She didn't appear at the meal and Éomer knew she was hiding somewhere, bawling her eyes out like a newborn babe. The deep-seated anger hadn't yet dissolved yet, and the idea of being treated like some kind of uncivilized savage had struck deep. Marriage customs of the Rohirrim were beautiful, simple, and passionate. Most Rohirric culture was. Angrily, he swigged mead and then wiped the foam off his beard with the back of his arm.

If he was going to be treated like a barbarian, he might as well act like one.

The drizzle had thickened and turned into a proper deluge just after midday, and the noise of the heavy rain on the roof was enough to calm his spirits somewhat. He hated this—he hated her. If he could, he would have seized her bodily and thrown her outside the gates of Edoras, kicking those simpering brothers as well. But it was no use; if the frigid girl was determined to marry him, then he wasn't about to back down and relieve her of the satisfaction.

It was nearly an hour past midday meal and she still had not appeared. With a groan, he finished his ale and stood. Finding her would be the gentlemanly thing. It would be what Théodred would do. After a brief trip to her hall and a polite inquiry at her door, he discovered she was not hiding away in her room like he had assumed.

A flash of blonde hair caught his eye and he called out, "Aldin!"

"Yes, m'lord?" the lad stopped short and wheeled around.

"Where is the Princess Lothíriel?" he demanded.

Aldin's mouth tightened to suppress a grin. "She's, ah, enjoying the weather."

"The what?" Éomer asked, scowling. Overhead, the storm boomed.

"Yes, m'lord. She's been out in the stableyard for…quite a while, now." Aldin couldn't help the irrepressible grin which broke out over his face. "Looking for some trinket or another. She seemed to be having a perfectly fine time on her own, so we decided to just—"

"Leave her there?" Éomer cut him off. "Why?"

The golden-haired boy shrugged. "One of the stableboys overheard the Princess this morning saying some rather…unpleasant things about you, sir. And it's just a bit of water." He paused, examining Éomer's thundery expression. Aldin drew himself up, somewhat defiantly. "She's got high airs to come here to Edoras and call us uncivilized. Thought the rain and a bit of mud might bring her down a bit."

Éomer pinned his shieldbearer to the wall with a withering look. "She is the Princess of Dol Amroth. You are to treat her as you would any lady of her blood and status. If she calls you a bastard from a three-humped sow, you will show her respect. Do you understand me, Aldin?"

"Yes, m'lord," Aldin said, deflating.

The horselord forced his way past the foolish boy and hurried out into the courtyard. Reprimanding Aldin had been necessary, but a private flicker of anger agreed with him. Let her muck around in the mud and rain for a while, and then they would see who was uncivilized or not. Perhaps getting one of those pretty dresses ruined might take the edge off her frosty temper.

He stopped short at the doorway to the stableyard, a crease furrowing his brow.

She was on her hands and knees, mindless of the filth and muck which caked her and caused her to look almost unrecognizable. Her plaited black hair had fallen in tangled, messy curtains around her, and judging from the mud streaked on her face, she had pushed it away many times. The princess did not look up, but was patting through the mud carefully, disturbing every inch of dirt, looking for something.

"Princess!" he shouted out over the rain, and strode over. "Come inside, the rain will—"

"Go away!"

It was almost a raw shriek, and he could see the hot flush of shame on Lothíriel, creeping up her neck. She had been crying. Sobbing. Her eyes were red and she was the most disheveled, filthy mess he had ever seen. It was a stark contrast to the prim, rigid girl who had sneered and called him a barbarian less than two hours earlier.

From behind him, he heard the squelch of boots in mud; it was Amrothos, her older brother, with a cloak and a tightly worried expression. "Sister, come inside!" he called.

"No!" she called out, voice brittle, "No, I won't, I need it, you must help me find it, please!"

"Find what?" Éomer asked, raising his voice over the rain.

Her hand flew to her clavicle. "My pendent," she sniffled. "It's a blue stone in a silver chain. I need it."

