It was into this barren land that Lothíriel ventured with her father to assess her inheritance, keeping mainly to the coastline under the watch of two ships and their crew of Swan Knights. Tuor had accompanied them as far as the ruins of the Havens; they had had much to discuss. It had been a time of revelation for Imrahil; he felt he was beginning to see his beloved daughter for the first time as a grown woman, and they became close again as they had been when she was a little girl, before the darkness invaded the family after the fateful trip to Minas Tirith when she was five. Her love and laughter flowed into him, and he began to understand the extent of the poison that had kept them apart. But he knew they were not alone in Harondor. Her ‘shadow’ was never seen but ever present.
The real shadow that followed her was not, however, Finglor himself. Tuor had told Imrahil far more about the prophecy and the dark history that had been his family’s fate, and he feared the consequences for his daughter. He was desperate to protect her. His instincts told him that his friend Éomer would offer the safest refuge for his daughter, far enough from danger of the prophecy but yet still close enough to Dol Amroth and Gondor to be near her family.
It led Imrahil to invite Éomer and Éowyn to stay at the large Amrothian residence just below the Citadel on their return to Minas Tirith at the end of Ceveth. It had been an intensely busy three months for the siblings ahead of their return to Minas Tirith to lead the funeral cortege of Théoden, the fallen King of Rohan, for burial in Edoras. The house they had rented over Spring would host some of the many lords of Rohan who would accompany their old King’s cortege from Minas Tirith. With Imrahil’s three sons still barred from Minas Tirith, the Amrothian house had ample room and appropriate status to host the King of Rohan and his sister. As Éowyn was to be, together with Lothíriel, prominent in the wedding of Tuor and Gelian, soon to be celebrated at the Citadel, it seemed a natural choice with the added advantage of bringing Éowyn closer to her future husband’s family. It had been an invitation which was wholeheartedly approved by all involved, with the exception of Lothíriel, for whom it brought confusion and doubt. Confusion from the physical thrill she felt whenever his image came into her mind and doubt as to the dignity of such a reaction.
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As the clatter of hooves heralded her friends’ arrival, excited though she was at the prospect of seeing Éowyn, she found herself struggling with a range of emotions whenever she thought of Éomer. She felt weak and yet elated when she remembered kissing him, his hands holding her so tightly to him as she thrust herself onto him. The physical reaction to that memory overwhelmed her on those rare occasions she allowed herself to think of it. Yet at the same time she was mortified about what he must think of her. She knew that he had not told anyone about the incident as neither Tuor nor her father had given her a deserved talking to about it.
Grappling with herself, she prepared to go downstairs to welcome their guests. She wanted nothing more than to rush to him and envelop him in a tight embrace as she undoubtedly would with Éowyn, but this was not suitable behaviour. Dignity and decorum must be maintained; think how you would behave if it were Aragorn standing in front of you, said the voice in her head as she forced herself to walk calmly downstairs to greet them both.
Only he was not Aragorn. She caught him looking up at her as she descended; his piercing blue eyes, his sensuous mouth, and the memory of that moment came flooding back. The impact of seeing him almost caused her to miss a step. It seemed to Éowyn that as she paused on the step Lothíriel began to glow, her focus withdrawn into herself, emanating outwardly at least a presence of surreal calm. The change in her friend intrigued her. She had become almost… regal. Though Lothíriel was quick to master herself, Éomer had been unable to take his eyes off her, nor hide his captivation. Standing just to the side of her brother, well placed to observe them both, Éowyn had sensed with satisfaction that their enforced three-month separation had served only to strengthen the connection between them.
Fortuitously, Imrahil arrived to receive his guests and Lothíriel was able to reach Éowyn without further distraction.
‘We need to get you to your chambers and settled in,’ she said after formally greeting the King and hugging Éowyn fondly. ‘The King and Queen will arrive in about two hours from now and you have had a long ride. I will take Éowyn up, Father, if you could escort the King to his rooms?’ she smiled charmingly at them both and taking Éowyn by the arm, steered her friend upstairs to the opposite side of the house to where Imrahil now invited Éomer.
