A/N: Well. Having written that one word, I don't know what else to say other than 2012 was a tough year for me personally. I've had nearly a year's worth of writer's block, not due to lack of ideas, but, rather, to pain, stress, anxiety and some hormonal issues due to a-er, female complaint. lol I could go on about it, but I'd rather just forget all about it, it was so terrible. Hopefully, I haven't lost all of my readership.

Incidently, would there be any interest in me writing a modern day E/L? A straightforward romance? I have a really great idea for one.

This might not be the most action packed chapter I've ever written, but I still I hope you are entertained. You'll meet one character who I've fallen in love with and will probably write a separate story about sometime. I've read alot of Jennifer Ashley lately, mainly her Regency Pirates and MacKenzies series. Its seems almost every chapter ends in a cliff hanger, so I thought I'd try it this time too! Please leave a review in the box at the end of the chapter. It's my only reward. Also, be sure to become a story follower so you can get the alerts when I post new chapters.

Thanks again for hanging in there with me.

Several hours later that same day, Loti sat curled up amongst the cushions of her bedroom's window seat, sunning herself like a cat, luxuriating, her book propped neatly in her lap, golden rays of afternoon sunlight slanting through the diamond shaped panes of glass. A strong southerly breeze gusted through the open casements, stirring the frayed hem of her skirt and riffling the pages of the book. The wind also brought with it a whiff of sun warmed evergreens and the faint homey scents of cinnamon and baking apples emanating from the basement kitchen. The aroma was thrilling, intoxicating, and as she sniffed, pools of saliva filled her mouth automatically, a response that had nothing to do with hunger.

Upon arriving at the house that morning, after Eomer had met his small band of servants for the first time in the front foyer—there were twelve in total; the elderly but dignified butler, two matched footman, two parlour maids, an ox-like, but beaming, Rohirric woman who was the cook, the cook's assistant, a laundress, one stable master smelling of livestock, two grubby grooms and a stableboy (presumably the cook's son) in an unnatural state of cleanliness—both Loti and Eomer were led to the front terrace where a table had been laid and they were served an informal, yet remarkably filling mid-morning meal. It had been beyond delicious, not the drab monotonous fare they ate in camp, and they'd tucked into it with all the gusto of a couple of rescued castaways. There had been two kinds of eggs, boiled and fried, a plate piled with fried potatoes, sausage, strips of thickly cut, greasy bacon, tomatoes, cheeses, fruits, toast, fresh butter, coffee, sweet buns with icing and a small round meat the Gondorians also called bacon but that bore a distinct resemblance lean ham. Very odd, indeed. Loti had spared a brief thought for her friends, Eothian, Wolf and the others, hoping they were being just as generously fed in the barracks and infinitely grateful she was here and not there.

Having eaten to the point of rupture, both she and Eomer had been lead to their assigned rooms—Eomer having the master suite, of course—summarily tucked into their respective beds and told in no uncertain terms that they were to nap. And so Loti had if the pool of drool she'd found herself lying in a few hours later was any indication.

Hmm… Something was wrong. She wriggled a bit on the pillows, yanked from daydreams. Damn! Her backside had gone numb from sitting too long, the inconsiderate thing. She wiggled some more—it was like sitting on a cactus wrapped in barbed wire—and in the process, ended up scooting closer to the open window. Sensitivity gradually returned, so, with nothing more pressing to do other than to return to her wool gathering, she made the contented noise of the thoroughly washed, full bellied and well rested, and leaned to the side, resting her forehead against the cool glass, feelings of utter relaxation stealing over her like a fire-warmed blanket.

Down below, under a clear autumn sky the color of polished turquoise lay the back garden. Classically landscaped, it was one of those places the nobility kept for reasons of serenity and escape, a retreat where one could disappear, forgetting about the demands of others and the hustle and bustle of life outside these walls.

The gardener was out, toiling away. A squat, middle aged fellow wielding a frighteningly big knife, he crouched and waddled through the plots of perennials, rolling around down there like an unbalanced ball bearing, trimming back the plants in preparation for winter with vicious sounding thwacks. Poking her head farther out the window, directly beneath her window she could see a white stone patio, decorated with uncomfortable white stone benches and stone urns of various sizes and shape. An early frost had nipped the summer flowers a few weeks past, so Eowyn, herself, had replaced them with heartier, fall blooming varieties, in this case, huge, rounded masses of jewel tones mums. From above, Loti thought, they resembled multi colored toadstools. Across the lawn, in a small water feature, a handful of visiting birds splashed, chittering and ruffling their wings, tiny feathered brains lulled into complacency—or denial—by the unusual warmth of the day. This kept her attention for a while until the discordant clanging of bells announced the arrival of a pair of wooly sheep, plum and dingy, ironically the same exact color as dirty stockings. They meandered for a few minutes as sheep do, grazing contentedly and occasionally bah-aaah-ing back and forth to themselves until they discovered the gardener's discarded trimmings as well as his disregarded hat, which they began nibbling in earnest. For a little while, it really was an idealistically pastoral picture, like those that hung in rough hewn wooden frames on the bedroom walls, paintings Eowyn had done as a girl, scenes of life on the moors of Rohan. Loti's imagination quickly populated the lawn with small thatched-roof cottages, pens of goats and shaggy cattle, shrieking children and squealing piglets, muddy dooryards, women churning butter or plucking chickens, men mending fences and tack, chopping wood. And then there were the horses, dozens and dozens of horses.

"Don't you ever get tired of reading that?"

Loti started, banging her head on the window frame. The sound was loud enough make the gardener look up. Or it could have been the string of bad language that followed. Either way, blushing, he repossessed his partially eaten hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a dirt streaked sleeve, crammed on the hat and went back to work.

"Do come in," she said ungraciously, shifting on the cushions to glare, snake-eyed, at the intruder whose shape kept fading in and out of fuzziness. What few coherent thoughts remained were bouncing off the interior walls of her skull like peas in a rattle. Dear Valar! Her brains were spilling out between her fingers!

Eventually, as the stabs of pain and colorful red and brown stars subsided, her vision cleared just enough to find the possessor of that voice standing in the middle of her bed chamber as if he owned the place—which, of course, he did.

"Gah, Eomer! Don't you ever knock?"

Oblivious to her sarcasm, Eomer was scowling ferociously, thick fingers fumbling unsuccessfully to do up the fastenings of his high collared coat. Heaving an exhalation of annoyance, he finally threw up his hands in defeat. Metaphorically speaking, that is. In actuality, he flung his hands down to his sides, swearing. Loudly. "I can't get at these little bastards," he snarled, "Do you think you could…?" He trailed off, waggling a finger at his throat.

He was dressed in a long skirted coat that was more of a work of art than a garment. Frogged in sliver filigreed clasps down the front and made of black samite—heavy silk interwoven with faint pattern of silver scroll work—it was perfectly tailored to fit and flatter his athletic figure. Underneath, just the hint of a lightweight, black linen tunic showed, embroidered at the cuffs. Tight fitting black wool britches were tucked fastidiously into a pair of tall black leather boots. Neither dirk nor sword hung from his side and he wore no other adornments, save his gold and emerald signet ring, but in truth, he needed nothing more. Anything else would have purely been distraction.

Unwilling to out done by such tiny enemies, Eomer was already redoubling his assault before she could answer, stretching his neck up in hopes of gaining the advantage, muttering under his breath all the while.

Mushy brained and sore, she watched with mild dispassionate as he did battle with his wardrobe thinking the old adage "fashion hurts" was true in this case.

"Don't you have a valet to do that?" she demanded in a tone that was the exact opposite of helpful.

He gave her a slant eyed look of condescension that said she should know better. He'd rather go naked through the streets than have another man dress him. A woman, on the other hand… On the other hand, he was probably quite familiar with the nimbleness of female fingers, experience gained in being undressed by them. That provocative image of Eomer being fumbled with, his clothes scattered across some unknown floor gave her confused feelings of discomfort, concentrated mostly around the heart.

Why on earth did she care what he did or why he did it?!

Or who he'd done it with?

Or how many times…

Or where…

All that mattered was it hadn't been her.

"Oh, alright, then. Here." Loti sighed and set the book aside. Ignoring both a slight wobbliness and a lingering tendency to think her brains oozing out her ears, she swung her legs over the edge of the window seat.

When she approached, though, he shrank from her upraised hands. "I can do it."

"No, you can't."

"Yes. I can." Several red scratches marred the skin at the base of his throat she saw.

"Then why did you ask for help?" she snapped, wanting only to go back to her woolgathering at the window. Great Eru Almighty, he was stubborn!

She made a rude noise in the back of her throat, disgusted with him, and swatted at his fingers. Out done by, possibly, the only person more obstinate than himself, Eomer gave it up.

Bouncing up on tip toes to get a better reach, she felt around inside the collar, searching for the elusive little hooks while Eomer stood wooden as a toy soldier, his chin thrust up accommodatingly.

Somewhere, he'd found a bath. The skin of his throat was warm and slightly moist against the backs of her fingers, smelling faintly of the oatmeal soap he'd used in the tub, while the golden threads of his hair spiraled loose about his shoulders, ends still damp, making little wet rings on his coat. Thanks to someone, the butler, maybe, his beard was expertly trimmed and the face beneath, scrubbed of its mask of travel dirt, glowed healthy and tan, like the crust on a loaf of perfectly baked bread. She looped another hook and eye together by feel, covertly glancing at his cheekbones through long lashes, enjoying the incongruous softness of such coarse hairs against the backs of her fingers. Certain parts of her body were enjoying it a little too much. Her nipples were hard to the point of soreness, noticeably poking through the fabric of her kirtle and under gown.

