reviews first-

Elessar-Lover -thank you i'm glad you like Lothi, I've worked hard to improve her.

Blue Eyes At Night -this is the last chapter but I'm glad you enjoyed it thanks for faithful reviewing! xx

From: MexicanDevil-RoadCrew -very naughty of them! thanks I'm glad you like it!

From: Lometari -here I am updating pronto -happy Easter!

allie -what a ridiculously pointless review, and considering you only read chapter one, well frankly I'm appalled that anyone can be so lax.

wondereye- it comes to a close. thanks for all your encouraging support. xxx

FlyingShipwreak -wow, 2 reviews! very encouraging! and I apologise for any grammar errors profuseley.

The Tale of Éomer and Lothíriel.

PART TEN.

Éomer opened his eyes and found himself on his side, confronted by the mingling tangle of gold and dark brown curls all mixed up together on the pillows. He smiled easily into Lothíriel's striking face. She glowed from within. His smile felt like soft caramel to be manipulated whichever way. It dominated his features. Their tanned skin of outdoor soldiers sparked in the mottled sunlight streaming through the parted white hangings that led to the princess' balcony. When she leaned down to kiss him with those sad smiling eyes meeting his own, their lips locked together like the last pieces of a puzzle game and he felt that his heart was being torn into little pieces.

"It's still early. Everyone will be getting up soon."

Éomer dressed in silence, and stood patiently while his shirt buttons were adjusted and the collar smoothed. With a jolt he began to understand that this was all he ever wanted. But now he had to leave the room and creep back up to the guest room before 'waking up' and going down to the Rohan camp. He wondered how far Hama would have them packed up and ready to go, desperate to run on the plains again. In peace. Why couldn't he want that too?

Lothíriel stuck her head out of her bedroom door and glimpsed a servant running about with a basket of wood at the end of the otherwise deserted corridor. The servant quickly disappeared. Éomer felt his fingers tremble involuntarily. He wet his lips, intent on speaking, but in the end he didn't. He had a strong suspicion that for the first time in years he might be violently ill. There was not enough air in his brain as he stumbled through the door and began to negotiate the way to his room.

Lothíriel shut her door quietly and leaned against it. Then she took a deep breath and cried. Lothíriel cried like she had never cried before. She even sobbed. In all her life, even in her darkest moments, she had never wished for death to take her so badly than in this melodramatic fit of despair. When she finally took a hold on herself she crossed the room to her water basin and was viciously sick.

"Legolas."

If Éomer had suspected meeting anyone on his sneaking voyage back to his room, it was not the Elf.

"Good morning Éomer. Up early? Beautiful morning for travelling. I'm just off to see if Gimli's going to bother a last visit to the shore before we prepare to march out," said Legolas breezily, looking for all the world as though he was in the very first bloom of youth, his blond hair fanning out neatly behind him, yet still with some strange airy abandon. "But perhaps you're in truth on your way to bed," he said, shrewdly. Éomer opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it. Legolas gave him a wise smile, and said kindly, "I thought so. Do not make yourself uneasy, Elf-friend, there is no one else about to accost you."

He bowed to Éomer, which was returned in kind, before moving aside to let him pass.

"Oh and Éomer," he called back softly. Éomer paused though his face was too red to face the humiliation of turning, "Congratulations."

He was still pondering the meaning of this statement and beginning to grasp at straws of hope again when he reached his room and hurriedly changed his clothes, his heart pumping with renewed vigour and feeling a great deal lighter.

Lothíriel was having a terrible morning. She had managed to see off the Gondorian army, along with Faramir, whose conversation she would miss most keenly, Legolas her new-found friend and confidant, the ever courteous Gimli and their enigmatic King Aragorn, without mishap, handling herself correctly and perfectly as a lady of the court, representative of the City and above all Princess of Dol Amroth should. She could not bring herself to meet the eye of her own lover. She was dreading the afternoon send-off to the Rohirrim.

It was a comfortingly familiar feeling to find herself sprinting up the sand before the lunch feast, the prospect of which was filling her with anxiety. She could not see how she would be able to sit and make polite conversation under her father's nose, her focus on the importance of being an important ambassador for their kingdom whilst also acting suitably indifferent to any gaze offered in her direction by the golden King of Rohan. So she ran, and ran… and ran. Until she was out of breath and the stitch in her side began to sting as though struck by a blade.

Lothíriel threw herself down on the sand, discarding the sandals that had dangled from her fingers carelessly beside her. She let herself ponder her own position. It had not been with too heavy a heart that she had restored each of the Three Companies to the right brother, watching them re-unite with the men, with Benadil, with their right powers. She was enjoying the feeling of freedom from such restraining responsibility, but suspected that in a very little time that freedom would become boring. She tried to remember what she used to do, before her brothers' disappearance, and could not think of anything that could have occupied her time so completely. She began to realise that the only thing of use for her to do would be to get married.

"Horses ready?"

"All except yours, Éomer."

"Good, you know me well Hama."

"I do: you would not let anyone make ready your horse besides yourself."

"No other except yourself."

"Well, I am honoured."

