Hii I like your writings! If you're still taking requests, can you write something about Eomer and the female reader? The reader is Aragorn's older sister. A ranger and a renowned warrior. After Eomer personally meets the owner of the stories he's been hearing for years, he may begin to fall in love with her. If you write, thank you in advance, if you don't I totally understand, no problem.~
A Sudden Spark
Éomer x Female Reader
Content & Warnings: mild suggestive themes, slight canon-divergence, fluff, yearning, crush at first sight
Word Count: 1.4k
ao3 // main masterlist
Note: Greetings, Anon! I'm SO sorry it took me so long to get to this request. It has been sitting in my inbox for a hot minute. Thank you so much for reaching out and dropping this off. I hope you enjoy this little thing I put together.
The Great Shadow is fading.
Evil is not gone. It is simply receding, lingering in the farthest reaches, waiting for the final blow of steel that will eventually come. There is a brightness that stretches over everything like a warm blanket draped across the shoulders. It is as if the Sun returned after a long sleep.
Éomer breathes deep, allowing the brilliance of sunshine and the floral aroma on the wind to fill his lungs. A peace settles over him, a gentleness that extinguishes all ache from the last few months. Éomer is battle-weary. He lost his uncle, and nearly lost his sister.
A few years of peace are what he and everyone needs.
Turning away from the Pelennor Fields, Éomer reenters the feast hall of Merethrond. Taking up residence beside a tall, white pillar, Éomer observes the crowd around him, drinking from his mead cup. Everyone is in a celebratory mood. As they should be.
The battle is over. Gondor has a king. And yet, there is still so much to do.
Éomer celebrates along with them. The mead is delicious if a bit strong, and he has a tender urge to experience life. A fair maiden with lovely lips and curves would surely satiate that subtle hunger.
But darkness and duty lurk in the back of his mind. The bright sunshine and fresh air only quieted it for a moment. Rohan is without a king. Éomer will take up the title. He has not officially been crowned but it will happen after all of this is done. From this point on, Éomer must serve his people in more ways than he has previously. While he has always been a ferocious fighter and a skilled rider, the politics of ruling will become a new burden.
Éowyn will support him, but for how long? She is currently tangled up in Faramir’s arms, the two of them moving across the floor in a dance that sends the bottom of her dress spinning. Her smile is wide and pure, cheeks lightly flushed from exertion and most certainly from the beginnings of love. Faramir’s smile is just as wide and bold, their gazes locked on one another as if there is no one else in the room.
No. Éomer will not always have his sister. It appears that he will lose her to another sooner rather than later. But he is not upset. If anything, he is happy for her. She deserves so much, especially after all they’ve lost.
That leaves only him. He too will need someone at his side that is more than simple counsel. Éomer will need a wife. That is the reality of things. Someone for him to love and to love him in return, to birth his children, to listen and give advice, and to assist in taking care of the realm. While it is a duty, Éomer deeply longs for companionship.
But all this responsibility subdues the celebratory mood. It slots his thoughts into all that must be done on his return to Edoras.
Éomer is happy for Aragorn. He is happy that Gondor has a king, and that Gondor will be a great ally. He is happy that Aragorn has reunited with the woman he loves, and that the lands are no longer scarred by darkness and death.
He takes a long swig of his mead, leaning harder against the pillar as he observes the dancers in the middle of the hall. The mead is strong and sinking into his bones. The buzz is sharp in his blood.
“Not joining in?” The feminine voice draws Éomer’s attention away from the dancing couples and to the end of his right shoulder.
Éomer freezes, his mead cup halfway to his mouth. The woman standing next to him smiles sweetly. Your gentle beauty is soft and inviting. As Éomer continues to stare, that sweetness morphs into amusement, and that one look sends a little shiver up his spine to slice through his heart.
When he doesn’t answer, you arch a single eyebrow, and Éomer hastily clears his throat.
“Not for me,” he admits, immediately drinking some of his mead.
“Dancing?”
Are you asking him? It feels like you are but Éomer hasn’t always been successful about understanding a woman’s signals when she’s interested. Usually, Éomer is the one approaching.
Éomer nods because he doesn’t trust his voice. He might choke on his words this time instead of a simple cough.
There is a stretch of silence before you speak again. “But you are celebrating.” You nod toward his cup. Éomer briefly glances at your empty hands.
“And you are not partaking,” he comments.
You laugh. “The Lord of the Mark is observant,” you tease, smile stretching toward your ears.
Another stretch of silence, and your eyebrows start to rise toward your hairline, head tilting slightly. Éomer blinks and then heat rushes up his cheeks.
By the Gods, he should have realized sooner.
Éomer pushes off from the pillar, straightening his shoulders and back, smoothing the front of his formal tunic. “Would you—”
“Yes,” you reply automatically, eagerly reaching for him.
Your hand is warm in his. Éomer follows, allowing you to lead, dropping his drink somewhere on a random table before entering the crowd of dancers. The music is upbeat and light. Éomer wouldn’t call himself graceful, but he did grow up learning traditional dances for this very reason.
But you continue to lead, and somehow that is comforting. Éomer is always prepared to take charge and make decisions. He does none of that now. You are smiling, clasping his hand, this stranger that has suddenly captured all his attention.
Perhaps forgetting for a bit is a good thing.
Éomer goes through two dances with you before the music slows a bit. Before, he hardly had a chance to speak, but now the two of you are close together, bodies pressed tight. He briefly glances over your shoulder and notices Arwen’s smile. She is watching him, and you. His gaze falls to the man beside her.
There is a slight frown on Aragorn’s face. Why is he frowning? Why does he appear concerned?
“You know my name but I’m afraid I do not know yours,” says Éomer, his face slightly tilted toward your own.
You give it casually and Éomer blanches. He knows that name. He knows who you are.
For the time he’s known Aragorn, Éomer has heard the stories from others, never from the man himself. He keeps you secret, not leaning into the tales told about you. You are his sister, the elder but not by much. But you are not soft and delicate, or so Éomer has been told.
You are daring. Adventurous. A fierce warrior and Ranger. You wield sword and bow with gracefulness and deadly aim. Éomer had heard that the Rangers came during the battle, but he did not see you. Then again, Éomer was far too busy trying to keep himself and his fellow Rohirrim alive.
The image he built of you in his head does not match the woman before him. The way you match his every step and how your hands feel against him, all speak to gentler things. Before him is a sweet and soft woman, but as he peers closer, Éomer notices the subtle shifts of your movements. There is a warrior’s grace to the fluidity of your body against his and with every leading step.
There is power within you along with the soft.
Éomer’s heart suddenly snags, stuttering before becoming a pounding drumbeat. When you turn your smile back to him all coherent thought leaves his brain except one.
She’d be a fierce queen.
The music swells and then melts away, and you release Éomer to step back and bow deeply. Éomer mimics the movement. When the two of you straighten, it is at the exact same time, and then you step far too close for a stranger.
“This is where we part,” you murmur, soft lips forming the words yet also sending Éomer’s brain into a foggy scramble.
You incline your head and begin to draw away. Like a lightning strike, Éomer moves into the space you just occupied, snatching your wrist to pull you close.
Your lips part in surprise, chest heaving slightly. Éomer’s gaze drops to the exposed tops of your breasts.
“This is where we part,” he repeats, gaze returning to your face. “For now.”
Summary: The slow burn of Éomer's love for Signyr, the shield-maiden he has known and served alongside for years, is revealed in flashback scenes to their shared adolescence and adulthood; the stories also illuminate Théodred's vital role mentoring his cousins into becoming the strong Rohirrim they are.
In the present time, immediately after the War of the Ring, Éomer King contends with political pressures and the responsibilities of his crown while striving to honor his promises to the woman he loves. The emergence of a scheming yet seductive rival in the form of a Haradrim Prince further complicates matters, and forces both Signyr and Éomer to consider whether love truly can take precedence over the duties they hold dear.
To read on Ao3: LINK
Chapter One: The Skinny Boy
Third Age 3002, Spring
Edoras
Éomer did not think he would get into trouble for breaking the boy's nose. Not on the training field. Not when it was the idiot's fault for keeping such a pathetic grip on his sword, making it too easy for Éomer to get past his block and land a solid strike. A full-force, harsh hit that surprised even him when it instantly produced howls of pain. It was Éomer’s very first turn sparring in that group, and no one had advised him beforehand that they did things differently at Edoras, where beginners at their level did not aim for the head.
“Perhaps I should be matched against someone older next time,” Éomer told the grim-faced master-at-arms who had pulled him aside to give him the obligatory reprimand for his unexpected, however accidental, savagery. Éomer scowled to suppress a laugh when the master admitted that the boy, Éothain, was already the oldest one there. He suspected as much, having noted that his opponent was the only trainee around taller than him. At eleven years of age, Éomer frequently outsized boys several years his senior, to say nothing of his far advanced skill set. He had begun his daily training as soon as he could walk, directly under the hand of the fiercest warrior in the East-mark.
But then his father, that great warrior who Éomer once thought invincible, was struck down dead in an orc raid, and his mother wasted no time in following her lord husband to the barrows. With little warning or care for their preferences, Éomer and his little sister were uprooted from their blissful home in Aldburg and replanted in the royal halls of their uncle the King.
Ordered to sit and observe for the rest of the training session, Éomer stomped off to the benches in the sidelines. He felt the eyes that followed his every movement and swallowed the urge to snarl at these gawpers. What are you staring at?! He was sick of being an object of curiosity to everyone he passed, everywhere he went. Éowyn dealt with it by confining herself entirely to Meduseld. Since their arrival, she refused to leave the halls even at Éomer’s urging, quietly insisting that she preferred to stay indoors with their Aunt Edlenniel and the court ladies and their hours of needlework and gossip. Éomer lacked the patience to confront her about such a blatant lie, so he just left her to it.
“You must give it time,” Edlenniel told the siblings during one of the bleak dinners their newly patched-together family sat down to. “You are seeing now just how differently things are done here at Edoras compared to the…” She pressed and smacked her thin lips together in that manner Éomer had quickly learned to recognize as her half-hearted effort to moderate her opinions. “…coarser customs you've grown up around.”
“We ate all our meals with the rest of the household,” Éowyn spoke up. Anyone else would have assumed the quaver in her voice was from an effort to hold back mournful tears. Éomer alone saw what it truly was: a determined restraint from yelling at Edlenniel for her stupid comments and giving her the satisfaction of being proven right about their “coarser” upbringing. “One roof, one table, that was father’s rule. Everyone sat down together to eat. Even the cooks.”
“Yes, Éowyn. Thank you for pointing out such a perfect example of Aldburg’s oddities,” Edlenniel said smoothly, not skipping a beat in the fluidity with which she scooped up a tidy spoonful of pottage from her bowl.
Before Éomer could open his mouth to unleash hell on his sister’s behalf--indeed on behalf of their family's honor!--Théodred intercepted his rage by speaking up, his calm voice patting down Éomer’s raised hackles with a single stroke.
“Actually. An entire household sitting down to a meal together sounds like a pleasant practice, if not a completely natural one.”
Edlenniel’s head whipped about so quickly the tight bun she wound her hair into actually moved. “You cannot be serious!” And when Théodred just shrugged and lifted a goblet to his lips, she narrowed her eyes at the dimples that betrayed him. “You are making jests. Or perhaps mocking me!” she huffed.
“I would never mock you, dear aunt,” Théodred said airily. “Nor would I jest about the manner in which this household, the King's household, is to be run.” Éomer noted his cousin’s stern inflection on the word ‘king’, but doubted Edlenniel ever truly registered anyone else’s voice above the volume of her own.
“If my words have caused you offense, please know that it was not intentional, and I apologize,” Théodred continued. “Just as I’m sure you would never wittingly upset my cousins with criticisms of their upbringing. Not after everything they have endured of late.”
At that moment, Éomer could not decide whose shock was more satisfying to behold--Éowyn’s or Edlenniel’s. While his sister’s cheeks glowed pink with silent triumph, his aunt flushed an ugly purple as she sputtered wordlessly and looked to the head of the table for intervention that would not come. Her brother, Théoden King, sat in his high-backed chair, his dull gaze affixed on his untouched pottage and his mind lost to the memories of the one sister he loved far above the others, now forever beyond reach.
That had happened just last week. It was the day Éomer realized gravely, but with a rekindled spark of hope, that Théodred would be the one to fill in the void left by Éomund's larger-than-life presence. It was a strange realization for the boy to arrive at. Nascent impressions of his cousin painted him as a man who could not be any more different from his father. But Théodred had silenced Edlenniel! The only interaction between his father and aunt that Éomer could recall witnessing involved Éomund turning crimson with rage, unable to raise his mighty, clenched fists to fend off the verbal assault from a woman half his size. It made Éomer wonder about the skills Théodred might impart to him that Éomund never could have.
Éomer lifted his sullen gaze from the ground and back to the trainees that continued rotating through their match-ups. He observed a few more pairs spar, none of which lasted much longer than a minute, before impatience drove him back up on his feet. What a waste of time! He would learn nothing from watching novices.
