Author's Note: I'm alive! And happy new year to all of you-I have no reason for the delay in updating this story other than sometimes the muse goes AWOL and can't be persuaded to return until it's good and ready to. I hope this chapter makes up for it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Erchirion and Lisswyn, true to form, do not best Wilfled and Eothain's record of remaining in their bridal suite for the better part of a week. They make it three days-a respectable amount, Lothiriel is told by a winking Merthwyn-before emerging. She barely has time to smile at the happy sight they make before they're both being whisked off to the oræftas huts for their wedding marks.

"I did not realize a married couple must get their marks so quickly," she murmurs, grinning a little at the flustered pink in Erchrion's face as he is all but dragged from the hall by a smirking Eothain.

"Well, it's very like them, is it not? Always in a hurry-a hurry to court, a hurry to marry, a hurry to have a bairn-"

Wilfled driving an elbow into Eothred's stomach as Merthwyn swats his head prevents him from finishing his colorful anecdote.

"What my dear uncle means to say," Wilfled adds with a glare, "is that we are on something of a tight schedule, with you returning to Gondor and them moving to Aldburg. Tradition or not, speed is necessary."

Not for the first time, Lothiriel thinks of how she will miss this. Miss the warmth of Meduseld's fires, the Eofor's excited chatter about some story or another, the quiet walks from the hall to Duilin's shop. Dol Amroth is still home, of course it is, but this...this place, these people, have become another one.

"Oh, no tears, not now," Merthwyn cries as she settles another plate of food in front of them, though her own eyes look suspiciously wet. "We will have enough of those when you depart in truth!"

Lothiriel huffs a watery laugh, wiping at her eyes. "I know, I know, I am sorry."

"Bah, there is no shame in tears, glommung cwen! Just means you've come to care for us-rough edges and all," Eothred says, bumping his shoulder against hers.

"No rough edges," she assures him, "or at least none I cannot handle."

"Such praise, brynhitu cwen."

Wilfled snorts as Lothiriel jumps-once again, Eomer has managed to sneak up on them-and offers him a half-hearted glare. She cannot truly be annoyed with him, not when her departure is mere days away, even if it comes at the cost of her composure.

"Praise or not, it is the truth," she manages, earning a gale of laughter from the table. "Is there something you needed, Eomer?"

"Your uncle asked for you. He needs you in the stables."

It is most likely something to do with travel arrangements-it seems as if that is all they have discussed in recent days-and she rises with a sigh. Eomer's brow puckers at the sound and she forces herself to smile, to tease, despite the melancholy tugging at her heart.

"I did not know a king's duties included playing messenger."

Smiling, he lifts her hand to his mouth to brush a brief kiss to her knuckles."Only for you."

Eomer's smile shifts into a smirk as she blushes, and the heat in her face only increases as Wilfled and Eothred groan behind her.

"Oh, hush," orders Merthwyn, "I remember hearing plenty of tales of you whispering sweet nothings to Eothain when you two were courting, Wilfled. And Bema knows no one need be reminded of your romantic exploits as a young man, Eothred!"

"Must such gestures be only for the young, Lady Merthwyn?" Eothred protests, rising to grasp her hand as well. "Will my sweet nothings not suit a fine lass if I am a little more long in the tooth?"

Lothiriel gives an incredulous laugh as Merthwyn-unflappable, steady Merthwyn!-flushes, swatting Eothred in the chest. "Away with you, fool man!"

He offers her a courtly bow before ambling off towards the council room, whistling as he goes. Lothiriel's wonder only increases as Merthwyn avoids their curious looks before hurrying away as well, muttering about stuntspræc as she goes.

"Valar, where did all that come from?"

"Oh, Eothred has always been a romantic at heart," Wilfled says, with a smile Lothiriel is not sure she likes. "Perhaps being around the pair of you is simply bringing it out in him again."

Eomer ignores her jab, saying instead, "I wish him all the luck. Merthwyn is not one to be easily ensnared."

Lothiriel arches an eyebrow at him. "You have much experience on the matter?"

"Of?"

"Easily ensnared women."

Eomer snorts. "Not hardly."

"Oh? Was I too much of a challenge for the mighty Eomer King?"

"Just the right amount, as you well know," he says, turning to face her fully. "There is nothing I would change about you, Lothiriel."