Once alone and with all baggage installed in her new room, Éowyn surprised Lothíriel with a gift from Rohan, one she had conspired with Galador to commission. It was a beautiful formal dress made of velvet, a weave for which The Wold was famous, in the green of Rohan. Even though Lothíriel usually resented wearing dresses, this was of such an elegant design and of such quality material, she immediately changed into it with an uncharacteristic thrill.
A knock came at the door. It was Galador. With her brothers still in Dol Amroth, Imrahil had allowed her best friend to stay in the large residence with them. Amahlia had been very fond of her daughter’s only true friend and had protected him often against the bullying of her stepsons. Out of respect for his wife and Galador’s unshakable devotion to Lothíriel, Imrahil accepted him as one of the family, albeit only whenever his sons were not there. Knowing this would be the first time since the Spring Lothíriel would see Éomer and Éowyn, Faramir, Galador had been determined to make them both as lovely as only he could.
As the pair appeared at the top of the main staircase leading to the entrance hall, where Imrahil and Éomer were welcoming King Elessar, Queen Arwen and Faramir, who had accompanied them in the short walk from the Citadel, the five turned in unison to see the vision of the exquisite blonde Éowyn, dressed in white laced with silver, and Lothíriel swathed in green velvet, standing together at the top of the main staircase. For those of keen hearing, it seemed that a strangled squeak emitted from Éomer’s throat on seeing Lothíriel dressed for the first time in the green of Rohan, a colour which brought out the green in her eyes superbly.
Éowyn’s face had lit up on seeing Faramir, eliciting a corresponding smile and loving expression on Lothíriel’s own when she saw Faramir extend his hand to his beloved as she skipped gaily down the stairs into his waiting arms, folding her into an emotional embrace. Tactfully ignoring this overt display of intimacy, Imrahil allowed himself a smile of pride as Lothíriel elegantly glided down the stairs to greet their esteemed guests. His daughter had never been so graceful and feminine.
Lothíriel by contrast was at a loss to explain how she felt. Éomer’s closeness had unnerved her. She was astute enough to realise that were Éomer not present, she would behave very differently, irrespective of the august presence of Aragorn and his Elven Queen. She was to accompany her father to Rohan in a few weeks’ time to attend the funeral of King Théoden, though she herself had not fully agreed whether she then remained until Yuletide. Part of her desperately wanted to stay in Rohan, yet equally part of her did not. The memory of their last meeting astride Elflight, the intense excitement his kisses had provoked in her, the throbbing sensation the memory of it caused deep within her, the thrill she had felt enveloped in his arms, had caused her many sleepless nights since. And here he was, causing every nerve end to tingle. Determined to regain control of herself, she focused on acting as a lady should, as opposed to how she wanted to behave.
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After the supper, as Aragorn and Arwen left to return to the Citadel, Faramir lingered to speak with Éowyn privately, leaving her brother to accompany Imrahil to the drawing room. Lothíriel came in with drinks for them both but to Éomer’s disappointment she made to retire for the night. He acknowledged to himself a twinge of chagrin when, having given her father an affectionate hug, receiving a loving kiss on her forehead in return, she merely bowed to Éomer and left.
‘Might I ask what Queen Arwen was asking of Lothíriel, Éomer? My daughter seemed uncomfortable at times and this is not like her,’ Imrahil asked getting straight to the point.
‘I am glad you asked me that as I was confused myself. There was something hidden to me, and Lothíriel wanted it to remain hidden, from the Queen as much as myself. I was honestly at a loss. I had the feeling that the Queen was probing Lothíriel about someone Lothíriel did not want to discuss with her,’ he answered.
Imrahil nodded, ‘I thought as much.’
‘Will she come to stay with us in Rohan? Éowyn is desperate to show her our lands and people,’ he confessed.
‘And you?’ Imrahil asked him openly.
