Before we start, I'd like to take a moment here to reply to gelfir's comment as they were logged in as a guest and I can't dm them back.

Regarding the political situation in this fic: the character of Goran and Haradrim politics shown here come from my story Captains and Pawns. Prior to Sauron's rise in Mordor again, my various, only loosely allied Haradrim tribes were not all evil or followers of His. Quite a few like Goran and his Uncle Najir, chief of the Qatanni tribe, stayed loyal to the Valar and Numenor, and did not adopt the ethos of the Black Numenoreans that spread about Umbar. In CP they actually approach Denethor about a formal alliance against the rise of the Red Serpent. Denethor, protectionist, chooses not to and Goran and some men of their Tribe vanish into the Haradwaith Desert to be guerrilla fighters, while Najir publically embraces the overwhelmingly powerful Red Serpent and his cult to avoid their women and children being slaughtered. He is the Southron who tries to cut Faramir down but holds his sword, lets Imrahil strike him down, horrified to find out that he has harmed an honourable man he knew. Both Boromir and Faramir urged their father to make the alliance but were rebuffed.

Najir's father and grandfather and their people were well known in Gondor and Dol Amroth and traded extensively with the latter, so, for me, Goran becoming Emperor blunts the anti-Haradrim sentiment a significant amount. While I have no doubt that there would be considerable sentiment against the Haradrim post the Ring War, I picture Aragorn as a shrewd ruler who understood the benefit of well-monitored olive branches to a lasting peace. I am guided in this principally by three points: Gandalf saying, "Yet there are other men and other lives, and time still to be. And for me, I pity even his slaves.'; Faramir saying of the dead Southron in Ithilien in the movie (Sam's words in the book): "You wonder what his name is. Where he came from. And if he was really evil at heart. What lies or threats led him on this long march from home? And if he'd not rather have stayed there, at peace"; and lastly JRR himself, who, in a letter to his son at the end of the World War 2, advocated mercy and tolerance to the defeated German people. But not Hitler's administration. Many Germans suffered as they fled the brutal takeover of East Germany by communist Russia.

The next morning dawned bright and clear with a stiff east wind that snapped the Swan pennants on the palace and set the ships to rocking in the harbour. It was market day. The lower wynds and closes of the town were thronged with eager folk perusing great mounds of green, fresh bounty. Asparagus. Leeks. Artichokes. And chamomile; just picked, with the morning dew still cool upon the blooms, like healing tears upon a myriad tiny faces.

Rohan's king had come to do something to help his little sister. Beyond wearing a hole in the floorboards as her husband had begun to do.

"Are you sure this herb will help?" asked Éomer, following Lothíriel's slim, blue-clad figure as she expertly wended her way past stall after stall, slipping through the jostling throng with ease, ignoring the cajoling of traders hawking a field's worth of strongly scented leaves.

None of them were the particular tonic that they sought. A little of his worry must have bled into his tone for she stopped abruptly to look up at him, squinting a little into the sun.

"Oh yes. Even dried. That is why we need so much. False pains can come in spurts or be constant from now until the end. Aunt Rini will send her tonic and its recipe home with them."

Éowyn could be miserable for more four weeks! Béma. Admittedly, most of what Éomer knew of birthing came from tending dams in foal but he most definitely did not like the sound of that! Although Aragorn, Ivriniel and the palace's midwife had been quick to reassure them all there was no sign of trouble, it appeared false labour hurt. A lot.

He shuddered to think of what real birthing brought if this tested a shieldmaiden lauded for her bravery. "All of us will be grateful."

"It is hard to watch one you love in pain," murmured Lothíriel. Her eyes for a moment grew mist-dark and softly sad. She too had lost her mother young, though to a wasting disease that had been far less swift and merciful than his mother's own. It made his heart twist and long to hold her close.

"Aye. Gea." he managed, railing inside at Gondorian mores that made it entirely impossible to embrace in public. A simple hug of comfort would never lead an honourable, unwed Rohir to behave improperly. But then, settling for a polite hand at her elbow whilst the other held back a riotus mass of hanging mint, he had to admit their proximity was doing something to him.