Even though he's said as much before, hearing it does little to lessen the near-constant desire to kiss him for such sweetness. Lothiriel has to curl her hands into fists to keep from reaching for him in the view of so many. "Insufferable man," she murmurs, to hide how touched she is.

But Eomer knows her too well at this point to take her words at face value. He takes her hand again, this time to press a kiss right into her palm. The heat of it does not match the innocence of the action, but it does, perhaps, match the heat in his gaze-

"Oh, Bema spare us," Wilfled groans good-naturedly. "I suppose I'll be walking Lothiriel to the stables, since it is very apparent you two cannot be left on your own."

Eomer frowns mightily, but Lothiriel knows her friend is right-especially considering what they'd done the last time they'd been alone. Besides, they have made it thus far without losing her uncle's support-it would be the height of foolishness do anything to lose it this close to her departure. She gives Eomer's fingers a tight squeeze before stepping back to a more appropriate distance. "That would be lovely, Wilfled. Will you let me carry Blodwyn?"

Wilfled offers Eomer a cheeky grin before passing off her gurgling daughter, who settles into Lothiriel's arms with a happy babble. It seems unreasonable, how much she has grown in just a few short months, but grown she has. And grow she will, when Lothiriel is no longer close enough to hold her.

Like Nemriel. And Alphros.

The thought makes her press her cheek to the top of the babe's head with a sigh. It would seem even if she gets her most fervent wish, she will still be far from some of those whom she loves. Missing important moments with one half of her heart or the other.

Such is the price for being a woman grown, girl, comes a voice that sounds very much like Duilin's, your choice is no different from any other's.

Eomer's hand closes around her elbow, gentle and warm and familiar. His expression is soft and serious, and reminds her that it is not just she who must be feeling this way. After all, Eowyn's departure for Ithillien is only a few short months away. "I'll see you at dinner?"

There is to be a grand feast of farewell in the main hall on their last night in the Meduseld, but for tonight, Eowyn has managed to arrange for a much more private dinner for a select few in her rooms. Lothiriel is grateful for such a thing more than she can say.

"Of course."

"It will not be sweet Lothiriel alone, though," chimes in Wilfled, tucking her arm firmly around Lothiriel's shoulders, "but the rest of us as well. A veritable army of chaperones, Eomer King."

"It's times like these that I do not wonder at all how Eothain won your heart, Wilfled, Wilrun's daughter."

"That's because you're a very smart man, sire. Come along now, Lothiriel, best not to keep your uncle waiting."

Offering Eomer one last sympathetic smile, she lets herself be led away. Once they are out of earshot, she nudges her elbow against her friend's ribs. "You should not tease him so, Wilfled!"

"If Eothain and I do not, then no one would!" Wilfled fires back. "Besides, we shall have to get all of our teasing in before you leave."

Lothiriel's brow furrows at that, in equal parts confusion at her friend's statement and the sharp tug Blodwyn gives to her loose hair. "Meaning?"

Wilfled's smile is dimpled and very, very troubling. "Well, I expect he'll be as pleasant as a Warg with a broken tooth after you've gone-"

Her laugh is as clear as a bell when Lothiriel knocks her hip against hers in mock offense. After all, it is not so terrible a thing to know that he will miss her as much as she will miss him.

The door to his solar swinging open with an unceremonious bang can only herald one person's arrival. Without looking up from his task, Eomer pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yes, Eowyn?"

"Is that any way to greet your sister?"

"It is when she has been badgering me with questions regarding a simple meal for the better part of two days."

"You are in luck, for I am not here to ask you any more questions about tonight's menu."

"Thank Bema for that," he says, finally lifting his head to meet her gaze. She looks oddly...unsure, nervous, even, and that in turn makes him nervous. "Eowyn?"

"I was wondering if I might sit with you. Just for a few hours!"

Eomer blinks in surprise. He has no issue with it-indeed, Eowyn is one of his favorite people to spend time with, and soon time spent in her company will be a precious commodity-but they have both been so busy lately that there has been little time for a moment such as now. "You need never ask for that, sweostor. I'm always happy to sit with you."

Eowyn's anxious expression melts into relief and she plunks herself down into the chair opposite him. There is a basket of fabric on her arm and he ducks his head again to hide his smile at the thought of his wild, shieldmaiden of a sister attempting to sew with anything approaching eagerness.

The muffled curses that drift from her direction reveal that her eagerness has still not triumphed over her clumsy fingers.

