A/N: (sheepishly) nice to see you again, guys...sorry this is so late. Colleges is a rather silly place. I hope it's worth it, at least.

Chapter 11: The Telling

Lothiriel could not focus on her book. She closed it with a sharp thump and laid it on the floor, which was now strewn with various tomes on history and herb-lore, romances and fairy tales, and even her father's favorite red-leather bound volume of Adunaic verse. She looked outside.

The sea was in a mood today, lashing fiercely against the bedrock, sending the spray even to her windows. Though she sat in one of the lower alcoves in the Tower, it was still built far above the crashing waves – and from up here, the howling of the wind and waves was but an exciting spectacle; up here in the warmth and the safety of the fortress, she could watch the rage of the sea as one might watch a favorite play, to hinge and bask in time of crisis, reliving and thrilling at the feeling of tension, the sudden hitch of fear – but never to be truly touched, never feel the fear as immediate, choking, blinding.

Amrothos, of all her brothers the closest to her, was in Minas Tirith, wreaking havoc upon their libraries. Erchirion was out to sea, and so Lothiriel had been greeted by a smiling Elphir, his son Alphros – gangly and sunburnt at twelve years old – and her father, solemn and a little too serious, as always.

She hoped Erchirion was not caught in the storm, as much as he liked such things. It was her favorite type of weather, too, or had been.

It was almost suppertime, but Lothiriel did not stir. A gap had opened behind the clouds, far west above the sea and the sky lightened ever so slightly as the dying rays of the sun threw a golden gleam – and pink, and deepest purple – upon the slivers of the clouds, while all before them was stormy black. The faintest glimmer of water shone far in the west where the sun set in a clear sky over the sea. She waited for the dark to set in. Perhaps there will be stars tonight, after all.

"Lothiriel?"

It was Eomer. He stuck his head in.

She wasn't sure who was more surprised, between the two of them, and made to rise from her alcove.

He put out a hand.

"It's alright. May I come in?"

She concealed her look of surprise, stacked her books to one side as he sat down by her; he looked embarrassed, she saw – as if he didn't know where to place his eyes.

"Of course."

He sat down, his wide shoulder an ill fit in the cramped space of the little alcove. Then, suddenly, pressing his nose to the window-glass, he pointed, and exclaimed for her to look at the sunset. Lothiriel laughed, her mood lighter than it had been all day, and watched with him the as the last bits of light bounced between the waves and the clouds, and then fell into the sea.

A flare caught in the towers near them, sizzling into life like anar, and then another, a great sphere blazing, engulfed in flames. From the base, the ring of orange flame buds flared out in an arch; they joined, welded at the uppermost point.

"The Lamps of the Tower," she explained, to his appreciative murmur, "they can be seen by the ships for miles, that mariners stay well away. The Harbor's lights are further into the Bay, to the south."

She marked his quietness, the small signs of tension in the way he sat and tapped his hands against his arms, as evidence of something troubling him that he didn't know how to put into words. Where he normally slouched and sat himself in the most comfortable way possible, now he was tense, strung tight as a bowstring, the muscles in his arms working along with the passing thoughts of his mind. She thought that his thoughts could not be pleasant.

She caught him looking at her again, out of the corner of his eye.

"Was there something you wanted to speak to me about, Milord?"

He frowned, as if her question had displeased him somehow, and said, looking at her steadily now, "I would prefer if you were to call me by my given name, when we are alone – or really anywhere, for that matter."

Whatever topic of conversation she had expected him to broach, poised as he was with such tension, it was not this. But then, she thought, perhaps only this could make him look so uncomfortable.

"Yes, Milord," she said.

He gave her a pointed, disgruntled glare – with half the vehemence of his usual – and she realized he was trying to be gentle with her. The corner of her mouth kicked up.

"Eomer."

And realized she had almost never called him by his given name.

It was a revelation, to speak a word that everyone else speaks but she – and there his name sat, roundly and solidly, light as air and warm as the winter's hearth against her throat.

And it was not altogether bad.

The other corner of her mouth lifted, and she smiled, a little amused that so small a thing could make such a difference to her, and had required such deliberate effort from him.

"You spoke late into the night with King Elessar. What did he say?"

But the question did not put him at his ease again, as she had intended. Instead he leaned forward, the notch in his brow deeper now, all restlessness and unspent action.

"Aragorn knows little of the lands East of Rhun, and what little lore he has sounds less than hopeful for us."

"And what does that say?" she asked, calmly, curiously – though a part of her mind noted that it was the first time when he thought fit to let her into his counsel about matters of the state.