Again. Admiration and friendliness (and that nagging unsettledness) were now joined by a protective tenderness that made him want to growl at any stranger who came to close. The longing to keep being close had intensified. Béma, she was tiny thing. Small enough to fit beneath his arm; would tuck right in below his shoulder up against his chest, and that thought, mingled with the scent of jasmine from her hair, made him practically dizzy.

In ways of which her Aunt Ivriniel most certainly would not approve.

They moved on. Éomer forced himself to focus on the view ahead and eventually they found the merchant that they sought, haggled on the price with what appeared the correct amount of feigned insult, and returned to the palace laden down with masses of the small cheery flowers.

Faramir looked relieved, Éowyn more than a little wanly grateful, and Aragorn simply firmly patient. He literally shoo'd them out from under foot, along with the half of the palace populace hovering sympathetically outside the Lady of Ithlien's door.

"We shall see you at evening meal," he said and so Éomer followed Lothíriel back out to the seaward terrace. It was blessedly empty of council folk for Imrahil had taken the extraneous Kings and Lords on a tour of the fighting fleet.

Éomer sighed happily. For the moment, there was nothing that either of them need do.

And the younger Princes of Dol Amroth would be occupied.

For hours.

He cleared his throat and took the plunge.

"Lothíriel, would you like go for a sail?"

"A sail?" The request was evidently a surprise for she looked bemused, as if he had suggested they ride dragon-back to Orodruin or mount a donkey to tour Umbar.

"Yes, now." Éomer eyed the weather. Away to the east above the blue-green shallow sea a few darker clouds tumbled in the blue. A sufficiently comforting long way off to not raise alarm and the waves were only a little higher than the day before. "You need to put me to the test."

Lothíriel's brow furrowed hard. "What test?"

"The Water Test."

That brought no more enlightenment. Her nose crinkled adorably in confusion. "Éomer-King, what are you talking about?"

"Are you not going sailing with the Emperor next week?" he queried.

"Yes," she nodded, "I am taking Goran toward Lond Daer. He wished to see the sea stacks closer."

Count on the Haradim to use a ruse. He, in contrast, would be more up front about his plans. When he could spit them out. "That is a convenient excuse to cover his true purpose," Éomer explained, "He wishes to take the Water Test so that afterward he can propose."

Lothiriel's hands fell to her hips. "Hardly," she scoffed. "My lord you are speaking in riddles and it is becoming most irritating. What do you mean? What is this test? And where were you yesterday? I looked for you all afternoon."

Éomer could not help it, he broke into a grin. She was irritated with him. He was irritated with her brothers, her attention to the Haradim, and the whole messy situation.

That settled it. Mayhap Elfhelm was right. They were actually in love! A happy fizzing sparkled through his chest, bringing with it a new and deeper set of worries. Would she accept his suit? Would she choose to leave her sea home for the endless rolling wold? Béma, he hoped so, for he could imagine no other at his side as Queen. Next to Lothíriel any other woman would be… flat. Barely acceptable. Barely endurable, and though it might be a risk, it was high time for him to be forward with his heart.

"I was at the southern cove with Aragorn and Faramir. I admit it might be cheating but they thought it crucial that I learn to swim."

"Swim?"

Éomer flushed, mesmerized as a gust of wind whipped dark strands about her face. "So I can formally ask for your hand. I tried to the night before last but your blasted brothers interfered. They say I must pass this test. Go sailing with you first. I'd like to do it now, before the council starts."

"You were going to propose?" Lothíriel repeated faintly. A pretty blush crept up her neck and cheeks. She caught at the dark lock that threatened to fly away, fingers just faintly trembling. "I… I.. hoped that it had been so, but then Zenaida came… "

She hoped? A phalanx of butterflies took flight in his chest. They sent hope and joy and an excited exhilaration buzzing through his skin. "I want to do this right," he said, catching her fingers in his own. They looked small and light, like a bird's hollow bones, but he knew how very strong they were. "Your father insisted I do the Water Test. If Goran plans to also, I wish to be the one to ask you first. I understand you might consider both of us suitable, but..."

