A/N: SO this has been finished for quite some time, and I was waiting to post it. Then just now I was rereading it and laughing with great delight and decided I could NOT keep it in the dark anymore, sorry.

I wrote this after hannah_jpg asked for a prompt for a one-shot and I suggested, "How about Éomer is previously attached and she has to break him up," and she said, "No, I want a one-shot! You write that." So I did!

So here it is, Second Time Lucky. (5 chapters, fyi.) I hope you enjoy! I had fun, and I hope that shows :) Reviews always welcome~

. .

. .

CHAPTER ONE

The guest lodge in Emyn Arnen was sturdy, dark wood, built from the trees felled to clear room for the Steward's new home. The sprawling, two-story building was on the far side of the gardens from the main stone house. By all accounts, Faramir was delighted with how the entire place had turned out—as well he might be, considering the dogged campaign to clear the woods of orcs—and Lady Éowyn had been pleased with her new home, too. The guest house in particular had been a point of pride in Faramir's letters to Imrahil. Never seen such a charming building; those had been his words.

Lothíriel sighed as she stepped out into the morning sunlight. The gardens at Emyn Arnen were vast, and it was a healthy walk to the main house. Her family had never been forced to stay so far from their hosts, but for Faramir, her father was willing to sacrifice much. And after the troubles of last year, Lothíriel was hardly about to complain. It wouldn't be right.

She set off through the gardens, running a hand along the tops of the tall grasses lining the path. The gardeners really had outdone themselves. This place was even more peaceful than the gardens at the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, and those were an oasis tucked in among the bustle of the city. Here in Ithilien, everywhere was tranquil.

Lothíriel paused by a clump of lavender and knelt to breathe it in. Wonderful! She plucked a few flowers and continued on, idly twisting the stalks around her fingers. Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and…

Someone was crying?

From somewhere to her left, quiet sobbing punctured the serenity of the gardens. Lothíriel craned her neck and looked around. She hiked up her skirts and climbed over the low hedgerow, then past a loose square of wildflowers.

On the far side, on a bench behind a willow tree, a blond lady was hunched with her face buried in her hands.

"Lady Æmma?" Lothíriel ventured.

The young woman gasped and quickly wiped her face. She spun in her seat and gave Lothíriel a strangled smile, but after a moment she turned away and began to cry again.

"Oh no! Whatever is the matter?" Lothíriel cried. She rushed to Æmma's side and wrapped an arm around her shaking shoulders. "I do hate to see anyone upset, and I like you, so it's even worse than usual! Please do tell me. Perhaps I can help you."

Æmma sniffed and sat up straight. Lothíriel quickly pulled out a handkerchief, pressed it into Æmma's hand, and murmured encouraging platitudes.

After another few minutes, Æmma looked much improved. Her brown eyes were still moist, and her nose was red, but she was no longer sniveling or crying.

"Thank you, Lady Lothíriel," Æmma said. Her accent was as sonorous as all of the Rohirrim's. "I am sorry to disturb your walk."

"You needn't be. I'm not needed anywhere for half an hour at least. I was only going to see if I could find my brothers, but I see them plenty. I'd much rather be here with you." Lothíriel squeezed Æmma's hand and smiled.

Æmma was a few years older than Lothíriel, perhaps twenty-four. She was the only child of Lord Aldor of Fenmark, a near region of Rohan, and one of Lady Éowyn's chief ladies-in-waiting. Lothíriel quite like Æmma. She was witty, diligent, and bold. Imrahil had a similarly high opinion of Lord Aldor; they had met in the aftermath of the great battle outside of Minas Tirith.

"Lady Éowyn expects us both, I think," Æmma said. She sniffed and sat back on her hands. "At least there will be people to distract me."

"From what?"

"Ah." Æmma sighed. She looked Lothíriel up and down.

Lothíriel inwardly squirmed, but she smoothed her expression into one she hoped was helpful and trustworthy. Æmma was recovered, but Lothíriel was curious what could possibly make her so upset. She had never seemed the crying type. And less than ten hours from the wedding, too!

"Can you keep a secret?" Æmma asked.

"I do all the time," Lothíriel said at once. "Do you think I would be so useful to my queen if I could not?"

Æmma laughed at that, but she soon grew sullen. She pulled her long loose hair over her shoulder and began to braid it, slow and methodical.

"You know my father is the lord of Fenmark," she started.

Lothíriel nodded. "My father thinks very highly of him."

"Well, so he should." Æmma gave a tight grin. "My father has made himself very useful to Éomer King. And, in his own way, to your king as well."

That was true. Lothíriel recalled hearing Lord Aldor's named much mentioned during discussions of some of the new trade agreements with Rohan. The agreements had been very favorable to both countries.

"Well, he has done so well for himself that he has found a man for me to marry. He told me this morning that I was as good as betrothed." For a moment, Æmma's expression turned calculating; Lothíriel wondered what she was thinking. But the moment passed, and Æmma's face crumpled again. "But I do not want to marry… him."

Lothíriel's eyebrows shot up. "What! You are being forced to wed?" Æmma nodded; Lothíriel jumped to her feet and crossed her arms with a huff. "That is barbaric! Something must be done. No one deserves such a fate!"

Æmma, still huddled on the bench, stared up at Lothíriel with wide eyes. "But who will help me?"

"I will," Lothíriel declared. She pursed her lips. "You said you were as good as betrothed, did you not? There will be some announcement?"

"My betrothal will be announced at tomorrow's dinner," Æmma said mournfully. "And my fate will be sealed."

"Oh, come now," Lothíriel said. She grinned, fierce and determined. "Do you think that I cannot prevent a simple betrothal? You have my word that you will go to sleep tomorrow quite free."