Only then did it occur to him that he could seek meditation from someone who outranked Elfhelm. Théodred would remind that self-important training master of his place and overturn Éomer's unjust suspension!
He scanned the field for his cousin's face amongst the spectators, and found the prince standing on the opposite side of the ring from the apprenticeship candidates and their instructors. As Éomer approached him, he noticed Théodred’s intense focus on the ongoing match: arms folded tightly over his chest, eyes hard and narrowed, lips in a taut line. Not quite a scowl, but far from the relaxed smile he usually wore.
Éomer glanced half-heartedly over his shoulder to see what had captured his cousin’s attention in such a way, and found nothing interesting. Just another pair of Edoras boys swatting hesitantly at each other with the wasters--thwak, thwak--and blocking the attacks with such predictability, the rhythm of clacking wood could have lulled Éomer to sleep.
“Is this a fight or a dance?!” bellowed Elfhelm, as he paced alongside the combatants. “Show me Rohirrim fire behind those strikes!”
Thwak, thwak, thwak! The blows picked up speed, but clacked at a jagged pace as the swords connected with greater force and purpose. Éomer stopped right beside Théodred--who didn't seem to even register his arrival--and faced the ring with sudden interest.
These boys were too weak to sustain their own furor. The taller yet skinnier one was already struggling to keep a steady grip. He shifted to using two hands and raised the waster just in time to parry the next attack. But his exhaustion was apparent, and his opponent had the sense to take advantage. Thwak, thwak!--and then a cry as the skinny boy’s sword was knocked out of his hand. It landed on the dirt and was soon joined by the thud of his arse.
A smirk grazed Éomer’s lips for only a second until he saw the boy scramble across the dust and seize the dropped sword. Was the match not over? He looked to Théodred incredulously. The prince's expression remained unruffled. He gave a quick shake of his head. Éomer followed the direction of his gaze and realized it was Elfhelm he was signaling, No.
With a yell, the boy who should have yielded lurched back on his feet and charged with a well-aimed swing. Lack of vigilance cost his foe a sharp smack to the ribs, which he would have felt underneath his leather cuirass. Wheezing and grunting, the pair resumed their exchange with only a smidgen of renewed vigor, but Éomer had to concede his admiration of them. Valor will compensate for lack of strength, but strength without valor is worthless. So said his late father, the strongest man he knew.
And yet, valor had its limits. In less than a minute, the skinny boy lost his sword again, and after he endured two vengeful blows to the chest from his opponent, Elfhelm stepped in to declare the match over.
“Do you know them?” Éomer blurted out. He felt vaguely irritated by the pride Théodred attempted to conceal behind his pressed lips. The bright gleam in his eyes spoke volumes.
“I know all of the candidates,” Théodred said calmly, as if he'd been aware all along of Éomer standing there. “Every one that comes to Edoras every season.”
“Yes, but do you know them?” Éomer jerked his hand impatiently towards the ring, and nearly struck the skinny boy who had approached unexpectedly. His first instinct was to scowl at this perceived rival for his cousin's favor. But then he caught his first clear view of the boy’s face, and he froze. He stared.
“This is Signyr,” Théodred said. “Signyr, this is my cousin, Éomer.”
“It is an honor, my lord.” She bobbed her head politely. She! Because the skinny boy was a girl. Éomer could see it now. A girl outfitted as a boy, breeches and all, but her face had an unmistakable female softness. The high tone of her voice, her stance, the way she carried her shoulders. It was so obvious that Éomer felt cross with himself for missing it.
“You did very well,” Théodred told Signyr, resting a hand on her back. “Truly--that was well fought.” He leaned in and muttered something else at a volume too low for Éomer to catch. Signyr gave them one more pretty little bow before trotting off with the air of a dog that had been praised.
“I did not know Edoras permitted girls to train for the apprenticeship!” Éomer exclaimed the second she was gone.
“Girls have always been welcome, but for a long time none have put themselves forward for it,” Théodred said. “Signyr is the first one in many years.”
“You should let Éowyn join as well!”
Théodred lifted his eyebrows. “Is the life of a shield-maiden something your sister aspires to?”
“Father began her instruction with swords early, as he did with me,” Éomer declared stoutly. “She has more experience and skill than half of these recruits.” He sniffed and added, “I’d wager she could knock Signyr over on her arse too.”
“Be that as it may, right now Éowyn is too young. She is nearly half Signyr's age,” Théodred said gently. “After a few more years, perhaps it may be discussed.”
Éomer nodded, satisfied for the moment with this. Gazing across the field, he spotted Signyr returning to the trainees’ bench to await her next turn. The moment she sat down, the three boys already on the bench rose, one by one, and moved to stand a distance away. They made no attempt at subtlety. They wanted their point clear.
The next thing Éomer knew, he was at the bench plunking himself down next to the lone girl. Signyr’s eyes, weary from driving back tears, turned wary as they flicked sideways at him.
“You have to get stronger,” Éomer told her. “You are fast, but your strikes do not land hard enough. You will tire more quickly.”
“This is only my second week.” The girl’s posture stiffened but she faced Éomer fully, meeting his bluntness head-on. “I am better than what I showed. I will only continue to get better.”
“We shall see.”
“Yes.” She held Éomer’s gaze until it was he who finally grew flustered and had to break away. “You shall see.”
* * * * *
Third Age 3019, May 14th
Edoras
The carpet of simbelmynë blossoms quivered in the strong evening gale that rushed over the gently sloped mounds of the Barrowfield. Éomer raised his face to this wind. Behind his closed eyes came an unbidden vision of his cousin: Théodred at the peak of his health and vigor, mounted on Stormlord, his great ebony steed, whose fierce galloping rolled like thunder across an endless green field. His hair whipped about his face, unbound and unruly, and full-throated laughter poured from his smile as though the thrill of freedom could not be contained within him.
Éomer blinked, and the image of the late Prince of Rohan speeding off into the unknown horizon melted away. No one and nothing could touch him again. Éomer swallowed painfully and let the last grieving tear he would shed for his cousin trickle down to his beard.
“Ferðu, Théodred,” he murmured. “Ferðu.”
They had taken his broken body and given it the burial rites royal custom dictated, but Éomer could never think of him lying within that earthen mound. No. Théodred was not there. He was very much alive and free from his countless burdens at last. Reunited in the Halls with those he loved best and basking in the adulation and honors his ancestors had been waiting to heap upon him. And, in turn, welcoming his father upon Theoden's arrival.
Théodred and Théoden fought fiercely and valiantly throughout their lives, but their watch over Rohan had ended. Éomer was left to shoulder that task now. But he was not alone.
Not alone. Éomer silently reminded himself. Proof of this met him at the gates of Edoras, where he found Èothain waiting for his return. And further in the distance, he beheld the sight of his sister standing outside the doors of Meduseld. Her skirts and golden hair fluttered in the wind, beautiful and regal as the banners of Rohan that flew about her, and just as effective in rousing Éomer’s spirits. Praise Bema, at least he still had Éowyn.
The two men paused side by side at the bottom of Meduseld’s terrace staircase. “Are you ready for this?” Èothain asked.
Éomer cocked an eyebrow. “Are you?”
“Not in the slightest.” Èothain snorted. “And yet, onward.”
The former captain’s steps were slow and carefully measured as they climbed, his left shoulder curled inward in an instinctive effort to compensate for the missing weight of his arm. Éomer clenched his hands into fists to quell their urge to reach out, knowing that even well-meaning aid would be offensive. Èothain had been good enough to come and serve in an entirely unfamiliar role as Éomer requested, on top of all the enormous sacrifices he'd already made. It would certainly be foolish to irritate him right before they entered this new battlefield.
“There will be ale at the table, yes?” Èothain winced. “At least wine, if that is all these fine lords would tolerate?”
“I shall ask them to serve whatever you wish,” Éomer promised. “Although you must know it is generally inadvisable to get drunk at council.”
“You mean to tell me that all decisions reached at these meetings have been made sober?!” Èothain deadpanned. “Not to worry, milord. Just a cup or two to keep certain faces looking less punchable.” He grunted and heaved himself up the last couple of steps. “Though I hold fast to my suggestion to simply sweep out the whole lot of them and start fresh with all your own men. You are King!”
“If only it were so simple,” Éowyn sighed, falling in step alongside them, seamlessly slipping her hand on her brother's arm as they approached the doors of the Golden Hall. “Best brace yourself, Èothain. You shall learn quickly enough the steps of this complicated dance.”
“Regretfully, I have always been a poor dancer, milady," Èothain grinned and lifted his limbless shoulder. “And now even poorer still.”
“Then we shall just have to uncomplicate matters,” Éomer said stoutly. “And introduce the men of the old council to new ways.”
He looked to Éowyn for approval and saw faint shadows of concern behind her smile. But she squeezed his arm and said, “We are with you, Éomer King.”
The wardens pushed the doors open, and Èothain barely stifled one last groan at the sight of the line of elder councilmen waiting for their arrival. “I guess we shall see,” he muttered before their trio passed through.
Yes. Éomer's thoughts flickered back to her, and the memory of her courage summoned forth his own. They shall see.
For more SotWK Fanfiction: Fanfiction Masterlist
Introduction to SotWK
Headcanon Masterlist
Divider credit: @saradika-graphics
Special Credit to @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras for sharing her OC, Edlenniel, and all her invaluable Rohan wisdom with me.
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 6 - Epilogue
Summary: Unable to find rest, the prince and the maid meet in the halo of the moonlight. Their closeness inevitably leads them to transgress a boundary from which there is no retreat.
Ship/Pairing: Éomer x Original Female Character
Trope: Prince x Maid, Forbidden Love
Warning: You knew it was coming. It had to. It gets spicy! [NSFW] [NSFT]
(it remains fluffy though)
Word count: 10,500
Read it on AO3 here.
Night had long fallen over Rohan, its ink black mantle, dotted with molten-golden asters that sparkled far above the lands, enfolding the world. Guardian of dreams and protector of dreamers, it had plunged the realm into an undisturbed tranquillity. Predators roamed the plains, shielded by the darkness that Night provided, perpetuating the circle of life. Birds of prey spread and fluttered their wings, fending the air with innate grace, and waiting for unsuspecting rodents to capture their acute eye. Above it all, the moon hung in the sky, boasting its rich silver hues, bathing the mountaintops into its glow; the sole beacon of any soul untouched by the lull of sleep.
Winter had truly begun to take root once the sun had set. Despite having left the earth bare during the day, it now draped its surface with rime. Scintillating opal dust waltzed through the breeze, carrying the serenity of the sky to the wilds below. The blanket it wove upon the ground stifled the steps of the animals seeking shelter in the woods. Deer wandered between the trees, scouring the landscape for a place to settle for the night. Under a pine, a doe curls up around her fawn, letting her brown coat warm up her young.
At the heart of Meduseld, nestled in her bedchamber, Éorhild lay wide awake under her covers. Though her irises faced the spectacle that nature offered, they were blind to its magnificence. Rather, they drowned in brine that trickled down the bridge of her nose and met its end against her pillow. She wept in silence; exhaustion had gnawed too deep in her bones for her to tremble or wail.
Éomer’s soul-baring confession had shattered her world into fragments too jagged to reassemble. Though she had never questioned his fondness, she never had imagined that it had ripened into love. His revelation had sent her mind spiralling, untethered for reason, her heart plummeting under the recollection of her reaction. Its thunderous rhythm had roared in her ears, drowning every fragment of coherence. Instinct had eclipsed thought, and before she had fathomed a response, she had murmured an apology and fled his quarters. Her mantle, hose, shoes, and veil lay abandoned on his chair, a silent testament to the dismay that had seized her. No other explanation had been uttered; no apology issued. Within a second, she had departed.
Guilt. Remorse. Vile creatures whose claws tore her flesh into shreds, searing her with an agony so profound that she could do nothing but pray that it would pass. By then, she was in a state beyond hysteria. She was carving herself a grave in the ruthless soil of apathy, each shovelful burying her in a void of her heart’s own making. As the clod in her back grew higher by the second, she hoped that once it would shroud her, new life would take root from her despair and blossom into a bed of colourful lilies.
Another fainting spell had befallen her, though this time there had been no gallant rescuer to whisk her away on his steed. Mere seconds had passed until she regained her spirits and dragged herself to her washroom, where she poured herself a warm bath to thwart the promise of severe soreness in her muscles and ribs come morning. It had been but a fleeting solace. There she had lingered, with her head underwater to scream her lungs out until they burnt, the water absorbing her anguish without alerting another soul.
And thus, she lay, alert and hollow-eyed, the tears she had hoped would bring release proving futile. They left her drained but long away from the hibernation she craved, her waking sorrow haunting her through the long hours of the night.
Then, she had shuffled the short distance to her bed, clad in nothing warmer than her shift, heedless to the chill that nipped at her skin. Heaving a rattling sigh, she had collapsed onto the mattress and burrowed beneath the covers. For hours she wrestled with the sheets, tossing and turning, incapable of drifting away. Her mind yearned for the oblivion of sleep yet clung stubbornly to the memory of her prince. Each time she closed her eyes, his image rose unbidden, piercing her with a pain radiating from her chest down to her fingertips, where it stung like nettles. Sleep, cruel as it was, evaded her.