Lothíriel stopped him with a quick shake of her head. "No. I haven't considered Goran at all. I know Father wishes to cement their trade agreement. It would be rude of me to brush his attentions off. And.." she paused so long Éomer felt like he might explode, "Erchirion did mention something about Aunt Finduilas' famous terrorizing of Uncle Denethor." Lothíriel looked down, then up, biting her lip uncertainly, as if overwhelmed by all he said. "You wanted to propose? So much that you've learned to swim?"

He nodded quickly. ""Yes, I did, although nothing very elaborate. Just the dog paddle. Enough to keep myself afloat in rougher seas." Barely, he thought, clasping her fingers tighter and ignoring the slightly darker clouds, the sudden roaring in his ears. Time was short and he might not get another chance. "We have a few free candlemarks this day. Can we go? Now?"

"Now?" she murmured a little dazedly.

"Yes." Éomer swallowed hard, thankful for the evil looking, sharp-smelling root Aragorn had insisted he put in his pack. Below the solidity of the wall, the waves were now capped in white. "I will not lose you to anyone."

Arwen's words came back then, from when he had stood and shivered on the shore, so soaked his skin looked like a prune. Rationality is a ridiculous strategy. Only abandon opens the door.

He tried and failed to put all of his suddenly tumbling heart into words. "Lothíriel, I want this more than anything. You as my Queen. My wife. Because I want to see you smiling with the dawn. Racing across the wold ahorse. Laughing in the great hearth's firelight. I irritate you and you, me. We are perfect for each other."

"We are?" She laughed gaily but did not demur. "Who says it? Meduseld's noted bards?"

"Nay. The most happily married man I know."