Despite all this cleanliness, a good scrubbing in the tub couldn't disguise the purplish smudges that ringed Eomer's eyes and the reddish tinge to the whites of his eyes. Evidently, though ordered to do so, he still hadn't slept. No wonder he was so damned ornery.

She'd always known Eomer didn't sleep well, but on the road north, he'd been particularly restless, keeping watch by the fire 'til the wee hours and riding determinedly during the day, pushing both men and beasts to the edge of exhaustion as though being chased by something unseen and from which he must escape. Once, quietly rising in the middle of the night to make use of a convenient bush, she'd found him curled on his side around the dying embers of the fire, for once actually sleeping, blankets thrown off and shivering. She'd knelt down, intending to cover him up again—the night was chilly in spite of the fire—and, laying a hand on his arm, became instantly aware that something was wrong. His muscles weren't wracked with fine continuous vibrations of a body attempting to keep warm, but with twitches, convulsions, really, the long bands of bicep and triceps tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing, endlessly, like a man in the grip of tetanus. His eyes, too, were in distress, rolling under their sealed lids.

A second later, he went berserk, rolling over like an alligator. Bellowing in the same sort of aggressive roar, he shot upright. Like a woman who'd just been spooked by an unexpectedly grotesque and hairy species of arachnid, she tried to call out for help but her shriek of alarm never made it past her vocal chords. He had seized her throat in the claw of his hand and she'd ended up sounding like frog that had been punched in the ribbit, letting out a strangled erp!-ing croak.

The handsome features of the King of the Mark had been twisted, murderous and inhuman, slashed with red light from the smoldering remains of the fire, like a demon smeared with blood and his breathing was labored and noisy, every exhalation a grunt. He was staring at her, eyes crazed and glazed as she gurgled and gasped for breath, both hands clawing at his to let go, but who or whatever he saw, it was not Loti. She should have been frightened, her heart had certainly pounded to the point of bursting, but she was too stunned to feel anything except shock.

Thankfully, Eomer's growling outburst had roused the rest of the sleeping camp. In a flurry of flung off blankets and withdrawn weapons, there came exclamations of, "What the-?!" and, "Mother Fucker!" and, "Who-?". This last from a whiskey-dazed Aric.

There was one voice in the cacophony, though, that superseded the others in terms of both authority and strength: Wolf, sounding every bit the Captain of the Household Guard that he was. "Eomer. Eomer!" he barked, "Wake up and look at what you're doing, man! Let the girl go before you strangle her to death!"

Eothain scrabbled over the leaf strewn ground on hands and knees but by the time he'd clamped a hand on his friend's shoulder, wrenching on his arm, the fog that had clouded Eomer's eyes and thoughts, lifted. He'd blinked rapidly, the grimace on his face softening, shifting into an expression Loti could only describe as haunted or terrorized. Realizing what he was about, Eomer had released his grip on her throat so fast it was as though he thought her contaminated. Loti had gasped, chest and shoulders heaving, a few glorious wisps cold night air to slipping past her constricted wind pipe, soothing her burning lungs. The panicked surge of adrenaline had left her feeling pukey, light headed and weak.

Then looking equal parts embarrassed and repentant, he'd shrugged off Eothain's hand, laid himself heavily back down on the ground with another grunt and pulled the blanket up over his head like a child who thought doing this would keep him hidden from the monsters under the bed.

Having seen him like this once before, come morning, she'd wanted answers. Soldiers spent a lot of time together and therefore had intimate knowledge of one another, sometimes whether they wanted that knowledge or not. Managing to corner Eothain while he was taking care of some personal morning business (one thing about the Rohirrim, they weren't a costive bunch. It was all that oatmeal, don't you know. They weren't exactly a very modest bunch, either, even with a woman in their presence) she'd demanded an explanation, knowing she'd never receive and adequate on from Eomer himself. But Eothain had just shrugged, a slight movement of the shoulders visible over the leafy screen of bushes.

"I don't know. You'd have to ask him. Bad dream, I expect," he answered unsatisfactorily, "We all get 'em. Now and again. You would, too. Now, unless you plan on giving me a hand back here I think, maybe, you should be running along. Wait! See any good leaves over there?"

She handed him a fallen branch and wandered off. Bad dream, her left foot, she'd ruminated later as she was gathering her things and packing them willy nilly into Thrys's saddlebags. A bad dream wouldn't leave a person looking as though he'd been chased to Mordor and back. Nightmares, however, did. Here was a question: What had Eothain meant by those 'We all get 'em…You would, too' comments? For all his bluntness, sometimes he could be very cryptic. Perhaps, he had just been…er, too preoccupied at the time.

The muscles in Eomer's throat flexed, brushing her fingers, and he cleared his throat in a preemptive sort of way, slowly returning Loti from damp woods of Ithilien, back to Minas Tirith and the task at hand. His pulse throbbed in the soft spot under his chin, regular as a drum beat. "I promised to take you to the library here. Remember?" He slanted a glance downward. "I'll still take you. If you want."

"The library…?" she repeated faintly, recalling the particulars of that conversation. "Oh, I'd love that!" Then she paused, wrinkling her nose. "It isn't all crusty old men and dusty scrolls, though, is it?"

He grunted; an indeterminate noise. "Faramir will know where the good books are."

"Oh, good. There!" she exclaimed, at last catching the one remaining hook, and, backing up a pace, observed her handiwork with satisfaction.

Grimacing, Eomer ran a finger inside his collar experimentally and tugged.

"Fine, then. I'll arrange it."

With a couple of sharp movements of the hands, he then smoothed the coat over his torso, pulled lightly to adjust both silver buttoned cuff and sleeve and, rolling his shoulders, squared himself up to a full six feet eight—his already impressive height augmented by two inch heeled cavalry boots, the matte black leather polished to a shine.

"Well," he asked, striking a very rigid pose, "What do you think?"

Eyes narrowed assessingly, she tapped a fingernail against her front teeth. "Hmm…"

Seeing him every day for months now in various states of grubbiness, smelling strongly of horses, manure, old sweat, leather, or the gods only knew whatever else he'd gotten in to, it was easy to forget how truly handsome he was. He wasn't just some inconsequential, back country lord. He was a king and for once he really looked like a king.

"Do you really want to know?" she asked smugly.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you ask your sister what she thought?"

He licked his lips, exhaling with restrained impatience and looked away briefly. "Because she'll say you can dress up a pig and call it a man, but it's still pig underneath."

Loti tried in vain to smother a giggle, finding both the double meaning and brutality of Eowyn's analysis amusing. "Well, she's got you there."

"I don't need you to tell me I'm a pig. All women think men are pigs," he grumbled, not meeting her eye.

"Oh, well, that's true," she said airily, "but it doesn't me we don't enjoy the odd pork chop or slab of bacon every once in a while."

At last, he showed an emotion that wasn't dourness. He snorted, lips crooked slightly with either humor or derision. "Is that what you want, huh? Bacon?"

"Well, personally, I prefer a nice rump roast, but bacon certainly adds flavor to a dish." More giggles plugged the back of her nose, tickling. "Are we still talking about pigs?"

"Look, woman, I didn't come in here so you could make fun of me. Just answer the question!"

"Oh, alright!" She matched him tit for tat in terms of annoyance. "But I don't know why you even bother to ask?" Coming closer, Loti picked an invisible speck of lint off his coat, smoothing the fabric in the same motion. The cloth of his coat had an exquisite feel, smooth and, yet, coarse, and the warmth of his body heated it through. "You're the finest pig in the market, you know. Top choice."

His posture became easy, muscles relaxing like the loosening of a bow string and he grunted again, the uncharitable sound bearing a vague resemblance to the words 'thank you'.

Now that his business was complete Eomer didn't race for the door, rather, he seemed eager to linger. His gaze flickered around the room as though he'd never been in here before. Of course, he probably hadn't. After purchasing it from Faramir's brother's estate, Eowyn had spent the better part of a year and much of Eomer's money remodeling it.

As for Loti, having spent more than half a year sleeping on an unforgiving camp bed in a tent that could keep out neither dirt nor bugs, Loti would have gratefully slept on a shelf in a hall closet provided it was clean, but Eowyn had seen that Loti was given the coziest of the guests rooms; a decent sized and elegantly decorated space, refined without crossing over into pretentiousness. On opposing walls, large pieces of white furniture inlaid with gold tracery stood on slender, sinuous feet, their front facades bowed, undulating like the curves of a woman. The white decorating scheme was carried on across the textured, stucco walls and even into the window seat accents and the pattern of the enormous hand knotted wool rug covering the floor. Loti wondered how Eowyn had done it. Somehow, she'd taken a color so often thought of as cold or sterile and infused it with her warmhearted nature and approachable, casual charm.

But it wasn't the furniture or the artwork on the walls or even Loti herself that garnered Eomer's attention. It was the bed. Well, what else?! He was a man.

A sleek, four postered beauty, painted white and swagged in some white gauzy stuff, it was positioned underneath a long, narrow window built high in the wall, thick beveled glass panes diffusing sunbeams and tiny rainbows across the snowy mounds of feather bed and duvet, rumpled from her earlier nap.

Stealing a glance at Loti, he flushed a very manly shade of pink, and looked away.

He started wandering around, touching and examining things, running his fingertips over the tops of the furniture, the corners of his eyebrows pinched together in preoccupation. Not one who coveted possessions, he was most likely not contemplating the finer points of interior design.

"Ever heard what Eothain says about pigs?" he asked suddenly.

If Eomer was making small talk, Eomer was avoiding something.

"No…" Loti drew the word out. Eothain's mind was like a cesspit and anything pulled out of it was bound to be filthy.

At the window seat, he put one knee on the cushion and peered out the open casement and uttered a sentence that secured Eothain's reputation. "He says pork is the other white meat."