"Blasted needle," she grumbles, glaring fiercely at him when he snorts. "Oh, as if you could do any better!"

"I could not," he admits readily, "and would rather walk through the stables barefoot again than attempt it."

It is Eowyn's turn to snort. "Oh, that stupid dare. I though Uncle Theoden would have your hide for bringing such a stench into the hall. And poor Theodred had to swear up and down he was choking from the smell, not laughter!"

"I think it was both."

They grin helplessly at each other, the warmth of fond memories nearly as potent as the crackling fire. She turns back to her needlework after a few moments and he turns back to the box he's been inspecting for what feels like hours. They sit in easy, companionable silence until she shifts, peering at him curiously.

"What is that has you frowning so mightily at it? Has ill news come from the Westmark? Or from Aragorn?"

"No, nothing like that. It is...it is only…" Eomer trails off, a little embarrassed. He should be able to do this on his own, for Bema's sake! But Eowyn is a woman-and perhaps it is a woman's opinion he truly needs?

He waves her over and winces at her surprised gasp. "Is this…?"

"Modor's jewelry. Some of it, anyway-I know Uncle gave you the majority of it when you came of age."

Eowyn touches her hand to one of the long gold chains, a wistful expression on her face. "She did have good taste."

"Faeder had good taste. Most of these are things he gave her when they were courting."

Eowyn hums. "And you intend to pass some of this on to Lothiriel?"

"Just one necklace. It only seems fair, given-" Eomer touches the silver chain at his neck, ignoring the slight spike of irritation he feels at his sister's smug smirk as he does so.

"Ah but that was for protection," she says, jabbing a finger into his shoulder, "this would be máþþumgifu, and you know it."

"Andrethon would not know it."

"Eomer-"

"And I think Modor and Faeder would have approved. Of this, and of her."

"Of course they would have. They were famously happy in their own marriage-surely they would have wanted nothing less for you."

"Or for you," he adds, nudging his shoulder against her own. "But that is why I-I need to make the right choice. Something that suits her, of course, but also something that...that would not be…"

"So obvious as to arouse suspicion from Gondorian eyes?" Eowyn suggests with a smile. "Hm. Nothing too bulky then, and perhaps silver, if you have it?"

But most of Lothiriel's jewelry is silver. Modor's is not. No, Eomund had gifted his bride a wide array of necklaces and bracelets, nearly all wrought in gold with a similar intricate pattern Eomer has seen in Eowyn's circlet. They are lovely, for the little he knows of such things, but they do not feel...right, for the purpose he wants them to serve. She cannot wear her cloak once she leaves Edoras, both because of the warmer weather awaiting her at home and for its far too obvious meaning, but at least with this…

She might have something of Rohan with her in Dol Amroth. Something of Rohan, and of him.

Eowyn is still sifting through the case, giving thoughtful hums as she does so. It reminds him, abruptly and with no small twinge of discomfort, that whatever necklace they choose will not be the only precious thing going to Gondor. Ever since the mess with Erchirion and Lisswyn came to light, he has had to focus on so many other things besides Eowyn's own impending departure.

"Eowyn," he murmurs, catching one of her searching hands with his, "I-I should not ask this of you. We should speak of your wedding or of the progress of your house in Ithillien-"

"I think we can manage that and choosing a necklace for Lothiriel at the same time," she interrupts. "It does not matter what we speak of, or what we occupy our time with, so long as it is together, Eomer."

Still, he cannot help but feel selfish. Eowyn fixes him with a withering look for saying so.

"You forget that I know very well what you are about to experience with her leaving. Let me help you in this, as you helped me when we returned from Minas Tirith, and we can call it even."

Eomer chuckles, despite himself. "That seems a fair trade."

Eowyn grins. She looks back to the box of jewelry before suddenly plucking one of the necklaces from underneath a pair of earrings. It's a long, thin strand of gold, dotted with small pink pearls. Hardly the most showy of the bunch, but then, Lothiriel can hardly be called showy herself.

"Pearls are commonplace enough in Dol Amroth that no one will think much of them should they be noticed. Which is to your benefit, as discretion is still of paramount importance until Imrahil and Dejah have approved of your suit."

For once, Eowyn does not sound disparaging of Gondor's more rigid courting mores, merely...resigned.

