A one-shot I came up with, concerning how Eomer could have first noticed Lothiriel. To avoid confusion, this is set during the celebration feast after the burial of Theoden King. This is my first LOTR one-shot, so please, feedback would be welcome :)
She dances; her feet barely sweep the floor. The music is pleasant to his ears as he watches her move gracefully among the dancers. He would have noticed her without the necessary introduction at the beginning of the day. What man would not notice a beauty such as her? Long, sleek black hair; it shimmers in the candlelight, fair skin, lightly tanned from her life by the sea, and those eyes; eyes as deep a grey, almost black, yet he can see the shimmering light of pearls from those occasional glances she gives him.
He, Eomer King of Rohan, moves his eyes around the hall; he notices the gaze of other men staring at her. He feels a tinge of jealousy erupt within him. He is a fool; a man would be crazy not to gaze upon her. She catches her brother's hand in the dance, laughs lightly as he ever so gently picks her up and sets her back down. Her family loves her; he sees the affection in her brother's eyes as he bows at the end of the dance. They move on, towards their father – Prince Imrahil, a man worthy of such a title and more. He is a friend of Eomer's, a comrade through battle. They have been to Mordor and back... literally.
Eomer gulps down his ale, gladdened that his kin were renowned for producing the best tasting ale in the two kingdoms. His eyes dart from his goblet to her again. She captivates him, yet she does not know it. Her actions are nothing else but polite and considerate. She gave him her condolences at the funeral; she touched his hand as those shimmering pearl eyes were fixed on his. He wanted her then and there; he needed her.
He sees his sweet sister laughing with her betrothed. He envies their happiness. Now that his uncle has finally laid to rest, he must find a wife, a queen. She is in his mind again; he imagines she is his wife, his queen; Queen Lothiriel; Eomer smiles - it suites her.
He watches as she tucks her arm into her father's, and circles around the tables, making polite conversation with everyone. She is an obedient daughter - a perfect example to set upon other daughters. Another reason to make her queen, he thinks, hiding his smile behind his goblet. Yet there must be a flaw; she cannot be perfect. He feels anxious, wanting to know what it could be. Pride? A pompous attitude? Whatever it was, he would love her for it, as any good husband would. No, he was thinking ahead into an uncertain future. The ale was getting to him. What would posses such a jewel to wed a man as he? He was older than she was, almost in his thirtieth year; she was a young, vibrant girl who had just celebrated her coming of age. She was full of life, loving each dance, wearing beautiful gowns of silk, and damask. He was getting old, starting to feel the bones in his body ache if the weather got too cold. War had battered him worse than he cared to admit. He would never be able to satisfy her completely.
She glances at him as her father approached the dais. Prince Imrahil is beaming with pride; he admires his daughter, always praising her qualities. She appears to shrink behind her father as they come to a halt, bowing before the King of Rohan. Her father brings her forward, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. She blushes, darting her eyes from him to her father. Was she embarrassed? He could not exactly tell. Then again, all women blushed and hid their giggles whenever he was around. Her father started talking of how wonderful the celebrations had been carried out. Eomer grinned; he loved Imrahil as he would love a kin. He cannot help himself, he has to look at her; he has to see her blush once more. Prince Imrahil notices his gaze and smiles warmly, a twinkle in his eye. He kisses his daughter's hand and bows, leaving the dais for his eldest son. Eomer watches her stand uneasily before him; he offers her a chair on his right side. She sits, placing her hands on her lap. Her back is straight, her eyes on the crowd before them. His eyes smile; a perfect woman to have at his side in all matters. He pours her a drink of Gondorian wine; she smiles gratefully, saying to him how parched she was from dancing.
She is so close to him, he feels heat course through his body. He would not dishonour her; she deserved better. He must have her, he thinks. He would speak to Prince Imrahil before they left for Gondor. Courting a woman was something he lacked in experience; he would most definitely end up making a fool of himself in the process. He chuckles to himself; she turns her gaze to him, an eyebrow arched, a small smile on her lips – so lush, so inviting. He sits back in his chair, looking out at the golden hall. It was his desire; she was his desire. No, she was more than that; she was his project to make him a better man, a happier man, a younger man.
He stands up and offers his hand to her. She accepts it, blushing, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. It was his time to claim a dance from her. He was not going to allow ever other man in the hall claim her for a dance, leaving him gloomily sitting on his throne. They take their places on the floor, people watching their every move. She grins, quickly catching her father's approving nod. The dance begins; he catches her hand, her waist, her arm. It was a dance; a dance that would begin the steps of love and happiness he hoped she would find with him.