Éomer considered his answer carefully. ‘I believe you have guessed my feelings for your daughter, Imrahil. I desire far more than friendship from her, but I will wait until she is ready. I am not convinced she sees me in the same light. She seems so beyond my reach. She flies so far above me and sometimes, something will happen, and she descends to touch me and give me hope, only to fly away again. I do not know what to think. Was it like this with her mother? I do not mean pry. If it is too personal, please do not hesitate to tell me,’ he said concerned he had stepped over a line.
Imrahil placed a hand on his shoulder and patted him. ‘No, you are not prying. You are asking the right questions. Amahlia could sometimes be remote. I felt that she was keeping secrets from me. Of course, I realise now that she was, but it was more than what happened with Denethor. I have learned much from Tuor these last few months and I understand far more about the prophecy and the burden the family has carried, yet Lothíriel is still keeping something from me, as is Tuor. I confess, I want nothing more than to get her away from here and from Harondor.’ Imrahil steadied himself for the talk he felt he needed to have with his friend.
‘The tortures of her past weigh heavily on her, Éomer. She will need great care, especially late Hithui, on the anniversary of her captivity. If she is to stay with you, Tuor and I will tell you in more detail what protections we put in place for her, but she will refuse to go unless she is accompanied by Cissy, whom I believe you have met, and Finglor,’ Imrahil gave heavy emphasis to his name, indicating his disapproval.
‘You do not trust this man Finglor?’ Éomer asked in concern.
‘It’s not that I do not trust him with Lothíriel. I know so little about him and that Queen Arwen was also probing for answers concerns me as I have no doubt her comments tonight related to him. All I know is that he was devoted to her grandmother, Idril. He came down from the North with her on her marriage and returned there with her until she died shortly after we lost Amahlia. Since then, he has appointed himself Lothíriel’s guardian in chief and…’ Imrahil looked distressed as he contemplated how to continue, ‘…I have had to concede that role to him. She will not stay in Rohan without him and both Tuor and Aragorn insist on his presence.’
‘Surely I should meet him to make that judgement myself as to whether to allow him into my realm…’ Éomer exclaimed reasonably.
Imrahil gave a cynical laugh, ‘I think you will find that Finglor is a law unto himself and roams where he wishes. Amahlia refused to welcome him in the lands of Dol Amroth but I have no doubt he was there, often, to see my daughter. Of the Rangers of the North, not even Aragorn is as highly skilled. Indeed, he taught Aragorn everything he knows, about hunting, concealment, healing…’
Faramir had managed finally to tear himself away from Éowyn and came in to say goodbye. He was easily persuaded to stay for a glass to share his thoughts on Lothíriel’s proposed sojourn in Rohan.
‘What both Imrahil and I know, which you perhaps do not,’ he started, ‘is that Lothíriel has always been obsessed with horses. Part of the prophecy made at Lothíriel’s birth…’
‘A prophecy involving Lothíriel?’ Éomer interjected. ‘My sister has alluded to it. What is this prophecy? I have been told only of the one pertaining to Idril and the Prince of Harondor. What does this have to do with Lothíriel?’
‘Even we do not know the full prophecy. It has been kept closely guarded,’ Faramir continued reluctantly. ‘The Dúnedain of the North came to Amahlia only weeks after Lothíriel was born with a message from the elves. The prophecy warns that only through her actions can the walls of Sennebar be broken and that while the sea would protect her, through horses she would meet her end. While Imrahil could not exactly influence the prophecy regarding Sennebar other than to keep her away from the place, he understandably forbade her to learn to ride. Typically, when you deny a child something that everyone else around her enjoys, she was determined to know everything about horses and since Rohan is the realm of horses, she has always wanted to go there. Lothíriel was never interested in the sea. Even as a child, she was always looking to the mountains to the north, to Rohan. So, she wants to go. But I think there is something holding her back.’ Faramir hesitated to continue.
‘What?’ Éomer asked bemused.
‘Well, this damn prophecy for one, but if I am to be truthful, I think the other reason is you.’
