Author's Notes

First off, I own none of the creative rights to this wonderful literary world. They all belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and his estate. Also of note, I myself have never read the books. I am an avid fan of the movie trilogy however, and have done some decent amount of research into the land and its peoples. I would consider this story to be a sort of hybrid between the book-verse and the movie-verse, though probably more emphasis on the movie-verse. If that bothers you or offends you, then you probably don't want to read this fic.

When I first saw the Fellowship of the Ring, I fell prey as many a-fan-girl did and was instantly in love with Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood. I was in lust with all things elvish. When I saw Two Towers however, my fandom did a complete one-eighty. Suddenly I was all about the Horse-Lords of the Riddermark. And after seeing Return of the King my newfound penchant didn't change, and I remain a loyal Rohirrim fan to this day.

I just love everything about them. I love the culture, I love the background, the lands, the history, and I especially love the characters of Théoden King, Eomer and Eowyn. Doing a bit of research, I discovered that after the War of the Ring, in the year 3020, the newly crowned King of the Riddermark, Lord Eomer, marries a Lady Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth. Apparently Tolkien doesn't go into much detail, other than to announce this fact and it's direct result, the birth of Elfwine the Fair who becomes King of the Riddermark in the year 63 of the Fourth Age, at the death of his father.

Well, being the rabid Rohirrim fangirl and hopeless romantic that I am, I just had to embellish it a bit—for my own sanity if nothing else. Keep in mind however that, while I do love everything about them, I am by no means an expert on the Tolkien fandom. I've done as much research as I can, but know that I'm not perfect. If there's something out of place, don't be afraid to point it out to me, but don't go pointlessly nit-picking either.

On to other things, this piece of fiction will be rated M on Fanfiction(dot)net, due to mature themes and adult situations. On Adultfanfiction(dot)net this will be rated NC-17 due to certain scenes which will be omitted from fanfiction(dot)net because of their site policies. I'm also going to warn you that my Princess Lothíriel might be a touch on the "weak-female" side, at least at first. This is done to my own discretion, so if you don't like it, either keep such opinions to yourself or don't read this fic.

This fic was very much inspired by the works of Lady Bluejay, at fanfiction(dot)net. She has written several good Eomer-Lothíriel stories. I strongly recommend them to any who like a good read.

Prologue

Blind Alliances

Edoras, Rohan

August 12th of the year 3019 T.A.

The War of the Ring was ended.

On May 1st of the year 3019 of the Third Age, the White City of Minas Tirith crowned her first King in many ages, once again uniting the lands of Gondor and Arnor. He was Lord Aragorn, King Elessar, son of Arathorn and Chieftain of the Dunadain, direct descendant of Númenor.

For months afterward, the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth began the long process of healing the wounds of their world and rebuilding it in peace and prosperity. Some had an easier time of it than others. To the north, the land of the Horse-Lords was one of the hardest hit, and in the gravest need after the shadow of Mordor had fled. The Men of Dunland and Isengard's Uruk-hai had decimated the Westfold, where many of their settlements lay. What the Uruks and the Dunlendings did not steal they burned to the ground. The Rohirrim were in sore need of aid. What little remained of their livestock and farms would not be able to sustain them. They had survived the War of the Ring, but it looked as though the mighty Éorlingas were doomed to starve to death in the coming winter.

It was this sordid predicament that weighed most heavily on the mind of young Eomer, newly crowned King of the Riddermark. He sat in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, in the seat of his uncle, and worried on the days ahead of him. He had announced the betrothal of his sister to the newly named Prince of Ithilien, Lord Faramir, just two days past. Eowyn was hopelessly in love with the gentle Steward and vice-versa, and Eomer himself had no objections to the match. Save that her departure for Ithilien would leave him all alone in this great hall, with no one but his own troubles for company. Yet he wished Eowyn every bit of the joy and happiness that she had been unable to find in her homeland, forever in doubt and despair.

Now it seemed that fate was to become his own.