"I wish it were simpler, too," he admits, "but if discretion is what it takes to convince them of my sincerity, I consider it a small price to pay."

She passes off the necklace, looking sheepish. "Yes. Lothiriel recently informed me that it is apparently a very good thing that our courting traditions are so lax and that my own betrothed was not beholden to anyone save himself when it came to asking for my hand."

Eomer can guess what she is referencing: that very, very public kiss she and Faramir had shared on the walls of Minas Tirith. He should not tease her, but given all the meddling she has done lately, it only seems fair to say, "Oh?", in as innocent a tone as he can manage.

Eowyn is scarlet now, though it does little to lessen the ferocity of her glare. "You know what I'm talking about."

Smirking, he nods before adding, "Yes, and I shall take great pleasure in bringing up that slip in Gondorian propriety to your Steward as soon as we arrive in Minas Tirith-"

"Eomer! You will do no such thing!"

Unable to help from laughing at her affronted expression, Eomer stands to drape an arm around her shoulders, even as she attempts to squirm away from the show of affection. "Peace, sweostor. I am only teasing. Besides, I am glad at least one of us managed to avoid such a rigid courtship-"

"Rigid," Eowyn scoffs. "I would hardly call sneaking kisses in the stables, behind Duilin's shop, and in Duilin's shop 'rigid', Eomer."

Now it is his turn to blush. "How did you-"

"I have eyes everywhere," she says with a smirk, good humor returning. "And they will stay here even when I am gone, brōþor min. How else am I to know how you are faring?"

"I think letters would suffice-"

"Pft," Eowyn interrupts, "your letters have always been scanty at best and too full of stories about Firefoot at worst. Though perhaps that will change when you are no longer a bachelor and Lothiriel can teach you how to write a proper letter…"

Somehow it does not surprise him that she knows about the letter he'd written Imrahil and Lady Dejah. She and Duilin have always been thick as thieves, never worse than when it came to teasing him. He nudges her back towards her chair and her sewing. "Meddlesome as always."

"You would not have me any other way," she declares confidently.

Eomer can only shrug-she is right, after all. "Tell me of your house in Ithillien."

Eowyn brightens, setting aside her needles once more.

It is perhaps a little embarrassing that it has taken him so long to realize such a thing, but as she begins to describe the rooms Faramir has planned, the gardens that will fall into her keeping once she is mistress of her own household, it dawns on him that he will not be losing Eowyn when she becomes a wife. She may not be with him in Edoras any longer, true, but she will always be his sister, one of his dearest friends. That is something no amount of distance can touch.

"-mer, are you listening?"

Eomer does, however, have enough self-preservation not to voice such a sentimental thought-Eowyn would never let him hear the end of it. "Of course. Tell me more about the gardens."

"I was talking about the kitchens-honestly, Eomer, you must learn to pay attention before you wed Lothiriel or you will never know peace-"

The nagging, however, he will not miss.

In what feels like the blink of an eye, Lothiriel finds herself standing just inside Meduseld's doors, adjusting her cloak once last time before she must step outside for their formal farewell. Dinner two nights previously had been a rushed-if happy-affair, everyone busy admiring Erchirion and Lisswyn's fresh wedding marks and Eofor's newly loose tooth before hurring off to their own responsibilities. The feast last night, too, had gone by rapidly, with her fellow Gondorians already looking to the journey ahead while many of the eorlingas present had cycled through to bid them farewell. Now, only the wooden doors stand between her, the sunshine, and the road home.

"There now, dopænid, stop fussing," says Merthwyn, reaching up to take Lothiriel's hands between her worn ones. "You look lovely as ever."

"It is not that. I just-oh, Merthwyn, how can I bear it? Leaving all of you?"

"Well, if not with a little heartache. As any queen would."

She flushes. "I am no queen-"

"Not yet, anyways. Allow an old woman her fancies."

"Now I must call you out, for you are far from old! An old woman would not have the reód fxyen talking about paying court to her-"

Merthwyn blushes red herself. "Cease your teasing! I have borne enough these past few days."

Lothiriel grins before pulling the other woman into a tight embrace. The boldweard will not be able to travel to Minas Tirith for Eowyn and Faramir's wedding, so this may well be one of her longest partings. She tries to put everything she cannot express into the hug-her affection, her gratitude-and Merthwyn must sense it, because she pulls back to pat Lothiriel's cheek with wet eyes.