"There is the same myth, of course, of how the world began in darkness and ends in darkness. But the one prevailing prophecy of their songs says that when the spirits of the deep forest are woken by the encroachment of Men upon their land, they, in fury will release poisons into the air and the waters. It's a sort of purge at the end of time, to restore the balance of the world."

"Angry spirits?" Lothiriel couldn't help the shade of disbelief that crept into her tone.

"Not exactly something to take a sword to," he agreed.

"But they can't be real, can they?"

He gave her a rueful glance, "For a long time we thought the Galadhrim just to be that sort of fey, malignant spirit, since they took so ill to our logging and strange things were often seen in the forests. Now I don't mean there must be some renegade Eldar living beyond the Rhun - far from it. It would almost be easier, that way."

"The healers can't prepare against something so entirely unknown," she said, sitting back with a frown and wincing as the stiff muscles of her back pulled tight, "they can't make an antidote to myths of the end of the world."

"Too true."

She caught a long suffering note in his voice.

"Is statecraft always so frightening, Eomer?"

"Quite," his face lifted in a wry smile at her words, "in most cases I find that it alternates between fear and boredom."

That made her laugh, but as the tightness settled itself again over his features, she felt compelled to say – touching his sleeve lightly while he looked out the window – "I will help you, of course, with anything. You have only to ask. Though there isn't much I can do; I know the healers well, that is all but I …"

He cut her short, bringing a large palm to cover her hand, holding it to him, against him, in such a gesture of trust that she would have fallen silent even had he not turned those flashing mahogany-gold eyes upon her, and said, in that bell-deep voice of his, in perfect sincerity,

"And you have my thanks, for all of it."

It was as if she were someone else entirely; someone whose company he would seek out, whose counsel he valued. Though Lothiriel had never felt bereft without his good opinion, the strange and sudden acknowledgment washed over her like a sensation of falling; an admiration she had never sought but only realized – now, at its attainment – how deeply she desired it. It was as if, in an attempt to gauge him, in casting a side long glance she had instead emerged here, in this alcove, her hand held to him in an age-worn gesture of tenderness. As if they played two halves of a legend, the rhythm of tales taking over despite themselves, like the inexorable turns of the tide.

His hair gleamed at her in the flickering darkness, swift shadows running through it, and she could recall the feel of it under her fingers not so many nights ago when she had tied it back for him. Now, at this new touch, his hand upon hers, the same white paralysis took over her mind, but it was worse, worse than before when it was only a passing awkward gesture, a fleeting tenderness. This new sensation was much stronger, a terror and a delight, some sleeping recess of her mind that had now finally woken. So Lothiriel pressed her back firmly against the window panes, while this ancient, desperate longing swept through her, violent as a storm, in which she was but the hapless vessel.

For a second she could not, for the life of her, draw breath.

He was looking out of the window again, humming a little tune, his thumb running lightly over the top of her hand, the warmth of it riding in little waves up her arm, white hot and glowing.

For Valars' sake; she thought, coughing to cover up the gasp of air returning to her lungs, for Valar's sake – he was her husband. Better than anything she knew the movement of his body against hers in the night, the burning palms of his hands, the calloused fingers, the sun-bronzed backs traced with veins. She knew his touch better than she knew his mind, and while the former had always been stimulating – electrifying – to say the least, there was no reason why she should be transfixed now, mesmerized, by the simple movement of his thumb over her skin.

Breathe, Riel. Get a grip.

"I had hoped to speak to you about something else, as well," he said, in that new, gentle way of his which disconcerted her beyond any shouting.

Lothiriel made a noise of inquiry, hoping he would attribute its unintelligibility to vague interest than her current, incapacitated mental state.

"Do you rise early every morning in order to avoid my bed?"

It was entirely too ridiculous. Here she was, deprived completely of her ability to think by the merest touch of his hand, and he could sit there, close enough to be oblivious, and ask her nonchalantly whether the thought of his bedding her was so awful that it sent her scrambling at the sight of him for the entirety of last year. Lothiriel suspected that he knew his abilities well enough that he did not doubt her answer – but why, then would he ask such a question?

She burst out laughing; at his bemused frown she only pulled her hand back from him and used it to hide her flushing face against the cool glass of the window.

"Could you really have doubts, Eomer?" She asked, and felt herself turning bright red, "because I assure you - " and she looked hard for words here, and could find nothing but – "that it is entirely pleasant; your bed, that is."