"You suppose you can do it?" Æmma asked.

"Of course!"

"Would you swear it?"

Lothíriel took Æmma's hand and bowed over it gallantly. "My lady, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth pledges on her honor that your father's wicked plans will come to naught." She stood and smiled expectantly down at Æmma. "Now tell me, who is the man?"

Æmma stood up and gripped Lothíriel's shoulders. "If you do not keep to your word—"

"I will," Lothíriel interrupted.

"If you do not keep to your word," Æmma restarted, "tomorrow night I will be betrothed before all to Éomer. King of Rohan."

Lothíriel's stomach dropped. She opened her mouth, then closed it.

"Oh," she said. She blinked. "Well. That complicates things."

. .

. .

"Æmma, there you are! Come in, come in."

Lothíriel trailed behind as Frikka, Éowyn's other attendant, dragged Æmma into their lady's rooms. Every seat in the solar was full of women, and Lothíriel smiled and headed over to where her mother, her aunt, and her queen sat by the window.

"Good morning, Lady Lothíriel," Queen Arwen said. She extended a graceful white hand for Lothíriel to kiss. "I trust you slept well?"

"I did, my lady, thank you." Lothíriel forced a smile. Arwen narrowed her eyes but said nothing. "Good morning, Naneth. Good morning, Aunt Ivriniel."

"Quite," Aunt Ivriniel said, though she shot Queen Arwen a shrewish look.

Lady Aeardis, Lothíriel's mother, stood up to embrace her daughter. "You look alarmed, sweetheart," she whispered in Lothíriel's ear. "Do try and relax."

Lothíriel flushed. She was trying to act natural, but there was only so calm she could be when her promise to help Æmma loomed ahead of her like a rogue wave. She extricated herself to Éowyn's bedchamber, where Æmma and Frikka were busy fussing over their mistress's hair.

Before she caught sight of Lothíriel, Éowyn's face was oddly grim. She looked lovely otherwise, with a white dress in the fashion of Rohan and a linked golden belt around her hips. The transformation when she finally noticed her new guest was breathtaking. A bright, relieved smile warmed Éowyn's pale face, and Lothíriel couldn't help but smile back.

"Lothíriel," Éowyn said, "come distract me. My ladies are relentless."

"Too relentless to be dismissed, even!" Frikka said. She combed out a small section of Éowyn's golden hair and began to plait it into a tight braid.

"I am at your service, cousin," Lothíriel said. She perched on the edge of Éowyn's bed and fiddled with her necklace.

"We are not cousins yet," Éowyn reminded her. "But I am glad to be called so all the same."

Frikka twisted the thin braid into a spiral and pinned it at the back of Éowyn's head. After a few tugs, the little braid had transformed into a golden flower.

"That's lovely," Lothíriel said approvingly. "Will there be real flowers in your hair, too?"

"I had not thought of it," Éowyn murmured. She brushed the downy hair at her temples behind her ears. "Is that common here?"

"Mostly in the country," Lothíriel said. "I think it would be very fitting. If you like, I can pick some flowers for you later."

Éowyn smiled, pleased. Frikka began to hum as she continued working braided flowers in Éowyn's hair, and after a minute Æmma shot Lothíriel a sharp, urgent look which Lothíriel ignored. She could hardly fault Æmma for fretting, but Lothíriel had a plan.

Sort of.

"Éowyn," she began, "I was wondering. How is your brother managing?"

"Éomer?" Éowyn asked, baffled. She turned curious eyes on Lothíriel. "What do you mean?"

Lothíriel gestured to the empty air between them. "You are leaving home," she said. "I know all my family is glad of it, and my king and queen as well, but I was wondering…" She trailed off when she noticed that Frikka was staring at her with a badly concealed grin. Éowyn glanced sharply at her, and Frikka went back to her methodical braiding.

"He is glad for me, of course, but such a parting is always bittersweet." Éowyn regarded Lothíriel with a careful consideration, not unlike the look Æmma had given her before revealing the news of her forced betrothal. As before, Lothíriel seemed to pass the test. "My brother will miss me, and I shall miss him. We had not been together so much as we were this last year. I wonder who will fare better with this change. He has a whole host of familiar faces, a familiar home… This place is beautiful, but to many, I am still a wild stranger." Éowyn smiled, but it was a cold smile.

"Not so," Lothíriel argued. "I say your brother shall have it worse, for he will be bereft of his most beloved sister!" She clenched her fists in the quilts. "When my kin went to war, no number of old friends could have assuaged me. My mother hardly did! All I thought of was my father and brothers."

The memory of those months alone with her mother and aunt in Dol Amroth came back to her. Endless pacing along the beach, along the city walls and up and down the Sea-ward Tower… How many stitches had she been forced to pull out from nervous, amateurish mistakes? How many nights had she pushed aside her favorite treats with a heavy heart and queasy stomach? More than she could recall. And the burgeoning fear every time a courier was seen riding from the east—

"The war is over now," Éowyn said, gently.

Lothíriel roused herself from her grim reverie and blinked back the sudden dampness in her eyes. "Yes, yes it is," she said. "But there is still no joy in being parted from those you love, even if it is for a happy cause."

Éowyn stood up and came over to embrace Lothíriel. She ran a long pale hand across Lothíriel's dark hair. "Your words are true, yet I would not have stayed from here for the world. I hope you find such joy when you marry. Such a good heart deserves it."

"Thank you," Lothíriel murmured, pink-cheeked. She glanced sideways at Æmma, who looked suddenly enlightened. "I hope so too."