A low, Rohirric-like sound, indicative of suffering come out of Loti's mouth. "Does he," she replied in the blandest of tones.

His head swung around, teeth, all the way to his molars, showing in a grin. He had the nicest smile and the most luminous, clear eyes when he did so, enough to make any girl's knees rubbery when he looked at her like that. Eomer was not always charming, but when he was, he was downright irresistible.

"It's said you can use every part of the pig. Including the squeal."

Loti bent an eye. "Are you sure about that?"

"I'm sure." Half sitting, half leaning on the edge of the window sill, long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, he asked quite casually, "Like pork sausages, do ya?"

Loti crossed her arms over her chest in hopes of deflecting some of that charm. "Not particularly. Pork sausages are always so small, aren't they? I'd rather have a—oh, what do you call it?" Her tongue worked inside her mouth, searching for the right word in Rohirric. "Bratwurst. Bigger. Much more satisfying."

There was an answering grunt, noncommittal in nature. He leaned forward, arms stiff, fingers gripped around the sill. "Ever eaten pussy?" One eyebrow arched as though hoping this were the case.

"For Valar's sake!" Her hands rose from her sides. Eomer's trains of random thoughts were becoming, frankly, bizarre. "What do cats have to do with anything?!"

"Queen Beruthiel liked cats."

"Yes, but I'm sure she wasn't eating any of them!"

"Don't be so sure. She didn't seem to like the meat her husband gave her."

Groaning, Loti clapped a hand to the front portion of her cranium, trying to rub away the first throbbings of a headache. It was becoming increasingly hard to separate innuendo from fact in this conversation.

"Thanks for stopping by, but it's time you were going." Marching over, she kicked him, barefooted, behind the knees. "I have things to do."

His large melon of a head swiveled to and fro. "Like what? You weren't doing anything when I came in."

"Exactly. And I'd like to get back to it, so if you don't mind—"

"Come here."

The urge to groan again was strong, but rather than be contrary and demand why she should heel to him like an obedient dog only to have him complain that she asked too many questions, Loti padded reluctantly over, features narrowed and leery. Eomer plucked the end of one long, belled sleeve, rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger, examining it with the same intensity as one who was a connoisseur of women's fashions.

"It's worn out," he said, showing her the edge of an unraveling hem.

"I didn't have time to mend it," she said through her teeth.

"I can see that. You were too busy darning Aric's socks." His sigh was like that of a man accepting the responsibility of a job no one else wanted to do. "Well, can't let you go around looking like the rag and bone woman. You'll need a new one. 'Til then…" He tugged on the sleeve. "You should take it off. Put something else on."

"Take it off?" she repeated, rapidly, "Then what am I going to wear? All my other clothes are being washed an— Oh, no!" The words were as much of a warning as the finger she shook in front of his nose. "Don't you dare say it-!"

"It's true." Taking hold of the admonishing digit, he twisted it, albeit gently, out of his face. "I may not be much to look at, maybe, but you'll think different after a quarter of an hour."

"That long, huh? More like five minutes."

"Well, it's been a few weeks," his eyes rose in an exaggerated half appreciative, half lewd manner from her bare feet to her slightly mussed hair, "so more like two."

"Are you undressing me with your eyes?" she squeezed out between her two front teeth.

"Would you prefer it I did it with my hands?"

Loti made a very creditable attempt at neutering him.

Nearly a minute later, as she had the fingers of one hand knotted in his hair and the heel of her other hand shoved up under his chin, the imperious sound of a throat being cleared froze them both in place, breathing hard from the struggle.

There stood the butler, framed in the doorway beyond Eomer's obnoxious, fat head, straight and lean as a beanpole in black livery, his long, sagging countenance a monument to inscrutability.

Fire burned up Loti's cheeks like flames through dry grass. Belatedly, she remembered servants didn't, as a rule, knock.

"Ah, Sador," Eomer said with an almost cheery lilt. He spoke quite normally considering she was attempting to snap his head off his shoulders. "What is it?"

"Sir," he said stiffly, "there are men here." Sador could hardly be called handsome. With gray casted skin and sunken, darkly circled eyes, he possessed a somewhat cadaverous aspect. Even his voice was on the ominous side; deep, resonant and commanding, like a god speaking from the heavens.

"Mine or theirs?" asked Eomer.

"Yours, Sir. It was her ladyship's wish they remained in the courtyard. I believe she was too afraid they would dirty the house." He paused, as though making up his mind about something. "Shall I…" another pause, shorter this time, "show them in, Sir?" His thin mouth pinched at the corners. Beard-wearing, horse smelling savages that expression seemed to say. Clearly, he wanted nothing to do with his master's distasteful countrymen, but, as the dutiful servant, he must, at least, ask.

Eomer might be lord of the manor, but he knew who the real master here was. "Wynnie knows best, I expect. They'll keep until I'm done here. Thank you, Sador."

The butler's eyebrows, or what should have been the butler's eyebrows—they were very sparse and thin—rose the barest fraction of a fraction of an inch, an inconceivable degree of emotion for such a stony face man. A flush highlighted his gaunt cheeks so he no longer seemed so corpse-like. By the look of him, he was obviously unused to being thanked for simply doing his duty.

"You're welcome, Sir." The unflappable Sador nearly stammered. "Sir?" Sador lingered in the doorway. "Do you require anything else? Something from the medicament closet, perhaps?"

During this entire conversation, Eomer had been pinching Loti's nose between two knuckles in an 'I've got your nose' sort of way.

"Mmm…no need. We were just…talking." He promptly released his hold. Loti, just as promptly, drew back a fist and punched Eomer in the gut.

Like any good servant, Sador's eyes were devoid of both judgment or condemnation, but Loti suspected, underneath those hooded lids, he was second guessing his decision to work for this barbarous man and his overly opinionated sister, afraid of what other depravities—or scandal—the household might be subjected to.

"Very good, Sir," said Sador, who then turned on his heel and floated away, silent as a ghost.

"Ugh! You're such a boar, Eomer," Loti railed, brushing at her skirts with irritable sweeps of the hands once Sador had disappeared down the hall. "Truly porcine! You embarrassed him. I think he thought you were trying to molest me or something! Do you want all the servants thinking you're a heathen?"

"You worry too much. Sador came with the house. He was Faramir's brother's butler." Much to her disappointment, the punch to the belly had little effect on Eomer. He was absently rubbing a hand across his stomach, more for something to do than to alleviate any pain. "I knew Boromir. He could out drink and out fuck any man alive. Including myself."

"Modesty doesn't become you," she muttered.

For interrupting, Eomer gave her a mildly deprecating look. "Sador's seen what the privileged sons of powerful lords act like. Trust me, Hen. He's not shocked. You've got a fine right hook there."

"I've had a lot of practice." Hoisting herself up, Loti perched on the edge of the window seat next to him, the madness that had clenched her innards a few moments ago, dissipating like wisps of smoke in wind. Eomer was probably right about the butler. She saw no reason to admit that to him, however, preferring to say, "The privileged sons of lords, huh?"

A line of disagreement had appeared above Eomer's aristocratically prominent nose—a legacy passed on to him from his Gondorian grandmother—and she could see, just see, him trying to form the words, 'I'm not a privileged son'. After a couple of seconds consideration, he opted for the more conciliatory, "Mmhmm. You're too smart by half, Hen."

"Hmm… I thought you liked smart women."

"I do. Once you're done—er," He shrugged, an excessively modest movement. "You've got to talk to them sometime. Best they have something inside their heads besides marriage and babies and receipts for pies. I do like pie, though..." he added, a twinkle in his eye.

There was something different about Eomer. Had been since he'd been reunited with his sister. He'd lost that severe edge to his personality, the intense if-looks-could-kill-you'd-be-dead-by-now expression on his face. Next to her on the cushion, he sat with a loose jointed ease, behaved in a—mostly—good humored way, and smiled frequently, like a prisoner who'd escaped the confinement of his cell. It had taken awhile to pin down just what it was, but now she knew.

"You're happy. Aren't you?" she asked softly.

He answered by letting out a long breath. Then, he did something totally unexpected. Eomer put his arm around her shoulder, his big palm cupping the slender round like the wing of a bird, its heat slowly warming the linen of her sleeve. Loti permitted him to pull her to his side without resistance so he could play the big brother routine.

There they sat, content in each other's company, the warm breeze, slightly damp with northern air, playing in their hair, and the bleating of sheep smothering the thwack-ing sounds of herbaceous mass beheadings taking place in the garden. His coat smelled strongly of cedar wood storage, sharp and tangy, the perfect complement to the rich musk of his cologne.

They did, at times, have a very sibling-like relationship, easy and basic in its simplicity; Loti the carefree baby sister, Eomer the tedious elder brother. Other times their relationship was much more complicated, fierce and passionate and possessive, like lovers.

Curiosity got the better of her. "Have you really eaten cat?"

He glanced down at into her up turned face. "Once or twice," he said laconically.

"Once or twice," she repeated dubiously.

"Tasted like…" he added, without prompting, "Chicken."

"Ah. Of course." She hesitated, observing a tiny, imp-like curl to the corner of his expressive mouth. "Did you like it?"

"I did." He was regarding her from the corner of his eye again. "The ones who don't usually complain about the…hair."

Automatically, Loti's forehead wrinkled, but before she could form her lips around the next most logical question, he gave her a departing pat on the rump and bolted for the exit. "Got to go."

"Eomer," she called after him.

"Yes, Hen," he said, turning back at the jamb, his smile lighting the room like a morning sunrise.

"Next time, knock."

"Next time," he said in a raspy baritone. The breeze was warm across her neck, seducing, like the touch of his breath. "You'll invite me in."

