Hey Folks, I just wanted to make a note before you read on, that YES, this is the final chapter and YES, the story is over. I realize this may be disappointing for those of you expecting something longer, but the truth is, I'm not really in the habit of writing 50k stories for small plot bunnies like these. Most of my fics are in the 10k-20k range, and frankly, I'm satisfied with that. They're short, they're supposed to be amusing, and if someone's day is brightened, my work is done. So please don't judge this story (or me) because, I don't know - other people write longer fics? You want to read more of it? It's too simple? I dunno. Just enjoy it. I ain't here to make a statement.

Anyways, that's the cause for delay in this final chapter. I just didn't want to disappoint all ya'll. But too late now. I hope you enjoy all the same :*

19 December 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith

Winter in the city was brisk, and that dawn had brought a thin coat of snow upon the white houses and buildings of Minas Tirith. Éomer's breath plumed as he walked hastily for the citadel, anticipating a warm Merethrond and a hot drink. Thinking that Minas Tirith would somehow be a more pleasant place to spend the winter solstice than anywhere in Rohan had been, in retrospect, correct—but Edoras at least did not have such a mileage of streets to walk in the bitter cold.

Merethrond was as warm as he'd hoped, and he willingly shed his cloak in the antechamber and gave it to a maid. He dried his boots, and went into the main hall.

Hundreds of candles lit the empty space, and flickered off of silver-threaded banners and ladies' jewels. Woven evergreen branches draped from the pillars, and their scent staved off the usual smells of sweat and spirits. There were not as many people as he expected—but then again, Aragorn had told him it would be a small party.

Still, Éomer was jostled as he made his way around, intent on nowhere in particular.

But he was intent on someone in particular.

He regretted not being able to search her out sooner—despite having been in the city for four days already, Éomer had been in councils every day until long past dark. There was no respite from duties here. Even when he had been in Aragorn's house, he had tried to linger here or there to catch sight of the Queen and her ladies. But he had not even seen Arwen for longer than five minutes or so, when he greeted her upon his initial arrival.

How often he had thought of Lothíriel these past months? How often had he imagined her face, alight with laughter? Of her lips, of her spirit. How many times had he worried for her in Minas Tirith's glittering and admittedly difficult-to-navigate court?

Too much, probably.

In his absent-mindedness, Éomer was paying little attention to his movements. And so when he trod on a skirt and lost his footing on the slippery fabric, he was taken aback when his elbow collided with someone's back and the skirt was yanked from beneath his foot.

"I beg your pardon," a voice snapped. A familiar voice. Éomer righted himself, and looked down to see a lovely, scowling face staring up at him. He smiled. The scowl faded, and a bright red flush took its place.

"Lady Lothíriel," he said, and swooped in a low bow.

"Er—"

Bumbling aside, she was leagues away from the dirty ranger he had met after the Battle of Pelennor fields. Her hair was shining ebony and drawn back into a low bun, and curls framed her face. A definite improvement. The dress she wore was just as flattering to her figure. The ranger was well hidden, and a very adapt lady had taken its place. Lothíriel held herself with confidence, and after an astonished moment during which she collected herself, she returned his smile.

"Éomer," she said. "I am glad to see you."

She was glad! That was very good for him. He picked up her hand, ignoring the fact that they were probably being watched. The King of Rohan and the only daughter of Imrahil were bound to attract speculation, especially together. But Éomer did not care.

"I saw that there is dancing," he said. "Would you oblige me?"

"Yes, I thank you."

They made for the open space where dancers already crowded and twirled around, and Éomer drew her close before beginning the steps of the dance.

"Well," he said after a moment. "You must tell me how you find the Queen and the court."

"Oh! Arwen is lovely—not as all as wickedly strict as I thought she would be. Oh!" Lothíriel said again, and her cheeks tinged with color. "Do not tell anyone I said that…"

"I will not," Éomer assured her. "Go on."

"She—she rides often, and invites me to go along with her. We have practiced archery together, too." Her eyes were sparkling. "Arwen values freedom as much as I do. She has said that she admires that I fought in the war. The Queen! Can you believe it?"

