some watercraft at the mercy of the wind and the waves made Éomer blanch slightly, making him thankful that his beard somehow helped hide the fact. “Do you do so often, Princess?” he asked.
“When I can be spared from duties,” Lothíriel replied glancing down at her left hand, where a single ring shimmered. “But is it true that horse races are not common in Rohan, your Majesty?” she asked after a few moments.
“For the Riders, their steeds are not for sport – and are kith and kin to the warriors themselves,” Éomer explained. “The children will race their ponies from time to time, but not so the men who have known their mounts for so long.”
Lothíriel smiled warmly at these words. “It is very respectful of the Riders of Rohan. More warriors should learn from their example.”
“I am glad you think so,” Éomer said. ‘And in a way high praise from a stranger to our ways,’ he decided as he watched Lothíriel reel in her line only to cast it again further into the stream.
Lothíriel adjusted her hold on her fishing rod before taking a deep breath. “Ithilien is beautiful, is it not?” she remarked. “The lore masters call it the land of many fountains.”
“Is that so? For I have yet to see one.”
“So do I, and I will ask to do so. But how do you find it so far, your Majesty?”
Éomer paused as he looked to the woods, which now had a sweet fragrance about them being carried by the rising afternoon breeze. Even with such fair company, he still could not quite banish the slight frisson of unease that coursed through him every time he saw the branches sway and the shadows thus shift. “Different. We have little kindly lore about forests in Rohan, which as you know is a land of open plains,” he said at length.
“You are surprised that Lady Éowyn would choose to reside here?”
“Wherever her husband and lord should choose to abide, so would she as his wife.”
“It seems to be inescapable,” Lothíriel said wryly. “I have never heard of a king or prince leaving his home or realm just to be with a queen or princess. Even my aunt Finduilas had to leave Dol Amroth when she married Lord Denethor before he became Steward.”
“My grandfather, King Thengel, lived in Gondor during his youth and served under the Steward Turgon,” Éomer said. “He stayed there for a long time partly because of my grandmother Morwen Steelsheen of Lossarnarch.”
“But she still went with him to Rohan when he had to become king?”
“Of course.”
Lothíriel shook her head wryly. “I understand my aunt Ivriniel for never marrying then.” She glanced down at her ring and sighed. “This has been passed down among the eldest daughters in my mother’s line. Now it has come to me from her—and will more likely remain in Dol Amroth long after I have been called away from it.”
“Called away?”
“To be lady of a land not my own – even if it is another fiefdom in Gondor.”
“Is that the only path before you, Princess?” Éomer asked, raising an eyebrow.
“There is the difficulty – I am a princess and the only one of my house. Aunt Ivriniel was allowed to remain a spinster because of my Aunt Finduilas,” Lothíriel said. “Or perhaps I should ask my father if Dol Amroth can have its first shieldmaiden.”
“A sail-maiden would be more fitting,” Éomer drawled. He grinned to himself when Lothíriel chuckled before bursting out into full-on giggling. ‘Not meant to hold a sword, but for greatness most surely,’ he surmised as he glanced down at her tanned, slightly chapped hands.
Summary: While visiting his sister, Éomer finds an unexpected kindred spirit when it comes to some personal troubles that come with being royalty – or at least nobility
Rating: K
Characters: Éomer, Éowyn, Lothíriel
Warnings: None
‘Look at a lady’s hands when you meet her. That’s how you’ll know the life they are used to.’
It had been many years since Théodred had uttered these words over a few too many tankards of mead, but the wisdom still rang true in Éomer’s memories of his departed cousin. “You remember how he was – always so practical and would not have a wife who was just a pretty ornament,” the young King of Rohan said to his sister during his visit to her home at Emyn Arnen. “That was one reason he was still unmarried during the War.”
“I remember it differently. He did not want a wife or any children to be turned into Wormtongue’s bargaining chips or hostages,” Éowyn pointed out, looking up from bundling some rather aromatic leafy sprigs with some rough lengths of cord. “But truly, dear brother, is the court at Edoras still so insufferable?”
“Only since you are not there to keep the nobles in line.”
“How many marriage proposals have you turned down already?”
Éomer winced, knowing that she had hit upon the truth of the matter. “Are we talking of the official ones only, or other offers?”
