Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) Title: Cameos (#3904) Author: MedeaSmyke Chapters: 13 Archive: Tolkien Category: Lord of the Rings Description: One-shot 13: Lothiriel is afraid of horses. Eomer believes he has a solution in "Barrel Riding. Published: 16 Sep 2008 Updated: 16 May 2009 Warnings: Type: General Characters: Eomer; Lothiriel; Faramir; Eowyn Chapter 1 - Cultured Cultured He found her in the archives of the City, but this time there were no scrolls or books open before her. “Béma,” he heard her whisper. “Béma. Béma!” “Lothíriel, what are you doing?” Éomer laughed as she jumped in her seat, blushing. “I was trying to make it sound convincing. Like when you say it.” “When I suggested that you should learn the language of the Mark, that’s not what I had in mind.” “Oh,” she mumbled, her brows furrowed. “But it seems to be a staple in your vocabulary. I thought I might need it, too, when I live in Rohan.” Chapter 2 - Training Day Training Day Lothíriel froze instantly as her opponent lunged forward and again her sword fell clattering to the floor. Éomer stopped, running a hand along his bearded jaw line. “Pick it up and try again.” He growled, retreating several paces; the fallen sword lay like a fence between them. “Éomer, I can’t! Not with that look in your eye.” She replied warily, crossing her arms. “What look?” “That look you have,” Lothíriel pointed accusingly at his face, “I can’t concentrate!” “The look I give an Orc when I’m about to run him through?” “If that’s the same look you give an Orc….” xxx AN: I just finished reading "The Riders of Rohan" (Bk. 3, Ch. 2 of TT) and imagining Éomer fighting Uglúk somehow led to this. But it's hardly a scenario I want to build a whole story around and I seem doomed to write drabbles forever. ;) Chapter 3 - Yare Yare (A double drabble) Yare: Of a ship; moving lightly and easily; answering readily to the helm; easily manageable. (from the OED) ________________________________________ Candle light flickered from the newly-rebuilt windows of Húrin’s House in Emyn Arnen. Drowsy, Lothíriel listened to plans of ambush on renegade Southrons hiding in the forested hills nearby. The retirement of a certain shieldmaiden was the topic at hand. Faramir persisted that his wife stay at home; Éowyn would only burden the rangers as well as endanger herself. Éowyn was abnormally subdued. Lothíriel knew that her cousin’s wife was often at a loss trying to function like a Gondorian princess. How did the women of Gondor behave when they disagreed with their men? Perhaps she should set the example? “…and that’s my final word, Éowyn.” A quiet laugh to his right caught Faramir’s attention and he blinked. Lothíriel, who had insisted on joining the council with Eowyn, rose from the table. "Oh Faramir, it's a good thing you're handsome because you're not always bright." She then whispered in his ear before leaving the chamber. Faramir colored slightly but smiled. "Right. I'll remember that," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. Éowyn quirked her eyebrows up, "Lothíriel said I could go?" "No, she said you didn't need my permission.” He cleared his throat, “She said you've killed more impressive things than me." Chapter 4 - Gimlet Gimlet The stable doors nearly burst off their hinges. It was then that Éothain knew they were in for a long ride. “Women are incompatible,” the King of Riddermark growled, slicing the air horizontally with his right hand. “You’ve found out the Princess rides side-saddle?” Éothain quipped, weathering the storm. “No.” Éomer grabbed a saddle blanket and slap-dashed it over Firefoot, upsetting straw, getting it all over himself. “Lothíriel said Firefoot behaves like a warg!” Éothain grinned, “What'd you do to provoke her?” “What makes you think I did anything?” Éothain waited. “I said her aunt reminded me of a gimlet.” Chapter 5 - For Lack of an Heir For Lack of an Heir August, 3019 TA The recently-appointed Captain of the King’s honor guard, Éothain, had delayed his journey to Aldburg long enough. But what would Éomer King do without him? Yet, if he didn’t visit his mother soon the old woman would hobble to Edoras with nothing but sheer will