Not for the first time Eomer wished that his uncle had survived the Battle of Pelennor. In his heart, Eomer did not see himself as a King. He was a warrior, had always been a warrior. He was the son of the Chief Marshal of the Mark, he had grown up fighting battles and waging war. The only worries he'd ever had were staying alive from one day to the next. All that had begun to change at Theodred's death, however, when he became the new heir of the Rohirrim. Now his uncle had gone to the hall of their forefathers, and the responsibilities of his people were instead thrust upon his shoulders. His people were looking to him to ease their suffering and come up with a solution to their plight. Eomer sat in Meduseld and listened to the never-ending council of every knowledgeable advisor and well-meaning Lord—from the Fords of Isen to the Mouths of Entwash—and fervently wished he could just mount Firefoot and ride hell for leather to the Fenmarch instead. Far, far away from Edoras and her never-ending woes.

Yet he could not. He was his father's son, his uncle's nephew. Descended from King Eorl, the first King of the Riddermark. He would do his duty. If only he could figure out just how he was supposed to go about it, and still keep his people alive and his own sanity intact.

"You look troubled, Eomer King," a deep voice suddenly called, tinged with just a touch of humor, startling the young man out of his miserable reverie. He looked up to find Aragorn—now King Elessar of Gondor—standing to the side of one of the great wooden beams of the hall, leaning against it with his arms crossed negligently. He was dressed in fine velvets and silks now instead of the rough-traveled leather and mail, and his hair was clean and freshly cut to his shoulders, his beard newly trimmed rather than dirt-encrusted and stained with old blood. Yet Eomer still saw more of the fierce Ranger of the North in Aragorn than he did the mighty King of Gondor, for all that he had witnessed his coronation only three months ago himself.

Eomer sighed loudly at Aragorn's bait, but did not rise to it. He merely shook his head, reclining back in the great throne. He had cleared the hall only moments before with a fierce growl that had sent all of his advisors fleeing for cover. None had dared brave his wrath by reentering, until now. Frustration and annoyance gnawed at him. Desperation was setting in.

"I am not a King, Aragorn, for all that fate and my blood has made me such," he heaved, speaking his dark thoughts aloud. Eomer didn't watch Aragorn's approach, but he knew that the Númenorian drew nearer to the throne nonetheless. Instead he kept his troubled gaze on the stones at his feet. "My people look to me to make their troubles go away, and I would do it. Only . . . I know not what can be done. If anything. Are we to survive the shadows of Mordor for naught?"

Eomer lifted his gaze at last, and met the solemn Aragorn's soulful gray eyes with his own desperate ones. "The Westfold is in ruin. My people will starve to death, come the winter."

There was a slight pause, then, "the Oath of Eorl has been renewed, my friend," Elessar spoke softly. "The lands of Gondor would gladly give all that was needed to her ally in the north."

Eomer made a face, a slight snarl of displeasure setting loose from his lips. "Charity? The Rohirrim would rather die than accept it. My people will not take gifts given for no reason. They are too stubborn and too proud."

"And what if there was a reason?" a new voice suddenly questioned.

Eomer turned to see Lord Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, enter the hall from the other side. The older man had earned his trust and friendship during the march on the Black Gate and the Battle of Morannon. Eomer's brow rose in question, not sure where the Prince was going with his train of thought. Aragorn didn't look surprised at Imrahil's sudden appearance, so that must mean that the two men had already discussed whatever plan was being brought to fruition. While he might chafe at his future being discussed without him, at this point he was open to any suggestions.

"What reason would you be suggesting?" he questioned carefully. Imrahil drew in a deep breath, then,

"It is not uncommon for riches—in your case precious-needed foodstuffs and supplies for the winter to come—to be exchanged as . . . a betrothal dower."

Eomer sat back in the throne, stunned. In his silence, Imrahil eagerly continued.

