A shiver crawled up Lothíriel's spine. Trying not to break her smile as she continued to speak to a Lord (she couldn't remember his name), she felt Éomer's warm hand gently press into her back.

Lord What's-His-Name greeted Éomer with the appropriate courtesies, and sensing that the newly-betrothed couple might prefer some privacy, bowed low before taking his leave.

"Did I startle you?" Éomer's breath was warm in her ear, and Lothíriel tilted her head so that he might not see the goosepimples breaking out across her skin.

"Hardly," she said primly. "I can hear you tromping around a mile away."

"Ah! Such sour words from my wife-to-be! What have I done to offend her?"

Lothíriel tried to look severe, up at Éomer's handsome face, but she could not persevere. She began to laugh, and obligingly wove her arm through his. "You have saved me from a very dull conversation regarding the methods of step-farming," she said. "But now you must amuse me in some other way."

His lips immediately tilted upwards into a knowing smile. "I can imagine a way I might amuse you," he said softly, the lowered tone of his voice nearly causing Lothíriel to forget to breathe. "Think you we would be missed, were we to take a stroll down the corridors?"

Lothíriel pretended to consider this seriously, glancing around the great hall of Ithilien, where the wedding guests were growing slightly rowdy, and very oblivious to everything else around them. The music of the minstrels could barely be heard for the chatter, though it did not deter the eager dancers spread across the marble hall. She could see her father conversing seriously with King Elessar far away.

"Shall Éowyn not miss us?" Lothíriel asked, turning to Éomer with a smile. "It is her wedding, after all."

"I doubt Éowyn will be giving you or I a second though for some time," he said dryly.

"Then a stroll sounds lovely. Do lead on, my lord."

Éomer patted her hand fondly, turning them towards an open door to the blessed darkness and silence beyond. Lothíriel could not help a little flutter in her heart; she often felt this way around Éomer, and since their betrothal had been announced the night before her feelings seemed to only intensify. She had to assume he was similarly afflicted - he had, pursued her until they had agreed to marry.

Her thoughts drifting to how nice Éomer's arm felt beneath her hand - warm and strong and corded with muscle - Lothíriel was sufficiently startled when Amrothos stumbled in front of them from behind a column, looking around in confusion. Their progress was stopped, and Amrothos blinked at them. They stared back.

"Ouch," Amrothos mumbled at last, pressing fingers to his jaw.

"Did you fall?" Lothíriel asked, not impressed.

"N-no. She hit me. I think...I think I blacked out for a moment."

"What? Who hit you?"

"Erkenbrand's daughter," Amrothos said, and now he glared at Éomer, as if it were Éomer's fault. "Lady Frithild!"

"I am sure she would not have done so without due cause," Éomer said mildly.

"I only tried to kiss her - "

"What, in a dark corner?" Lothíriel interrupted. "I would have hit you, too."

The indignant tone of Amrothos's voice was carrying as he spoke. "We were dancing, she was laughing - I thought she liked me!"

"She probably does," Éomer said. "If she didn't, you would have been dragged outside and tossed in a dung pile. Perhaps next time you might ask before kissing a Rohirric woman, eh?"

This baffled Amrothos for a moment, but then he gave a short nod as he grumbled, "I've learned my lesson." Then his eyes, growing clearer, fastened suspiciously upon them. "Where are the pair of you off to?" he asked. "The dancing is behind you."

"Very astute," Lothíriel said coolly, hoping dearly that her cheeks would not stain with red. "We will be going, then." With a nod of her head, she allowed Éomer to turn her 'round to weave through the crowd in the other direction. She had no desire to dance - nor did Éomer, she suspected, and so when they were a fair distance from Amrothos they made for another door. There was a crowd of matrons nearby, chattering and tittering.

The door, to her surprise, opened before they could reach it, and her father strode through. He caught sight of them, and grinning, strode towards them.