Her gaze followed him out, eyes drawn to the tight, square shape of his buttocks under the skirts of his coat—well, if he could ogle her why couldn't she ogle him?—a slight smile on her lips and a real fondness for him curled around her heart.

Climbing back up among the big, fluffy pillows of the window seat, from the other side of the house, Loti heard the muffled voice of Eomer speaking to the butler prior to the opening and closing of the front door.

Not too long after his departure, yet another figure appeared at her door: Eowyn blowing in like a leaf with the exact same disregard for the courtesies as her brother, and, considering the time of year, she looked rather like a leaf, too. She hadn't yet changed out of the orange slashed brown velvet.

Her arms were heaped with a bundle of some sort which, when laid on the bed, resolved itself into a gown a several notches fancier than what Eowyn was already wearing. It also seemed to be made for a much larger woman.

"Settling in, are you?" she asked, then turned back towards the door, muttering. "Now where is that maid? Ah, Buttersworth, there you are! Just set the tray over there, please. Thank you, Buttersworth." She pointed to a nearby occasional table before addressing Loti again. "Eomer thought you might like some coffee and cakes."

Loti was opening her mouth to comment on Eomer's thoughtfulness when the maid servant, Buttersworth, sidled in through the doorway on her stubby, bowed legs, and dropped the silver tea service on the table with a crash, rattling cups and spoons in the process.

A hobbit, with snub features and an untamed mass of red curls pinned under her perfectly respectable, lace edged mob cap, Mistress Dolly Buttersworth was roughly the size and shape of a syrup jug. Unfortunately, as Loti was soon to learn, her personality wasn't as sweet.

"Pour your own coffee, king killing bitch," she said in a voice like sandpaper over stone.

"Now, Buttersworth," Eowyn chided, as though attempting to reason with a misbehaving child, "She's my guest. I should like it if you didn't speak to her that way."

"But she tried to kill the master, the poisoning whore!" the hobbit woman argued, grape green eyes tilted at Loti maliciously.

"Well, I don't think she actually tired to poison him," replied Eowyn, practically, "It was more like she tried to shoot him through the heart, wasn't it?" Eomer's sister smiled cheerily at Loti, completely unruffled by thoughts of vengeance seeking servants, assassins living in her house or a murdered brother.

"Um…" Loti thought it best to think of something else to discuss—and fast—before one of the fancy butter knives ended up wedged between her ribs. "Where was your brother going?"

It worked. "Oh, Black Chamber business. Ghastly boring if you ask me." Her hands, slim and white as limbs of unpeeled birch wood, waved away the thought of such boredom.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Loti tugged the thread of conversation. "Black Chamber?" she asked, not familiar with the term.

"It's a closed Council meeting. All state secrets and intelligence reports."

"And Eomer didn't want me to go with him?"

"Goodness, no!" Eowyn laughed, a boisterous, full sound, like a man's. "And why should he? They'll be discussing you anyway. I'm sure he didn't want you there to be talked about behind your back to your face. Anyway, the old fools don't have the same sensibilities my brother does when it comes to women." Continuing on, Eowyn sighed wearily. "And after that he and Faramir and Aragorn will go back to Faramir's office for brandy and cigars and to lament their golf games. Don't worry about Eomer. He's a big boy," she assured, "He can take care of himself. You and I have more important things to do!"

"We do?" This was a surprise.

"Of course! Didn't Eomer tell you? No…I can see he didn't. We're—Faramir and I, I mean—we're hosting a small reception tonight in the Citadel courtyard. Visiting dignitaries, nobles, that sort of thing. Just to introduce people before the wedding. You must come as my guest, but since you don't have anything respectable to wear and there isn't time to have anything made, you'll have to wear one of my gowns. Altered, of course. Look at how tiny you are! Tomorrow Eomer wants me to take you shopping for new clothes but for now…"

Eowyn retrieved the dress from the bed and held it, rustling, against herself. It was the color of ripe tangerines with a ruched sweetheart neckline and a satin under skirt. The over skirt, long sleeves, and back, were made of a sheer, shimmering material called butterfly's wing that caught hues of blue or purple in the right light. There was a gathered, drape-y element centered directly underneath the beaded band of the empire waist, but the rest of the gown seemed to flair out loose and formless, although Eowyn assured Loti, however dubious, that her body would give it shape.

"I have too much body," Eowyn insisted, indicating her generous swell of hip and bosom, "And the color was never right on me. It's best suited for someone like you who's darker and you have just a hint of pink in your skin. I'm too fair and golden. It washes me out. Do you like it?"

Keeping a wary eye on the vindictive Buttersworth, Loti rose, crossed the room and picked up a corner of the lightweight, transparent overskirt, fingering it with a familiar mix of trepidation and longing. She'd never seen its like.

The renaissance that was transforming art, architecture and science, Buttersworth explained, also extended to court fashion. Gone were the days of unembellished wool gowns, shapeless cotton sack dressed, dull colors, uninticing high collars and long sleeves; functional yet uninspiring things worn prior to and during the War. Sensuality and skin was "in" and shouldn't the ugly cow have figured that out on her own! Gritting her teeth, Loti ignored this disparagement of her character, getting the distinct feeling she'd be doing a lot of this in the future.

"Um…" Loti said again, dropping the slippery fabric and listening to the way it whispered softly as it fell, like a light breeze through tall grass. "It's lovely…"

Eowyn pick up where Loti had trailed off, reassuring. "This style is all the rage now. The dress maker assured me that shoulders are quite—" Here she paused and gave Loti a look. This visual assessment did nothing to assuage Loti's apprehension, though. "Erotic this season. Perfect for attracting the notice of any number of eligible young men who might happen to be in attendance tonight, hmmm…?" She arched one perfectly plucked blonde brow, dangling the possibility out there like a carrot on a string.

Loti raised both of hers, remembering perfectly the scandalized look on Eomer's face when he'd seen the open back of her purple gown the night of al Din's party. At least that dress—however little it left to the imagination—hadn't shown any cleavage! Well, not front cleavage, anyway… It wasn't easy keeping the regret from her voice when she decided, "No…I'd better not. Your brother might—"

There was an angry swoosh of satin as Eowyn lowered the dress with a jerk. "My brother! Baaah!" She sounded as irritated as a sheep who'd just received a botched sheering. "To hell with him! Who does he think he is, anyway?"

Loti took a breath to say, "The King," when she was interrupted.

"Why did you pick that one, madam? She has no tits to hold it up with," denounced Dolly Buttersworth, placing work roughened hands on stout hips which only enhanced the jug-like impression. "No man will want her anyways. With no tits, she looks like a boy."

Loti reined in any desire she had to punch the woman in the throat.

"Well, we'll give her some bosom friends then, won't we?!" Eowyn answered.

The jug—er, hobbit woman—shook her head. "That won't work. She'll be mis-proportioned."

"We'll figure something out then!" The exasperation in Eowyn's voice disguised her impatience with the rotund maid's lack of imagination.

"What about shoes, madam?" Buttersworth said, miffed that her mistress disagreed with her observations. "The boy has nothing decent. Not that she deserves it."

Eowyn glanced down at the disagreeable servant. "I don't suppose…" Lifting her skirt, she stuck out one felt soled slipper. It resembled a barge, not a foot. Making a sound of self loathing, she waved away Buttersworth, ordering, "Go send one of the footman down to the cobbler's. Quickly now! Tell him this is an emergency!"

XXX

Eowyn's dignitarial reception was in full swing by the time Loti arrived in the Courtyard, skirts in hand and slightly breathless from the walk.

Her escort, one of the townhouse guards, a burly, hunchbacked, simple minded fellow the others called Elfric the Bull for reasons she didn't want to know, had gone with her up the high street, but hadn't taken her up by way of the tunnel through which she'd arrived in the morning. Instead, he'd guided her through a network of tunnels carved inside the mountain, pathways that connected important buildings on the sixth level, specifically, the barracks and the House of Healing, to the Citadel above. The click of her heels and the jangling of Elfric's weapons was loud, the sounds amplified within hollowed out rock, and, since the tunnels were essentially man-made caves, it was damp and quite cool inside, enough to make her shiver and cup her elbows in the palms of her hands. It made Loti think of herself as a predatorial intruder, wending her way through some gopher's hole. Retrospectively, those eerie tunnels, with their crudely hewn walls and sounds of dripping water, served an incredibly important purpose in the defense of the city and survival of its leaders, as the foolish fox has but one bolt hole.

She felt rather sympathetic towards gophers at the moment, since, if they didn't like being taken unawares, neither did spies. So it was with great relief that she approached the party from behind, as it were, rather than popping up unexpectedly in the middle of it, as she would have, had she come via the smelly main tunnel entrance. This bit of good fortune gave her an opportunity to not only regain her breath and take her bearings, but, also, it afforded her the chance to observe those in attendance without much notice.

Right from the beginning, it was quite obvious that Eowyn had her brother's talent for understatement. Rohan's favorite daughter had said with a flippant gesture that this was to be a small party. In Loti's mind, 'small' meant maybe fifty people or so, close friends and family. Maybe several of the high ranking dignitaries? To Eowyn, it clearly meant something entirely different. Three or four hundred people were here, milling about the courtyard, talking and laughing, their sonorous babel nearly drowning out the melodic strains of a string quartet relegated off to one side of the patio. Ladies dressed in silks and satins speckled the courtyard, draped in plumage of every imaginable color from aubergine—a much more sophisticated color than just plain old purple—to a horrid eye scorching metallic greenish color called zinnober. It looked as though a flock of exotic jungle birds had descended upon the Court of the Fountain. Parrots, perhaps, or, no, she thought, tilting her head to stare at the enormous feather stuck in one woman's coiffure, peacocks, and in the case of one young woman—was that? Yes it was! Several tiny stuffed canaries nestled in her upswept hair!