"I have a daughter, as you know. I believe my sons have spoken of her to you. Lothíriel is twenty, soon to be twenty-one, only eight years younger than you. She is her mother's daughter, my lord, descended of Númenorian Kings, passing fair of face and more than fair of demeanor. It has been said one would be hard pressed to find a more gentle soul in the whole of Middle-Earth." Imrahil paused, then, "she would make you a fine Queen, Eomer. And as part of the marriage contract, Dol Amroth would gift Rohan with all the supplies it needs."

"Are you suggesting I promise to wed a girl I've never even met?" he questioned slowly, voice bland. Imrahil winced, then sighed.

"I had hoped that she would join us for King Elessar's crowning in Minas Tirith, but she fell ill after tending so many wounded and injured after the Battle of Pelennor. And then Elphir's wife Riana gave birth to their second child, Finuviel, just as we were about to leave to join you in the White City to begin on Théoden King's funeral procession. She insisted on staying behind to help look after them."

Eomer looked decidedly uneasy. "What of the lady? Is she to have no say in this?"

Aragorn was the one who spoke first. "It seems cold-hearted, I know, but such is the way alliances of this kind are often made in Gondor, my friend."

"Lothíriel will do her duty to me and her country, have no fear," Imrahil added. Eomer scowled.

"'Do her duty?'" he parroted harshly, at once beginning to second-guess his respect for the Prince of Dol Amroth. "I will not have my wife sold to me, gentlemen, like so much horseflesh," he finished, seething. It was Imrahil's turn to scowl.

"Do not mistake my eagerness for this match for lack of care or warmth for my child. I assure you that my daughter is most precious to me, and I would not even suggest giving you her hand unless I thought that the two of you would suit. And I do. I really believe that you and Lothí would make a very fine match indeed. Her gentle hand is just the sort of touch that Meduseld is in need of, to help soothe the wounds that Sauron and Saruman have wrought on these lands."

"She is a daughter of the Dunadain," Aragorn persisted. "Raised a Princess and trained as the chatelaine of Dol Amroth ever since her thirteenth year. Out of all that you might claim, she is the best suited to assume the role of Queen of the Mark."

Eomer frowned down at the toes of his boots once more, suddenly torn. Eowyn would have his head if he agreed to this madness. Choosing a bride he'd never even laid eyes on, one who had utterly no say in the matter? Things were not done this way in the Riddermark. Alliances were very rarely made solely for gain, even among royalty. Their marriages were almost always of the heart, a binding of mates that was held most sacred.

Yet his people needed Dol Amroth's aid desperately, and were too stubborn to accept it unless given a good reason. Eomer glanced about the dark corners that surrounded him, heart heavy. The Golden Hall had indeed gone far too long without a woman's touch. It had become the province of men, for Eowyn had always been better suited to a blade than a needle. To be wed to a true Princess of Gondor, a woman raised in finery and gentility . . . it was almost too much to hope for.

And rightfully so he decided with a sneer. Imagine, such a woman married to him! Theodred perhaps could lay claim to such a fine creature. But Eomer was not the son of a King. He was the son of a warrior. Despite his grandmother Lady Morwen's greatest attempts, Eomer had always been and would always be a son of the Rohirrim. Very little of the Westron ways had made an impact on him. He well knew that his people were viewed as savages and barbarians compared to the more genteel lands of the South.

Yet . . . what choice did he have? It was either wed the Princess of Dol Amroth or condemn his people to a slow death of starvation and disease.

Eomer raised his gaze again and met the eyes of Prince Imrahil.

"Can she ride?" he questioned, ignoring Aragorn's sudden grin. Imrahil hesitated, however, and cleared his throat.

"She . . . ah . . . somewhat." He scowled.

"Somewhat?"

"That is, she has been trained to ride side-saddle," Imrahil was quick to correct, "as is the way of Gondorian women. She has never ridden a horse astride, my lord, as you do here in Rohan." Eomer's scowl was stern.

"She will have to be taught, if she is to be my wife," he announced steadily, ignoring the warnings of ill-boding clamoring around in his brain. "The Queen of the Mark has to know how to ride a horse."