In truth, she was utterly spent, her body eroded by heartache and her spirit ravaged by the flames of regret. Mindless chores she could carry out in her room to compensate were unthinkable; she has no more strength to spare. Lifting a finger even felt an insurmountable task. She was an empty vessel adrift in despair. Insomnia was holding her captive in the world of night owls. She was its prisoner, vulnerable to its cruel grip. Too weak to even stand, she lay in the dark, unable to peer through the bars of this cage to glimpse a shred of hope. Escaping this madness seemed a fantasy that only fools could aspire to.
His confession, so heartfelt, had unravelled her to her very core, wielding a mastery akin to the realm’s most gifted poets. Every syllable of it reverberated within the cell of her fragility. It was the only balm to the excruciating scorch of her emotions.
To quell the venom coursing through her veins, Éorhild turned her thoughts to Éomer’s plea, echoing in her mind like a cherished melody. How exquisite it had been! Never in her wildest dreams had she placed herself on the receiving end of such fervent passion, nor as one to whom those infamous three words would have been bestowed. Faintly, she recalled when she was a carefree girl in the Westfold who dared to dream of hearing them, yet never believed they would one day be hers.
Éorhild imagined the life that Éomer had envisioned for them — one unshackled by constraints and etiquette. At its start was a wedding without allegiance to ranks or Gondorian nobility. Above their braided and flowered heads stretched a cloudless canopy of azure, ornate with a single golden disc illuminating the plains around them. In the middle of the Rohirric nature, their hands would join as they would pronounce the most poignant vows their people would ever witness. Better still, their union would be celebrated in solitude, far from the shadow of Edoras, away from prying ears and burdensome traditions. Perched atop a hill embraced by the towering mountains, their promise to each other would only reach the earth and sky. In that sacred moment, there would be no titles, no subjects, no servants, no rulers; only them and a bliss of their own making.
Together, they would raise a home whose walls and hearth would embody their shared spirit and all they could hope for. Behind closed eyelids, she could almost experience it. She could taste the sweetness of calling him ‘Husband’ in the dead of night, for no other reason than to release the same thrill in her chest that had danced there when they shared their first kiss on the hillside. Untainted by the world’s demands, they would do everything that life has deprived them of so far. They would hold each other close beyond the enclosure of their garden, they would touch lips within sight of others. Their only bond would be to each other.
Preventing her mind from painting the scene in richer detail, a sudden chill coursed down her spine, snapping her back to the cold reality of her solitary chamber. With a begrudging sigh, Éorhild pushed herself upright, grimacing from the soreness in her back. Her body, weary from prolonged inactivity, craved some motion. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and pressed her feet to the icy floor, hoping that a short midnight stroll would provide her some semblance of peace.
She retrieved a pale candle from the drawer and replaced the spent one in her holder. As she struck a match and watched the flame catch, its glow cast a sharp flicker upon her traits and kindled a heart-wrenching realisation in her mind.
Éomer must have suffered greatly, watching her flee from him in that moment of vulnerability. He had poured out his heart to her, after all; and she had not remained to listen. The thought weighed on her, and the flickering wick seemed to mock her in the stillness of the room. She anchored herself to the chest of drawers, suffocating from the lump forming in her throat.
How dared she run? How could she have deserted him when every oath she ever swore, as maid or woman, was bound to his welfare? In shadow and in daylight, she had tended to his needs with unwavering commitment. Yet, the moment that he confessed his love, she had ceased to listen. In that instant of raw honesty, she had faltered and abandoned him, her loyalty fractured by the terror of such foreign emotions.
She did not resent him for speaking his truth, not for a second, not for a million years. If anything, what invaded her then was an overwhelming sense of being cherished — something she had never known. Long had her childhood blurred into hazy memories, yet none held a fraction of the comfort that his presence provided her. Every conversation they had shared, whether by the hearth or in the corridors of Meduseld, had flown seamlessly. Not all had been easy, but never had she feared revealing her thoughts and heart to him, despite the consequences it might bring. Over the past months, whenever something amusing or thought-provoking passed through her mind, her first instinct had been to reach for Éomer, to share in the joy or laughter with him. Days grew devoid of interest; she had spent each of them thrilled at the idea of warming herself up by his side in the hall come evening. And at night, when at last she closed her eyes, it was his face, his smile, that guided her towards the land of dreams.
She loved him. The certainty struck her with the force of a galloping stallion, leaving no room for doubt. Teardrops formed puddles upon the dresser as they dripped off her cheeks, dimpled by a smile. Her hands fumbled in the dim light for a robe and clutched it around her quivering frame. With the candle holder firmly in her grasp, she yanked the door open and rushed barefoot into the shadowy hallway, her resolve now burning as brightly as the flame between her fingers.
Éorhild halted at the closed door of Éomer’s quarters, her shallow breath forming momentary clouds in the air and her pulse thrumming. Her eyes stared at this gate separating her from the man she coveted, unmoving, for what seemed an eternity. A bleak awareness crept over her — that of her impulsiveness. What had she been thinking? The silence of the Golden Hall, heavy and undisturbed, reminded her that, unlike her, most within its walls were deep in slumber.
Her courage faded and her fingers tightened their grip around the candlestick. Nevertheless, her heart urged her forward, while her brain screamed at her to retreat. When she raised her fist towards the thick wood, bracing herself to knock, a voice interrupted her momentum.
‘Whoever you are, you might as well enter,’ she heard it say, recognising it as the prince’s. There was no use in surrendering now. Éorhild squared her shoulders, drawing in a sharp breath to steady herself as her head extended towards the latch and eased the door open.
Inside, his chamber lay shrouded in obscurity, pierced only by a halo of moonlight that spilled through the window on the other side of the bed. Leaning on one forearm against the windowsill, Éomer was facing away from her. His stance was tense yet contemplative, as though the whirlwind of sorrow had rooted him there. Since her hasty departure, he had undone the plaits she had braided into his hair that morning. Their mild impressions waved his tresses, like ghosts of her touch. He wore a loose white shirt, rolled to his elbows, and tucked into a pair of silk trousers he reserved for the scarce hours of leisure he was afforded in the palace. How cold he must feel, she wondered.
Éomer cast a glance over his shoulder and the sight of Éorhild in her robe froze him mid-turn. His frown betrayed a flicker of surprise, as though he had been prepared to witness anyone in Rohan — but her — stepping across his threshold that night. His lips parted, searching for a pleasant greeting that never came. The shadows deepened the lines of his face, accentuating the vulnerability that etched there, unguarded and unfeigned. The luminescence of the moon did nothing to help the pallor that worsened his appearance.
Oh, how he must have been suffering.
‘It is you,’ he croaked, the unsteadiness in his voice suggesting that she had stolen the breath from his lungs by appearing to him.
Éorhild pressed her back to the door and held the candle aloft. His evident anguish dissuaded her from approaching, out of fear that she might twist the knife into his wounds that her actions had already inflicted.
‘Indeed, your Majesty, it is I,’ she whispered back. ‘I did not think that I would find you awake at this hour.’
‘Can I help you with anything? If it is your clothes you want, I have not moved them.’
‘Have you not found rest, my lord?’ she spoke again, turning to him again.
Her gaze fell upon the pulled chair, where her forgotten belongings laying folded preserved the memory of her hasty retreat. The sight tugged at her heart — an unbearable reminder of when she both lost her composure and him. She set the candle upon the nearby chest of drawers, shedding a light on the ornate helmet he had worn into battle placed at the centre of the furniture. The biting cold seeped into her skin and she shivered, rubbing her palms against her arms for even a sliver of warmth.
‘I am in a state where I have forgotten what sleep even is,’ he scoffed, running a hand over his face.
Silence reigned supreme once more, disrupted only by the occasional crackle of the wick. Éorhild wrestled with her thoughts, embarking on the vain quest for words that would defend this impromptu nightly visit without hurting him further. Potential phrases dissolved on her tongue before she could utter them. No justification could fully encapsulate the truth behind her presence. Besides, his evading, restless gaze suggested that it unnerved him so deeply that he could scarcely bring himself to face her.
With tentative and measured steps, she drew nearer, albeit keeping a safe distance from him to spare his fretfulness. Her eyes, however, held fast to him; it traced the contours of his face, captured the sorrowful depth of his blood-shot eyes.
‘I apologise for running away earlier,’ she blurted out. ‘When you confessed your love to me, I was overtaken by a terror so consuming that I lost the ability to think clearly. My judgement was clouded, my instincts warped, and it drove me away from you, against my will.’
Éomer’s glimmering eyes met hers at last, cautious and uncertain. He merely nodded and stood back against the windowsill. The pale aura of the moon, caressing his skin, illuminated the unshed tears in his eyes. Their sight, unbearable to her, threatened to break her; still she stood firm, drawing strength from the depths of her adoration.
‘Was it me you were afraid of?’
His question sliced her heart with a sharpness akin to Gúthwinë’s blade. Her breath caught and she dropped her hands at her sides.
‘Why would you ever think that I feared you?’
‘You spoke of terror,’ he pressed on, swiftly catching a tear with the ball of his hand before it would fall and observing the landscape again. ‘Was it fear of me? Fear that I would coerce you into my bed?’
Determined to face and confront him on the matter, Éorhild bypassed the footboard of the bed and climbed the short steps leading to the alcove where the window frame would preside their exchange. At her approach, Éomer recoiled yet made no move to elude her. This time, his eyes remained fixed on her figure as she took place across from him.
‘I never feared this eventuality in the first place,’ she intoned. ‘You were not at the root of my dread, and for allowing you to believe otherwise, I owe you my deepest apologies.’
‘Speak to me, then,’ he pleaded in a sob, his voice cracking. ‘Why did you flee?’
‘When Master Guthláf revealed to me the laws that endorse lords commanding their maids’ bodies, I grasped how brittle my agency was in the eyes of Rohirric lawmakers and nobles,’ she began. ‘The realisation that my autonomy could be stripped from me so easily, no matter what I say, made me understand Lady Éowyn’s rage on a more profound level. For so long, I must admit, I envied her in secret — a part of me I now repudiate. I could not fathom why she, of all people, could consider herself marginalised simply for her sex.’
Though her heart ached to enfold him in her arms and never let go, she held herself back. No gently gestures, no words of reassurance, could come ahead of the explanation she owed him — explanations she was resolved to provide. It was the least she could offer, and she would not have him bear her withdrawal any longer.
Her fingers clasped the sleeves of her robe. The shame caused by her mistakes, which she had mulled over for hours, stirred uneasily in her stomach more strongly with every passing thought.
‘I knew, of course, that even among servants, women and men receive different treatments. Even our very oath belittles us. Male servants may bed whomever they fancy within their rank, they may take wives and have children, and still be welcome to contribute to the palace’s upkeep. But should a maid take a lover, she risks banishment. Théodil has paid the price for it.’
A tremor seized her lower lip, drawing the prince’s attention, which had not wavered from her since she had begun to speak. She was unravelling herself before him with as much honesty as he had displayed during their fiery conversation earlier. So, he listened with patience, his senses attuned to her words. In that instant, there was nothing else he desired more than to hear her, to understand her and that turmoil, whose ravages she had concealed to protect him. Or perhaps because she had yet to perceive the extent of its devastation herself.
‘At first, I thought her foolish for so openly risking her livelihood for that guard,’ she confessed in a strangled sob. ‘But now… now I wonder — what did Théodil truly do wrong? She is hardly different from her male peers, after all. She, too, has desires and the capacity for love. Why, then, should she be punished for even a simple kiss?’
‘What I mean to say is that I had always believed my agency over my body to be the one thing truly mine, not for others to control. To learn that I had been misled for sixteen years unsettled me in ways I scarcely knew how to express.’
Her barriers fell and she wept openly, although she paid the tears drenching her face no heed. Still, she took a moment to gather herself.
‘If I may speak candidly, without causing you offense, I care for you far too deeply to risk your safety. Forcing you into anything had never brushed my thoughts, not even a little. My love for you never entailed the corruption of your consent.’
‘I know.’
Éorhild dried her cheeks with a smile that held little mirth, and he, too, echoed it with a brief chuckle. They contemplated each other, the curve of their lips betraying a tenderness, kept at bay ever since she graced his room, blossoming anew. Sorrow had lifted from Éomer’s stern traits, and the glint in his eye was no longer solely that of brine.
‘You look ethereal tonight, Éorhild,’ the prince murmured as he admired the drapes of the white robe around her silhouette. ‘You are more beautiful to me than the Elves.’
‘Do not jest, my lord!’ she chortled, covering her mouth with her hand, hoping that its presence would help dissimulate the hues rising to her cheeks.
‘I never jest!’
The tension ebbed, surrendering to the chimes of their laughter. Their shoulders loosened, and the burden they had each borne lifted higher by the second. The camaraderie that had once defined their evenings — spent by the fire, drink in hand, exchanging words straying between the mundane and the profound — returned, thawing the imperceptible frost that had solidified following their abrupt parting.