.

~~~000~~~

.

Hours later Éomer did not regret the rip in his shirt from the nail on the bottom of the skiff. He did not regret the sunburn on his neck or the bruise from a quickly swinging boom. They were all honourable wounds; tactile proof of his valiant efforts to stay (mostly) out of Lothíriel's way as she tacked and jibed, took them flying south, past the sheltered bays and sandy coves to where the cliffs rose up. Seemed to climb straight from the water to the sky's blue vault.

The Belfalas coast was beautiful. Difficult for a man of the plains to admit, but it was so. The day had been a delight. Azure sea and miles of jewel-like green atop the cliffs' pale weathered grey. Flying fish that made him laugh out-loud and darting schools of silver minnows. Graceful brigades of white as Dol Amroth's swans soared overhead.

However much he thrilled to each new discovery it was the company that Éomer cherished the most. It had been bliss to sit so very close; shoulder to shoulder and almost cheek to cheek; Lothíriel sharing stories of the sea and also how to hold the 'sheet'.

The rising wind at first had not been a bother- helpful even-in that no one would question the state of her hair or his. Both braids were mussed: spectacularly so, more from the breeze than from oblivion while they kissed, but none would be the wiser. Her red lips could be excused as the cost of teaching him to trim, biting them uncertainly each time he overtightened and sent them lurching hard. His own—well, perhaps there would be no fooling anyone (he had felt nearly mad at the warmth of her breech-clad thigh as she brushed by) but Lothíriel made it clear she did not care.

The stolen kisses were her idea.

(The very first had been so thrilling and unassumed he'd nearly let the tiller go.)

Sadly now that it was time to turn for home, head back to the port and official chaperoning, it appeared that they were paying for their happy interlude.

In heavy chop and suddenly erratic winds, Éomer did regret a thing or two. The dark Belfalas brandy Lothíriel had expertly purloined. And the honeycakes. And the punt of tiny early strawberries.

'At least I am not lashed to the mast!' he thought, miserably seasick and trying to wedge his bulk into his tiny refuge in the bow. That he was upright was little comfort-all the sustenance had long been 'offered' to the sea.

"How much farther?" he called, raising his voice to be heard above the snapping of the sail.

Lothíriel lifted a hand to scan the coast. The scattered cloud that had hung innocently sheep-like now clustered together like the Hornburg's brooding wall. How she could see through the dark lowering mass he didn't know.

The result was clearly far from favourable. Lothiriel frowned. "A ways."

Éomer groaned. The white-capped waves that looked innocent from on land were warg-like when one was actually in a boat. He'd chewed the tongue-blistering, mouth-burning antidote to no effect and each time they tacked around nearer to the shore the little boat rocked with a vengeance. Green did not begin to describe the misery he felt. Fangorn might encompass it. Or Druadan. Or spider-saddled Mirkwood. But not Ithilien. That was a too gentle a shade for this.

"Sing," called Lothíriel, one eye on the rapidly gaining cliffs. If they stayed too far offshore, the gusts that roared over the open headlands would sweep them out; too close and they might wreck upon the rocks. "It will take your mind off it."

He highly doubted it. "Lady, I am a Rider not a minstrel! I do not sing and dance."

She laughed and rolled her eyes. "Oh yes you do! I have seen it. I will brook no protest for you actually dance rather well. And Éowyn has a lovely voice."

"Don't remind me!" Dog's bollocks the last thing he wanted to think of right then was his dear, besotted sister and her newly wedded warbling. Had that not been the start of his rash decision making? Such as insisting on sailing when the storm-born wind hailed from the east? Blessed Lord of Air. If only the wind would make up its mind. It careened wildly; flipping direction as if wizard–called and the boat gave another sickening lurch.

Béma. Perhaps it was worth a try.

"My apologies if this isn't suitable!" He launched into the only ditty he could remember: an entirely unchaste drinking song accounting a Rider's prowess on the battlefield and his efforts with his 'shaft'. Did Lothíriel know 'pintel'? Or 'bearm; or 'sard'? Possibly not, given his Sindarin was far better than her Rohirric, and so he sang, loud and unflinching, and entirely on key until the first of the fat raindrops hit.

"Bugger."

"Exactly." Lothíriel, with feeling, uttered a word he didn't know but needn't have translated. The tone told all. They were in for a world more trouble and discomfort but it mattered not.

There was no choice but to hang on and get there.

He gripped the gunwale tighter and pulled up the collar of his shirt. It wasn't helping. The now steady rain was dripping down his back and off his nose, soaking his shirt until it clung limply to his chest. On patrol he'd simply grit his teeth and carry on. Here there was nothing to take his mind away.

Béma, this was all his fault for rushing them but it would be worth it come the end.

If he could win her hand.

He tried to yell this positive perspective into the rising wind, but a sudden gust took half his words away. At first he assumed she hadn't heard them but then Lothíriel angrily shook rain-plastered locks out of her eyes. "'Chiron!" She gripped the tiller tighter with both hands. "I'll have his guts for wedding garters. And Father's. They both knew we had nothing formal for a Bride Price as you do. Their manly pride was pricked!"

All this for Gondorian pride?! Forget guts, he'd have her brothers' balls for target practise. And his brother-in-law's for needlessly amping up the competition. Éomer miserably clamped his lips together as another wave of nausea passed through. Whatever the original impetus this was proving a far more arduous test than carrying one slim shieldmaiden over benignly still obstacles on a warm and wind free day.

"I hope the seas calm down!" he yelled, closing his eyes as another wave breached across the bow. "I just wish there was something we could do about it!"

A red-gold blush literally flew up to Lothíriel's wet brow. She turned to hide her face, pretending to be searching the following sea, but he knew that look. Had experienced it many times last summer when Éowyn had caught Faramir shirtless after sword-practice.

Her thoughts had taken an entirely embarrassing turn.

"Lothíriel, what else calms the winds?"

She blushed harder, shook her head, lips quirking at the ridiculousness of their situation. He, she surely knew, was as stubborn as his sibling; would not relent until she admitted to her candid thoughts.