"Gehealdfæste, Lothiriel."

They curtsey to each other before the older woman pulls the doors open. Meduseld's great landing is crowded with people, as are the steps beyond, but Lothiriel pays the sensation of being watched no heed. There are more important things at hand than her own lingering discomfort of being watched by so many.

Wilfled steps up first, tucking her into her arm not occupied with Blodwyn's familiar weight with a force bordering on painful. "Oh, Bema, how we will miss you!"

"Wilfled," Lothiriel says, tears pricking at her eyes, "please, don't weep-"

"I am not weeping," she mutters, though Lothiriel doubts the water she can feel dripping onto her shoulder is a sudden burst of rain. "And if I were, it would be because I was cutting onions just before we walked here-"

"She's been 'cutting onions' for the past two days," chimes in Eothain, wrapping his arms around them both. "We're due for some very lovely stew soon, I expect."

That makes them all laugh, even tiny Blodwyn, and then Eofor appears, burrowing his face against Lothiriel's stomach.

"Gehealdfæste, glommung cwen," he sniffles, and Lothiriel cannot help but smooth his perpetually unruly hair.

"Ic behāte. As you must promise me to behave for your parents!"

Eofor leans back to frown at her. "Can't I promise something else?"

"I am afraid not."

"You heard the princess, my son," Eothain says, prying Eofor away from Lothiriel with a smile. "You must behave, or she will be gravely disappointed in you!"

The family releases her after one last kiss to Blodwyn's soft, chubby cheek and a tight squeeze from Wilfled. She smiles to see them surround Erchirion and Lisswyn next, and grins in truth when Eothain sweeps Erchirion into a backbreaking hug-likely a painful experience, but a far-cry from the veiled glares of weeks prior.

Duilin is next, hat in hand, looking alarmingly mellow. They have said their private goodbyes already, in the familiar coziness of his shop, but she is glad he is here for the last, formal farewell.

"Do you have all the herbs packed for your mother, girl?"

Rolling her eyes fondly, she pats the leather satchel at her hip. "Yes, Master Duilin."

"And the seeds for your sister-in-law's garden?"

"Yes, those too."

"And-"

"Duilin," Lothiriel interrupts with a sigh, "I promise you I have not forgotten anything."

"There's never any harm in double checking. After all, I may not be here when you return, glommung cwen."

Lothiriel gapes at him. Had Duilin been ill all this time? And hidden it from her? Oh, how could she leave him, if he were so sick-

"Ignore him," says Eowyn, appearing with an elegant roll of her eyes, "if Master Duilin is not here when you return, it will because he is off on his yearly venture to the East Emmet to gather fresh comfrey."

"Oh! That-that was horrid, Duilin-"

"Merely a joke to start your journey, girl. Best way to do it, I've been told."

"I can think of at least three other things that are better starts than that!"

"Bah. Like what?"

At this, she tucks herself under his arm not occupied by his cane. Valar, but he is fragile like this, light as a bird with worn skin. But there's never been denying the core of iron at the center of her teacher, nor the much-softer-than-he'd-ever-admit heart it protects. "This, for one."

Duilin chuckles, the sound familiar and dear. "I will admit you perhaps have a point, hefigytme mægþ."

He chucks her under the chin when she steps back and Lothiriel does her best not to tear up-again-at the wet brightness of his eyes. "It has been my honor to learn from you, stearcmód láréow min."

"Yes, and don't you forget it," he grumbles, though his tone is far from convincing.

Someone clears their throat and she turns to find her uncle giving her an exasperated, if fond, look.

"It will be the next Age by the time we get on the road at this rate."

Flushing, she offers him a sheepish smile. "Surely you would not like me to be rude to my friends and hosts who have so graciously let me stay with them by leaving without proper farewells?"

Andrethon's shoulders drop from their soldiers' stance a little, making him look more the part of indulgent uncler than respected general. "Fine, then. But if it is dark by the time we reach Aldburg, it will be your responsibility for placating the fearsome housekeeper I've heard so much about."

Lothiriel grimaces-she'd forgotten all about Bledgifu.

"Bledgifu has very strict orders to treat you all with the utmost courtesy," Eowyn says. She looks every inch the princess, in one of her best green gowns and the golden circlet sparkling at her brow. "She will not risk the House of Eorl's displeasure by being rude again, I promise you that."