Éorhild, finally drawing a steady breath that appeased her frayed nerves now that he knew and understood her dread, acknowledged the collar of his shirt. Between the parted hems, his collarbones and chest offered her a tantalising view. They were not unfamiliar to her; she had seen and grazed them in the bath that morning, yet there was something undeniably alluring about their partial occultation. The contrast of skin and linen sent her heart hammering and provoked a slow-burning ache deep within — delicious but somewhat outrageous.
Trailing along the folds of the fabric where shirt burrowed into waistline only further aggravated the adrenaline rush inside her abdomen. Underneath the garments, there was this body she knew was robust and chiselled, but its waist possessed a narrowness that required her to sink her nails into her palms to refrain from tracing them with her fingertips.
‘You cut a striking figure yourself, your Majesty,’ she complimented him in return.
‘Oh? Thank you. I, um…’
Éomer smoothed out a crease between his dark eyebrows with his knuckle, rubbing quite harshly at his skin as though to steel his mind away from such enticing distractions. Whether he noticed her lingering glances, the subtle tilt of her voice, or the unintentional flirtation woven into her compliment, she could not tell. However, his restraint was palpable, a silent battle against the temptation to yield to such frivolities. In all earnest, it was only fitting; too much remained unspoken between them, too many truths still hung in the air, awaiting acknowledgement.
‘I wanted to let you know that… should you decide to decline the position after such an eventful first day, I would understand,’ his low voice resonated with sincerity inside the alcove. ‘Truly, I would. I would not hold it against you, even for a second.’
He hesitated, his gaze faltering. Obviously, the prospect did not please him in the slightest. Even she could tell that he was setting aside his wishes to value her decision above them.
‘It was a hardship I thrust upon you without forewarning, and I should have handled it differently. Know that you already have my deepest gratitude for even considering it and giving it a chance. I cannot, in all good conscience, ask you for more.’
Another heartfelt expression of the tumult in his spirit, she told herself. One that she had provoked. The muscles in his jaw clenched and, when his lips parted again, his voice carried the raw edge of regret and a tinge of frustration.
‘I am sorry, Éorhild. Truly. I should have discussed it with you, shared my thoughts and concerns, before bringing it to my uncle’s attention. But I was so consumed by the need to keep you close that I let my impulsivity take control. I should have known better. I apolo—'
‘Éomer,’ she interjected with a gentle tone, ‘I have no intention of leaving your service. It was — and it remains — my choice to stay. You must understand, I am not here out of duty alone. Whatever trials have emerged with my assuming this role, they have not deterred me. If anything, they have confirmed that my place is here — with you.’
Shuffling out of the shadow, her bare feet brushing against the cold stone without a sound, she came forward, meeting him halfway. Éomer’s breath hitched, sensing a delightful tension that united them at that second. The moon’s silvery glare, speckled with delicate golden tints, kissed the skin of her neck. It descended towards the lowered hem of her shift, through which he could distinguish a single mole above her left breast. His broad frame, ordinarily adopting a confident poise, shifted and found refuge against the cold wood covering the wall.
But she paid that no mind.
‘Do not shoulder the guilt of offering me this role,’ she continued, plunging her dark irises into his. ‘I am here because I choose to be. Not because you compelled me, nor because I found myself cornered. But should I ever change my mind, I promise that you will be the first to know.’
No response met her attempt at comforting him. Calm reigned as he stood petrified against the wall with flaring nostrils as his chest heaved with laboured breaths. The dim light caught a damp sheen on his forehead, and though his posture remained unchanged, the storm within him remained too evident. Éorhild lingered, her heart fracturing at his reticence to reply yet holding out hope that her presence would coax him out of this stupor. And she waited.
But the seconds dragged on, and he had not made any effort to speak. Admitting defeat, she exhaled in resignation and curtseyed.
‘I will take my leave, my lord,’ she said in forced reverence. ‘I wish you good night; I shall see you in the morn.’
Thought she turned towards the door, each step she took to leave his side was reluctant. Some part of her still hoped that he would call her back. She had not even confessed her feelings in return; perhaps that was just as well.
When her toes grazed the floor at the foot of the steps, she halted. Tears prickled her eyes, and she bit her lower lip, wondering whether to induce further conversation. Deciding in favour of it, she spun to face him again.
‘You know, I would not have been happy in that vision of us you evoked.’
Éomer’s gaze flickered to hers.
‘Is that so?’ he enquired in bewildered confusion, his curiosity undeniably piqued. ‘Then, my perception of our relationship must have been terribly misconstrued.’
Éorhild clasped her hands together to eclipse their trembling.
‘It was an appealing fantasy, without a doubt,’ she continued. ‘But I believe that you have misinterpreted what would constitute a fulfilling life from my point of view. How could I have found bliss if my husband spent his time roaming Middle-earth in search of superficial ways to please me? How could I have been satisfied with constant loneliness in a house where all has been shaped to my taste, without bearing traces of you?’
His chest tightened as he pondered what he had neglected to consider. She was right. He had been distracting by the promise of what he could offer her if they could love freely — riches, comfort, beauty — that he had omitted the one element that was truly worth offering: himself.
‘You thought of all the things I might want,’ she choked up, ‘but you never once realised that all I wanted was you. Not just your love, but your presence. Your time, your hands, your heart. In poverty or in abundance, all I would have wanted was to be with you.’
‘I do not seek a life without labour, but one in which we would both contribute to establish a home to thrive in. One that needs not correspond to outside standards, but one that is imperfect in all the ways that matter most. We would have built these walls together, without caring whether they are too slanted — we would laugh it off and make it work. But at the end of the day, my only home would have been you.’
She retraced her steps and came to stand before him, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from his skin.
A life forged with their bare hands, steered by decisions they would have negotiated and agreed upon… It sounded like the sweetest melody to his ears. The thought of a hypothetical shared future filled him with a sense of peace. He had spent so many years under pressure of external forces and standards — Gondor’s, Rohan’s, his uncle’s, his own. There was a shift inside him. In this moment, the dark clouds had parted and a sun in the shape of Éorhild illuminated his world.
To hell with the crown.
To build this life together, without pretence or outward approval, seemed the only objective worth pursuing. Her vision, so simple yet fruitful, surpassed anything he had ever dared to dream for himself. Genuine companionship, shared labour and tender displays — nothing expected of a king.
Just as he was on the verge of sharing his newfound clarity, a series of soft sobs halted him. She was weeping once more, and the sight tore at his soul.
‘I would have gladly chosen a life in which I would be your bride,’ she hiccupped. ‘In time, when we would have been ready, I would have borne you children. Even though I doubt that I would ever be a good mother.’
‘What in the world makes you question it?’
‘Selfishly enough, I would have struggled with the idea of sharing you. Having desired you for so long and finally earned the privilege to be yours, I could not bear it.’
Muttering an apology, she began to turn — but before she could make another escape, his hand lightly grazed her wrist, breaking her impetus. His fingertips caressed the palm of her hand, and his eyes bore into hers, incredulous yet hopeful.
‘Do you feel the same as I do, then?’ his voice quivered, caught between excitement and dread. ‘Or am I once again misreading your desires?’
She let out a scoff, her tears mingling with a bitter laugh as she returned his stare.
‘Of course I do, Éomer. It is you. It has always been you.’
She swallowed the lump in her throat, summoning every fragile ounce of courage the speak the truth she had silenced for far too long. These three words had longed to flow off her lips and waft through to him. It was the confession she should have offered him earlier that day, when the moment was still opportune. Perhaps then, she would have woven poetry into her proclamation, crafting it with the same methods as the many bards that had enlivened Meduseld throughout the years with tales of passion and longing. Her voice would have risen, ever so sweet to his ear, capturing the fullness of her steadfastness in verses worthy of him.
But her life was not one of great halls and song. Thus, she settled for a simple but sincere declaration.
‘And I love you.’
Uncontainable joy invaded his roaring heart. Thousands of jubilant exclamations clamoured within his mind, each vying for release. Emotion surged through him, constricting his throat and misting his eyes, leaving him on the brink of tears that would attest of his relief and elation.
Sensing that she would not be trespassing any boundary, Éorhild pressed herself against his chest and her arms found their way around his neck, drawing him into an embrace that they had both itched to indulge themselves to.
‘Ig léofie ðe,’ she repeated in their native tongue.
Éomer’s palms cradled her jaw and his thumb traced her rosy lower lip.
‘Ond ðe ealswan léofie ig,’ he cried, ‘o Éorhild, seo dyreste ond seo sweteste in blæd min.’
Weaving through his untamed mane, her fingers and drew his head closer with utmost tenderness as her eyelids fluttered shut. With a desperate fervour, he clung to her, encircling her waist with one arm, afraid that she might vanish once more. His lips captured hers in a kiss that alleviated the burden of long-suppressed yearning, poignant yet firm. It was the melding of two spirits who had been circling one another, incomplete and hollow, until this very moment.
Her mouth was supple beneath his, their heat igniting a bonfire within his chest whose flames licking the inside of his veins, chasing away all shadows of doubts and remorse. Time came to a standstill, the world beyond them melted away as he deepened the kiss. It was an unspoken promise of unwavering devotion and a future that would be theirs to hold. Each brush of their tongues spoke of the battles they had fought alone in the dark, and the unyielding faith that they would face the rest together.
Love had finally found its voice, and it was the prince and his maid who heard it sing.
Two nights prior, under the canopy of stars on the windswept hillside, they had resigned to the bittersweet comfort of a single night for them to etch in their memory — a fleeting hour to hold onto into the solitude that would follow. Yet here they stood, hearts that had once braced for parting now trembling with the yearning for another.
Their lips separated, the faintest whisper of warmth lingering upon them, and their foreheads rested together. The lovers shared tender smiles, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. Fingers found their way to each other’s faces, brushing against familiar contours in adoration. A featherlight touch, yet charged with powerful emotion, as though they sought to memorise each wrinkle and curve. Shimmering more brightly than ever, their eyes locked in an unbroken gaze, devouring one another with a hunger that words could never aspire to satisfy.
In the silence, their smiles curled, testifying of the elation that enfolded them both beneath its celestial cloak. Its pull proved irresistible, and they kissed once more. Deeper, slower, imbued with sweet indulgence, as though compensating for all the hours wasted from forbidding themselves to love. This intimacy was their sanctuary, where they needed not conceal their affection.
Heat blazed between the pair, each caress fanning their craving into a wildfire that reddened their cheeks. Their kiss grew careless and urgent, their ragged breaths grazing their prickling skins. Éorhild trailed along the curves of Éomer’s shoulders, her fingertips tangling in his unbound hair. His hands roamed her back, halting every so often to pinch her waist or cup the back of her skull.
Soft, breathy moans escaped them like sweet nothings whispered in the night. Éorhild’s belly coiled with molten flames far more potent than the ones that had overtaken her that morning by the bathtub and left her clutching the wall. This was no fleeting spark but a raging conflagration induced by the unrestrained connection they were sharing.
Both knew that this night — their night — was no longer one fated to be a mere pleasant memory but one they were bound to weave. One that was about to change them indefinitely.
Sensing the unravelling of her moderation as her torso shoved Éomer against the wooden panel, Éorhild emitted a sharp gasp that cut through the haze of their fiery endearment. Realisation struck her like a bolt of lightning, and her eyes, widened in terror, mirrored the chaos within. Staggering backwards, she tore herself away from him, the intensity with which she had touched him leaving her ruffled.
Her back collided with the opposite wall, the cold surface grounding her even as her chest heaved with panicked breaths. She raised a trembling hand to her lips, as though to keep the phantom of their kiss onto them. Across the distance that now separated them, Éomer’s stare burnt with surprise and yearning, but he made no move to close the gap. Instead, he simply watched, clasping his knees together and breathing in tandem with her, as though tethered to her every gasp.
‘D-Did I aggrieve you, beloved?’ he stuttered, flattening his hands against the wall as if it was the only way to keep them to himself.
‘N-No, I…’
She twisted a strand of her hair and averted her gaze. Hues adorning her delicate features oscillated between warm and cold tones, attesting of the dilemma that was tearing her apart. Lord Guthláf’s words crept into her mind again.
No amount of earthly pleasure shared with the prince is worth your death.
‘How… are you feeling?’
Contorting his traits into a wince, Éomer’s attention flitted between his thighs, her figure, and the despair in her eyes. A sneer of embarrassment fleeted from his throat.
‘Flustered, I will not lie,’ he laughed, the sound warm but laden with tension and self-consciousness. ‘I thought I had mastered myself, but I find that I am not as composed as I had hoped.’
Though self-deprecating, the smile he bestowed upon her was genuine. Leaning further against the wall, his head tapped against the wood in a soft thud, while his hand burrowed into one of his pockets, an unconscious attempt at distracting himself from the disrespectful thoughts invading his mind.
‘But I do not forget the danger that acting upon my impulses would entail, Éorhild. Rest assured.’
‘Tell me what you are thinking about.’
‘You would not want to hear any of it,’ he responded, his voice quavering as her questions only served to aggravate his state.
‘But what if I do?’
Bashful but bold, her challenge caught him off guard. There she stood, her fists clenched against her thighs in a posture both defensive and daring, urging him to speak the words he withheld from her. In that instant, she transcended her image of a meek and obedient servant. She was a woman asserting her desires, laying her heart bare, releasing hundreds of questions to know whether the man she cherished felt the same yearning deep within him.