‘Why so? I hold her in the highest esteem, more than that even. Is she afraid of me?’
Imrahil answered poignantly, ‘No, Éomer. I think she is afraid of herself. She confides much in Tuor, much more than in me. He tells me that she is wary of all men who are not family or not interested in her in that way, on top of which she does not accept that she is worthy of a man of high rank. She feels she is too damaged to expect the love of any man she would respect and if she loved him, she would not wish him to marry her. We both believe Lothíriel cares for you more than she dares to admit to herself. She does not trust her instincts in this respect, and I cannot blame her for that.’ Faramir nodded his agreement.
‘You both believe that Lothíriel has feelings for me?’ Éomer asked unsure of himself.
‘My daughter is wilful and difficult but she’s no fool, Éomer. Yes, we all believe she has feelings for you, but she trusts herself so little that she will find it extremely hard to find a way to express this. You will need to be patient. Were you to persuade her to become your wife, Éomer, nothing would give me, us, greater joy. She is infuriating, I warn you. Wonderful, witty, kind, inspirational, but infuriating,’ said her devoted father with feeling.
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Since Prince Ottakar’s arrival in Minas Tirith for his friend Tuor’s wedding, Éomer had hardly seen Lothíriel, or his sister. They had both been caught up in the frenzy of the preparations and Éomer could tell from the look of excitement on his sister’s face that this was going to be an extraordinary spectacle.
It turned out to be a far more riotous event than even Éomer had expected, in which exuberance and joyous laughter were prized over decorum and grace. The Pelargirians certainly knew how to celebrate. Lothíriel was everywhere, making sure that no one was left out. She seemed to have appointed herself master of ceremonies for the children during the daytime, a task Éomer would have gladly undertaken with her except that with so many dignitaries present, he was called upon to undertake statecraft.
As darkness fell, he had seen her carrying an exhausted little Idril over to her nanny but when he looked out for her again, she had disappeared. He excused himself from the lords of Gondor who had cornered him and went in search of her. Without warning, she appeared at his side and guided him subtly to a private corner of the gardens.
‘My father has told me that you have agreed that I will come to Rohan for your uncle’s funeral and will then stay on into the following year to help Éowyn prepare for her new position?’ Lothíriel asked Éomer hesitantly.
He turned to look at her intently. ‘This is not the main reason I would like you to come to Rohan, Lothíriel,’ he said.
She raised her blue green eyes to look into his, searching for some insight into his thinking.
‘Lord Delwine has had some excellent ideas of how I could best use my time and given the need for ensuring the economic recovery of the northern lands, I can see that Rohan is a critical bridge between the two regions….’ she started to say.
‘I didn’t mean that, Lothi,’ Éomer interjected meaningfully.
‘Oh,’ she said startled and looked up at him enquiringly. ‘Are you sure it’s alright that I come? Tuor and my father have both assured me that you know… erm…’ she screwed her nose up trying to find the right words, ‘well… you know, what I am like sometimes. You won’t have to deal with me yourself, of course, I will have Cissy with me… and someone else will always be there to make sure I don’t hurt anyone,’ she finished rapidly.
‘It has been mentioned,’ Éomer replied somewhat cautiously.
‘They haven’t told you the details then? Especially about late-Hithui, but it can happen anytime quite randomly.’ Seeing his look of incomprehension, she blurted out, ‘They’ve not told you that I sleepwalk?’ She glanced up at him unsure of herself, trying to gauge his reaction.
It was clear from his confused expression that he had not been so informed. ‘Your father said that he needed to speak to me tomorrow with Tuor. I had supposed he was going to give me more detailed information then…’ he said.
‘Hmmm, I see. I had told everyone that I wouldn’t be comfortable staying unless you knew everything. It’s not just that I sleepwalk, I can be extremely violent if I am opposed while I am so afflicted. Father might not tell you this, but I tried to stab him with one of my daggers through the heart. He still has the scar where I pierced the skin. It was only because he is so very fast and strong that I failed to kill him. Had it been almost anyone else, I would have succeeded.’ She hesitated to continue, giving Éomer time to assure her that he was aware of the incident, but she interrupted him before he could say more.