Annoyance rolled through the horselord and he threw up his hands. Amrothos brushed past him and draped his cloak over the kneeling form of his sister, and gently pried her up and away from the mud. She buried her face into his chest and sobbed. "It's gone," Éomer heard her say, voice muffled. "It's gone, I've lost it."

"Shh, sister," her brother said, petting her soaked, tangled hair. "It'll be found. And if not, I'll make you a new one. Just like the old one."

This brought on a fresh wave of tears and Éomer's temper, long kept on a frayed leash, finally broke free.

"Are you this upset over the loss of a trinket?" he snapped. "Are you such a child that a missing necklace causes you hysterics?"

She whirled around, pale face streaked with mud and tears; her dress had ripped and was sliding off one shoulder. "It was my mother's!" she screamed at him, terrible wrath and grief. "It was the last thing I had from her, the only thing! It was all I had left! And it's gone, I've lost it!"

Lothíriel fled, ruined dress dragging behind her, cloak swallowing her up.

The two men stood in the rain for a long moment, and Éomer could feel every drop strike his face. Amrothos finally sighed. "My sister—" he began, and then stopped. There were no words to be said, and eventually the prince simply left, leaving Éomer there in the rain.

She paced her room fretfully, ignoring the deep chill still spreading from her core. Her ruined dress had been taken away—probably to be burnt, like everything else she had ruined. Like all of her mother's things. Imrahil had sealed most of his wife's things away in her crypt, but the night of her funeral he burnt the rest, while Lothíriel stood in the doorway, watching. He hadn't known she was there; she had been in her twelfth winter.

The door opened and she whirled around. "Sister—" Amrothos began.

"I will not marry him!"

Her older brother gave pause, eyebrows raising.

"He's—" she latched on to the first word that popped into her head, "He's…old!" she raged. "And he reeks of horses! I will not marry him, not while there is a brain in my head and breath in my lungs!"

"Easy, sister," Amrothos soothed, and held her close for a moment. Quivering with anger, it took her a long while to finally relax, and when she did, he kissed the top of her head. "Here, sit."

The siblings sat on the bed and he held his little sister close. "I see now why father sent me with you," he chuckled lowly. "He said you might take to Rohan this way."

"It has nothing to do with Rohan," Lothíriel spat. "It's him."

"He is a good man," Amrothos said. At his sister's scoff, he continued. "He is short-tempered and a fool, but, my dear sister, so are you. Father told me before we left that you and Éomer are altogether too similar—he said it was what made you a good match."

"Father was mistaken," Lothíriel said flatly.

"I do not believe he was. Éomer is not much older than you—perhaps the years have weathered him, but remember what he has been through, sister. Gondor has her king, a new White Tree has been planted, our city is being restored; Rohan is scattered and restless. It will take a good leader to bring it back together into one band, and Éomer is that leader. He bears much on his shoulders. He is a good man, but if you feel as though the match is poor, I will take you home."

"The match is poor," she mumbled into her brother's arm, her anger dissolving. "We are so different. I cannot think of a similar interest between myself and Éomer. How…how is a marriage supposed to be built upon such differences?"

"Work," Amrothos said simply. "It will not be easy. Give it a week, sister, and if you still feel the same, then we will go home."

It was very late in the night when Lothíriel crept out of her room. She was wearing only her nightdress, which would be terribly improper of any Gondorrian lady, but there was nobody to disturb provided she only went straight to the kitchens and back. She hadn't eaten since morning and she was starving.

The fires in the kitchen were not banked, which surprised her—was someone there? She paused, but saw nobody, so continued. The storeroom was locked tight, but she hoped there were some scraps left over from dinner—meat or cheese or bread, anything which could help her sleep.

Food was laid out for breakfast tomorrow, and she guiltily took one of the loaves of bread. She wouldn't eat the whole thing, of course, just a bit. Perhaps more than a bit. Lothíriel tore off one end of the loaf.

"Princess," a rough voice said, and she squeaked in surprise, mouth full of bread.

It was Éomer.

And she was standing in a nightdress with a hunk of bread in her mouth.