‘You would think me depraved,’ he insisted, reluctant to answer her plea.
‘Éomer, please.’
His nostrils flared and, in a wary abdication, he caved in. Despite his acquiescence, a subtle defensiveness crept into his voice, betraying the inner battle he was fighting and failed to spare her from.
‘You truly want to know what I am thinking?’ he hissed. ‘I long to disrobe you and lay you down on my bed. I wish to explore every part of you, to trace your skin by candlelight, hearing your sighs with every kiss I give you like they are prayers lost in the night. All I want is to make you feel revered, though I may not know the way.’
A deep inhale filled his lungs upon the realisation that he had uttered his most intimate desires in a single breath. He shielded his mouth with a shivering hand, ashamed of the impropriety he had displayed in her presence. But she wanted to know, and he had delivered. Now, all he anticipated was her flight — his revelations had this tendency of drive her away. Would she return, this time?
Éorhild straightened her posture, lifting her chin with determination, and spoke.
‘Give me the order.’
Slackening his jaw, Éomer stared at her in stunned silence, his brain hassling to process the gravity of her demand. He tilted his head, attempting to clarify whether he had heard her properly or whether his discomposure had warped her meaning. But when she refused to stand down, it was clear as day — she wanted him to dictate her.
‘Éorhild, you cannot be serious,’ he said, repulsed by the prospect. ‘You are no hound to obey my bidding. You are a woman — strong, precious, radiant, and astoundingly intelligent — and I love you, beyond reason or restraint. Do not ask this of me; I could never forgive myself if I did it.’
The distance separating them dwindled to nothing as she approached to rest a hand on his forearm, demanding his patient attention. There was no surrender to be found in her eyes — no trace of sorrow, nor hesitation. Without the shadow of a doubt, she empathised with his torment as she observed it tearing through him as he grappled still with her request.
Éomer had always held her in the highest regard, admittedly more than she thought she deserved, valued her autonomy and integrity as if they were sacred and as he had so vehemently asserted earlier. That he would deny her, was no surprise. It was as much a testament to his respect for her as it was to the principles he upheld.
And yet, this situation demanded more.
Her expression softened into a compassionate display.
‘This is not about undermining what you hold dear or asking you to betray yourself,’ she explained with such calmness that it unsettled him. ‘It is about what lies between us, what we both feel and cannot deny. I am not demanding you to abandon your conscience for my sake, but to consider that this — us — requires us to make a choice together, no matter how unconventional it may seem.’
Her hand trailed upward, gliding over the sinew of his arm and the breadth of his shoulder, finding its path along the ridge of his clavicle. It lingered there for a few seconds, savouring the warmth beneath the unfastened collar of his garment, before it continued its ascent. At last, it ended its course against his cheek and the pad of her thumb gave a stroke over the plane of his face, light as a feather.
It cupped him there, steadying him even as he faltered under the weight of his concern. She swept away the faint sheen of perspiration that clung to his skin. To him, her gesture held more meaning than words ever could. It was a delicate blend of reassurance and intimacy, one that their laws prohibited — it was already a risk she took for him. In the quiet of that moment, her touch spoke what her lips needed not say — I am here. I am yours. It is us against all odds.
His broad palm rose to meet hers, enveloping it with an affection that belied its strength. He held it there, grateful for her existence.
‘Far be with from me to compel you to act against your will, but I must speak plainly. We have little choice but to navigate this treacherous power play if we wish to remain together — even in secrecy — and to consummate our bond.’
‘I despise this eventuality,’ he sighed.
‘Consider what lies before us. If you command me, it grants us a measure of protection, a shield should our union ever come to light. It would ensure my survival and safeguard your crown, however dreadful you may find the prospect of becoming king. If you refuse…’
She hesitated for a breath, her voice softening yet losing none of its courage.
‘If you refuse, we face a bitter fork in our road: either we surrender to our impulses and I forfeit my life, or we deny ourselves entirely until the day you take Lothíriel for a wife and share with her the night we meant for ourselves.’
‘You do not understand, sunnan scima min. I cannot bring myself to strip you of your agency by uttering such crude words. To command you, especially in this matter, would be to forsake all that I admire in you.’
Éomer placed a kiss upon her brow.
‘Never will I wield my rank as a leash upon you,’ he declared. ‘No one deserves such a fate — least of all you.’
‘Oh, love of mine, you would not do such a thing,’ she responded, peppering kisses along his jawline, causing him to blush. ‘It would be a mere façade, our armour against scrutiny. We would not need to craft falsehoods should the nature of our bond be called into question. Besides, did you not once tell me not to give words more weight than they deserved?’
He exhaled in amusement and disbelief, his eyes rolling in feigned exasperation while his arms encircled her waist.
‘I cannot believe you are using my words against me,’ he jested, delighted by her audacity.
Melodious and gracious, her laughter brushed over him like a comforting breeze on a suffocating summer’s day, disarming the tension that gripped him. Before he could phrase another pleasantry, she burrowed against his chest, and he could do nothing but wind his arms around her. Her fingers threaded through his hair, grazing his scalp in gentle motions, as she rocked him in a slow, rhythmic slay.
‘I want you to give me that order,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘For this and what would follow, you have my full and educated consent.’
Éomer measured the solemnity of her statement for a moment more, his brow furrowing in contemplation. Then, with a heavy sigh, he extricated himself from her embrace. He looked into her eyes, searching for a hint of apprehension, some inkling of qualm, but he found none. He perceived nothing but the depth of her desire for his whole person, and he would have been lying if he had said that it did not stir him.
‘Are you absolutely certain?’
‘I am.’
‘Then, at least, allow me to make things proper,’ he pleaded, the words almost reverent, as though their sole purpose was to right a hypothetical wrong, to give their union the form it had always lacked.
With an expression both earnest and vulnerable, and as the moonlight caressed the side of his face, he lowered himself to one knee in near veneration. Her breath caught in her throat as he picked up her hand and pressed it to his lips. There was a shift in the air, unexpected yet delightful, that emulated the eternal fealty they bore to each other. Uncertainty swirled inside her soul as she tried to decipher his intentions, speculating about the ceremony fastened to his gesture.
‘Éorhild, words fail me to demonstrate how absolute my infatuation is. There is no day worth rising for without you by my side. You have transformed me in greater ways than one, and thus I shall forever lament the time I lost before I saw you, before I truly learnt what it was to be treasured. You are, without question, the most wondrous being to have come into existence and graced this wretched world.’
‘Is such a formality necessary?’ she giggled behind her hand. ‘This hardly warrants a proposal.’
‘Let me finish,’ he insisted, a radiant smile tugging at his lips. ‘And so, at this late hour, I kneel before you not as a prince, but as a man whose every thought you occupy. Since our laws forbid me from presenting you with a ring or seeing you in a wedding gown, I wish to offer you my spirit and my heart through the gift of my flesh, and it is yours to use as you see fit. For when at last you enjoy me, the shape of your hands will forever be carved into my skin, so even when the time comes for me to marry, I will always carry you with me. So, Éorhild, I beg — no, I bid you — to bed me.’
She nodded with trepidation, and they fell into each other’s arms, their lips meeting into a fervent kiss. It struck her then, with startling clarity, how meticulous his phrasing had been — a crafted formulation to bestow her with the illusion of dominion, when reality lay far from it. And she loved him even more in that instant, with the ardour of the lords in the ballads of minstrels who worship the ladies they covet.
No sooner had she perceived the faint taste of wine upon his tongue than Éomer swept her off her feet. However much effort he had granted this motion, his lips remained sealed to hers, as though the very act of breathing without her might undo him. With a knightly grace, he carried her over to the rumpled bed, as though partaking in a solemn rite to translate relics to a sacred altar. Lowering her with tender care onto the bed, he held his breath when her golden hair, tousled and waved, fanned out across the pillow like a celestial crown, its lustre shining brighter even than the surviving candle’s flame.
Inclining over her, he found himself spellbound by her features. He traced the curve of her face, committing every detail to memory. He carved the crescent moon shape of her jaw into his consciousness, dotted each of the small moles he numbered eight onto the canvas, sculpted the aquiline curvature of her nose into marble, blended pigments to achieve the amber reflection in her irises and the fair hue of her skin, so accommodated to indoors settings.
At her waist, he found the belt that cinched her gown, the haphazard bow undoing with the gentle pull of his fingers and stirring the garment underneath. The rustle of the fabric unfastening reached his ears, as intimate as a shared breath. The loosened folds revealed her chemise, like a cloak of modesty, with its unadorned and humble weave coarse under his hand. He hesitated, his gaze searching hers for permission, and she granted it wholeheartedly, guiding him by the wrist to her frame. By parting the hems of her robe in a bolder brush against her collarbones, he was unveiling a treasure he deemed himself unworthy to behold.
Reaching her out to him, she drew him to her heart, forcing him to kneel on the mattress, and her mouth greeted his in a grand welcome. His lips withdrew to wander along her jawline, peppering pecks against her tingling skin, descending upon her exposed throat. Air flowed and ebbed from Éorhild’s lungs in succinct expirations, evoking to him the waves washing upon the lofty cliffs of Dol Amroth, which he had admired for hours during his diplomatic visit there, finding solace in the unfamiliarity of the landscape and isolation from Imrahil’s court.
Beneath him, Éorhild was overcome with conflicting sensations. The kisses laid upon her neck stirred a shiver that coursed down her sides, spreading like a cold tide meeting the warmth of the shore and crackling away across her chest like seafoam chasing the sand. Each instance triggered cool thrills, yet she felt as though she was melting — an ice sculpture surrendering to the embrace of the sun, fading drop by drop into its irresistible grip.
In return, she wove a hand through his tresses. As his chaste, titillating strokes deepened into firm, open-mouthed kisses, each stoking the embers of her desire and amplifying her sensitivity, she gave a careful tug at their root, muffling a whimper in the crook of his shoulder.
Without thinking, her fingers found his shirt and bunched the fabric between them, yanking it upward and over his head. He complied without protest, assisting her in shedding the constricting garment. Straightening, he balled the shirt in his grasp and hurled it over his shoulder. It fended the air with considerable force and sailed dangerously close to the open flame of the candle, the anticipation of a catastrophe hitching their breaths. A faint metallic thud echoed as the shirt landed and sprawled atop his helm upon the dresser, and they laughed, relieved to have avoided a mishap.
Sparks illuminated her eyes at the sight of his bare torso, as numerous as the celestial bodies he had seen immortalised in Lady Galadriel’s irises. Yet, in the eyes of his beloved, even the legendary splendour of the Trees of Valinor paled before the radiance she brought to his world.
When her fresh palms lay upon the burning expanse of his chest, he yielded to gravity and passion, collapsing onto her with an urgency that bordered on obsession. His head nestled beneath her chin and questing flickers of his tongue chasing the ridge of her clavicle. The gasps he had drawn from her before magnified into strangled moans, ever so rewarding.
‘I want to devour you,’ he groaned against her dampened skin. ‘All of you.’
‘Do proceed, min heortan frean…’
Éomer cradled her chin in his hand, his thumb caressing the groove between her lower lip and her chin. His smile, candid and unguarded, spoke volumes — a quiet declaration of love that required no utterance.
‘May I disrobe you, leofre healsmægeth?’
‘I feared I might never hear you request it.’
She slipped from beneath him with an unhurried grace and rose. Standing before him, she was a vision caught between shadow and light, her form etched in soft luminescence dancing upon her shift. Her wrists moved with purpose, finding the ribbon at her collar, and with a deft motion, she loosened the tie. The neckline dipped to reveal the robust slope of her shoulders. A mere flick made her garment abandon her frame, cascading along the curves of her body before pooling into a heap at her ankles.
To him, she was a masterpiece, sculpted by the hands of the Valar themselves, and Éomer was undone. As he admired her, he forgot to draw breath, and his eyes widened as if the shores of Aman laid bare before him while the songs of the Eldar arose around him. Éorhild was the divine made flesh — there was nothing he could imagine would equal or surpass the vision of her figure in the moonlight, unclad specifically for his enjoyment.
He was unworthy of it all. He was but a flawed mortal, graced by the presence of this entity that, he felt, required of him to kneel. And he would have gladly obeyed, if not for his compulsion to explore her further.
He joined her side, caressing the defined muscles of her arms, chiselled by years of incessant scrubbing, carrying, lifting, swinging and rattling. With her eyes following his every movement, she seemed achingly vulnerable, and her lack of elocution led him to believe that she awaited some sort of approval from him — any sign that proved that her offering of her body had been seen, accepted, and valued.
As though words would have cheapened the reverence he experienced, he stared in sheer awe. But when she averted her eyes, as if doubt was corrupting her confidence, he tilted her chin towards him with a curled finger.
‘You are more exquisite than every treasure ever unearthed, more radiant than the stars that adorn our skies. Béma be damned, you steal the very air from my lungs,’ he murmured. ‘And now, more than ever, I desire you, in a way beyond all reason.’