Éowyn laughed and shook her head. “Do you mean to say that the maidens themselves are now outright asking for your hand?” she asked. “That would shock some of the older matrons!”
“You haven’t helped matters much either with your sudden engagement that you simply had to inform me about.”
“An engagement to a captain of Gondor – and not to a crowned king.”
The King of Rohan sighed at the hoary recollections of the effect this news had on his courtiers. ‘But then again even if she married any other lord, or even King Elessar himself, there would still be complaints,’ he reminded himself as he watched Éowyn while as she was hanging up the fragrant herb bouquets to dry at a south-facing window. “All this jesting aside, dear sister, the question of an heir is really the only reason that I am being pressed to this problem of matrimony. If it’s an heir they want, nothing is stopping me from naming any of your future sons as the next prince,” he said after a while, wrinkling his nose at the cloying scents of the medicinal herbs.
“You may want to talk that over with Faramir, and also with King Elessar,” Éowyn said. “But you know that not all will accept a member of the House of Eorl born outside of Rohan.”
“Our grandfather and then our uncle managed it. With difficulty yes, but they were accepted,” Éomer said.
“The King does very well for himself and the Riddermark, but what of my brother?” Éowyn asked more seriously. “It’s good that you have our old friends such as Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, and the other marshals, but they also look to you as their liege-lord now, and not only as Éomer, son of Éomund. You need a friend and equal.”
“And a wife would solve that?” Éomer scoffed. “There has not been a queen crowned in Meduseld since our grandmother Morwen. I do not believe that many still remember how it was to have a queen.”
“Then you have few to no expectations to let down,” Éowyn quipped.
“Other than mine own,” Éomer muttered. He watched for a few moments as his sister now cleaned her hands, using a damp piece of rag to scrub at the stains that had gotten lodged in the calluses on her palms and her fingers. ‘But since a queen need not be a healer and is certainly no shieldmaiden, then what should she be now that the war is done?’ he wondered silently before he excused himself from Éowyn’s workroom and headed outside.
Once he’d stepped out into the open air, Éomer realized that with his sister still busy, there was little else for him to do for the next hour or so. ‘Were the terrain flatter, this would be a good time for a ride,’ he thought as he looked around the small valley where the Prince and Princess of Ithilien had built their home. Although he knew that neither Faramir nor Éowyn were particularly ostentatious persons, the sheer simplicity of their domicile was still surprising. The house itself was constructed with hewn stone on the lower floor, which had a small stable, some storerooms, and the beginnings of a small infirmary that included Éowyn’s herb room. The upper floor was made primarily of wood, with wide windows and large eaves meant to take advantage of the valley’s fresh breezes. On this upper floor were the private rooms of the lord and lady of the house, some rooms for their few servants, and two additional rooms for guests. At the rear of the house was an open-air kitchen, a fragrant herb garden, as well as some stairs that Éomer surmised led to the turrets and spires in the peaks that kept the valley hidden from prying eyes while providing a most excellent view of the vicinity of Emyn Arnen and its environs, all the way to Minas Tirith in the west and the more shadowed mountains in the east. ‘Perhaps more outposts in Rohan can be built like this,’ Éomer reflected as he headed down a path which he heard would lead to a small village where Faramir was overseeing some repairs that day.
As Éomer walked through the cool, shaded woods, he shook his head at how the path twisted and turned, thus further dashing any hopes of ever revisiting this place on horseback. Over the sound of leaves rustling under his boots, he soon heard the unmistakable babble of a rambling brook. The path flattened out when he finally caught sight of this stream, which was narrow enough for him to cross in a long leap. On the opposite bank, atop a large boulder, sat a young dark-haired woman dressed in simple
blue linen, holding a fishing rod. At her side were a small knife and a wooden bucket. “Good day, madam. Is this the way to the village?” Éomer called to her.
The lady looked up quickly but did not lose her grip on the fishing rod. “What is your majesty the King of Rohan doing here?” she replied lightly.
Éomer’s jaw dropped at this greeting, which was delivered with a lilt that he had heard a few times before. “I may ask the same thing of the Princess of Dol Amroth,” he said, bowing slightly to her. Lothíriel laughed before bowing in turn. “I did not know you would be visiting today.”
“I have only just arrived. As for yourself?”
“Three days ago, after I last saw your Majesty in Minas Tirith.”