power and a walking stick…and plenty of both to tan his undutiful hide. Breathing deep, Éothain forced one boot after the other down the stone steps of the terrace. His men awaited him at the bottom with the king; the stables felt leagues away. He turned to his men, “I don’t need to emphasize the importance of keeping the House of Eorl intact. If the king is not alive and well when I return then the Lady Éowyn will personally deal with you.” Pain. Lots of pain. Éothain then turned and clapped his hand on the… virginal…king’s shoulder. “Keep yourself from being kidnapped, killed…or…er…emasculated while I’m gone. Better yet, do me a favor and find a wife!” “Bema, Éothain!” Éomer King actually blushed but still appeared decidedly smug and unconcerned for himself. “What could possibly happen?” The Captain had the appearance of one strangled. Wargs, orcs, wild men, and sharp objects, oh my. “Forget Aldburg.” Chapter 6 - Dark Watches of the Night Dark Watches of the Night "No one ever told me grief felt so much like fear." C.S. Lewis “It feels as though I’m waiting for something to happen only it never does. I keep thinking at any moment someone will rush into the hall announcing that it was all a great joke, things can go on like before...with Théoden and Théodred. But no one does. And things can’t go back to the way they were. Then I’m waiting again for something to happen.” Sheets rustled as she shifted closer. “Life is very hard. Death makes it hard.” “So what do we do?” He whispered. Her hand trailed over his jaw line, resting there. “We must bear it.” Chapter 7 - Elf Friend [b]Elf Friend[/'b] Lothíriel tried concentrating on her Rohirric lessons but the King distracted her. Again. “…despite what I told Gimli, you’re my elven princess.” She shook her head, blushing as the bard overheard. “Legolas swears it’s in your blood…and you magically ensnared me in your web, as elves do.” “Don’t blame me; I tried keeping you out!” “So you did,” Éomer winked. “I almost forgot. Anyway, I’m doomed by my hasty words to collect elvish acquaintances.” “No matter how remote?” “Yes,” he gave Lothíriel’s waist a squeeze. Poking Éomer with her quill, she asked the bard, “What is ‘elf-friend’ in Rohirric?” “Elfwine.” Chapter 8 - Bull's-eye Bull’s-Eye Rohirrim Camp near the treeline, Field of Cormallen. April, 3019. “Rouse yourself, Captain. You’d better see this.” A not very sober Éothain felt himself being nudged from sleep by the booted foot of Cenhelm who was the only sober rider in the entire camp, having been assigned the nightly watch. “What’s that?” Éothain growled. “Er, it’s just…there’s been an impromptu archery contest, sir, and well…I thought you might want to see for yourself.” “I doubt it.” “The King is there, sir.” Éothain detected a note of desperation in Cenhelm’s voice. “Then bother one of Lord Aragorn’s captains.” “I meant Éomer King.” Oh yes. Well, this would take getting used to. Despite the stab of annoyance, he was now curious. Éothain slouched out of his bedroll and pulled his trousers on. He didn’t bother with his tunic and glumly followed the sentinel through camp feeling like a nursemaid. He could hear their raucous laughter long before he saw the celebrants. In the semi-darkness of the beechy glade, his bleary eyes could barely make out their faces. Light from a nearby bonfire flickered in the wind and as his eyes adjusted he could recognize five of his Eastfold men who stood shakily, each with bows and arrows at various stages of readiness. It didn’t take much light to see that they were the worse for drink. One of the archers dropped his arrow before it even touched the bow. Another nocked his but released the bowstring prematurely, embedding the arrow into the ground a foot away. Very ominous endings. But it was the sight at the opposite end of the glade that nearly voided the Captain’s bowels. Five riders wobbled on their legs or else supported their soused buttocks against empty wooden casks. Feeling curiously sobered, Éothain realized that the targets were apples squeezed between their thighs. Bema! One of them was Éomer. Chapter 9 - Reader's Depression Reader's Depression For the hundredth time since Faramir’s wedding