‘May I undress you?’ she enquired, fragile with longing.
‘You may do as you wish with me. But this — this I long to give you.’
Swelling his chest with determination, Éomer unlaced the ties of his trousers. They slid from his legs, bunching at his ankles until he lifted his feet to ease the fabric off. He discarded it onto the floor and undid his braies with measured gestures, watching for any shift in her expression. When he finally stood before her, exposed in spirit and body, there was no sign of discomfort on her traits — only a flustered blush.
‘Are you still willing?’ he whispered, daring not to even hold her hand.
‘I am. Are you?’
‘What a question.’
Amidst a torrent of kisses, their naked bodies clasped together and came to rest upon the sheets once more. Torrid streaks formed sigils imprinted on their skin, igniting a hunger neither could quench. Exhalations mingled, swirled around their flushed face as their murmured voices, hoarse and tremulous, rose in a hymn to lust that only they could understand and sing.
Éorhild shivered under his hands, two tepid ripples amidst her body now subjected to the crisp wintry air. His mouth journeyed across the contours of her form, mapping every rise and hollow in almost piety. Meanwhile, his fingers traced the gentle curve of her breast, their path inflaming a crescendo of pleasure that unfurled within her core, lifting the banners ever higher upon her hills.
Breaching through the last vestiges of their sheepishness, Éomer descended, nestling his face into the sanctuary between her silken thighs. His nose grazed the curls crowning her mound, and with a devotion deeper than prayers could ever convey, he venerated her in the hushed language of sensuality. At first, in spite of his fervent desire to please, his tongue shifted with tentative hesitance, somewhat inept at procuring her what he believed she deserved. Her gaze drifted to the timbered ceiling above, as though seeking answers among the beams and shadows, striving to decipher the dim sensations prickling her.
‘Guide me, beloved,’ he pleaded, his breath hot against her exposed flesh. ‘Show me how to ravish you.’
‘I know not how,’ she admitted, her tone laced with the unfortunate tint of shame. ‘I have never sought such things before.’
He lifted his head in surprise, while his feet found purchase against the footboard of his bed behind him.
‘Not even behind closed doors?’
‘Éomer,’ she laughed, ‘I have lived nearly my whole life sharing a room with other girls, and even my bath was never a time for solitude. Besides, my days often exhausted me too much to allow such matters to cross my mind.’
‘Then, I suppose we should figure out a way — together,’ he teased with a proud grin before dipping his head back onto her.
He ventured onward in his exploration, each motion of his lips a studious reimagining of his previous attempts, drawing a map of her most receptive areas. The warmth of his breath swept over her, and he noted with great satisfaction how it ignited her pleasure anew. Finding a resting place upon her soft stomach, his hand unwittingly tugged at her skin. Her body responded instinctively — an abrupt jolt, accompanied by a sharp squeal that expressed her surprise and delight.
‘There!’ she gasped. ‘Right… there! Just… gentle…’
There it was indeed — his new treasure.
Her sighed pleas and muttered instructions guided him through the unknown, and in them he found his purpose; in her ecstasy, he found his incentive. Relentless yet mellow, he pursued her rising fervour, his focus unbroken as he listened to her cries of mounting elation. White-knuckled, her fingers gripped the sheets, her back arching into a bow of exquisite tension. Her free hand found the crown of his hair and grabbed a fistful, which she released when she realised the abruptness of her gesture. But he maintained it there, discovering an unsuspected taste for this rough display. At once, her world dissolved as a frigid wave crashed over her senses, dragging her into a rapture that evoked the sensations of simultaneous soaring and drowning.
Her knees enclosed his head in an instinctive embrace, a cry tearing from the very depths of her being. Slowly, the storm subsided, and with a long, deflating sigh, her body sank back onto the mattress. All else faded but the racing cadence of her heart, drumming a rhythm into her ears.
Éomer placed a tender kiss on her golden curls and crawled back to meet her, admiring her undone state. In his eyes, she had never looked more sumptuous —her damp, parted lips, her crimson face, and the wild tangles in her hair formed a vision of beauty that left him breathless.
Éorhild’s eyes fluttered open, drawn to his presence hovering above her. A playful smile dug dimples into her cheeks as she reached up to brush her thumbs against his beard to dry it, while a light laugh rose in her throat.
‘You look ridiculous.’
‘I do not mind it one bit,’ he chuckled in response, his eyes softening at her sight.
Oh, how he loved her.
‘What prompted you to do such a thing?’
‘Tavern songs,’ he recounted with a shrug. ‘Soldiers exchanging bawdy tales while setting up camp. You should remember to thank them for their service when you encounter them next.’
They erupted in laughter, and he sought refuge in the curve of her shoulder as he breathed in her natural fragrance that clung to her skin. She encircled him with her arms around him and pressed her lips to his temple.
‘I do not know what to do to delight you in return.’
‘Do not trouble yourself over it, my love,’ he intoned, combing a loose strand of her hair away from her forehead. ‘There will be nigh on countless nights for us to uncover such wonders together. For now, I wish to… I wish to give myself to you. If you are still willing, that is.’
She stayed quiet, her stare fixed on some distant point ahead. This was the moment that her body had implored — yet now the leap seemed impossibly high, the weight of it all pressing down on her chest. A storm of doubts and fears whirled with fierce violence, threatening to pull her away from the present.
But before the tempest could carry her away, the caress of his palm against her jaw grounded her. His hazel eyes, beacons in the blur, silenced the chaos.
‘Are you afraid?’
‘Never have I lain with a man,’ she confessed, though she knew the admission was nothing new to him. Her voice remained steady, but there was palpable vulnerability in it. ‘I know not what to do.’
‘I have lain with no man or woman. I have kissed other ladies, I will admit, but it has never gone this far. I know not if it eases your mind, but I, too, am untried. What I do know is to be gentle, and that is all I shall be. I promise you. And should you wish to stop, say the word, my sweet, and I will pull away without question or disappointment.’
‘Will you not consider this opportunity wasted on me?’
Éomer cradled her face between his palms, brushing his lips across it, until his gentle exploration came to rest at the tip of her nose.
‘There could be no more meaningful opportunity than this, lufestran. None more loving,’ he said, leaning his forehead against hers. ‘Tales of old tell of first unions as a moment when a piece of the lover’s soul is captured, a gift to carry for a lifetime. Now, I may not be a poet, nor one for grand gestures, but my mother filled my bairnhood with enough ballads to make me believe in such things. And truth be told, I would be beyond honoured to carry a piece of you with me, onto the throne and unto my grave, and for you to hold my heart in return.’
Éorhild’s thoughts turned to the future, to the inevitable day when they would part, and the prospect tightened around her heart like a vice. As she beheld him in enamoured contemplation, a smile broke through, warm and steady.
‘Then claim it.’
If the old stories held any truth, then the only one to hold a fragment of her essence would be Éomer. There was no question. She knew it, and deep inside her bones, she had known it for a long time.
If you wish to be tagged (or no longer tagged), don't hesitate to let me know!
Tag list: @emmanuellececchi @konartiste @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras
Today's fic for the Writer’s Month 2021 challenge (see @writersmonth for more info) is my way of saying "I'm sorry" for yesterday's fic. Hope you can forgive me a little bit ;) And if not, well, come back tomorrow and on Wednesday. I promise to behave!
Éomer Éadig is one of my favourite characters in LOTR, so I simply had to write this piece. I'm a bit nervous, because I've never written an Éomer fic before. Let me know what you think - can't wait to read your comments!
Today's prompt: word: truth | setting: arranged marriage
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings
Relationships: Éomer x Lothíriel
Rating: G
Warnings: fluff, excessive pining
You can read this fic here and on AO3.
* * *
The Princess of Dol Amroth
Love snuck into Éomer’s heart unannounced: he always imagined that the world would explode in a blaze of colours, and that there would be music - trumpets, cymbals, lyres and drums, and the smell of roses would fill the air. Instead, a new sensation settled in his chest, an ache, lingering and sweet, a yearning stronger than the light of a thousand stars, a dulcet song that rang in his ears day and night. Lothíriel.
She was the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth, the most beautiful woman Éomer had ever seen, the lady he was about to marry to honor the alliance between their two realms, but her heart belonged to another.
“My heart is taken,” he once heard her say to a young noble she was dancing with. It happened at one of the feasts during one of Éomer’s many visits to Dol Amroth before the war, and since then his heart began to sink deeper and deeper in the bottomless pit of desolation.
Those four words would haunt him day and night, tormenting him mercilessly until the day of his wedding. It had to be true, for Lothíriel would never exchange a glance with him, always quickly averting her gaze. She would never laugh with him, only gracing him with a faint smile. She would never start a conversation with him, rewarding him with a few sparse words at best. Nevertheless, he cherished those rare smiles and words, so few of them, as if they were his greatest treasures.
He would have gladly freed her of her obligations so that she could wed the man she loved, but there was no escape neither for her nor for him. The alliance of their realms depended on the joining of their houses.
The day of the wedding came, and Lothíriel’s beauty made him almost forget his despair. And yet, when she spoke her wedding vows in a trembling whisper, her face pale as a sheet, his heart crumbled.
When the wedding night came, he took her shapely hand into his and said, “You should know that I have only you in my heart, fair Lothíriel, my Queen. But worry not, I will not force myself upon you, neither tonight, nor any other night. I know you have feelings for another.”
This is when Lothíriel’s eyes, blue as the waters of the Bay of Belfalas, met his for the first time.
“You speak the truth, King Éomer. It is true that I have feelings for a man. But this man is my newlywed husband and I have loved him in secret since I laid my eyes upon him for the first time. Until today, I believed my feelings were unrequited.”
No words could describe the sudden joy that washed over Éomer as a wide smile brightened his bride’s face. She loved him, and that was the only thing that mattered to him. And so he took her in his arms and never let go, until the end of their days.
* * *
Read it? Like it? Spread the love and reblog it!
Fell like reading more?
Here is my masterlist for the Writer's Month 2021 event.
Summary: During the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, some enemies made Éomer vanishes into the void of his own mind.
Word Count: 2,876
TW: light description of dead bodies and blood, angst
AN: I wrote this in the beggining of May, when the ending of WW2 is celebrating. On the wave of tonns of russian war movies I ended up writing this...
The war had brought its worst. Elves and men, young and old - the bodies were lying everywhere, as far as you could see, from the high walls of Minas-Thirit to the Anduin. They all fell, like puppets whose strings were cut off. Horses were running in chaos, frightened, in search for their masters to soothe them.
Those who fell had been brought to the lazaret, bodies drained in blood were flying in front of your eyes without ceasing, so you couldn’t keep up with the number of patients who you would be carrying for. You were there for extra help, as were all your friends. All healers were gathered from all around the Gondor and Rohan to service in this war, and you kept your mask of hopefulness and courage to the very end of your shift (though there wasn’t a thing like shift that night, other healers were send you off to get some rest, since you were on your feet since morning).
You were puffing when you finally made your way to the doorway, squeezing through the wounded soldiers on your way, that only had increased in number by the time you took a step out of the building that was holded as a lazaret. The night breeze felt like a well deserved reward for your labour in the room with lack of air, where the whole being smelled like warm blood and broken bones. Your eyelids were so heavy, you took an effort to keep them open and overlook the scale of that disaster.
“So many lives are wasted…” You exhaled bleakly, shaking your head in disbelief.
You were bouncing on your weakened legs, trotting down the leader, when you felt a strong grip on your shoulder.
“You’ve done great today, Y/n, thank you.” The soft, admiring voice fell off the future King’s lips, but all the way his words sounded muffled.
You slightly turn your head to be able to hook his being with your eyes, giving him a weak, exhausted smile. “Where are the others?” You sounded concerned, it was rare, if at all, when Aragorn was apart from his friends, and you wouldn’t be giving too much attention to it in different circumstances, but now every uncommon thing was encouraging the pernicious feeling of desperation. “Are they fine, do they need my attention?”
Aragorn soothed you, lowering his voice. “They are all fine, Legolas and Gimli are deep in the city now with Gandalf, Merry and Pippin are--”
“I saw Merry, he got wounded.” You cut him off, without meaning to be arrogant, you just were at your highest state of tiredness and weren't able to control yourself. “It was bad, but he will soon be fine.” You hadn’t known hobbits for that long as Aragorn, though your heart hadn’t needed much time to form an attachment to these two naughty boys. You caught your breath and murmured in question. “What of others?”
Aragorn went blurred for a minute, trying to get together his thoughts and memories, he signed. “I haven’t seen Éomer since he found Éowyn on the battlefield, but Éowyn is in the main House of Healing.” In a matter of seconds your face became covered in shadow and confusion. Your breathy voice cracked into whine, and your body required a stable hand to grip on. “No, Y/n, I believe Éomer is alright, he’s probably somewhere with his men, cheering them up.” Aragorn tried to sound easy and reverent, knowing that your body wouldn’t make it through another stressful night.
“I need to find him,” your gaze was terror-striken and the grip on Aragorn’s hand only tightened, giving Strider’s wrist a numb feeling. “Where are they resting?”