An impass. There were only so many ways she could hide her face in a little boat, especially when, as skipper, she dared not slacken the tiller for an instant.

Lothíriel took a breath and pulled the shaft hard over, sent Éomer sliding with alacrity below the mast. They were on a new but unfortunately no more steady tack. "Swiving," she called, at last, face flaming, dark hair streaming out in the wind. "Swiving in a boat is said to calm the seas. It is one way Uinen, who protects us all, convinces her love Ossë to calm his rage; to gentle the foaming waves."

Swiving? With Lothíriel? In a boat?!

Éomer, equal parts seasick and soaked, brains more than little scrambled by the alluring image they now held, opened his mouth and blurted out the very next thing that came into his head:

"Béma, you are welcome to come here and try!"

Lothíriel threw back her head and laughed. The sound was gay and free, and entirely unfettered, joyously giving in to the absurdity of their plight, and as she did, the last strands of her braid flew loose. Raven stark against pale skin and deep blue sea, it reminded him of the Snowbourn under moonlight.

Gods, but she was magnificent.

He had just enough time to wonder, fleetingly, if that answer meant that he wasn't losing the contest, when a roll of thunder pealed and the sky truly opened up. The downpour raked the dinghy's salt-weathered wood and gurgled in the ruts. It pounded, painfully; slapping down in sheets that stung his eyes and ran like Irensaga's waterfall down his back.

Tulkas' Rod. It was utterly unpleasant but also, oddly, wild and exciting. Just the two of them against the elements. Working in tandem. Or sitting in his case, keeping out of the way until instructed to make a move. How could Lothíriel see to steer? The rain blurred the coast and sea into a solid wall of grey.

"Had we not better find a place to berth?"

Evidently he had read Lothíriel's mind, for now she was frowning toward land, squinting to make out the distance through the insistent spray. "There!" she shouted, pointing excitedly to a bare smudge of pale sand below a looming fence of rock.

Really? It might be possible and she certainly had the nerve. On its foreshore there were no large blocks splitting the waves asunder.

They turned as close as possible into the wind, gaining distance until the tide and current helped take them in, closer and closer until the little skiff was stuck, grounded on a little bar of sand. Éomer, not bothering with the oars, jumped out into the weed-choked surf and found his footing, hauled with all his might, nearly cheering as the boat lurched forward to come to rest, nose up, on wet, hard beach.

"We can't leave her here with the tide." Lothíriel stepped nimbly out and motioned for him to take a side again. Together they heaved and groaned, pulled until their arms felt numb, dragging the boat inland above a line of scattered pearly, broken shells.

Relief. When they had lashed down the sail, Éomer searched their little refuge. It was empty but for shrubs and bracken and coarse sand—nothing to shelter in from the rain. Lothíriel pulled out an oilcloth wrapped kit of firesteel and stone to start a fire but the driftwood would not light. It was too quickly doused-who knew how long the rain would last and they could embark again? They were wet and even in the headland's lee the wind gusts swept down and soon set them both to shivering.

"Can we not shelter below the boat?" asked Éomer eyeing the little craft's barnacle-studded bottom when Lothíriel, with another elaborate curse, gave up on her firecraft. "At least it will block the wind."

"Excellent idea!"

With yet more concerted effort they took down the mast and flipped the boat upside down, rested it on stem and stern. Lothíriel scrambled underneath and Éomer followed; the space was small, they were shoulder to shoulder once again, pressed close to keep out of the wind that mercilessly dove below the boat's arched sides.

They were, if not dry, at least not buffeted. Lothíriel reached to pass him the water bladder and hunk of only slightly salty honeycake. "Do you feel better now?"

"Yes!" Oddly, he found he did. Without the land rolling like a wildly bucking horse his stomach no longer cramped and even grumbled hopefully at the sight of food. He took a cautious bite. The moist sticky sweetness no longer threatened to come back up.

"Best I've ever had."

Lothíriel chuckled. "Hardly."

"It is. In this very second it tastes like Hilde's best Yulekaga."

"Yule what?"

"Yu-le-ka-ga," he explained. "A special fruit bread for the winter solstice. You'll love it." When you have Yule in Edoras.

He stopped the words from tumbling out, worried that somehow they would jinx their happy solitude.

Overhead the rain drummed relentlessly on their makeshift roof, its beat only slightly slower than his pounding heart. Below, the press of her hip on his was maddening. "How long might this storm last?"

"A candlemark. It wasn't that strong and there were already breaks above."

Not that strong? Éomer shuddered at the thought of worse, but then perhaps in a much bigger boat it might be easier. He shifted to stop a long narrow rasor clam from digging into his backside and lifted his arm above his head, gently drapped it around Lothíriel's shoulders to pull her a little close.

She was smiling and still shivering. Delicately. He willed some of his warmth to carry through.

"Lothíriel, may I ask you a question?" he ventured, after a drowsy moment more.

"Of course."

"Did I pass?"

"Considering the contest is a fiction?"

"No, seriously."

She turned below his arm and arched a brow. "What do you think?"

He pondered solemnly for a moment. His salt soaked clothes were stiff. A graze he didn't know he'd made stung on his cheek and his shirt smelt more than faintly off. He might not look or feel his best, but there was no doubting he'd given the day his all.

"Gea. Despite the discomfort, I enjoyed the speed," he admitted, surprised to find it true. He might never long for the experience like Legolas, but he wouldn't embarrass himself before her relatives.

Well then.

He pulled from his tunic the small nosegay of blooms he had gathered on his reconnoitre. Purple and fuchsia little cones of cyclamen. Pink wild rose and white sea thrift. And something that looked like a giant deep blue thistle.

It reminded him of the wide fields of home where grasses reached to touch the endless sky.

"I have no gift to offer, so these will have to do. Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil and Leylin," he said, "would you wed with me, Éomer, son of Eomund and Théodwyn?"

"Oh, Éomer they are simply perfect," she smiled through happy tears, fingers reaching to caress his wounded cheek. "Gea. Yes!"

Their kiss, when it came, was salty and so sweet.

.

