Chapter Text
There is a dog standing in front of him with its hackles raised and its teeth bared, and it is such an unexpected thing that Eomer finds himself merely standing there, staring at it. It is large, it is advancing, but it bears a leather collar. A great, dark, shaggy dog, near as tall as a man.
Will the battles never cease, he wonders?
But before he can so much as reach for his sword, a soft female voice calls out a command, and the dog’s ears flick back. Its lips lowers over its teeth.
The soft female voice speaks again and the dog lowers itself on its haunches, though its eyes do not leave Eomer - - not for a moment. Then, from the shadows of the courtyard, a young woman appears, lays her hand upon the dog’s great shoulder.
“As my poor friend cannot speak to ask your pardon, I fear that duty falls to me.”
She is young, though no child - - - a young woman with long dark hair that falls in curls down to her waist. Beside the dog, she is merely a slip of a thing, slender as a water-reed, and her voice is soft. So soft, in fact, it seems impossible she could have commanded the dog with no more than two words, and yet it has not moved from her side. Though, despite her words, he does not look as if he would ask forgiveness, speaking or no.
“He was my cousin’s, you see. He raised this dog from a pup. When he died, the dog found solace in my uncle’s company, for they were much alike. But my uncle did not live to see the end of the battle. Now I am the one he knows most well, and so he follows me.”
“Then you have a fierce defender, lady. But I would keep a close eye upon him. I mean you no harm. Yet it seemed as though he meant harm to me.”
She strokes the dog’s head with a gentle hand, looks down upon it with sad eyes.
“His world has changed,” she says, quite simply. “He has not yet learned how to live in it.” When she looks at Eomer again, there is something familiar in her face, though he cannot say what. Feminine lines constructing a face whose likeness he has seen in a different form, upon the fields of war.
She is someone’s daughter, then, but whose?
“If you will not accept an apology on his behalf, will you accept my own? I admit, I was paying him but little mind. I did not hear your step, or I would have called him to me before you came.”
He is out of his depth, it seems. She is all Gondorian, that much is plain, all pretty words and courtly phrases. And she is the only thing so much untouched by war that he has seen in many days. For there is sadness, yes, and even grief within her eyes, but gentleness and trust and innocence that could not have withstood more than learned-of loss.
“I would be glad to, my lady. But I do not know who apologizes.”
“For that, I must apologize. We have not been introduced. By all rights, I suppose I should not be speaking with you further.”
It is a curious thing to say, he thinks, but then Gondorian manner and customs of propriety are all but foreign to him, still.
“Do you need an introduction to speak with me?”
“Oh, yes.” But her smile calls dimples into her cheeks, and there is something in her eyes that speaks of a will beyond softness. “But as it is only the three of us, and certainly my protector would have introduced us, had he been blessed with human speech, I suppose that I must make my own. I am Lothiriel, daughter of Imrahil. I came with my mother and my brothers from Dol Amroth,”
“You’re Imrahil’s daughter.”
She nods, and it is the same grave dip of the head her father might offer. The eyes are like her father’s, her nose and her chin, though the smile is unfamiliar - - a gift from her mother, perhaps.
“And you are Eomer, King of Rohan.”
Of course she knows who he is. It seems that everyone does, now. He isn’t sure he likes it. In fact, he’s not yet entirely convinced that he likes the girl, either. He knows he does not like the dog, who is still eyeing him with a guard-dog’s gaze. She looks too much as though she is examining him, measuring him up, adding the parts together, and he cannot know what whole she makes of him.
He’s only certain it can’t possibly be the right one, though why it rankles so is beyond his reckoning.