Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings. All rights reserved to Tolkien enterprise.

Title: The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

Summary: Lírien did not wish to move to Rohan, and the Rohirrim certainly didn't wish to have her. But it seems now that the one man who embodies everything she hates may be the one to make her love it.

Genre: Romance, drama, some comedy

Rating: T for strong language, allusions to violence, and sexual situations.

Other Warnings: OC-centric, NOT a Mary Sue. OC/Minor canon character.

The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

"Character develops itself in the stream of life"

~Johann Wolfgang van Goethe~

"In time we hate that which we often fear"

~William Shakespeare~

Chapter One

The Art Of Avoidance

The sun seemed brighter, streaming through the glass window-door and past the open curtains. It hit the dark wood floor in a square patch, and caught little slivers of dust that were floating in the air. The sunlight that found its way in was the small room's only light source during the day. Through a candle sat in the fat, golden candlestick on the desk, it showed distinct signs of being unused.

The whole room, in fact, seemed untouched.

When one entered, they found themselves in the center of the room. The walls were white, clean as if just scrubbed. The floor was made of dark wood, and so was the low ceiling, which had thick beams running across it. Directly across the door was the window, with pressed yellow curtains and glass doors, and beneath this was a dark wooden desk, on which sat a few neatly piled books, an orderly stack of parchment, a beautiful pewter inkwell and a white quill, and finally, the aforementioned candlestick. To the room's left was a vanity, with an elaborate looking-glass. Though its surface had on it pots and jars of powders and paints, a porcelain jug and bowl for water, and a wooden comb, they all were so pristine one could hardly imagine them being used. There was also a wardrobe, of the same dark wood as the other furniture. It was closed, but inside lay only folded shifts, shoes lined in perfect order, and ironed dressed of the latest non-distinct fashions.

Perhaps the only sign of the room's inhabitant was the bed. Though tidily made, with white sheets covering the horsehair and wool mattress and two white blankets, one of the down pillows bore the slightest indent, as if it had been fluffed after being slept on by one with a particularly light head.

That was the physical mark Lírien had left on Rohan; an indent on her pillow.

Socially, her mark had been more heavy-handed.

She was the Granddaughter of Lady Brictiva, cousin of Thengel, her appearance was Rohirric, though her hair was browner from her Gondorian blood, and her eyes grayer. And yet it was plain to anyone who saw her that she did not belong in Rohan. She, like their King's bride, was a Gondorian, born and bred in Dol Amroth, but unlike the Queen, she was not quick to adapt to the culture. Some of the court thought this was because of the fact that she had no husband who she loved who make things easier, but most thought it was due to her high-strung, overly polite, overly exclusive nature.

Upon entering the city for the first time, her nose had crinkled at the smell of manure, mixed with the sweat of hard-working men. She had sat uneasily on her horse, more used to delicate mares than the large creature she had ridden. She had pulled her skirts away from the dogs and refused to dance to any of the traditional Rohirric music, instead only dancing to the slow music that was not overly popular among the court.

Her distaste for Rohan had done her few favors, for the women of Rohan had responded to her in turn. They spoke to her only as much as was politely required, and avoided her at all other times. They giggled when she failed to do something as simple as know how to properly saddle a horse. They discouraged their brothers and relatives from dancing with her and sidetracked any man who seemed to be on his way to her. And, though none could confirm it, there was a general thought that one of them had been she who encouraged a young stable boy to sneak a large spider into her wreath when the court went out to the gardens.

It was from this startling incident the Lírien returned to her room, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and teeth clenched in anger. She was sure it was Leodæg who was responsible, but it could have been Wyverun or Eadwine. She doubted it was Brìd, for while that girl hated her, she was not one to resort to hiding spiders in flowers; her schemes were always more cutting than mild shame.