‘While I am sure you too have the speed and strength to deal with me, it is not appropriate for you to be playing nursemaid to… well… someone like me. You have many more pressing concerns. My… my Guardian, however, will be my constant companion. He is… unusual… and… very shy. He shuns other society, preferring to watch me from afar, only coming to me when I need him. If it is a choice between coming without him or not coming at all, I will choose the latter. My father does not have such a high opinion of him, which is wholly unjust. Father has not been told of his history and therefore doesn’t know the truth about him, but I will let you speak with him and Tuor and you can make your decision,’ she ended earnestly touching his arm in supplication.
Her hand was quickly withdrawn when she felt the power of his muscles as they tensed at her touch. It had caused a rush of desire in them both, which neither wished to openly acknowledge. She bowed rapidly, turned and fled, her cheeks burning.
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Although Lothíriel seemed to be everywhere around him, he felt that he did not see her again over the last few days he was staying at her family home. He was busy attending to the details of the funeral procession and the burial itself, which would be a large affair with all the lords of Rohan as well as King Elessar and many of his court in attendance. Edoras was not a large settlement; it was not much bigger than a small town. Aldburg, the former capital and Éomer’s birthplace, would have been more suited to hosting that number of important guests.
Most helpfully Éowyn had put herself in charge of dealing with the practical arrangements and he was only needed to review her plans and approve them. She confessed that she had relied heavily on Faramir and Imrahil’s better knowledge of the etiquette of Gondor to know which noble families should be placed where and thanked her brother for his foresight in accepting his invitation to stay at the Amrothian residence, especially as this had also made it easier for her to see Faramir. She was dreading their impending separation following her uncle’s funeral in Edoras; they would not see each other again for over six months until their wedding in Minas Tirith the following year, on the day they first committed themselves to each other, the day Sauron fell.
The formal dinner the evening before their departure had been suitably sombre. Lothíriel had worn the green dress Éowyn had given her for the occasion. As appropriate for those who had fought on the Pelennor Fields, Imrahil and Faramir had been accorded places of honour with Éowyn and Éomer, but Éomer had expected Lothíriel to be seated with Tuor, Gelian and Ottakar. Instead, he had been surprised to see her with the statuesque Cissy ever by her side, sitting on a table of his ordinary Riders and not with those of her own rank.
Faramir observed his friend and future brother-in-law, sensing his confusion. He leant over to explain, ‘Lothíriel insisted that those most severely wounded would be accorded their rightful place here tonight. She and Cissy, as the only speakers of Rohirric amongst the healers, have been the principal carers of those of your Riders whose wounds were too severe for them to have returned earlier. These men all have long-term injuries, which are going to require adjustments to living back in their towns and villages. This dinner is the first formal occasion many have shown themselves to their fellow Rohirrim and Lothi and Cissy were both determined to sit with them to give them their support. It must be a great relief to them that they will accompany them to Rohan.’ Éomer caught her eye and gave her a warm smile and bowed his head in thanks. She smiled back wistfully and returned to her conversation.
She must have left early as he did not see her again once the supper was over and he was contented to leave with Imrahil and his sister, escorted by Faramir. ‘Do you know if Lothíriel is safely back, Imrahil?’ he asked his host.
‘I believe my daughter left with Eradan, or so Aragorn told me when I asked him if he had seen her. She is safe with him, of that I am sure. He thinks of her as his granddaughter and will protect her as such. If she is not already at home, he will bring her back safely.’ Imrahil assured his friend.
The servants confirmed that she had returned and had already retired for the evening. Disappointed but in view of his own impending early start, Éomer made his excuses and discreetly left his sister with Faramir.