But if she thought he would be assuaged by this, she was disappointed. For he leaned in – too close for comfort – and with perfect seriousness, said again, "then why do you leave?"

And she realized he did not want compliments, or a blush, or banter.

No, he wanted that next thing – her secrets, the truth, the little frailties and failures and humiliations that she held closer to her consciousness than even her body. And here he was, totally aware of his effect on her, full of means and ways and light, wanting to lift the damp, cool covers of her mind and open her secrets to the sun.

Suddenly she resented it – the violation, the rendering of pain into words that must necessarily make them petty; and the fear that perhaps they were petty, and silly, and entirely stupid in the first place.

He must have seen the struggle mirrored on her face, because he pressed his advantage, his breath falling soft on her, stirring the skin of her face.

"Tell me, please."

She sighed.

It was too easy, to lie. She could imagine how easily words – pale, flat words - could render even the terrifying, breathless dreams into the perfunctory, clinical processes of the mind – boring as yesterday's menu, or today's chores.

She imagined herself, repeating those pale words to him, and imagined, in return, his flashing eyes, because as little as Eomer might know her, little love as he might hold for her, his nature was one against which subterfuge, especially the subterfuge of words, had no power. She imagined his roar that would echo in this little alcove, if she should lie to him now.

"You don't need to hide from me, Lothiriel," he said, very quietly, and then she had no other choice.

Perhaps it was the noise of the sea to which he was still a stranger; perhaps it was because he had slept until late afternoon the day before, but when Lothiriel sat bolt upright in the pre-dawn hours Eomer did not sleep on, insensible as usual. Instead, his eyes snapped open, and he stiffened, that old rush of battle-ready adrenaline flowing through his veins.

Everything was silent – he heard nothing – and the day was yet dark. But the cool morn air stirred at his throat and his chest, where there had been warmth before, and moving his gaze he saw the shape of Lothiriel sitting beside him, a spot of light from outside illuminating the planes of her back.

He watched, without moving, as she ran her hands through her hair, and then clenched them on the blankets around her; he saw the deep breaths that moved in her shoulders, heard her soft counting from one to ten. He lay still, as the first sob choked itself and died against her throat, and she clasped a hand against her mouth, her anguish strained and contained behind her hand, until all grew calm again.

And she ran another hand through her hair, and tossed off the blankets.

Eomer forced himself to close his eyes, and breathe normally.

An eternity passed before he heard her lay down upon the bed, and draw the blankets sliding over herself. But he felt it when she turned her face to his chest, and felt her soft arms go about his waist, and breathed in the perfume of her hair while her trembling grew still against him, and her breaths turned calm and deep.

It would be enough.

For now, it was enough.

ElvishKiwi: 2 reviews! You make me happy. I had a lot of fun writing chapter 9 (and a lot of studying did NOT get done), and couldn't sleep for a couple of hours after it – mostly getting my hiking-prone friend to tell me about what happens on mountain-climbing trips and trying to verify if I've gotten things right. They're smart people; they'll figure each other out, eventually, right?

Mauraudersminuspeterarehot: can you just see him tromping in and say something like, that's all in the past, get over yourself already and help me with this stupid plague business!

Lorena: Thank you for reviewing! I hope there might be forthcoming conversations with…mysterious lady in the garden… whose name will soon be determined.

Randomisation: Lothiriel's got some baggage, just different baggage compared to Eomer's. I've always thought that might be difficult for her, especially since he did so much during the war – and much of it was recorded – that she might feel a need to meet to the same standard. Horrah for inferiority issues (she was, after all, a footnote in the annals of Middle-earth history)? Maybe I'll write in some martial arts/ archery/ weapons training for her, just for some balancing action…

Bookworm2011: Thanks again for sticking with this! Did I mention I love reviews? And reviewers?

Angaloth: Yeah, Eomer is starting to respect her a bit more – his whole take on her before was (now that I look back on it) really rather unflattering (some of the writing was kinda disjointed too), and while she may never be spunky and lighthearted and a complete social success, he's got enough charm for both of them that she can just settle into her quietness. That would be a nice dynamic, I think.

MookieMoodoo: I think Tolkien's really great because what he's written is complete in itself, but random names just crop up in all the texts that demand some sort of attention. So obviously he didn't have in mind some world-breaking love story for Eomer and Lothiriel, like the one for Beren and Luthien – or maybe he did and just didn't get around to it. I'm glad you like the 'quiet' Lothiriel (haha); I think she just enjoys being complicated to a certain extent – so everyone must have patience. Thanks for reading!