Imrahil observed his daughter seeking imaginary pictures in the fireplace while a scroll of Rohirric poetry lay crumpled in her lap. “Lothiriel, mind the scroll.” “Oh!” she started, fingers scrabbling over the parchment. “Do you not enjoy the poetry?” She frowned. “This Westron text does not compare to their bard’s voice ringing in the Golden Hall.” “Translating an unwritten language is toilsome but King Éomer labored over this piece for you.” “He did,” she agreed, sounding suspiciously neutral. “Although, he suggested I learn Rohirric instead.” Ah. Imrahil forestalled a grin, “Did he, now?” ... AN: reader’s depression occurs, for example when you read “Lyrical Ballads” atop Cat Bells and then read it again afterward in a windowless room in the States. Many thanks to my beta WargishBoromirFan and for crit from the folks at GoI. Chapter 10 - Bathtub Blues Bathtub Blues Inspired by my Bathtub Muse ;) “Lothiriel, sit down again this instant.” By order of the King. Bathwater swirled around them as she turned to face him. “Let go, Éomer.” “Don’t leave me.” Éomer King nearly groveled, clinging to Lothíriel’s damp legs. “I’ll be right back.” She leaned over the rim of the tub in a distracting fashion reaching her towel. “The water will get cold.” Amongst other things. “Can’t this wait?” “Where’s your famous self-discipline, Oh King?” “Wench.” “I’ve been stuck on this line for ages, Éomer. I might forget it.” “Is translation more important than bathing with your husband? Stop wiggling!” She was gone. Damn. *** This is the last of the cameos. Thanks for reading! Chapter 11 - Flamboyant Eomer "Perhaps Eomer's horsetail was just his flamboyant personal style." Gwynnyd Flamboyant Eomer “Théodred?” The prince looked up from his map. Éomer leaned against the doorframe with his hands behind his back. “Finished grooming already?” Théodred asked wryly. “You’re not sore about losing the bet, hmm?” “No. I wanted to show you something.” Éomer produced a helmet and put it on. “You nailed a horsetail to your helm?” “Exactly! What do you think?” “That you look like a horse’s ass.” “I’m creating my personal style,” he retorted. “Right,” Théodred snorted. “Where did you come by this…accoutrement?” Hama poked his head into the room. "Éomer, your uncle has summoned you.” Éomer swallowed. “Regarding?” “Snowmane.” ... Thanks, Deandra, for beta-ing. Chapter 12 - Good Lord for Alliance Good Lord For Alliance “It is an extra dividend when you like the girl you've fallen in love with.” Clark Gable He used Princess Lothíriel and knew he should feel guilty. She was Imrahil’s daughter, for Béma’s sake. Éomer didn’t, though. With Lothíriel for his escort, they stayed away. Like greyhounds waiting to give chase, the black-haired women latched to his heels whenever he stepped from the King’s House where he stayed as Aragorn’s guest. By previous arrangement, Lothíriel met him just inside the door every morning after breakfast, never allowing him to come to Imrahil’s townhouse in the Sixth Circle. She showed him different parts of the city or sometimes they rode out onto the Pelennor, which in only a few short months he barely recognized. A whole herd of his admirers loitered by the fountain, giggling as they passed through the courtyard. “I feel like a traveling stallion,” Éomer confided on impulse. He grimaced, wondering if his crude suggestion offended her. But Lothíriel always listened so patiently, helping him feel comfortable voicing his thoughts. “What, tied up outside an inn waiting to service the mares?” Lothíriel grinned, taking it in stride. She shook her head. “I’m afraid they’re each hoping for exclusive rights, my Lord, or perhaps you misunderstood their intentions.” He scratched his chin. “I don’t know. One of them keeps following me around with a riding crop. Those women think that horsemanship is the only quality I seek in a wife.” “Isn’t it true, though?” She had a charming laugh, really. “No! I have many interests other than horses.” He enjoyed an occasional drink with Éothain, sparring, getting lost on the plains, mucking around in the swamps of Westmark and other manly things. “I don’t let Firefoot live in Meduseld, do I?” As they passed through