As was common with these sorts of gatherings, guests stood together in little clusters like grapes on a vine. Servants in black livery swooped bat-like through the crowd, stopping every now and again to offer refreshments from silver trays. One of these men appeared before her, bowing formally. Loti perused the offerings, most of which were as harsh looking as they were harsh smelling; things Eomer would drink. Wishing to avoid another incident of drunk and disorderly behavior, she chose a fluted glass full of something pink, bubbly, and unidentifiable but presumably innocent and the man swept off in a flourish, liquid in his remaining glasses barely rocking. She sniffed delicately before taking a small sip, tasting sweetness and fruit while the fizz, tickling, rose up the back of her nose. She converted a snort into a more delicate, lady-like sneeze.

The fountain for which the courtyard was named was only a few paces away, so she glided over to it, if only to see what the big deal was about. Eothain, with his gift for plain speech and witticism had the right of it; Gondorians had a marked sense of hyperbole. The 'fountain' was no more than a stone walled pool, like a well, about eight feet in diameter and filled with two feet or so of water. Sprouting next to the pool was the famed White Tree of Gondor. This, she was given to understand, was the second white tree, the first one having died and presumably hauled away to whatever glorious fate awaited fabled dead trees in Gondor, like gilding or being made into heirloom privy seats or garderobe doors or something similarly ridiculous like that. Lacking both foliage and blooms, the new tree probably looked just as ugly as the old had, gnarled and mangled, like parts of it had been gnawed on by an incompetent beaver. What had drawn her interest, though, was neither the tree nor the pool itself, but what was in the pool. Peering over the rim, Loti saw coins, the odd button, a few pebbles and, to her astonishment, lights. Under the clear water the lights shone blue and white hot, burning the way magnesium might when exposed to air, shivering the surface as rising heat from a fire shivers the air. They threw off an iridescent glow that shimmered off the winged mithril helmets of the two Citadel Guardsmen flanking the pool.

How could lights glow underwater?

Some trick of wizardry, no doubt. She seemed to recall Eomer mentioning something about Faramir and wizards. He dabbled in it? He was one? He had a friend that was one? She'd ask later to learn how it was done…

Spies by their very nature were curious and, having satisfied that need—for the moment, anyway—Loti picked up her skirts and took herself across the lawn to see the view of the city and beyond. Below, as she leaned cautiously over the waist-high wall, lay the circles of the city, black as the pits of Mordor and quiet, except for the men lighting street lanterns or the drunken shouts of revelers stumbling between taverns. More lanterns, tiny points of light seven hundred feet away, blazed along the city's main outer wall and, far away in the distance, along the Rammas Echor, the watch fires twinkled like stars in the flat black abyss of the Pelennor.

To the east, there was a thumbnail moon tonight, nothing more than a sickle shaped sliver of silver, suspended in the sky just above the ghostly gray peaks of the mountains. Around the wall of the courtyard, where flags had snapped in this morning's breeze, torches now burned, scenting the night air with the resinous smells of pine trees and autumn. The torch nearest Loti snapped and sputtered, showering sparks and embers that fell away, flickering out like dying lightning bugs, swallowed up by the night.

Sighing, she turned around, slumping in an unlady-like posture, the slab of stone smooth and still comfortingly warm at her back, the sun's heat trapped in its surface. It had been such a long day in a series of eventful months and Loti was looking forward to a well deserved break thanks to Eowyn's blessed interference. Enjoying the benefits of civilization wouldn't come amiss either. Sleeping in a large, fluffy bed, wearing clean clothes, lounging in a tub full of clean, hot water that she didn't have to lug out of a river and boil by herself. Maybe some shopping? Ah, the simple pleasures in life…

As she stood there, it occurred to her that for the first time in her life she was attending a party where there were no assets to intercept, no target to seduce, no mission to complete. Nothing to do but relax, have fun and enjoy herself. Things she never thought she would never have the opportunity to do. It was quite a surreal feeling, to say the least, like the waking state of confusion after a particularly vivid dream, unable to tell if the events therein were real or imagined.

The thought that she, or Eowyn, might be able find her a marriageable prospect among all these middle aged, soft-bodied, sleepy-eyed nobs was a little more difficult to believe, however. Surely not all of Minas Tirith's young men were either taken or— Well, she'd just leave that be…

The very last thing she wanted was to be trapped with, shackled to in the eternal bonds of matrimony, was an ignoble nobleman. While she did want maturity of the emotional kind in a man, she also wanted…what? Loyalty, bravery, courage. Inteligence. A handsome man would certainly be nice, but not essential. Faithfulness. Tenderness. Understanding? Yes, definitely that. A kind man who wouldn't beat her, who might treat her as an equal. Someone like…

Her cheeks—and other parts—felt warm all of a sudden.

A call of "Yoo who!" from a familiar female voice pulled Loti back into the moment. It was Eowyn, face lit with excitement, waving at her from across the crowd. This action elicited a cold sideways glare from the wrinkled old woman next to Eowyn. Her mouth pinched up in the corners like the old cow had been licking a particularly filthy block of salt, indicating she found the Steward's choice in women lacking and said woman's behavior unrefined. Eowyn, supremely secure in her role as hostess and future princess of Gondor either didn't notice or chose to ignore it, making anxious come hither motions to Loti with her hand.

Seen arm in arm, the Steward and his lady appeared both happy and relaxed despite the fact that their wedding was only days away. Faramir looked princely in burgundy velvet, his dark brown hair loose, brushing his shoulders while Eowyn, tall and long limbed, was elegant as a white rose in a long sleeved, white chiffon sheath gown, a drapey, chiffon cowl neck balancing out her nicely voluptuous bottom half.

Waving back in a much more subdued fashion, Loti picked up her skirts and began weaving her way through the crowd in their direction, the flush in her skin ebbing away.

About halfway there, as she glided light-footed past a group of young gentlemen, she felt an itchy twinge between her shoulder blades, as though that spot were a bull's-eye. It wasn't a weapon trained on her, that she knew. Nor was it a stray lock of hair. That was all pulled back and pinned on top of her head. No, it was definitely eyes.

She slowed her strides, turning her head, leisurely scan the crowd when an unfamiliar, but kind seeming face snagged her gaze in passing. Embarrassed to be caught staring so openly, her admirer, a hunky, thick set lad with the fullness of youth still clinging to his cleanly shaven cheeks, quickly looked away. But interest and attraction are difficult feelings to subvert, and a second later his eyes met hers again, this time more confident and lingering. Loti lowered her lashes demurely, flirtatiously, in response. An all too pleasant thrill swirled through her belly because, really, all women like the genuine admiration of a handsome man.

In the torchlight, he stood like a soldier; square shouldered and straight backed as a fireplace poker, nothing out of place, not even a lock of his shiny brown hair which was slicked back into a tight queue. Weapon at his hip, he had dressed in a deep purple doublet of quality and quite expensive, like an aristocrat might wear, although his skin was ruddy and tan, not the lifeless pallid color of a man of leisure which only enhanced her assumption that he was a soldier of some kind.

Before any more silent flirtations could pass between them, Loti, neglecting to watch where she was headed, crashed face first into a wall. Surprised, she stumbled, reeling backwards, and, as she was about to suffer the ignominy of landing on her backside in front of half the Gondorian nobility, the wall reached out, getting a good grip on her upper arms. Slightly stunned from the mishap, she still had enough common sense to know walls didn't normally have hands. With a shake of her head and some rapid blinking, her vision cleared enough to see that, instead of facing a wall, she was looking up at a man with a face like a disgruntled lion.

"Oh! Eomer!" She brightened, recovering from the surprise of seeing him. He looked just as stately as he had earlier in the day, if still a bit red-eyed, and the aromatic scent of cigars clung to his jacket. "How was your meeting?" There were no tufts of hair missing from his scalp so this afternoon's encounter with the Council couldn't have been that bad.

He didn't answer but continued to stand in her way, doing his well practiced imitation of a stone wall. The irony of this didn't escape her notice.

The focus of his stare shifted from her to the group of young men, unfriendly gaze fixed on the one who'd made eyes at her and slid back, cold as winter rain.

Feeling the smile on her face going stale, she had another go at inveigling him into conversation. "I was just on my way over to—Whaaa!" Seizing Loti by the arm, he began sheparding her back the way she'd just come like some sort of disobedient sheep. As a ceremonial part of his dress, he'd put on his sword. Four and a half feet of Gondorian steel, it hung from his hip in a fancy scabbard of black leather tipped in silver and smacked her rudely in the backside with every one of his long strides, occasionally making her trip.

"Eomer!" she hissed in a voice just loud enough for him to hear as they navigated clustered islands of guests like a war galley lashed together with a dinghy, "People are watching!"

This was true. Several interested heads turned as they passed by, feigning ennui even as they eagerly tapped companions on the shoulder so they, too, could stare. Loti cringed inwardly at the scene he was making. If there was one thing a spy didn't like it was unwanted attention.

"I don't really give a damn what they think," he told her, growling and searing one open mouthed gawker with a glare hot enough to start her hair on fire. Even here in Gondor, where the men were as tall and regal as their Nuemenorian ancestors, Eomer was hardly inconspicuous. Big, blonde and barbaric he stuck out like an orc in a beauty contest and had about as much refinement as one.

"Well, I do!" she complained, nearly rolling an ankle. The leather soles of her new heeled shoes were stiff and, since she was half running to keep up with him, consequently her feet hurt.

He ignored her protests, plucked the glass that she'd miraculously held onto from her hand, opened his mouth, tilted back his head and drained the contents in one long, liquid swallow as if it were some cheap swill and not the finest sparkling wine from Anorien.

She made a childish sound of protest as he dropped the empty flute neatly on the tray of a passing server.

