Cameos

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.)