the tunnel gates leading down to the Sixth Circle she fixed her large grey eyes on him, looking curious and cheeky all at once. “Would you consider a woman who didn’t enjoy horses at all?” Was she daft? He tried to look neutral, but must have failed…or else Lothíriel knew how to read him. “See? They aren’t completely at fault.” Dry as a leaf, her voice belied her humor. “Show them mercy, my Lord. Kings are not as numerous as sheep on the hillside, especially in this country. You can hardly blame the women of Minas Tirith for their infatuation.” “You do alright in the face of temptation,” he drawled, shoving his hands into his pockets. She tossed her black hair behind her shoulder. “I doubt I could love a man that half of Gondor is vying for.” “Why is that?” He blinked as they stepped out into the sunlight again, not at all liking the way the conversation had turned. “It’s so silly,” she grumbled, nodding coolly toward two women who were openly staring or glaring at them. “You wouldn’t believe what fools the young women made of themselves to win Boromir and Faramir’s favor…or my brothers’, for that matter.” Éomer withdrew his hands from his pockets, taking Lothíriel’s elbow as they pressed through a group of riders near the stables. “Do you intend to mate yourself to some wizened minor lord whom no other woman has ever admired?” Lothíriel cocked her head to the side as she considered this. “Mm, only if he’s a very melancholy and wizened minor lord.” “Who wears flannel waistcoats, I suppose,” Éomer retorted. “And sleeps with a hot water bottle every night.” “And just happens to be bowlegged, financially strapped, and writes very bad poetry.” “And doesn’t own a single horse,” Lothíriel laughed, sounding very happy with this arrangement. He cringed. What a waste of a perfectly lovely woman. “You’re better off with a husband other women admire.” “Ah, but that would ruin everything. For example, you and I could never be friends if I allowed myself to join in their infatuation. Who would help you fend off the frenzied hopefuls then?” Lothíriel stopped and faced him again. “And yes, I do know that’s why you keep asking me to walk out with you. I’m not offended. It’s a very practical arrangement.” “It is?” Consternation nearly caused his voice to crack, an uncomfortable experience he’d not been in for years. With his plan exposed, Éomer now felt a touch guilty…and disconcerted. The Princess obviously gave their activities together far more thought than he did. The air smelled sweet approaching the garden walls of the Houses of Healing, as they continued through the circle. Lothíriel nodded to the page standing before the double doors of the grand building before resuming their conversation. “We both need an escort around Minas Tirith for matters of personal safety. And, as it is, you are quite safe with me and I do not like horses, so I am safe with you.” “Oh.” Éomer balked at this, for while he certainly wanted to feel safe with her…he didn’t know how he felt about her feeling safe…or was it complacent… with him. He glowered as it occurred to him…where were her brothers? or Imrahil for that matter? Did they all think him so tame that they’d let Lothíriel—certainly a young and very desirable woman by all accounts—spend all morning with him without a thought? Éomer felt a chill. He glanced down at Lothíriel and she gave him a bright smile. Béma, he’d only wanted to stretch his legs once in a while. Or so he'd thought. oOoOo In the words of the narrator of Madeline, “That’s all there is; there isn’t any more.” I know it’s cruel to stop there, but the more I tried to come up with the rest of the story, the more Éomer would tell me to buzz off and give the two of them some privacy. Men. Special thanks to Deandra for helping me smooth this out. Also, thanks to folks at the Garden for comments, and to Lia for bringing the traveling stallion round. (Sorry about the flannel, btw. I couldn’t get rid of it.) Chapter 13 - Barrel Riding For Lady Bluejay on her birthday and for anyone, like me, who is afraid of horses but likes the Rohirrim anyway. Special thanks to Deandra, warrior beta, who fights off headaches so that I don’t make a fool out