"My daughter," Imrahil said fondly, bending down to kiss her cheek. "Éomer, my sworn-son. I have seen little of you tonight."

"I think I have not sat down since supper," Lothíriel said honestly. "There are too many guests to speak to!"

Imrahil chuckled. "True enough. And yet I have been monopolizing Elessar with the details of contracting merchants." He patted several rolls of parchment, tucked into his belt. "I have never been one to mix business and pleasure, but if the king so commands…"

"Aragorn has not asked for me, as he?" Éomer asked, somewhat anxiously.

"Oh, no, my boy. This is your sister's wedding, you ought to be enjoying yourself," Imrahil smiled broadly. "Why are you not dancing? The floor is not so crowded, I think."

"We were only taking a turn around the perimeter," Lothíriel said quickly. "The air is fresher here."

"Hmm, too true, too true. I must be off. Do not dance until your feet fall off, my dear." And Imrahil kissed Lothíriel one more time, before disappearing into the crowd back towards the dias. Éomer let loose a long breath.

"Béma," he said faintly. "I was sure your father was going to whip me for trying to abscond with you."

"He could not have known, I am sure," Lothíriel assured him. Éomer grinned, leaning closer to speak quietly near her ear.

"Sometimes I wonder if he can read minds."

"Oh!" she gave a giggle. "I am sure he cannot."

"One never knows with Imrail."

"He is merely perceptive, I think," Lothíriel said. Éomer nodded, and once again adjusted their path across the dance floor once more, in case Imrahil was watching. It would do no good were they to be seen 'sneaking' out; surely a chaperone would be sent along, and Lothíriel had little desire for a chaperone at present.

Halfway across the floor, a loud, clanging bell rang out, and the noise of the guests increased, if at all possible. Lothíriel winced a little, but thankfully the bell stopped after only a few peals. Then there were hoots and cheers, and the crowd parted: Faramir, dressed resplendently, had picked up Éowyn from where they had been dancing away the evening, and began to carry her away. The bride's head was leaning against her bridegroom's shoulder. Lothíriel flushed pink, but could not help feeling a tad of jealousy. Why could she and Éomer not find a few minutes alone?

"There you are!"

Lothíriel had to take a deep breath, and she felt Éomer's arm tighten under her hand. Erchirion came from her left, waving and smiling as he tugged her from Éomer ruthlessly, and her hold on him was broken.

"Come, sister! We have not danced yet this night. I do not wish to break our tradition!" The tradition was, of course, that she and Erchirion danced together at every ball they attended. Until this particular one, it had been a pleasure for her. Now she really just wanted Éomer. As Erchirion continued to pull her away, Lothíriel glanced over her shoulder gaze apologetically at her betrothed - he was a little tight around the lips, but he gave her a small smile in return, nonetheless.

The music had started again now that the bridal couple was out of sight. Resigned, Lothíriel allowed Erchirion to sweep her into the lively steps, but thought only of Éomer's disappointment. Hers, too.

"Éowyn and Faramir will be quite happy, do you not agree?" Erchirion asked.

"I do not doubt it. They love each other very much."

"It was a lovely wedding…"

The small talk brough Lothíriel little peace. Occasionally she would snatch glances of Éomer over her brother's shoulder, conversing with his marshals or lords of Gondor. A very dull end of the evening. For her father had retired soon after the bridal couple, and King Elessar and Queen Arwen departed as she danced with Erchirion. The festivities were, in effect, over.

"Let me take you to your rooms," Erchirion gallantly volunteered.

Lothíriel gave a nod as the music slowed and stopped. As much as she loved all of her brothers, they were becoming quite intrusive that night! All except Elphir, who had stayed in Dol Amroth - to her relief.

She did not see Éomer as they left the hall.

It was lonely in her chamber that night; the air was still after the high energy of the great hall, and she had told her maid not to wait up for her. Lothíriel lit a candle as she undressed out of her finery, sadly lying it out on a chest. Had Éomer liked her dress? She had not even had the chance to ask him - the little snatched exchange they'd had was too short.