His room overlooked a skilfully secluded garden in such a densely compacted city; it was a breath-taking view, over the shimmering waterfall, lit by bright moonlight and a still pale sky as it was not so late. He washed himself as he had been hot in his formal clothes and changed into loose britches to sleep in. He went back out onto the balcony to enjoy the evening breeze on his mostly naked body safe in the knowledge that this section of the gardens and his balcony were not overlooked.
He heard the soft rustling of swift footsteps on the grass before he saw her. She was barefoot, dressed in a white dress, tight around her body to the waist but then cascading around her legs not quite to the floor. It shimmered as she moved, almost floating. It was not the dress she had worn earlier, nor was it a fitting night gown. She was running towards the wall and leapt as though she was going to crash into it but instead he saw two black arms fold themselves around her and swing her around him. The dark head bent down and kissed her. Éomer felt nauseous. He knew it was Lothíriel, he did not need to see her face clearly, he recognised her form as she hugged the man closely. It was a lover’s embrace.
He did not want to see more but the man released her letting her fall almost to the ground as she elegantly unfurled away from him, just stopping her from touching the ground by keeping hold of her arm.
They began to dance but it was like no other dance Éomer had ever seen, nor did he have the imagination to believe such a dance was possible. He was mesmerised by the fluidity of the movement between the two. The dress draped itself seductively around her bare legs as she extended them into the air as she danced and as the man lifted her around him, she was using him as a solid base around which to contort her lithe body. She would jump at him to catch her, sometimes folding herself into a small ball only to explode from him in full flight. It was as though she floated on the air and he pulled her back to him on a string. It was the most beautiful thing Éomer had ever seen and he could not keep himself from watching. He was beginning to breathe heavily with a desire he had so long denied himself, when suddenly the dance stopped. The man whispered something to Lothíriel, kissed her gently on the forehand and slipped back into the shadows. Lothíriel turned slowly towards the house and ran towards the entrance to the house Éomer knew to be directly under his balcony.
He stayed quietly where he was waiting to hear the door open and close. He remained motionless, his heart still racing, when instead of the sound of the door, he heard a rustling followed by the sight of Lothíriel appearing on the side of the balcony, only a foot away from him. She slid herself gracefully off the balcony side and came close to him. He could see her face clearly in the rising moonlight. She looked defiant rather than embarrassed, but she could not see his expression as he leant against the other side of the balcony with the rapidly fading daylight behind him. She went over to him, pressing herself to him, causing him to shudder involuntarily and move away from her as she turned him and inserted herself between him and the balcony edge on which he had been leaning. She could now see his face in the brightening moonlight, and she had felt his interest in her through his thin britches, which had caused him to back away from her. She was breathing hard as she brought her own face more into the light of the moon.
‘His name is Finglor. He is my Guardian, and he will accompany me to Rohan… if this is still what you wish,’ she said eventually.
‘Are you in love with him, Lothíriel?’ Éomer found himself asking involuntarily.
She was shaking as she answered him. ‘There are so many different types of love. The love a parent has for a child, the love you feel for a friend, the love you feel for a companion at arms - they are all different. The love you have for the first woman you kissed is not the same as the love you feel for the woman with whom you have a fleeting encounter nor the one you would take as your wife. You may love all of these in a different way, with a different intensity and a different meaning. Yes, I love Finglor, never doubt that. I love him in ways I cannot explain.
My father may not trust him fully since my mother stupidly feared him because of the way he looks. Please understand, Éomer, she died because she had him barred from Dol Amroth and he was not there to protect us. He is beloved and trusted by Aragorn, by Eradan, by Tuor and many, many others. I will not be parted from him,’ she told him with an intensity he found disturbing.
She held out her hand to his face as her eyes pleaded with him. ‘If you cannot trust me….’
He took her hand. ‘The way you danced just now, what would you have me think of that?’ he rasped, his voice quivering with longing and doubt.
‘It is the dance of two tortured souls, trying to find that which is lost to them, Éomer. If you cannot accept him, then I cannot come to Rohan, and I will leave for the North. Few can see Finglor as he is. He himself trusts rarely and he has learned that most react to him as my mother did. I believe my father has at last come to understand his worth, but if you cannot trust him with me, then I should say goodbye to you now.’