Aragorn overlooked the field, placing his hand over his eyes to save them from the moonlight. “There, but be careful, you are too tired to walk now.” He pointed at the little firelight not far away from the city wall.
You’d gathered all the remaining strength and headed up to the little camp. You were huffing under the weight of the working days, and your eyes already were half-covered, when you stumbled across the rohirrim’s conversation.The bunch of voices you heard: familiar and unfamiliar - but not the one you were searching for. Your heart dropped to your toes and you almost fell, catching yourself before you smashed the ground.
“Guys!” You approached the camp and greeted them, some of them didn’t even lift their eyes on you, pretending you weren't there, but some stood up, or, at least, tried to. “Where is Éomer, is he with you?” None of them said anything, shaking their heads and signing.
“Nay, we hadn’t seen ‘im yet, but Firefoot is here.” One of them whistled and then ran the huge horse and neighed, seeing a familiar face. “Poor lad, he got some wounds himself, but not too harsh.” So what of Éomer then? Is he still behind, in the field and without a horse? What if he is wounded? He wouldn’t make it to the city without a horse if he’s wounded
The thought in your head gave you no rest. You approached Firefoot rapidly, took his reins in your hands and jumped on him. “Please, love, we need to find Éomer. Off you go, as fast as you can!”
And you vanished into the darkness of the field.
Riding for not less than an hour, your legs started to betray you, leesing they grip around Firefoot's body. You were sliding off the horseback from time to time, managing to hold your seat with a huge effort. But the strength wasn’t there anymore, it almost left you, when Firefoot suddenly stopped moving, stood as he planted roots into the ground, and neighed. You were long gazing into the darkness, even slid off the horse (not gonna lie, you wanted to stretch your legs long ago), took his reins in one hand and made an effort to take some steps forward, but Firefoot was serious in his intention to stay on that spot.
“Cursed head!” You slapped yourself, when you remembered you had a torch and some flint to fire the torch up. “I might use this earlier, Gods help me!” You lit the torch and made a few steps to the side, still too many corpses were laying on the ground. To tell the truth, you immediately lost the desire of having a torch to light your way. In the light of the fire the corrupted faces of orcs and men were frightening, shimmering in red and orange, they lay motionless and stared at you.
The desire to put the fire out vanished as soon as you saw a hunched up figure in front of you. The helmet was off and the sword was laying near the said figure, his breathing was slow but audible and monotonous. You fell on your knees, when you passed him round and saw familiar face. The face, your face, dear face. You weren’t able to control your emotions, so soon enough your face became wet and you cupped Éomer’s face in your hands and kissed him on the lips with the last bit of strength you still had.
But Éomer wasn’t there. He didn’t answer your kiss, didn’t move his head or arms, anything. He was staring into the void, with gloomy, blurred eyes. You toppled over on your back and then crawled to him, placing your palms on his hips. For a second you thought he was dead, pierced by the sword through his back and been left here sitting motionless, waiting for his hour.
“Éomer, please!” You fell on your booty, waving your palm in front of his face to bring his mind back to reality. “Eome-er!” You crawled back a bit to see the full picture, even if the close-up of his face is something you would die to look at for the rest of your life, you needed to see his body. Is he wounded? No. There’re some scratches on his face and wrists, but he’s not wounded. Still, his face is weirdly pale… Why why why??
“Éomer, that’s me, Y/n, please…” You begged his motionless figure to look at you, to say something to you, but all in vain. It seems his heart was still beating but his soul wasn’t there.
By foolishness, or because you were too tired to think about essential things, you left your pouch of medical stuff at lazaret, and were completely sure you would return there later that night. Little you knew how handy it would be here, now, a bit of pipe-weed extract to bring Éomer back to sensation would be precious, but you had none of that.
You fell on your back and tears rolled out of your eyes and down your cheeks, you couldn’t make it stop, you were too scared and confused because of Éomer, and fatigue did not allow you to think about it properly.
You were at the point of no return, when Éomer moaned out a smoky growl. His jaw dropped and he left out an inaudible sigh, moving his lips in an effort to say something to you. Thrilled up by the actual sign of life in him, you, surprisingly even for yourself, jumped on your knees and untangled a flask with elvish water elven healer gave you back at the Helm’s Deep. You watered his lips in it, trying to fill his mouth with the yellow liquid.
Suddenly, Éomer moved his gaze on you, though his eyes were still veiled with smog. You let out a huge breath, mixed with laughter as shaky as your mental health was at that moment.
“You scared me to death!” Your desire of touching him and kissing him was crossed by the awareness of hurting him, so you sat yourself down and waited.
“That- that day…” Shaky, dry words, his voice sounded like a squeak, but you let out an uplifted sigh. “was different,” he lifted up his hands, trembling was sharp and Éomer glued his eyes to it, you saw every muscle of his arms fidgeting. “these men… they almost killed me, they were furious, fierce and wanted me dead,” Éomer swallowed the tears, lifting his eyes back on you, his speech was macabre and distressing. “men…” He repeated grievously.
You didn’t quite follow the train of his thoughts. Also ‘men’? What of them? Éomer, slowly crawling out of the blackout, wrapped his fingers around your chin and turned your head to the side, guessing your confusion.
“Look, Y/n,” he whispered near your ear. “Haradrim.” You turned your face, hiding it behind your hand, though Éomer’s fingers still were keeping you facing the direction in which the dead man lied. “No, look harder,” you couldn’t force yourself to open your eyes. There wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen in lazareth, but you weren't ready for that at that moment. His face was corrupted from pain and anger - the dagger of Éomer was stuck in his throat, so the man gagged on his own blood. You looked at Éomer frightened, still the question remained in your wide open eyes. “They are just like us,” the monotonous voice of his only planted the more fear in you, and, averted the eye from the dead body, you caught yourself studying Éomer’s arms. He was rubbing his right hand, wiping the blood that marked his left palm on the pants. His moves were sharp and anxious, and you completely lost the point of his odd behavior. It was a huge question for you - Éomer is a mighty warrior, what happened on these fields that he lost his confidence? “Now, I’m up to the elbows in human blood.” His lips shaked and rubbing moves became even more psychotic, he scratched himself ‘till the tiny drops of his own blood didn’t appear on the arm.
Looking at him, suddenly something clicked in your mind and everything fell into place. Being a mighty warrior for the last ten years, he saw many deaths, he killed many times, but he never killed another man. That day covered him in the blood of other people, for the first time in his life he felt red thick liquid spill out into his face when he cut his foe’s throat, blood of human, not of an orc or goblin, but of human, of the same flash and the same blood as Éomer himself. Of course he has seen people dying from other human hands whether in a drunk fight or from them being executed, but his hands were clean. Until that day.
You crawled to him, wrapping your fingers around his palm and pulling it away from the hand he still was rubbing the blood off of. “That’s not your fault you had to fight them, my love.” Pulling yourself closer to Éomer, you carefully embraced his torso, watching his reaction. “Don’t blame yourself, you did what you had to. Otherwise they would have you killed.’ You slowly moved to his lap and connected your forehead with his, feeling Éomer’s shaky breath on your face.
“I know we have a rather problematic past, but why now? Shouldn’t we have been fighting together against him, not against each other?” Despite being muffled, the words themself were strong and powerful, and you only tightened the embrace, pressing yourself closer to him.
Keeping holding him in your embrace, you drawling. “They didn't have wise leaders to follow, it wasn’t tough for him to lure them to his side.” Éomer shivered from the warmth you gave him while speaking near his ear, and his hands landed on your back. Grazing Éomer’s cheek with your fingers gently, you lifted his chin up and pressed your lips to his in a timid kiss. “Let’s ride back, you do not need to be here any longer.” Your eyes were shimmering with tears as you watched him rubbing his cheek on your palm.
You stood up, not desiring to tear your palm off Éomer’s face, but the urge to leave this place and save Éomer’s sanity was greater. So you called for Firefoot, and while he was trotting to you, made sure to help Éomer to stand up. He was barely standing on his feet, so you wrapped your arm around his chest, a bit lower the armpits, and steaded him. “Lie down, Fire.” You implored the horse, your back was already bending down from the weight of Éomer in full armor. When Firefoot lay down on his forelegs, you carefully placed Éomer on the saddle and then walked back to grab his helmet and sword.
It was tough to keep Éomer on the horseback, though Firefoot’s walk was smooth and delicate, Éomer didn’t have any energy to press his tights to Firefoot’s body, or to hold tight on his mane. “We are almost there, my love, do you see the lights? The camp of our men is there.” You put your chin on Éomer ’s shoulder and pressed a small kiss on his neck. It seemed to soothe him a bit, and the rest of the way he sat still, resting his back on your chest.
When you were close enough to the camp, you slid off the horse, offering your help to Éomer , but he refused, pulling one of his legs to the side and jumped off Firefoot, almost falling down when his weak-kneesed legs smashed the ground under his weight. He overlooked the camp - the majority of rohirrim was already asleep but those, who were still enjoying the night, stood up and walked to greet their future King. Suddenly, counting second to the moment his men would be standing within arm's reach from him, Éomer took your upper arm and pulled you closer to his anxious self.
“Y/n, please, do not mention what happened there,” Éomer furrowed his brows, muffling. “they do not need to know that their future king has weakened before the face of death.”
The exhale you let out was admiring, though you trotted to hide you both behind Firefoot. Placing the hand that wasn’t in Éomer ’s grip, on his jaw, framing it smoothly, the moumour of yours rolled out off your lips and soothed him. “That doesn’t make you weak, Éomer . Quite opposite. You are going to be the King who cherishes human life, isn’t that beautiful and powerful?” Cupping his cheeks in your hands you tilted his head down. “I am sure with Aragorn you will improve the friendship between your people and Haradrim, and we will never again end up in a terrifying situation like this. All human folks would live merely because of yours and Aragorn’s doing and that I promise.”
You saw him mumbling your name, “Y/n,” Éomer’s lips drew, and he sighed, idolizing you for your words that made his heart slow down its beating and stop criticizing himself for being too sensitive about the whole situation. “I’ve never felt more lucky to have you, than now.” He let you pull his face lower and pressed your lips to his. Éomer lingered on the kiss, tearing his lips off yours only when he heard a couple of rohirrim chattering beside you, mocking you two for such an intimate move.
“So, er, Éomer, where have you been?”
“We thought something bad happened to you…”
Éomer glanced over you, offering you a simple smile of admiring. “Mourning.” He said thoughtfully, cutting his men’s chattering off.
AN: Thank you for taking your time and reading this, I love y'all 💖 If you liked it, that would make my day if you reblog this and let other people see n' read this story 😘
Fic tag: @simbxlmyne @moriamithril @cottage-writings @hadesx97 @emptyspace008 (I also thought you @wishingtobeinadifferentuniverse would be interested in it 👉🏼👈🏼)
Reader is courting Eomer and she rides to war with eonwyn and stays by her side but gets stabbed with a blade (quite deep) so after Eomer runs to eonwyn and she is taken away by Aragorn, one of the riders tell him that reader is mortally wounded and so he rushes to get to her and she’s asleep for a long time and one day she wakes up and there’s fluff and tears and he proposes cause I never wants Reader away from his side!
I kinda changed it a little but overall, it’s still the same, just some minor tweaks. I also included a little bit at the end when you first came to me with a request. Your original request, (’Hullo! Could I get an Eomer x (human) with the morning after the wedding Fluff?’), is kinda at the end of this one.
I hope you like it, especially after I made you wait so long for this, which I feel super sucky about. I’M SO SORRY AHHH.
Warnings: Mentions of violence. Mentions of blood. Mentions of injury/wounds. Mentions of SMUT, (no actual smut). Pretty much it. Plus, fluff.
Words: 1,979
Pairings: Éomer x Reader (x female reader)
(A/N: Is it just me or can anyone else just kinda imagine this dude being like a sweet lil’ virgin and he would 100% save himself for marriage?? Yeah?? No?? Maybe??)
(A/N 2: My doods, why do I suck at thinking of titles lmao)
_______________
“Éomer, please, do be careful.” The slight hint of fear in your tone as you spoke to the man that courts you were audible to him and him alone, as the others surrounding you make a ruckus preparing to ride out and fight.
Éomer deeply breathed out through his nose as he leant down to place his forehead against your own in an affectionate manner. “I cannot promise that I will make it back, my love, but you must know that I will try my hardest to return to you. even if I were to be missing an arm and a leg.”
You close your eyes softly and gently rub your nose against his own, relishing in the moment that may be considered the last you share with the man of Rohan, the man you love.
Voices boom away from you both, calling those to ready to ride out. Reluctantly, Éomer pulls away from your grasp, the heat from your body dissipating almost immediately, making him miss your warmth already.
“I shall see you soon, my love,” he called out, stepping further and further away from you. With one last look of longing, he turned and made haste towards his horse near the front, helping to lead the charge.
You watched his back until it disappeared within the crowd and sighed. You turned your face towards the ground, eyes burning with unshed tears.
But then, a commotion to your left caught your attention. Peering over, you spotted the hobbit they called Pippin clash and lock eyes with a soldier. After witnessing their interaction with your eyes trained solely on the pair, you’re quick to realise that it was no soldier, but, in fact, Éowyn.