He was wearing breeches and a tunic but the outer layer of his clothes had been stripped, but he was still damp. The horselord had been out in the rain for quite some time, and his golden curls were soaked—she could only imagine what the rest of his armor and tunic must look like. Probably similar to her dress. The impropriety of this whole situation washed over her: neither of them were properly dressed and they were standing alone, in a dimly lit room. So many conclusions could be drawn from this.

There was an odd, unreadable expression on Éomer's face. "I found it."

"What?" she said. The word was almost unrecognizable due to the food in her mouth, which she swallowed quickly. He held out his hand and she awkwardly set the bread down on the table to accept whatever he was giving her.

It was the pendent.

She stood stock still, holding the delicate sapphire pendent in her hand. "The chain was ruined," Éomer said quietly, eyes downcast. "The mud and the rain, I'm afraid. I can get a silversmith to repair it, if you wish."

Lothíriel looked at him, dumbfounded.

"I was going to leave it at your door, but—" he gestured to the kitchen.

"Thank you," she interrupted him. The words flew out of her mouth and she clutched the sapphire hard, knuckles going white. "Thank you, thank you, oh Varda, thank you."

He stood silently, obviously taken aback by her gratitude.

She flushed and tucked her hair behind her ear. "I also wish to apologize," she mumbled, looking away. "I was cruel and unkind. I know it must seem…vain and silly and childish, but it was all I had left of my mother's. She gave it to me as a child, and told me to wear it always, and the sapphire would bring good luck and wisdom."

"I…" he stopped uncomfortably, fumbling for the right words. "I did not mean to slight the memory of your mother. Your father loved her terribly, he spoke of her often." He paused, fidgeting. "I know what it is like to lose someone you love. I have nothing of my parents to remember them by, but one or two things of Théodred—" something in his chest squeezed painfully upon speaking his name, "—which make his passing a little…easier."

They had both lost a tremendous amount before the War even began. Now, while fragile peace lay over the land, there was so much to do to distract them both from properly grieving. Lothíriel gazed at the sapphire and then back at Éomer.

"I'm…sorry," she said at last.

He shrugged easily.

"I should leave, I'm not proper," Lothíriel said at last, gathering her skirts around her, remembering at last that she was in a nightdress and nothing more.

Éomer raised a brow. "There's no nurse to scold you," he rumbled. "It's not as though I will write to your father saying what an improper lady he's raised. What type of woman sneaks into a darkened kitchen to steal bread?"

His tone was good-natured and less fierce than his sarcasm that afternoon, and yet she still felt a prickle of defensiveness. "I wasn't stealing!"

He loosened his vambraces and sat at the table, plucking the torn loaf from the rest of the bread. "Those words could be etched onto every thief's forehead," he pointed out.

Hesitantly, she sat opposite him. "If I recall, I was going to have a midday meal with my betrothed, which never happened," she shot back.

"Or an evening meal, which you never attended."

"Neither did you, so it hardly matters!"

He laughed—it was short, but deep and good, coming from his chest. "Only because I was looking for a misplaced necklace."

She felt a squirm of awkwardness again and bit into the bread to hide it. "Thank you again," Lothíriel said quietly.

Éomer cut off a piece of cheese with his knife and ate it off the blade casually. "I was being a fool," he admitted. There was a deliberate pause and then he added, "As were you."

"Quite," she agreed, and stole the bread back from him.

Just wanted to add a quick note: I am by no means an expert in the LotR universe! It's vast and expansive and I'm sure there's lots of people who can find tons of errors and whatnot in my story. Someone pointed out that Lothíriel is supposed to be tall, but I just personally like the visual better of a tiny fierce princess and a giant loving warrior—it ties into the title, which will come up in later chapters.

Anyway, that's just my little disclaimer; I've read the books and watched the movies but it's a bit like the Game of Thrones or Star Wars universe—there's tons of history there that I'm certain I'll get wrong, haha. Thank you so much for all your kind words, I read every one of your reviews and they make my day! Xoxo, Sassy Bigfoot