Slipping into her nightdress, Lothíriel carried the candle to a bedside table, yawning as she pulled down the covers. Sleep would be delicious, at least. She would see Éomer tomorrow -

There was a tap tap on the shutters of the window. Curious, and not a little annoyed, Lothíriel crept over to shoo away what was likely an insomniatic bird. But when she unlatched the shutters and opened them, it was no bird - it was Éomer.

"Oh!" she gasped, automatically pulling the neckline of her nightdress closer. "Éomer, whatever are you doing here?"

"I missed you," he said plaintively. He must be standing on one of the many vines which grow on the side of the guesthouse. Lothíriel studied his woeful expression a moment more, and began to giggle. "Don't laugh," Éomer added, though a smile was creeping on his own face. "I must have died a thousand deaths when I saw you leave with Erchirion, without even a goodnight kiss."

"Ridiculous," Lothíriel said promptly. "And are you not cold? The night is chill!"

Indeed it was - for the autumnal equinox would be upon the land in less than a week. She was already shivering from the air let in, and Éomer was wearing no greatcoat over his velvet finery.

"I am a little cold," Éomer said, though he showed no signs of sensing the chill. "Won't you invite me in?" There was a twinkle in his green eyes, and Lothíriel eyed him for a moment before giving a nod.

"For a minute or two, I suppose. Then you must leave."

"If my lady so commands." And his grin growing, Éomer hooked one long leg, and then the other, straddling the windowpane and heaving himself into the chamber. Lothíriel immediately latched the window closed, and fetched a thick dressing gown to pull over her shoulders.

Éomer, hovering by the window, was watching her with a glint in his eyes. She smiled, rather liking the way his admiration made her feel.

"You really shouldn't be here," Lothíriel pointed out.

"I am a weak man," he murmured. "My lady draws me near." He held out a hand to her, and after a moment of hesitation Lothíriel laid hers in his much larger one. Before she could give anything more than a squeak of surprise, Éomer's arms were wrapping her close, and his mouth descended on hers.

Oh, this was lovely. Annoyance at being sabotaged out of such a delicious treat during the wedding feast was quickly subdued by the powerful feelings shuddering through Lothíriel; her hands travelled upwards on Éomer's broad chest, revelling in the feel of his breadth towering over her.

And now she knew why men weren't supposed to sneak into ladies' chambers.

She pulled away, trying to catch her breath. "Éomer," she murmured. "Éomer…"

His lips were on her neck, nipping at the soft skin there and making her moan. Oh, this was really nice. She forgot why she was protesting. Éomer's mouth skimmed her jaw, kissing her cheek and finally finding her mouth again. His hands were tangling in her already-messy hair, causing her scalp to tingle. Lothíriel stood on her tip-toes to kiss him back fervently, and she heard a low chuckle from his chest which made her shiver again - this time, not from cold.

"My little swan," he said in a low voice, kissing the tip of her nose. "Soon it will be our wedding."

"I cannot wait," Lothíriel replied, letting a silly smile spread across her face. It was not unlike Éomer's smug grin, she was sure.

"Nor can I." He breathed out deeply, and placing his hands on her shoulders, pushed her away slightly. "You said only a minute. I have overstayed my welcome."

You can stay forever, Lothíriel wanted to say, but she nodded past the lump in her throat anyway. She held tightly to Éomer's hand as he retreated back to the window, and as he opened it and began to slip out.

He paused once he was sturdily planted upon the vine once more, and impulsively Lothíriel leaned out to kiss him, just one more time. Éomer was chuckling again as he dropped to the ground. She leaned her elbows on the windowsill, watching as he gave her a wave before disappearing in the shadows back to - well, wherever he had come from. His rooms, perhaps. The dwindling party, maybe.

The moon was bright, and Lothíriel breathed in the enchanting happiness.

Soon it would be their wedding.