Much as the older woman's words hurt her, Lothiriel feels a pang of sympathy for her. She would certainly never want to be on Eowyn or Eomer's bad side-let alone the both of them at once. Besides, she had helped raise them-surely she could not be all bad?

"Let us speak of happier things," she says, reaching out to take Eowyn's hands, "like the fact the next time I see you, you will become a wife!"

Eowyn's cheeks pink and she squeezes her fingers. "And you halfway to a qu-"

Lothiriel pinches her before she can finish, but they both laugh. Eowyn's embrace is as strong and comforting as ever. Her very dear friend, her almost-cousin, her mayhaps-sister. She will miss them all-indeed, misses them already-but she will miss Eowyn most, save one.

"My ladies," comes Gamling's gentle voice. "It is time."

They all pivot around to their previously agreed upon positions. Andrethon's men are at their backs, spilling down the steps in their Pelagirian armor, sparkling in the bright sunshine. Erchirion, Lisswyn, and Darwyn are grouped behind Lothiriel's right shoulder-technically, Erchirion should be the one at the front of the assembled party, as the highest-ranking Gondorian lord present, but given his new role as Rider of Rohan and Lisswyn's husband, he'd chosen to let Lothiriel do most of the formalities of the sending off.

"No sense calling any more attention to myself," he'd said over their hurried breakfast not three hours before. "Besides, your Rohirric sounds far sweeter than my own, little flower."

Andrethon steps up behind Lothiriel's left shoulder and it is only then she turns her face back towards the top of the steps. To Eowyn...and to Eomer.

She thinks him handsome always, but oh, Elbereth, it hurts to look at him now. Kingly, he is, broad-shouldered and stoic in his magnificent armor against the regal backdrop of the Meduseld.

And sad, she thinks, as his dark eyes sweep over her. Sad as I am sad.

"Eorlingas, hlystaþ!"

"Today we send dear friends, trusted allies, and family from our sight," says Eothred. "May Bema guard their paths."

"Hail!"

"May Vana grant them dreams untouched by problems or pain," adds Eowyn. "And a warmth hearth and warmer hearts when they must rest."

"Hail!"

Eomer steps forward, goblet of mead in hand. And though his address is meant for all of them-from the soldiers he has not come to know, to tiny Darwyn who waves cheerfully at whoever catches her eye-it is Lothiriel's gaze he meets before pressing the cup into her hands.

"Unharmed go forth, unharmed return, unharmed back home."

His voice is steady and commanding as ever, but she can feel the slight tremor of his fingers as they pull back from the goblet. Lothiriel takes a generous sip before passing it to Andrethon.

Now that the attention of the crowd has shifted, following whoever drinks from the cup next, Lothiriel dares to reach out to press her hand into Eomer's. It is not the gesture she of parting she wants to give him, but somehow she doubts her uncle or the council will look kindly upon her kissing him in broad view of the entire city.

"Be safe," he says, low enough that only she can hear. "Eothred and his eored will escort you all to Gondor's borders."

"Then better protection I could not ask for, as I doubt they would have let you do such a thing."

"Do not tempt me."

She snorts a half-hearted laugh, wanting nothing more to reach up to take his face in her hands, to smooth her fingers over the small, puckered line of worry between his brows. "We will be fine. And I will see you soon."

His calm mask nearly cracks then and Lothiriel can feel her heart ache in response. "Lothiriel-"

"I faer nîn nínia aden a-govedinc," she whispers, before stepping back as Andrethon returns the cup to Eowyn's outstretched hands. "Farewell, Eomer King."

He takes her hand again, dropping a far too formal kiss to its back. "Gehealdfæste, glommung cwen."

She's so distracted by how little she wants to take her hand from his that she almost misses the small pouch he's somehow tucked into her palm, just barely grabbing it and moving it to the shelter of her satchel before Andrethon can see it.

Her uncle helps her onto Niphrehdil's back with a small, apologetic smile. "Ready, little flower?"

No, she wants to say, but that is not the answer of a princess, let alone someone who dares hope to be a queen. "Yes, Uncle."

She looks back, just the once, and can make out Eowyn, Eomer, and Duilin still on the terrace. It lightens her heart and hurts it, all at once, and so that is the image she will try to keep with her on the journey home.