of myself. ;) Barrel Riding Minas Tirith “Lothíriel, please open your eyes. Don’t be embarrassed; nobody’s watching,” Éomer patiently pleaded with her. I’m not embarrassed—I’m terrified, you great oaf! Sorry, you aren’t truly an oaf, she apologized even though she knew he couldn’t read her mind. “Please, Lothy?” She obeyed after his voice reached a new, pathetic pitch. How often did kings beg for anything? It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the twilight. The dim light glowed from the torches, reflected on the stone walls of an empty courtyard where they’d been for three quarters of an hour. Most of that time they’d spent arguing. “Now breathe.” She gulped air and the protective fog settling in her head dissipated. That’s right. She wasn’t where she wanted to be – safe on her own two feet. Instead, she perched high over the ground in an unladylike position while wearing her brother’s clothing. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the faint laugh-lines on Éomer’s sunburned face, the red color heightened by the torch behind them. His head reached the level of her shoulder, giving her an unusual advantage. Lothíriel laughed a little on the inside; his fair skin did not weather the southern sun very well. He must have noticed her momentary mirth and took that as a signal of capitulation. “Very good. Now, let go of my arm,” he quipped. Lothíriel balked. He could not ask this of her – not after all he’d asked of her already. “You need to hold onto the reins,” he pointed out. She shook her head, the very idea sending a wave of dizziness through her. “But then it will think I want to move.” Éomer’s laughter boomed and echoed around the walls. “Sort of. You’ll use your legs for that, sweet. But you have to take command and clutching onto me will not do. I promise you won’t get hurt. Will you let go?” “No,” she hissed. Lothíriel let her fingernails bite into his shirtsleeve like a cat. “Please?” he asked patiently, turning the full force of his blue eyes on her. “You can’t make me,” she bluffed, knowing full well that he could. Of all the men to fall in love with – a horse lord! Curse his personality and good looks. Mirth threaded through his voice. “I wouldn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to.” “No, because throwing me up here in the middle of an argument when I specifically told you I didn’t want anything to do with this experiment isn’t making me do anything I don’t want to do! I want to get down. Now.” She sat with her back ram-rod straight out of fear as her mount wobbled under her tirade, but it doubled nicely as a posture of defiance. Éomer changed his tactic on her. “I’ll make you a deal. You take the reins – I promise it will not go anywhere – and we’ll call it quits for the day.” “Really?” She brightened considerably, knowing that he’d have a very hard time tricking her into this again once she got down. Éomer nodded. Lothíriel glanced behind her shoulder at the hard cobbles between the grey hind legs of her mount and instantly regretted it. “It’s a long drop.” “I won’t let you fall. Trust me.” “This had better be worth it,” she muttered under her breath. “I promise. Otherwise you can think of something worse for me.” Her laughed came out a bit strangled. “Oh, it will be.” “Ready?” Lothíriel nodded and closed her eyes. Slowly, her stiff fingers unclenched and released the solid forearm that anchored her to safety. Looking again, she scrambled to find the reins and locked them in her hands. “Well done,” Éomer praised. Lothíriel smiled for the first time. “Soon you’ll be able to try this on a real horse.” She scowled at him but he grinned back. “Never mind, lift me down from this barrel before the sawhorses collapse!” oOoOo AN: A reviewer wanted to know how Éomer could end up with a queen who disliked horses (re: Good Lord for Alliance) and this sort of answers it…or begins to. The idea, of course, comes from Lothíriel’s cousin Faramir, who as everyone knows, rode a barrel in the charge of Osgiliath. To be followed by “Day Trip.” ------------------------------------------------------------------ Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) on Sun Nov 15, 2026 1:00 am