Some very industrious bug had crawled up his backside between this afternoon and this evening. Hissing, she demanded, "Where are you taking me?"

"Home."

They had left the crowd behind by this time, so Loti dug in her heels like an uncooperative mule. "I'm not going home! Let go, you orc-headed fool! You're bruising me!" Twisting, she freed her arm, spun on her heel and stomped away, organza skirts flickering like dragonfly wings in the fountain's artificial brilliance.

Eomer lunged as she retreated, caught her arm again and whirled her around so they were once more nose to nose...sort of. "What are you doing here? And wearing half a dress!" he observed, standing back a little and hitting the right balance between prudery and the absolute horror of such a blatant display of nudity. If she'd had a wrap, he'd be trussing her up like a mummy, no doubt.

His tone was demanding and forceful, not to mention appalled, as though she was hideous and covered in warts or spots or something equally as disfiguring and she wasn't in the mood for it at the moment. Not at all.

"There's nothing wrong with my dress. We both know you've seen more of me than this!" In her opinion, she was quite modestly dressed and revealing only the merest hint of cleavage. "You'd have a fit if I wore anything more flattering than a burlap sack and an apron! Can't you say anything nice? Ever?!"

He considered that, lips tightening, a plausible signal of regret, and, then, as a man's more basic urges make it impossible not to look at a woman, his eyes lowered, leaving her face to glance involuntarily at hip, waist and—

His eyeballs got so big they nearly fell out of his head. "Bloody Bema," he said, half breathless with the sight, "How did they get so-?"

Loti hugged her arms across her chest, involuntarily accentuating their artificial bountifulness. "Never you mind how they got so big."

He made little juggling motions with cupped hands, head cocked to one side slightly in the way one examines a potentially bad piece of fruit, still fixated. "You look…out of proportion."

She bristled. "I thought you liked big…" Loti said and crudely mimed what she implied.

"I do. But not on you." Loti didn't take well to this either and Eomer reversed course, his lips doing that disappearing thing they were so good at. Abashed, he tried explaining. "It's like…false advertising."

The night was warm and now so was her face, red hot with humiliation.

"Gods, Eomer, you're so…" Fuming, she had to stop to think. "Such a…a… An insensitive ass! You're positively First Age, I swear! I've never known anyone so capable of inserting a foot that size into their mouth. Don't!" She stabbed a finger in his chest, forestalling interruption. "I don't want to hear it! Now –If you don't mind." Angrily fisting a handful of her delicate skirts, she again swept past him, nose elevated with unconcealed distain.

Eomer had other ideas, and snatched her elbow in passing.

When she looked up into his face there was fire in his eyes, literally. Big and black as onyx, they reflected perfectly the long tails of flame burning from the torches. His skin was washed in bloody light, burying one eye, half his nose, his cheekbones and the columns of his throat in shadow. Eomer's demons were rising.

"Insensitive, am I?" He might be riled but he was hurt by her words; she could tell by the way he said it. "You'll really think so now, then. Why are you here?" he repeated with considerable force.

"I was invited. By your sister, if you must know." She jerked her arm but he didn't let go.

"Well, you're going back."

"Why?!"

"Because I don't want you here."

He stood over her half stooped, looking down on her so she had to crank her neck back to see him properly. In fact, he was always looking down on her in one way or another, an action which she strongly resented. "Well, I don't care! I'm not a dog or a chicken you can just order around!"

Eomer shook her once, not hard, just enough to let her know that he could and would throw her over his shoulder, carry her back to the house and lock her in her room until he left Minas Tirith. "Listen to me, little girl," he began in a voice like the clashing of swords.

"Don't call me that!"

"Then stop acting like it," he threw back in a vicious whisper. "Do you not understand the danger you're in here?"

She surveyed their surroundings, giving Eomer her most incredulous, you've-truly-lost-your-mind-haven't-you face. "What? Here?"

"Not here!" he growled, fed up. "Here."

"Well, well, well," said a strange voice, "If it isn't my father's favorite son."

Whatever Eomer was going to say next, those remarks died on his tongue. Throughout their acrimonious discussion, neither one of them had been aware of this eavesdropper until he spoke.

Eomer's jaw snapped shut like a steel trap and he rose automatically to his full height like an animal who wishes to appear more intimidating. Even his beard seemed to be standing on end, Loti thought. Through his nose, Eomer inhaled one long, full breath, summoning a patience that was rapidly deserting him, but not once did he take his eyes from her face.

His lips parted to speak. His teeth, however, did not. "Amrothos. Are you blind or just stupid? Can't you see I'm busy?"

Amrothos? The name made her blink in recollection. So this voice in the night was the infamous youngest son of the Prince of Dol Amroth, the one Eomer liked to call the 'Man-whore of Gondor'—although his use of this pejorative seemed hypocritical, given what she'd witnessed of Eomer's rather promiscuous behavior.

According to the perpetually grinding Rohirric rumor mill, although he never publicly voiced his dislike of the young prince, it was a well known that Eomer had a low opinion of the man. As to the origins of his animus, she was still uncertain, but, hot-blooded and short tempered as Eomer was, it could be anything from insulting his dead mother to laughing at his horse. Strangely, Eomer wasn't one to hold a grudge. Normally, given time to reflect, he was a very forgiving man, accepting of other's differences.

This was not a normal case. That was evident from the start.

"Are you busy? Looks like public ravishment to me. I always knew you were a barbarian, Eomer, but, really…" There was a definite smile in Amrothos's voice, amiably teasing, as though aware of Eomer's dislike and not caring. "Hold on! This is foreplay for you, isn't it?" The smile in his voice grew bigger, almost becoming a laugh. "And here I thought you didn't get off on that. Me, I prefer role play. Does she do that, too? You know, for some reason I've always wanted to play the frog that gets kissed by the beautiful woman and turns into a prince. Pretty ironic, wouldn't you say?"

Loti risked a quick peek past Eomer as Amrothos prattled on, but all she could see in the deep gloom of the far courtyard was the amorphous shape of a man, lean bodied and nicely tall, ringed in the harsh light of the fountain and flanked by what looked like a couple of fence posts. Nothing to indicate he was as sinister as Eomer's behavior warranted. No horns or tail or cloven feet of any sort.

Slowly, Eomer, making a concentrated effort to not behave like a bear about to rip somebody's face off, turned toward Amrothos. It was the tightly controlled, yet resigned movement of a man about to address a firing squad, a hood of inscrutability masking his features.

"Well, you are a toad, so it wouldn't be that much of a stretch, would it? Why are you here and not off somewhere shacking up with a diseased whore or dishonoring some farmer's poor daughter?" His words were scornful even if his face was not.

There was a gleam of white in the dark, teeth bared in smile. Tisking as though disappointed, Amrothos stepped forward, materializing out of the night like a ghost resuming corporeal form. "Oh, come now, Eomer. Farmer's daughters? We both know that's more your style than mine."

Illuminated by the harsh light of the fountain, the man standing before Loti was dressed like a storybook pirate, one, she supposed, that had been sleeping in his clothes for the last few days. The chest frills of his white lawn shirt, once neatly starched, drooped lifelessly, framed between the wide, black satin lapels of his coat and more frills hung limply at his wrists, peeking out from under six inch black satin turned back cuffs. Luckily, the tightly tailored body of the coat was made from crushed black velvet and since this material usually looked as if it been trampled by rhinoceroses, it did a moderately sufficient job of hiding the fact that it had been lying on a floor in a crumpled heap for the last few days. At least the snug fitting, matching britches were clean and his knee high black boots weren't caked with mud or road dust. His short hair, black and glossy as a facet of coal, was as rumpled as his clothes, as if hastily styled with his fingers. This combined with his disordered state of dress only enhanced the impression that he had recently rolled out of someone's bed. Or, perhaps, two someone's…

On either side of Amrothos, arms linked through his, were two very tall women—not fence posts. Brown haired, big eyed beauties with the rough bodily proportions of broomsticks and rather scantily clad, they were twins. Identical twins, in fact, perfectly matched as a pair of porcelain dolls.

In spite of blatant flaws in his character, Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth was undeniably stunning to look at, beautiful, even, if such a feminine term could be used on such a darkly sensuous man. Under the snug fitting coat, his torso was the inverted triangular shape of a swimmer, narrow hipped and broad backed, and, while the weird radiance of the fountain leeched color from everything in its vicinity, it only seemed to enhance Amrothos's suntanned skin, flawless as a sheet of well oiled bronze, a hue strictly achieved by a beach dweller. He couldn't have been older than twenty five and cleanly shaven, as most young men were these days, but, considering the dismal state of his dress, he showed no hint of evening shadow along his cheeks. The lack of facial hair proved only to heighten the evidence his mixed Dol Amrothian ancestry. The definition of cheekbones, the sleek skin and rock hardness of his jaw line, the trim, manly nose, noble forehead and deep set eye sockets were the legacy left to him by traveling Elves, shipwrecked Umbari pirates, black skinned Haradrim slaves, Nuemenorian royalty and every now and again, a nomadic, adventuring Northman, all of whom contributed something to this very distinctive 'look'. Not really surprising when one thought about it, since the promontory of Dol Amroth and the city therein were not only historic, but a major center of trade attracting all manner of individuals.

"Close your mouth, woman," Eomer grumbled, sounding like thunder. She clamped her lips together, feeling the burn of embarrassment in her cheeks. He must have sensed rather than witnessed her goggling at Amrothos because his gaze, black as orc blood, never left the other man's face. "Haven't you ever seen a pox riddled bag of shit before?"