The room, heated by he afternoon sun, was stuffy and warm. Lírien walked to the window and carefully opened it, and lay the wreath on the sill. It had been too beautiful to drop, even after an eight-legged, hairy beast came crawling out from it. Then, she sat and pulled a piece of parchment to her, attached a nib to her quill, dipped it in the ink, and proceeded to not write a single word.

How did one write a letter begging of their father to arrange a betrothal for them? It was not an easy subject to breach. Besides, she knew her father would go straight to Lord Lomon of Lebennin, and that was not a prospect she wished to entertain.

After the death of her intended in the War of the Ring, she had remained unattached out of respect- not only for the man who would have been the Steward of Gondor, but for her good friend. And yet now she was nineteen, the oldest unengaged woman in Dol Amroth. In Rohan her predicament had not stood out, as women traditionally waited until they were in their twenties to marry, but back home it had become painfully evident that she had no husband; perhaps that was why her father had agreed to send her here. To make her seem less pathetic.

Lost in her reverie, Lírien did not notice that a horse had approached her window until it was gnawing on her flowers.

She gave a startled shout, pushing back in her chair. The stallion was white, speckled with gray and with large, brown eyes. It's snout was half in her window, nibbling on the wreath. She could not see if the horse had a rider, for its body was obscured by the wall, but she suspected it did.

A low chuckle confirmed this.

"You should not have so much grass in your wreath; every Rohir knows it will simply attract trouble."

Lírien was surprised by how much she liked the voice; low, gruff, yet friendly and with a hint of humor in it. His words were also pleasant, somehow they were clipped and to the point without being rude.

"I... I am not a Rohir." Oh, how tremendously clever of you, Lírien, She thought to herself.

"Yes, you demonstrated that with your wreath."

"In all fairness-"

"We would certainly want that." Was he mocking her? He would not be the first, but it stung no less. She straightened her shoulders and threw her chin up, pressing her lips into a thin line before speaking.

"It was given to me. I did not make it myself, but I do find it quite lovely, so I would appreciate it if your horse would stop eating it."

The man laughed, a throaty sort of laugh that made her cheeks flame.

"Who gave it to you? They must not like you much."

"No, they do not. It came accompanied by a spider." She did not know why she was revealing her most recent chagrin to a stranger whose horse was eating her plants, but something about a voice that was friendly seemed to disarm her; perhaps because it was so unusual these days.

"That is unfortunate indeed."

"Now, if you would be so kind, I would like some of my wreath to be left outside of your horse's stomach."

"Then I recommend you move it, for my horse seems hungry and I am enjoying this conversation."

Again, her cheeks flamed, and she was at a loss for how to respond, thankfully, she had no need, for he continued to speak.

"And while I do ride his, Swifthoof is by no means my horse. I am more his human. You truly are not a Rohir, are you?"

"I am from Dol Amroth, and there humans are the possession of none. Not even horses."

"Do not say that as if it is an awful thing; there is nothing better than being a true rider and having absolute trust between yourself and the creature who bears you."

"I would not know; I prefer boats to horses, for that is what I know."

"Boats? I get sick when I step foot in one, even on land."

She shrugged her shoulder, and was glad he could not see; it was an improper gesture to make.

"You must go sailing in Dol Amroth, and even you will enjoy it. When the wind is just so and the water blue as the sky, so that you cannot tell which is which... it is a dream" her voice drifted off wistfully at the thought, and again his chuckle pulled her from her thoughts.

"And you must try to ride. If you go down to the stables later today, there will be someone to teach you."

"I cannot, I must return to the picnic. I was granted only momentary leave by Lo- by the Queen- to gather my nerves."

"Then come tomorrow, or even in a few days. There will be a way for you to learn discreetly."

"I... will consider it."

"Do so. But now, I must go. Swifthoof is getting hungry."

"Goodbye," she said, watching as the rest of the horse rode past; but all she saw of the rider was a well-muscled leg in well-fitting trousers.

Suddenly, returning to the picnic seemed an even less appealing prospect. And her wreath- it had been eaten in its entirety.

She would certainly have a word with this rider.