‘Is that what you want, Lothíriel?’ he asked in an anguished whisper.
She hesitated and put her hand out to him, laying it on his bare chest, ‘I do not know what I want, Éomer. I don’t even know who I really am. I have done things, terrible things that I cannot remember. I do not trust myself with….’ she closed her eyes in pain. Her eyes shimmered with tears in the moonlight when she opened them and looked up into his handsome face. She stroked his cheek and said softly, ‘Desire is not love, Éomer. To my embarrassment and shame, my behaviour with you has not been that of a lady. If I am to stay in Rohan, I will endeavour to do better.’
She lowered her eyes and turned from him to lithely vault over the balcony side onto the ledge on the other side. She had her back to him, looking to see to where she could jump next. Éomer strode forward quickly to grab hold of her fearing she would fall. He took firm hold of her, turning her to face him and pulling her back towards him. Her willpower broke. She pushed her hands around the back of his head and kissed him on the lips, forcing her tongue greedily onto his. He steadied himself closer to her while he responded in kind, hoping to coax her back to the safety of his side of the balcony once more. He put his hands around her waist to lift her over the balcony, when her face momentarily turned into the moonlight and he saw tear trickle down her cheek.
‘Forgive me,’ she whispered. ‘I shouldn’t have put you in this position. Forgive me. You must let me go. I can climb down easily from here. You must let me go.’
He knew she was right but at the same time he was struggling to control his own desire for her. He released his hold of her, and she dropped down gracefully onto a ledge halfway down and somersaulted to land on her feet. He heard the door below open and close and she was gone.
Éomer groaned. He was relieved his britches were covering his very obvious erection. He stayed out on the balcony wondering if Finglor was still down there and whether he should go out and find this man who was causing him so much grief. Imrahil had told him more of the story of when Finglor had accompanied Amahlia’s mother, Idril, from the North for her marriage to the Lord of Pelargir. It seems he had stayed there in the shadows, often undertaking missions into Umbar and further south on behalf of her husband and also for Aragorn, when he himself came south as Thorongil. He had been at the battle against the Corsairs with Aragorn, Imrahil and Tuor’s father when they destroyed the Corsair fleet.
But at some stage soon after the victory, Amahlia had accidentally come across him when he had been bathing and his disfigurement had scared her so much that she became hysterical at even the thought he could be close by. Idril had suggested that he joined Aragorn on his journey to the East, the immediate threat to Idril and her family having been curtailed by Thorongil’s victory over the Corsairs. He returned to her as soon as he had heard of the disaster that had befallen her husband and son, accompanying her once again to the North until her death which had soon followed that of Amahlia’s. Imrahil had initially maintained his opposition to his presence when he had returned to Dol Amroth offering to protect Lothíriel, but once Imrahil and his sons were called to Minas Tirith to aid in the war, it seems he rarely left her side.
His love for Lothíriel was unquestioned by all who knew him, and they trusted him to protect her. Given that Éomer would not be able to be with her the whole time she would be in Rohan, Aragorn had been able to persuade him to welcome Finglor to his realm unconditionally, despite not having met him. But the level of their intimacy had shocked him, and he doubted that Imrahil knew of his daughter’s behaviour with this man whatever his age.
And yet she had kissed him, Éomer, in a different way. His body reignited its longing at the memory of that kiss. He groaned again. Desire is not love. Those words kept coming into his head. She desired him but did not love him? Did she love Finglor but not desire him? Could she grow to love him as she loved Finglor? Did he love her or desire her? Did he love her and desire her? That he wanted her was not in doubt. All these emotions were swirling around his head as he tried to calm his body down enough to sleep. He went inside and lay on his bed and tried not to think of Lothíriel but of the next three weeks when Rohan would be saying farewell to the old King. But his mind would not focus. He wanted her to be there, he wanted her to stay in Rohan, he would accept Finglor, and he would learn how to gain her love.