Éomer felt his cheeks burn at the memory of this meeting, in the company of none the less than King Aragorn and Queen Arwen themselves. ‘Since I hardly could say anything to her then and did not recognize her now, she might think me a fool,’ he thought even as he carefully surmised the distance between them. “Will you need any assistance getting back to this side, my lady?” he asked.
Lothíriel shook her head. “Please be quiet, or you’ll scare the fishes!”
“The fishes?!”
“They do hear people talk, Your Majesty.”
‘Since when?’ Éomer wondered as he looked around, wondering if the Princess of Dol Amroth had brought with her any attendants or at least a companion. “Does Lady Éowyn or Lord Faramir know you’re here?” he asked.
“It was my cousin who told me of this spot,” Lothíriel said. “Have you ever tried fishing before, your Majesty?”
“Not very often,” Éomer said. Instead of making a single jump to the opposite bank, he made the crossing by way of several large stones until he was right next to where Lothíriel was watching him with an amused smile. “Do you do so often in Dol Amroth?” he asked in an undertone as he found a rather less comfortable seat on a nearby rock.
“Sometimes, when we’re not racing our boats,” Lothíriel said.
“Boats?”
“Sailing is quite the pastime there.”
The idea of being out on some watercraft at the mercy of the wind and the waves made Éomer blanch slightly, making him thankful that his beard somehow helped hide the fact. “Do you do so often, Princess?” he asked.
“When I can be spared from duties,” Lothíriel replied glancing down at her left hand, where a single ring shimmered. “But is it true that horse races are not common in Rohan, your Majesty?” she asked after a few moments.
“For the Riders, their steeds are not for sport – and are kith and kin to the warriors themselves,” Éomer explained. “The children will race their ponies from time to time, but not so the men who have known their mounts for so long.”
Lothíriel smiled warmly at these words. “It is very respectful of the Riders of Rohan. More warriors should learn from their example.”
“I am glad you think so,” Éomer said. ‘And in a way high praise from a stranger to our ways,’ he decided as he watched Lothíriel reel in her line only to cast it again further into the stream.
Lothíriel adjusted her hold on her fishing rod before taking a deep breath. “Ithilien is beautiful, is it not?” she remarked. “The lore masters call it the land of many fountains.”
“Is that so? For I have yet to see one.”
“So do I, and I will ask to do so. But how do you find it so far, your Majesty?”
Éomer paused as he looked to the woods, which now had a sweet fragrance about them being carried by the rising afternoon breeze. Even with such fair company, he still could not quite banish the slight frisson of unease that coursed through him every time he saw the branches sway and the shadows thus shift. “Different. We have little kindly lore about forests in Rohan, which as you know is a land of open plains,” he said at length.
“You are surprised that Lady Éowyn would choose to reside here?”
“Wherever her husband and lord should choose to abide, so would she as his wife.”
“It seems to be inescapable,” Lothíriel said wryly. “I have never heard of a king or prince leaving his home or realm just to be with a queen or princess. Even my aunt Finduilas had to leave Dol Amroth when she married Lord Denethor before he became Steward.”
“My grandfather, King Thengel, lived in Gondor during his youth and served under the Steward Turgon,” Éomer said. “He stayed there for a long time partly because of my grandmother Morwen Steelsheen of Lossarnarch.”
“But she still went with him to Rohan when he had to become king?”
“Of course.”
Lothíriel shook her head wryly. “I understand my aunt Ivriniel for never marrying then.” She glanced down at her ring and sighed. “This has been passed down among the eldest daughters in my mother’s line. Now it has come to me from her—and will more likely remain in Dol Amroth long after I have been called away from it.”
“Called away?”
“To be lady of a land not my own – even if it is another fiefdom in Gondor.”
“Is that the only path before you, Princess?” Éomer asked, raising an eyebrow.
“There is the difficulty – I am a princess and the only one of my house. Aunt Ivriniel was allowed to remain a spinster because of my Aunt Finduilas,” Lothíriel said. “Or perhaps I should ask my father if Dol Amroth can have its first shieldmaiden.”
“A sail-maiden would be more fitting,” Éomer drawled. He grinned to himself when Lothíriel chuckled before bursting out into full-on giggling. ‘Not meant to hold a sword, but for greatness most surely,’ he surmised as he glanced down at her tanned, slightly chapped hands.