~~~000~~~

.

Epilogue: August, 3021

.

It was a beautiful ceremony.

The bride looked radiant in a gown of Dol Amroth blue and silver; the groom gallantly handsome in rich wine brocade. The King joined the adorably distracted couple with ringing words of solemn grace from Numenor and the Éothéod. The ruling Princes of Ithilien and Dol Amroth both cried. The newest prince of Ithilien did not: Elboron, a ridiculously easy baby, slept placidly through his first official appearance ensconced on the White Lady's lap.

All the wedding party had been a trifle nervous until Imrahil noted, loudly and pointedly, that he had threatened his younger sons with banishment should anything untoward occur.

This did not include the good natured ribbing that inevitably emerged. The King's Éored feted the new Queen's fertility loudly and mostly in good tune. The Swan Knights, not to be outdone, fell to their clanking knees and sang of loooong sea voyages. The Bride Price, which had thankfully included many cases of foamy, hoppy beer from the Mark (and two prized grey Mearas), was substantially consumed.

From the giddy joy that accompanied every kiss, the newlyweds were unlikely to dance until the dawn, but Aphros, who was wound like a top on sugar and the excitement of no bedtime, just might.

After the speeches and groan-inducing mountains of food, the Captain of the Westwind stood beside the terrace doors and took another pull of his tankard, musing privately that new 'old' traditions certainly had their place.

Éomer had sent wildflowers to Lothíriel's room that very morn and Erchirion, may or may not have sneaked a peek at the card. 'Thank you for the ride of a lifetime. After tonight can we try your trick?' Well, well, well. His little sister was far more educated in Belfalas tradition than he or Rothos or Elphir knew; but then what could one reasonably expect with three brothers who were, ahem, older and wiser, to copy from? At least the phrasing suggested they hadn't tried it yet. The pair's excuses when they belatedly appeared in the palace hall bedraggled and exhausted had looked reasonable enough.