Éomer mused privately that Imrahil had made a very, very wise decision in sending his daughter to the Queen.

"Certainly she is a woman I wish to emulate," Lothíriel continued. "I have never known one so praiseworthy. If I am half as graceful and patient as Arwen is—I will be more than content in my life."

"This is a far cry from the Lothíriel I knew last summer," Éomer said, grinning as she blinked up at him. "I hope you have not changed too much."

"Oh—no, I do not think so." There was a distinct waver in her voice. If her thoughts were on their kisses, all the better. For that is where Éomer's thoughts were. Then she steeled herself and said, "I also spent time with your sister this autumn."

"Oh?"

"Yes." Lothíriel mused for a moment, and then with a sigh met Éomer's eyes. "We spoke a lot about—about fighting and war. She has the same idea as you, you know."

"What idea is that?"

"That war is a terrible, awful thing. That people losing their lives is not worth any glory—Éowyn said that she would gladly trade all the songs written of her slaying the Witchking to have your uncle back." Her smile was hesitant, and Éomer nodded to encourage her to continue. "I suppose not losing any relatives myself, I thought too much of the glory. I had to make no sacrifices, and yet I was ungrateful. I apologize, for—for being so...irrepressible."

"Irrepressible," Éomer said thoughtfully. "That is one word for it."

Lothíriel glowered at him, but her face twitched, and she did not stop a smile from forming. "And you still are," she said severely. "Teasing me so!"

"Yes, I am guilty of that much. I do like to tease, more so than I admitted to you that day on the beach."

Her narrowed eyes fastened upon him, and Éomer held back a laugh. He was impressed by this change in Lothíriel; while he was intrigued and attracted to her just the same, somehow he no longer doubted her suitability. No doubt many a man would be seeking her hand now—he would have to act quickly.

"I have often regretted," he said, and pulled a wistful face, gazing out at the crowd. "We never had a chance to have that archery contest."

"Oh!" Lothíriel gave a short laugh. "Well—we will have the chance in the coming days. Would you really care to? I have not had the opportunity to use a shortbow since I returned Elfhelm's."

"Hmm. Do you think we should make it more interesting?"

Her brows lifted.

"I propose a wager."

"A wager!" She was startled, but her lips tilted upwards. "I am listening."

"It must be something valuable enough that you would not throw the match in my favor," Éomer said, making a great show of consideration. "And menial enough that you will not leave me utterly in the dust with my pride all but gone."

"You have already something in mind."

"Aye! It has just come to me." He took a breath, unable to hide a grin and said, "My bow—made by the finest craftsman in Edoras—against your hand in marriage. The bow if you win, marriage otherwise."

"What!"

Éomer shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "But only if you feel that you are a challenge for me, that is."

"Why—I—!" Lothíriel's face was quite red now. "You needle me too skillfully! Did I confess to you I cannot resist a wager? Is this why you are taunting me so?"

"Perhaps!"

She swallowed, and her eyes were filled with confusion as she met his gaze. "I—I—" Her voice was no more than a whisper, and she swallowed again. "I can hardly refuse."

"Excellent! That is settled, then. And oh, the dance is over. May I return you to your escort? Amrothos, I believe." Éomer was enjoying himself far too much, and indeed as the music had ceased, wrapped the lady's limp arm through his, and steered her towards her brother.

She did not utter a word, even when he bowed and took his leave. Éomer was satisfied with her behavior towards him. He was fairly certain—though there was no well to tell for sure at present—that she did regard him with some affection. His was more than that, of course—but she would not know, either. A friendly competition was a simple way to tie things up nicely. Imrahil was in the city for the solstice as well, so arrangements could be made.

Éomer privately thanked his lucky stars he had had the foresight to practice his shortbow training all summer.

The evening wore on, but nothing was quite as exciting as that first dance. Éomer met many other ladies, but none entranced him. This enforced the idea that his heart was already engaged, and the very thought lightened his mood considerably. He was a happy man that night.

The only fear that niggled in his mind was that Lothíriel would withdraw from the match to avoid even the possibility of marrying him. That was not a happy thought at all.

22 December 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith

He needn't have worried—he kept his bow and won the lady.

And Firefoot got his mate.