"Come now, you cannot stand here the rest of the afternoon moping," orders Merthwyn, though even her voice has a distinctly teary quality to it. "Duilin, I seem to recall your shop needs tending to. And you, Eowyn-do not think because Lothiriel is gone that you will be permitted to slack on your lessons! I have strict instructions to keep you on schedule-"

"Of course you do," Eowyn groans. "And why is Eomer free of censure in this?"

Eomer glares at his sister even as the boldweard drifts over to him to press a mug of something mercifully stronger than the ceremonial mead into his hand.

"Because I do not have the heart to guilt him, when he wears a face like that," she says, softening her words with a gentle stroke of his cheek.

Eomer cannot fault her-he likely looks as miserable as he feels, no matter how much he has resigned himself to doing this properly.

Eowyn scoffs, but she too gives his arm a gentle squeeze before seeing herself back indoors. Duilin, though, hobbles closer. "It is no easy thing you have done, Eomer. For all it's worth, I could be no prouder of you."

Eomer manages a small smile. "It means a good deal, Master Healer."

He passes Duilin the ale and they stand for sometime, sharing the drink, until the last of the Gondorian banners are out of sight.

Bema protect them. Bema protect her, until we meet again.

The thought makes him remember something-the Elvish phrase Lothiriel had whispered, just before Andrethon had led her away. He'd learned some Sindarin in his use, learned his fair share of curse-words from Legolas and Aragorn, but this phrase….he cannot place it, only that it felt important. That the look on her face, the sensation of her hand in his, deemed it more important than a simple goodbye.

"Duilin," he says, "how is your Sindarin?"

"It's not something a Gondorian really forgets, boy," the older man snorts. "Why?"

Eomer has to think for a moment, trying to remember the exact phrasing, before he answers. "Lothiriel...before she left, she used a certain phrase of farewell…."

"Oh?"

Steeling himself for Duilin's teasing should he butcher it, he says, "I faer nîn nínia aden a-govedinc."

Duilin's reaction is far from mocking. He outright goggles at Eomer before his expression shifts into one of mirth, tinged with a healthy dose of awe. "Valar. I hadn't thought Lothiriel to be such a romantic."

"Well? What does it mean?"

"It's Sindarin, yes, but an old phrase, modified from Quenya. You know how Elves are about their spouses, yes? Only taking one for eternity is no small thing. Many married Elvish couples would use the phrase upon parting-what's one hundred years to an Elf, after all? That she would use it now is...interesting. Most interesting."

"Duilin," Eomer grumbles, losing his patience, "what does it mean?"

"I faer nîn nínia aden a-govedinc. My heart shall weep until I see you again."

It feels as if someone has punched him in the stomach. "I-Bema, Duilin, how can I-I should go to her-"

"Idiot boy," the healer interrupts, equal parts fond and annoyed, "it's not a bad thing! She expects to see you again. She expects this to go well, else she would not use a phrase with so much meaning behind it."

"And anyways," chimes in Eothain, throwing an arm around Eomer's shoulders even as he groans, "we have hidden Firefoot already to prevent this exact thing."

"Hidden-you cannot keep me from my horse, Eothain-"

"I can and will, until I'm certain your fair filly is too far away for you to cause a scandal by having yet another unplanned wedding in your hall."

Between the pair of them, they manage to wrangle him inside, and soon all thoughts of doing something impetuous-like saddling Firefoot and damning Gondorian tradition once and for all-settle.

For now, anyways.

Author's Note: And off to Gondor (some) of us go! I don't plan on having too many chapters with them apart-it's too close to the end now for a bunch of filler. The Rohirric farewell ceremony is of my own invention, though it's modeled after the Yule toasts from earlier chapters. The phrase 'unharmed go forth, unharmed return, unharmed come home', however, is loosely translated from Nordic traditions.

The Sindarin phrase is also not of my creation (gotta love my man JRRT), but my interpretation of what it means to married Elvish couples and subsequently Gondorians is of my own creation. If I'm butchering some important canon detail by doing so, let me know.

Vocab

stuntspræc: fool man

máþþumgifu: courting gift(s)

dopænid: duckling

Gehealdfæste: safe travels, safe journey

hefigytme mægþ: troublesome girl

stearcmód láréow min: my stubborn teacher

Eorlingas, hlystaþ: Listen, Rohirrim!

I faer nîn nínia aden a-govedinc: Sindarin for "my heart shall weep until I see you again"