They were standing in the makeshift stable, which was slowly being emptied around them. Éomer was masking his jangling stomach by busying himself with the ordering of the leave-taking, which in truth was weighing heavily. He had not seen Lothíriel since the Gondorians had marched out and didn't know where she was, or how to steal any more time alone with her. He stopped a squire to ask for the time, conscious of it slipping away from him, when they were due to one last feast with Prince Imrahil at lunchtime. Hama and himself were invited to sit in places of honour, with all his other councillors present in high state, so they were determined to dress up smartly like they never had before. He was proud to have secured this ally and was also keen to turn Lothíriel's head enough for her to at least look at him one more time. That was, if he ever found her.

Lothíriel stood in front of her looking glass, for once allowing the superior judgement of a maid to her state of dress. Unbidden, the memory of her father's shout of 'this is politics' rang in her brain. She was determined not to mess this event up. At least when the Rohirrim and their King were safely gone away she could relax again. …She seriously doubted that.

They were all waiting on a lady.

"Any minute now," said Imrahil genially, though there was a slight nervous edge to his voice. His sons sitting around him seemed perturbed by their sister's lateness, but it was Éomer who was rattling with nerves. His right leg twitched under the table.

"Her royal highness, Princess Lothíriel!" the herald stepped aside.

Lothíriel appeared. She was wearing a simply cut dark green gown with a high v-neck trimmed with silver. Her hair was piled on top of her head. Éomer stood up without thinking. The entire assembled company stared at him, before Hama tactfully jumped to his feet himself. There was a pause before all the men assembled rose as one. Lothíriel approached the table. The only spare seat was opposite Him. She didn't know if she could take the tension. They were all seated. Lunch began.

Éomer stared at his plate, only engaging in conversation when he was addressed directly. It was only when Hama leaned across him in the pretence of topping up his wine glass and tactfully reminded him that he was starting to appear a little rude to his host, that he finally got his act together and began pouring all the wit and courtesy he could muster into conversation with Prince Imrahil and his sons. Across the table Lothíriel remained silent, only eating a very little. She did not attempt to join the conversation. Her fingers were trembling and she had a bitter taste in the back of her throat. She knew that if they were forced to address each other it would give away far too much. She felt her nostrils flaring as feelings began to build up inside her, and wiped her mouth quickly with her napkin so that no one would be able to see.

"All assembled and ready to march my Lord."

Éomer nodded curtly and hesitated. His mind worked furiously. If he did nothing now, he would forget it forever…

"Hama!" his voice came out harsh and strained. Several of the men nearby looked up curiously. Éomer cleared his throat and moved away from the rest. Hama approached warily, carrying a saddle under his arm. He waited. Éomer was clearly in a state of agitated distraction. He took two paces forward before stopping short and turning to the side as if suddenly making up his mind about something. "Hama," he repeated, abruptly, "would you come down to look at the shore with me before we march out?"

"Éomer, you seem troubled. I will follow you once I have saddled my galloper." Éomer nodded once and took off at disturbing speed down to the beach below. Hama stood for a moment, frowning.

"Lothíriel!"

Lothíriel whipped round and stared at the source of the voice. 'Go away,' she thought desperately, 'go home, I can't take any more.' She was sitting on a large rock a few metres into the bay where the water surrounding her was deeper. Somehow she always felt isolated on this rock, though at that moment she was acutely aware that it was in the plainest view possible of the house.

Éomer felt reckless. What was to be gained by not taking this chance? A lifetime of misery? Well, he was always a risk-taker.

Lothíriel could do little else but stare as the King of Rohan, fully clothed in his best riding gear, plunged straight into the sea and began resolutely wading out to her. "W-what are you doing?" she said incredulously, as he came within reach of the rock. He was staring at her with a look of wild euphoria as he reached the boulder and braced himself on it, treading water. He gazed up at her, oblivious of the shouts of the astounded crowd that had begun to gather on the shoreline behind him. Her mouth was open in an expression of utmost amazement.

"I have to know-!" he began, hindered by his heavy breathing and the effort of staying afloat in dress armour. "I- Princess Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, who I hold in highest regard and will most likely have my head for leading such a vision astray – I-" he paused to catch more breath. That armour was monstrously heavy; he would have to get rid of that tradition… "I love you!" it exploded from him loudly, because it had taken so much breath and effort to manage. If he was going to drown, at least he would die extremely happy… the crowd on the beach gasped as one but he didn't hear it. Lothíriel's hands came down and latched onto the top buckles of his breastplate, holding him afloat. He looked into her eyes for the first substantial period since that morning on waking. Her face was flushed and beautiful. Éomer spat out a bit of saltwater, and cried out, "I know it's not a perfect setting, and a terrible proposal, being half drowned, and you are far, far too good for me…" he inhaled sharply and kicked his legs harder beneath him, unconsciously searching for a rock or something to put his foot on, "BUT! Princess Lothíriel, would you do me the greatest honour, and consent to be my wife?"

There was an anxious intake of breath from the audience, who all moved involuntarily forward as Éomer, who was after all the last heir of his family, sank below the water again. Lothíriel jumped off the rock and in a minute both heads appeared above the waves.

The King of Rohan, who was clinging onto the rock for dear life supported by Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, and no longer Commander of the Three Companies, looked into his love's face and captured that smile in his memory forever. The sun beat down on their soaked forms, dazzling them. No, it was not very elegant of them to kiss before such a large crowd, but they were both of that disposition of forgetting to abide by the correct etiquette. And no, it had not been a well-planned or eloquent proposal.

None of that would ever matter.

"Son of Eomund, I would."

THE END.