Rich, hearty, and mature, the Prince's laughter was the sound of a man twice his age, and for Loti, it stirred a flash of memory, sending icy tingles slithering down her spine, raising all the hairs on her scalp like the fibers in a hairbrush. Someone else she had known, a long, long time ago had laughed in precisely that same way. But who? And it wasn't just his laughter. There was something about his eyes… Big and slightly slanted, they may have been the color of liquid mercury, bright sliver and possessed of an amazingly penetrative quality, but they were as familiar to her as her own.

She shivered, the vibration of it transferred to Eomer who still had a hold on her arm. He gave her a brief tight-eyed look filled with worry and silent questions. What is it? Do you know him? Has he ever hurt you? Should I rip off his arms as though I were tearing the wings off a fly? She returned the look just as silently and with a nearly imperceptible shake of the head. It's nothing. Goose walking on my grave.

Amrothos shook his head. His speech was lightly accented, reflecting the dulcet tones of the Gondorian Riviera. "Ah, Eomer, you old dog! I'm amazed the good looking chits still want anything to do with you." Smug and full of arrogant self assurance, he lifted a hand and pointed, unencumbered by his escort's emaciated arm dangling limply from his own like skeletal remains. "Who's your friend?'

"Where's your father?" Eomer shot back like the cracking of a whip.

All traces of hilarity slipped from his features. Glancing to each girl in turn, Amrothos carefully disentangling himself like a man stuck in a spiderweb, and gestured with his chin. "Go on ladies, enjoy the party," he shooed, patting one affectionately on her boney hand. "Eomer and I have things to discuss. I'll join you in a bit. When I'm done here."

They pouted briefly at the dismissal, balking, but he kissed each on the cheek, and obediently, the girls slunk off in swishes of silk; shoulders squared, chest out, hips swaying exaggeratedly to compensate for their lack of shape.

Amrothos, dreamy bliss reflected in the ovals of his eyes, sauntered over to stand next to Eomer and the three of them watched the girls disappear.

"Elvish twins," he sighed, still staring, "Working as nude models for some painter. Gods, Eomer, you should see what they're like in bed." About six feet two inches tall, the top of Amrothos's head came up a few inches above Eomer's shoulder. Grinning like a fool, he glanced up at Eomer, giving him a friendly backhanded slap to the chest like they were best buddies all of a sudden. "If you still haven't fucked an elf maiden, I'll let you borrow them sometime. Not that they're very maidenly…"

This generous offer was met by Eomer with a flinch and a grimace of disgust. "Why the hell would I want your leftovers?"

Amrothos let out a pitying noise, sagging a bit at the knees. "But Eomer," he groaned, "They're elvish twins! You should've seen what they did last night. Arneth—she's the one on the left. At least I think she's the one on the left… Who cares what their names are when they look like that! Anyway, she took her finger and put it up-"

Eomer interrupted, offended and mildly scandalized. "I don't need your help getting laid. Besides, they've got nothing I want to see. Fence rails have got more curves."

Lowering his brandished finger, a frown pushed Amrothos's black brows together in puzzlement. "If you like the fat ones so much, why are you with—"

The pale blue rings around Eomer's pupils nearly disappeared. As Loti eyed him suspiciously, he darted a glance in her direction, his formerly closed expression suddenly widening with something resembling panic, quickly suppressed. His gazed snapped back to Amrothos, eyes gleaming with warning.

"Your father," Eomer demanded with sudden ferocity. "Where is he?"

Amrothos became serious again, but he couldn't quite loose that air of—what? Impishness? Cavalier disrespect? "You know father. Duty first." He scanned the milling crowd with disinterest, as though searching for a way to escape this conversation. "That the Swan Knights' motto, isn't it? Duty, Loyalty, Courage. How cliché. Nothing else matters to Father even if his family has to suffer for it, selfish bastard. He's probably still on a ship somewhere, out with the navy." He shrugged. "Who knows where he is? I don't."

"You shouldn't talk about your father that way," reproached Eomer. "He's a good man."

Amrothos snorted, a mean, half deprecating sound that nicely complimented the unpleasant smirk stuck on his lips. "Yes, well… Always faithful, right, brother? Favorite son and all that."

"If I had a brother, Amrothos," Eomer replied, flatly, "it certainly wouldn't be you."

Conversation lapsed into silence, the twitchy, tension laced kind that even the convivial murmurings of the guests behind them couldn't fill.

Plainly, this was a point of serious contention between the two. Eomer, having lost his own father as a young boy, would obviously harbor strong feelings of loyalty toward Amrothos's father, Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth, a man who, in Eomer's greatest hour of need, had offered him both paternal guidance and strength, treating him as another son.

But one of those queer feelings deep down told Loti this differing of opinions regarding Imrahil wasn't the only reason for Eomer's antagonism.

Not wishing to argue, the prince ran a hand through his thick, black hair, causing a hank of it to fall roguishly over one eye and changed the subject. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" he asked, again pointing at Loti

"No," Eomer said, the 'why should I?' left unspoken but implied.

"I swear, Eomer, you have the manners of an ill bred dwarf," teased the Prince. Then a thought seemed to occur to him. "Oh…. Well…So for all your talk, Eomer, you're no better than I am. Why didn't you just tell me she's a wh—" The front of his shirt became even more wrinkled as Eomer twisted the frills in his fist.

"Don't say it, shit for brains." Eomer gave him a shake, threatening, the bones of his knuckles showing white beneath the skin. "If you don't have a care for my sister and your cousin, at least have a care for those things you call balls."

Amrothos, released with a shove, took a step back, adjusting his clothes. Cocky as a banty rooster, he was smiling slyly again, unafraid of either Eomer or his threats. Showing he did have a care, for his testicles if nothing else, he bowed to her with all the punctiliousness of his title. "I was thoughtless in my words and beg your forgiveness, dear lady," he said.

Staring her dead in the eye, she felt him assessing her the same way she had him, with curiosity and great attentiveness. His interest didn't cause her to feel ill at ease, even if she was mildly insulted by his insinuations regarding her occupation—there was nothing lewd or implied in his look—but she made a conscious effort to keep her features as impassive as possible before bobbing her head, accepting his apology. Amrothos came off as harmless enough, just the mischievous sort, but she could sense a shrewdness behind that impetuous exterior. She'd be sure to keep both eyes on him should they ever meet alone.

Whirling on his heel, he was gone in a swirl of velvet coat tails as unexpectedly as he'd appeared, slipping into the crowd as stealthily as a snake.

"You really don't like him, do you?" she said, more as an observation than a question.

"And you did?"

"Well…" She considered her answer. "I thought he was quite—"

Eomer had been blistering Loti with that domineering sideways glare of his. He abandoned that now, rounding on her, fierce as a badger stuck in a trap. "Listen to me. He's a spoiled, entitled little brat. Obnoxious. Two-faced. Reckless."

"You two should have a lot in common, then," murmured Loti.

Insulted, his cheeks flexed with the grinding of his teeth. He straightened his spine, sucking in one long, noisy breath through his nose, chest expanding with indignation like the filling of a water skin.

Oops. Had she said that out loud? "I'm sorry," she blurted, nervously waving her hands, hot-cheeked under the scrutiny of those gimlet blue eyes. "That wasn't fair. I shouldn't have said it."

Like nothing had happened, Eomer picked up right where he'd left off. "I don't trust him. And neither should you! Look at you!" he continued, steaming vigorously, like vegetables cooked under pressure, "You've been here less than a day and already you've been mistaken for a whore and made a target of yourself." Eomer stopped talking, tilted his head and listened as the Court Marshal proclaimed the names and titles of yet more fashionably late-arriving guests, that man's rich, stentorian voice carrying above the bee-like hum of the crowd. "At least you were smart enough not to get yourself announced! There's a price on your head, woman. Have you managed to forget that?"

Her lips formed a silent O at the same time as her stomach clenched like a fist. Amid all the excitement of the afternoon—the dress fitting, the selection of shoes, and, yes, the sequential consumption of three cinnamon sugar buns—she had managed to forget.

"Well, I didn't. Gossip travels fast and well you know it. By now, half the pricks here know who you are. And we still have no idea who the traitor is!" His hand rose, tightening around her arm, emphasizing his meaning. He exhaled through his nose, gustily, sounding like his horse when that animal was tired, and began again, modulating his tone, trying to be reasonable. "Look, hen, I know I can't keep you hidden away forever. We were going to be found out eventually anyway. But, even still, there's nothing except danger for you here! That's why I wanted you in the barracks, where Eothain and the others could protect you. No bounty hunter could get in there. And neither would he try. It would be suicide."

Loti gaped up at him, anger building like magma under the dome of a volcano, provoked more by his lack of faith than by Amrothos's implication that she was loose in her ways. "So they could protect me? Why, you highhanded-! What about you—walking the streets unguarded!" Outrage combined with indignation made her nearly incoherent. "My gods, Eomer, your positively insufferable sometimes! Well! I'm sorry I'm such a burden! Why am I even here with you? You could have-"

"Have you gone fruit bat crazy, woman!" He was right down in her face, the hand gripping her arm squeezing, really putting the hurt on her, even though she was sure it was unintentional. Fairly sure, anyway. "I couldn't leave you there in Harad. You're my responsibility. I'm trying to keep you alive! And the only reason I let Eowyn talk me into letting you stay with us is because I can keep a closer eye on you in my own house and because the thought of you—" He broke off abruptly and looked away, grimacing like a dog defending its territory, all teeth and intensity.

"Because you thought what?" she repeated, nastily.

When his gaze snapped back to hers, there was something distinctly rabid in his eyes. "You want your blood on my hands, too?" he snarled, breathing heavily. His breath smelled strongly of whiskey, hot, like a dragon's breath. "Would you have me watch more of my women die? Do you want to see me to suffer? Is that it? Is that to be my punishment? You do whatever you want anyway, no matter what I think, don't you!