You inhale sharply, realising why she wears the armour and why she has tucked away her flowing, blonde hair into the helmet. She was planning on going to war. And that is when a plan of your own formulated in your head.
With that, you were off to set your plan into motion with a final sentence uttered quietly to yourself. “You shall see me sooner than you think, my love.”
_______________
It wasn’t too difficult to find a horse that wasn’t in use surprisingly, even easier to swipe spare armour and a pair of men’s trousers. Your dress was speedily ditched so you could adorn the metallic protective wear and flexible clothing, although, it needed minor alterations to accommodate your figure.
As you follow on horse back with your own sword sheathed at your hip, you make sure to adjust your helmet properly atop your head, ensuring it’s secure and proper fitting.
Yells, no doubt commands, were faintly heard from your position way far into the back of the herd. Your head snapped up at the authoritative voice and that’s when you realised, you’re on the outskirts of the battlefield, your enemy appearing as tiny figures from the opposite side.
You suck in a breath, preparing yourself as you see the first few rows of men ride quickly across the large, open area, seething in anger, battle cries from both armies. The satisfying sound of your sword being pulled from its sheath and the weight of the weapon quickly occupying your strength consumed you and soon enough, your own battle cry was heard as you and your row charged out, joining the fight.
_______________
Your horse was abandoned in the early stages of the fight, quickly being cut down by an enemy. You fought ferociously, swinging your sword left and right, slice through enemies with speed and precision, the blood of your enemy coating not only the blade you wield, but you, yourself.
As you fought to protect yourself and bring down the enemy, a worrying thought stilled lingered in the back off your mind, distracting you plenty. Where is Éomer? You have failed to even catch a glimpse of your beloved, adding a weight to your chest. A painful, heavy weight.
But just as you brought down yet another grotesque orc, your eyes seemingly land on the person you’ve been worried about most. Those dishevelled locks of sunshine swishing animatedly around him, discarded helmet somewhere on the floor, as he swung his own weapon, a faint glistening of sweat coating his forehead.
Upon closer inspection, you note how greatly outnumbered he appears to be. Five enemies closing in on him, forcing him to strike twice as hard and twice as fast as he slowly takes steps back. Concern and an overbearing amount of courage surged through you, seeing the person you love in such danger drove you to run towards the man and his foes, your arms raising your sword high above your head.
The orc brought his sword down, but instead of clashing with Éomer’s, he was surprised to see another blade from a soldier taking the brute force of its swing. You force the orc backwards with a hard shove, it stumbling over its heavily booted feet, before quickly swiping at one of the others that continued to advance.
Éomer was quick to join your side, readying his stance quickly and charging forward with you. Orc after orc you worked together to bring down, soon, a moment presented itself to allow you to finally breath in, albeit shakily.
The both of you were so caught up in that tiny opportunity for a breather that, before you knew it, an orcish blade swung out towards Éomer. Panicked, you jump in front of the man, you sword missing its mark, allowing the offending weapon to impale the right side of your abdomen below your ribs.
A pained scream tore itself from your throat and you began to fall towards the solid ground as Éomer was quick to take down the orc. As your back connected harshly with the ground, your helmet separated from its position on your head, exposing your (H/L), (H/C) hair to all, to Éomer.
Éomer had been so caught up with the battle that he didn’t have the time to observe you properly, not until now, now until the woman who had captured his heart lay on the floor heavily wounded, blood oozing out of their injury, slowly losing consciousness.
He quickly dropped to his knees beside your weakening body and stretched his hand towards you shakily, afraid to touch you in fear of escalating your pain. “Y-Y/N?” You were writhing in pain and he knew that if he didn’t do something fast, whatever that may be, he will lose you.
He quickly but cautiously placed one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, your face already scrunching up at the pain. “I’m sorry, my love.” He lifted you, raising to his feet, all the while a agonising, pain wrenched scream tore itself from your throat. Éomer could feel the tears build up within his eyes but he willed himself not to cry, not yet. There was still chance to save you.
The sounds around you became a distant buzz, you felt numbness mix with your pain. Your eyelids grew heavy and you didn’t know whether you could keep them open for much longer. “Stay with me, stay awake. Don’t close your eyes.”
Éomer’s words of encourage did little to help, although you appreciated them all the same, and you closed your eyes, falling unconscious, the darkness greeting you as the man you loved carried you across the battlefield.
_______________
There was a soft light that you took notice of from behind your closed eyes, waking you up more with each passing second. Your eyelids slowly fluttered open and when light came into contact with your (E/C) orbs, you were quick to squeeze them shut once more, groaning.
“Ah, good, you’re awake,” a soft, feminine voice spoke to the right of you. Still feeling groggy from sleeping for so long, you turned your head towards your right and squinted your eyes, only to see a female healer organising what appeared to be a large bowl of water atop the bedside table. “Please, try refrain from moving, it may agitate your wound further.”
You lightly placed your hand over your abdomen whilst looking down, faintly remembering what had happened out on the battlefield. You opened your mouth to speak but it appears the woman had already known the question that was at the tip of your tongue as she swiftly cut you off.
“Lord Éomer is fine. If I’m correct, he should be waiting outside of the room. He’s been quite persistent to see you,” she softly giggled. “Should I tell him you are awake and want to see him?”
All you could do was nod, slightly dumbfounded by the fast pace of the conversation. She gave a curt bow before making her way around the bed, across the room and out of the door, gently closing it behind her.
Not even a full minute later, the door opened once more to reveal the man you’ve so desperately been wanting to see. Like a crack of a whip, he crossed over to the left side of the bed you lay in and sat on the edge, clasping his larger hands around one of your own.
He brought them up to his lip and placed a timid kiss upon your knuckled. “Never, never do something so reckless like that again. I thought I lost you.” Although it was barely mumbled against your hand, you heard him loud and clear.
A small smile broke across your face as you pulled your hand away from his own, only to reach up and gently cup his cheek, stroking it with a feather light touch. Éomer leaned into it almost as if it were routine, which forced your smile to grow.
“Lets just be thankful that I am alright and that we are here together, yes?”
He chuckled lowly, nodding in agreement before leaning down, being mindful of your wound, and resting his forehead against yours. You both closed your eyes, relishing in the sweet moment between you both.
After minutes of silence, Éomer decided to finally break it. “Marry me.” Your eyes shot open, only to be met with his that were already looking down towards you expectantly, his gaze hopeful.
“Yes.” Your whisper was so quiet, you were afraid he hadn’t heard your answer, but one look at the massive grin that found its way on to his face told you otherwise.
_______________
---ONE MONTH LATER---
Morning light bathed the room in a soft glow, rousing you from your sleep. Your eyes slowly opened to be met with a broad, bare chest and arms comfortably tight around your waist. You smiled, closing your eyes, and burying your face into Éomer’s chest, scooting closer into his warm embrace and inhaling his scent.
Your smile grew as you felt his arms tighten ever so slightly around your waist, a loving kiss placed on your head. “Good morning.” You could almost hear the lazy grin as he spoke with a voice still laced with sleep, an octave or two deeper than usual.
You lifted your head up to look towards your new husband and smiled seeing as he was already looking down at you. “Good morning.”
“How did you sleep, my love?”
“I think you already know that I, in fact, didn’t get much sleep.” The low rumble of a chuckle was a pleasant feeling.
“I must confess, even though it was tiring, I enjoyed consummating our marriage.”
You giddily giggled as your hand lightly traced shaped across his chest. “I do believe that neither one of us need to be anywhere so soon. Maybe we should consummate it once more, just to be sure.”
His relaxed expression turned into a wicked, mischievous grin as he manoeuvred his body to hover over yours, his arms propping his body up, hair falling on either side of his face. “Ah, yes, just to be sure.”
_______________
.
.
.
.
.
Man, I suck at getting stuff out
College had been kicking my ass man lmao
I’m pretty much free though so I’m all good to write again, I guess
Also, this was the last request I received before throwing myself into college work so, yeeee
Anywho, I hope you enjoy
As always, requests and constructive criticism in welcomed and greatly appreciated :D
Middle Earth in the Modern World | Éomer | A Cloudy Morning
A/n Wow, thanks @errruvande for putting me in an Eomer mood 😂❤️. It’s because of you that this request is finally getting written <3 (Also goodness I love Eomer now so much thank you for the request anon, this was so sweet and fluffy to write!)
Prompt: #7 fluff from this list ~ “Wait, no, don’t take the kissing away from me”
Pairing: Eomer x GN!Reader
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 755
The alarm on my watch buzzes, insistent enough to persuade me to open my eyes. It’s still early — the sun’s just coming up—but the rays have yet to break through the thick, grey clouds, making the sky hazy and perfect for sleep.
Ugh, I don’t want to get up.
I push myself into a sitting position before I lose my resolve. As gently as I can, I pick up Eomer’s arm that he threw over my stomach at some point during the night, placing it against his side. He shifts, rolling onto his back and stretching out his legs. Such a light sleeper.
Now that he’s waking up, I don’t feel bad expediting the process. I drape myself over his chest, chin resting on his sternum, and place a soft kiss on the bottom his chin. He lowers his head, searching out my lips without opening his eyes, and I press my palm flat against his chest, lifting myself up enough to raise my lips to meet his. He kisses me readily, a surprising amount of energy for just having awoken.
I pull back just far enough to smile at him. “Good morning.”
“What a way to wake up,” he grins, throwing an arm behind his head and bringing another hand to my back, trailing his fingers lazily up my spine.
I lean forward, pressing a quick, firm kiss to his mouth and then push against him, bringing myself to a seated position.
He blinks in surprise and his lips quickly turn down into a pout. “Wait, no, don’t take the kissing away from me.”
I laugh, running my fingers through his blond curls as I scoot to the edge of the bed. “I have to get ready for work.”
“Work?” He sits up in indignation, the duvet gathering at the base of his naked torso. “But it is Sunday.” Hot arms encircle my waist, and soon I am pulled back into his embrace. His teeth tease the bottom of my ear, his quiet voice dropping low. “Give me twenty minutes.”
I laugh, though when his lips descend to my neck, the laughter dissipates. “You know I can’t, I’ll be in serious trouble if I’m late again. Last time my boss threatened to give me a citation.”
He grumbles something unintelligible and petulant, and my grin returns once more.
I twist in his arms, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “But I do have an hour for lunch.”
The pout fades, morphing into excitement. He presses his lips to mine once more and I have to mentally remind myself of my commitment to go to work today. When he pulls away, it’s my turn to whine, which seems to amuse him to no end.
“I’ll have food ready for you,” he promises once his laughter has died down. He lowers his lips to my ear once more, voice turning low and sultry. “And some other sort of surprise.”
The second alarm on my watch buzzes, reminding me of the shrinking time I have to get ready, make my coffee, and hit the road. I groan, laying my head in the space where his neck meets his shoulder. “That thought will be playing on loop in my head all day.”
His chuckle rumbles his chest against mine. He pushes us into a standing position and nudges me in the direction of the bathroom. “Go get ready, I’ll get coffee and breakfast started.”
I twist my head over my shoulder to thank him, but get distracted admiring the sight of him in only his tight black boxers. He smirks, coming forward to kiss me once more.
“I love you,” he murmurs against my lips.
I allow myself a brief moment to rest my forehead against his chest, enjoying his warmth. I would so rather stay in bed with him all day. Who needs a job that requires them to come in on a Sunday? But my third alarm buzzes violently, shaking the hopeful thoughts from my head and replacing them with more responsible ones. We need my share of the income if we wish to keep this apartment.
Besides, I have next Friday off.
I squeeze him tight in a hug before backing up and grabbing my fluffy robe from the back of the closet door. If he’s not here to warm me, the robe will have to do. I blow him one last kiss then turn in the direction of our bathroom, finally committing to getting ready for work. “I love you, too.”
Hi! Can i request 💛 for eomer with 12 from fluff list? If you don't have time don't worry.
Thank you and congrats♡
A.N: Hi! Thank you, love, I hope you like this!! Fluffy Éomer is really just the best.
Word Count: 198
Summary: You stole Éomer’s shirt a few weeks ago because you missed him.
Pairing: Éomer x Reader
Warning: Fluff
****
Sometimes You Just Need to Steal His Clothes {Éomer x Reader}
You sighed, sitting up and stretching at the sound of knocking coming from the door, blinking at the bright sunlight that filled the room. Swinging your legs around, you stood, making your way to the door. Opening it, you saw your betrothed, Éomer, on the other side. He opened his mouth to greet you, then paused, taking you in.
“Is that my shirt?”
You looked down at yourself. Then you blushed.
“Sorry. I think I grabbed it from your rooms a few weeks ago when you were away and never gave it back. Let me go change and you can have it.”
He grabbed your arm, halting you. “No, don’t. It looks good on you.”
You smiled. “So, what did you need me for today?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to go for a picnic?”
You gasped. “Oh, really? That would be wonderful!”
Éomer laughed. “I’m glad. Now, go get ready. We wouldn’t want to keep the horses waiting too long!”
Laughing, you leaned in to kiss him before turning back to your rooms, closing the door. As you made your way to your dresser, you heard Éomer yell from outside.