There was no mimicking that particular shade of green.

Erchirion was just considering asking his Aunt Ivriniel to dance when a tower of brown and gold appeared.

"Not aggrieved to lose out on the match?" he asked equably of Harad's Emperor. The man had curiously spent much of the night in conference with Gondor's unusually boisterous Queen. He meant to find out why.

Goran smoothed down his immaculately smooth mustache. "How so, Captain?"

"Your pride isn't irked a bit to lose out to Rohan? To have missed an opportunity to wed the most beautiful and accomplished princess in Middle-Earth?"

"Not at all." The Haradrim paused to take a sip of his excellent frothy wine. "I had no intention of taking another woman to wife. One is sufficient for me right now. And Lothíriel is such a prize that she deserves to be first in someone's heart."

First in someone's… Erchirion's mouth gaped open like a fish. "No intention? But you danced six times in one night?! You've been to every gathering since Yule?! You were going to take her sailing."

Goran chuckled low. "As much as I admire your King Elessar, it is your Queen who is most cunning." His dark eyes danced. "The placid surface of a mirror pool indeed hides many skills. Gondor and Rohan are now tied doubly through the surest bonds of all. True love." The Emperor bowed so smoothly that not a drop of wine was lost. "May the Wind Lord bless their union."

With that hallowed invocation he glided silently away, leaving the young prince staring in abject shock.

Why… that…that meant… Zenaida!

Erchirion stalked toward the dining tables, stopped long enough to throw back a goblet of amber fire adroitly offered by an observant servant. It burned all the way down to his stomach. And chased away the more insulting words in danger of capturing his tongue.

By the time he found the minx in question there was hardly anything worth saying left. "Lady… you.. you…!"

Zenaida stiffened but then gave a quiet sigh. Gracefully, she inclined her dark head by way of apology to her seat mate and rose. Every inch of her elegant shape was draped in clinging ochre silk, almost—almost- more alluringly curvaceous than her perfectly arched brows.

They were raised in a private amusement that clearly she would keep entirely to herself.

Erchirion fought down a suddenly overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms.

"My Lord!" Zenaida smiled, "You've won! Congratulations! How simply lucky you have been. I do hope that you will now honour our honest wager."

Honest wager. He snorted almost rudely. The conniving creature had known of Arwen's plans all along, had taken unfair advantage of him. He began to call her out, but then, looking down on the object of his fury, all dark-eyed, beguiling beauty and glittering intelligence, Erchirion paused, wondering did he mind so very much?

He had matched wits with someone who also loved to tease and lost. Someone quite prepared to risk all again for the simple lure of the chase. The thought was quite—unsettlingly thrilling.

He roughly cleared his throat and finally found his tongue. "My lady, yes, my sister and I have been blessed by Lorien's own luck. She has won the man of her heart and I have won the bet. As we agreed, I shall now grant you one favour." A dark brow of his own quirked up. "But only one."

For a fleeting moment, innocent ebon eyes widened in relief. Zenaida, it appeared, was far, far from unaffected too. Erchirion bowed and did her a courtesy learned from two decades of watching his father charm the world. "Ask away."

The lady curtsyed flawlessly back and as she rose in a rustle of fine silk, looked up from underneath lashes as long as the desert night.

"Captain, will you show me how to calm the waves?"

.

There, that's done! Yay, another wip, actually finished! And only twice the originally planned length. Eep.

Thank you all so very very much for commenting and favouriting and following. It gives me life.

For the definition of pintel and swive: see Lost in Translation-grin. For sailing issues, I will pass on your queries to Mr. Sian. He patiently spent an hour discussing medieval rigging and problems thereto. We finally settled on less detail.

And of course, huge thanks and kudos to Annafan and Wheelrider and ladies of the Garden.