Immediately and roughly, Eomer let her go, practically shoving her away from him. He stood up straight again, seeming to grow even taller against the diaphanous glow of the party, a giant rising from slumber, his spine and silence echoing the rigidity of the Tower of Ecthelion at her back, using male pride as a shield against this unexpected outpouring of emotion. There were too many feelings raging across his face to identify just one, but it was as if he were reliving something truly terrible. Or imagining it.

It was in Eomer's nature to be over protective, over reactive and over bearing, traits which she often found insulting. But what she had previously seen as controlling, she now knew for fear. Fear, not for himself, as he was marked for death as well, but for those he cared about. As usual, without uttering a single word, Eomer had said a mouthful.

There was something significant about their separation. He from her. Eomer from the rest of the world. Eomer from himself, his feelings, his memories, his past. It was something she didn't know if he could ever over come, this propensity of his to push people away, to keep everyone, including those closest to him, at a distance. It was sad, really, that such a passionate and brave man should be so troubled and alone and afraid. He was a great warrior, for sure, however, not all foes were tangible enough to be slain with weapons. Eomer's worst enemy was, undoubtedly, himself, and, as Loti watched him struggling, fighting down his demons, she became even more convinced that his greatest battles were yet to be fought.

He thinks only of you and you accuse him of being insensitive, she thought, berating her own stubbornness, her own pride and inflexibility. Didn't she and Eomer make a pair? Both as stubborn as square boulders. Like a couple of thick skulled rams, never knowing when to stop butting heads.

A part of her wanted to run and throw herself on his mercy, sobbing and generally acting like at a foolish girl at the suggestion she wished to punish him. Another part, a part that had knotted in her chest, wanted to slip her hand into his much bigger, rougher one and offer him the solace he so plainly needed. And yet another part, the part that won, was simply ashamed.

"I'm…" Her mouth worked soundlessly, searching for words. When she did find them, they came out disconnected and insufficient. "Sorry. I didn't think— I mean, I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't," he conceded, brusquely cutting her off, excuses or apologies not something he wished to hear just now. He breathed heavily out of his nose, an exhalation that was one part frustration, two parts an exercise of patience and in speaking again, there was a tone of understanding in his voice. "It's not your fault. It's Eowyn's. She's so bloody persistent; she could get a dwarf to give up his gold if she put her mind to it." Having encountered Eowyn in just this particular state of mind, Loti had to agree. "She does whatever she wants unless you tell her otherwise. And even then she doesn't listen!" He pushed a hand through his hair, hooking the strands back behind both ears in an irritated manner. "Ghaw! She makes me so—"

"Fruit bat crazy?" She snorted, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth in a completely useless attempt to stop giggling.

The edge of his wide mouth twitched, a smile hidden in the corner, all his anger spent. "Mmhmm. Well…It sounded right at the time."

Seeing his attitude softening, she decided there was no better time to do some shameless wheedling. "It's alright, then? If I stay?" Like all genuinely kind men, Eomer was a big softy under all his emotional armor. But, like tough dough, a male ego occasionally needed a bit more kneading. "I'm already here and I have such a big strong man to protect me." With big, trusting eyes she gazed up at him, innocent as a kitten.

Eomer scrubbed both hands over his face with a scratchy sound, instantly appearing both very tired and very stressed, like a rope with too much weight on it. Right then, Loti was certain that, in his entire life, Eomer had never known relaxation or peace.

He made some sort of noise, presumably in the affirmative, shooting her a crooked eye. No dummy, he knew he was being coerced. "Mmhmm, alright. Stay. Maybe we'll learn something new. Or maybe the traitorous son of a bitch will show himself and I'll be able to put a boot up his ass. But promise me one thing, will ya, woman?"

"Mmm…What?" she asked, cautiously.

"At least try to behave yourself," he suggested as if knowing full well this was never going to happen.

She felt the need to defend herself. "If you're referring to that incident at al Din's party, I assure you—"

"Bema, help me. I think I already regret this," he muttered, directing his words at the sky. "Now, come on." He offered Loti his arm. "My sister will want to see you. And I'll get blamed if she doesn't."

They had taken maybe ten steps before Eomer lightly cleared his throat, a preliminary to speech. This was an ancient male ritual preformed before reporting bad news or something equally as grave, but never in a million ages would Loti have guessed how important Eomer's next words were going to be or how betrayed she would feel afterwards.

"Loti…"

Uh-oh. This was getting worse by the word. The only time Eomer ever used her given name was either as a warning or in combination with a warning. Right now, though, he sounded simply uncertain, not at all like the confident everyday Eomer. From the corner of her eye she gave him a queer sideways look just to be sure he hadn't been replaced with a convincing doppelganger. "Yes…" she answered, suffusing that one word with as much suspicion as possible.

Adroitly steering her through a narrow gap in the humanity, their pace slow and measured so she needn't run to keep up with him, Eomer's sandy brows drew down in a V; a frown, but a pensive one as if he were carefully selecting his next words. With a sigh and the knowledge that this could take a while, Loti began feeling squirmy, like a colony of worms was wriggling up and down the hollow of her backbone. Would he not just hurry up and say whatever it was he was going to say?! The very last thing she wanted was to spend the rest of the night worrying over what Eomer couldn't or wouldn't articulate! To add to her frustration, the feathery piece of fluff with which the lady's maid had dressed her hair kept tickling her ear, it's tiny down tentacles hovering like a cloud of gnats just outside of her peripheral vision. She swatted at it, the trickling of adrenaline into her body making her tense and irritable. Like disturbed gnats, the feathers scattered only to gradually settle around her ear once more, reforming their cloud.

Skirting a brazier, its heap of aromatic pine logs happily burning into ash, throwing off both light and unneeded heat, Eomer ended his self imposed silence. "There's someone I want you to meet." He spoke gently.

Any apprehensions Loti had drained away, seeping out through her feet like water through a sieve, a breathless relief replacing her worry. Growing excitement raced through her bloodstream in little zaps and tingles, the delight of this announcement like static on her skin.

Foolishly pleased, she smiled up at him, but he was oblivious, wearing his normal mask of frowning taciturnity. "Oh…Really?" she wondered demurely. He passed air across his vocal chords in a grim sounding grunt.

Goodness, she was giddy as a little girl with a new doll! Actually, she was so wild with it and a heart palpitating nervousness that she felt her head might float off her shoulders. After all that stupid, pointless arguing, Eomer was going to introduce her to someone—a man—or—Valar!—maybe multiple men! Well of course he was! she thought, trying to reassert some reason into the delightful whirlings of her mind. She was here. Rich and titled gentlemen were here. And Eomer was here…to stand guard like a very loyal but vicious dog and chase off anyone who spoke or acted in any way he considered less than honorable. Hmm… Some of that excitement leaked out. Perhaps this wasn't going to be as much fun as she'd first hoped…

Slightly deflated, but not the least bit defeated, Loti remembered the well dressed, handsome, soldier-ish young man she's been exchanging flirtations with a little while ago and her spirits began to instantly re-inflate. He seemed exactly the sort Eomer would approve of—strong, wealthy, disciplined, kind—and her brain clapped its imaginary hands with enthusiasm.

Smoothing a hand down her side, the shimmery fabric smooth and strange under her palm, she primped a bit and batted at the uncooperative hair pin. "How do I look?"

Lowering his lashes, he regarded her with only the mildest interest. "You look…fine."

"How do you want me to act?"

"Just be yourself," he replied, stiffness noticeable in his voice. "You're…you."

Eomer's command of the Rohirric language was staggering.

Loti didn't want to appear gauche and over eager in the presence of so many sophisticated lords and ladies, but the suspense and her overactive curiosity were eating away at her calm exterior. She was all but bouncing on the tips of her toes! And, besides, she decided, giving into the urge and putting a little hop in her step, this was Eomer. She needn't try to impress him!

"So where is he?" Leaning on his arm and standing on tiptoes, Loti craned her neck, subtly scanning the crowd.

"What!"

"Who is he? I don't mind older men, you know that, but none over the age of fifty." She waggled a finger in his direction, still searching. "After that, they get all jowl-y. I don't like jowls. Or boils. Guh!" She cringed.

Coming to an instant halt in the same way a fist does when meeting the bones of a face, he swung her around, catching Loti off guard. His expression was so upset with confusion and insult it was almost comical. Almost.

"You think I'm courting a man?"

What!

"You're courting a man?" she exclaimed.

Oops. She'd said that a bit too loudly. Heads spun around, eyeballs jiggled, jaws dropped open and ears flapped as if everyone in their vicinity had contracted the same highly contagious disease.

Coldly surveying the audience they'd accidentally collected, Eomer quickly hustled her off to the side were they could speak more privately, her skirts whisking against his pant leg.

"Keep your voice down," he hissed when they were alone and unobserved, "I am not courting a man!"

"Well, good!"

"Then why would you even ask that? No—don't answer that! And why do you think you're going to meet a man?"

"You said there was someone you wanted me to meet," she insisted, hearing the exasperation she felt permeate into her words. "Who else would you introduce me to besides a man!"

From his expression, Eomer finally understood. He raised his head, as if saying, 'Ah, I see,' and gazed down at her with a look close to pity.

"Loti…" he repeated, seriously this time, shaking his blonde head.

"What?"

"I'm not going to introduce you to a man," he confessed.

"Oh." Hopes dashed, her inner self drooped slightly, like a flower battered in a rain storm. "Then…" Confusion creased her forehead, "who are you taking me to see?"

He didn't want to answer. She could see it in the way he held himself, like he was carved in stone, but damn if she was going to beg him! She had her pride! …And the twinges of a bad feeling…

When the words eventually fell from his mouth, they left Loti completely stunned. "I'm going to introduce you to a woman. The woman that I've been courting."