#cosmonauthill

“It is a lovely day, isn’t it?” Lothiriel asks, swimming back towards the bank and settling on the cleanest rock she can find to slowly dry off. 

Niprehdil nickers softly in response. Smiling, Lothiriel sets about combing her hair–it will tangle horribly if she does not, and the last thing she needs to do is give her aunt another reason to scold her in front of “their” guests. As if the running of the household has not been firmly in her hands for the past three years! Besides, no one save her family knows about her habit of swimming in the river–

The sudden crunch of a branch being stepped on makes her stop her combing. The sudden appearance of a man–blonde haired, bearded, and shirtless–makes her freeze. 

Muffling a surprised squeak, she rolls off the boulder, intending to crouch behind it until he goes away. Oh, why was he here? No one has ever, ever happened upon her before, not in all the years she’s been coming for her swims. This bend of the river was hers!

Slowly, she raises up on her toes to peer at the intruder. His hair gives away his heritage: one of the Rohirrim has found her sanctuary. Too late she remembers that their encampment is situated in the nearby clearing. She has met a few Rohirric soldiers before, in Ithillien visiting Faramir, but this man is unlike the rest. His height is extraordinary, even from this distance, and his shoulders are no unhappy sight either. The thought makes her blush. Aunt Ivriniel really would have cause to scold her, this time.

A whinny precariously close to her ear makes her jump; Niprhedil, having clearly sensed her distress, has ambled over to inspect her sudden descent from the rock.

“No, no, no,” Lothiriel hisses, running a hand over Niprhedil’s snout, “I am fine, go back to your grass–”

“Who goes there?”

Oh, Valar, she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut.

“I can see your horse,” comes the voice again. 

Cursing herself, rivers, and nosy Rohirrim in general, Lothiriel forces herself to stand, pressing closer to the rock so that her state of undress is not readily visible. “Good afternoon,” she says, attempting politeness.

The man’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “….good afternoon.”

They look at each other in near painful silence, long enough that she is able to take stock of 3 things: that he seems to show no sign of retreating to another spot along the river, that he has a hairbrush of his own in his hand, and that he is horribly, distressingly handsome. 

“I–”

“Are you lost?” He asks before she can speak.

Lothiriel’s brow furrows. “Lost?”

“Aye. For I cannot fathom why else a lady would choose to venture out alone” 

Oh, Valar. If he discovers who she is, it will be an utter disaster! Lothiriel likes her soon-to-be cousin very much, and cannot bear the thought of Eowyn thinking poorly of her. Which she surely shall, should this man report back She opens her mouth, intending to…to.to lie, to tell a half-truth, to do something, but what comes out instead is: 

“And how do you know I am a lady?” 

The man’s stern expression morphs into something wry. It does nothing to lessen his appeal. “Well, you do have the look of one.” 

Lothiriel looks down at herself–she is mostly hidden by the rock, it’s true, but her shift is hardly what would pass for appropriate attire for any Gondorian noblewoman, especially when in the presence of a man.

“You must not know many ladies, then,” she says before she can stop herself.

The man snorts. “So you are not a lady, then? Or at least not a lost one.”

“I am not lost,” she admits, “and as to being a lady, I fail to see how that is your business.” 

“You are certainly a noblewoman. And a foolish one, at that, to go off unaccompanied.”

Lothiriel bristles. “I have been exploring these woods since I was a child. I need no guide, no chaperone, no–”

“Clothes, apparently.”

“I have clothes! They are just–” She flaps a hand in their direction, where she left them neatly folded on top of her satchel. “….over there.”

The man snorts again and Lothiriel decides he is not truly that handsome. How could he be, and be so rude!

“You are lucky indeed, my lady, both that I have a younger sister and am accustomed to the mischief young women can get up to, and that I am only here to wash my hair. What would you have done if I were a thief? Or a lingering soldier from Harad? Or some other man who meant you harm?”

She scowls at him. “I am not so defenseless as you think!”

“Oh? Pray tell how a young woman of noble birth, alone save her horse, without clothes, would defend herself from harm.” 

Years of prodding and teasing from her brothers has made Lothiriel slightly prone to impulsive acts, and that’s what has her flinging her hairbrush at him. Its heavy oak handle catches him in the temple. She only has a moment to see the surprised look on his face morph into one of pain before he stumbles back into the river with a mighty splash. Lothiriel feels a brief surge of triumph before it becomes clear her victim is not resurfacing.

“Oh, Elbereth!” She cries, darting towards the water as quickly as she can. It is not so deep and the current is hardly strong here, but her unexpected attack has clearly left him stunned. Irritating as he may be, she scarcely wishes drowning on the man. She dives in, the water making the burden of his weight a much easier thing than it would be on land.

He splutters back into consciousness once she’s hefted him onto the bank.

“I am sorry!” Lothiriel cries. “Really, I did not mean–I’d forgotten the handle was so heavy, I never meant to make you fall in–”

A rumble of laughter stops her panicked apology. She can only gape at him as he rolls over to lie on his back, shoulders shaking with the force of his amusement.

“…my lord? Are you …are you quite well?” 

“I stand corrected,” he finally manages once his laughter has stopped. “You are adequately armed, my lady.” 

That startles a laugh out of her. “I will be sure to keep a case of them on hand at the next feast. If I am accosted by a boring or pushy lord, I will have my hairbrush at the ready!”

The man snorts again, turning his face towards her with a wide smile. She smiles back, feeling much more inclined to deem him handsome anew, with his dark eyes softened by good humor and the corners of his mouth curved upward, and–

And still completely bare-chested. 

His eyes dart down and back up again, and Lothiriel blinks, confused, as his face floods with color. “My lady, while I am grateful for the rescue, I think it best if you return to your rock.” 

The reason is rapidly apparent: she is still in her shift–her completely soaked through shift–that is now clinging very, very improperly to her skin. 

“O-oh, yes, of course” Lothiriel stutters, leaping to her feet and moving away from him, “I-I had really better head back regardless, I know my aunt will be looking for me soon. You…you will be alright, my lord?”

“As long as there are no other hairbrush-wielding noblewomen to be found in these woods,” comes his wry response, “I suspect I will be fine.”

“Good!” She cries, yanking her dress on over her head–it will be soaked through by the shift, but there is nothing for it now. “A pleasant day to you, my lord!”

Niprhedil mercifully allows her to clamor into her saddle without complaint. By the time she is settled, the mystery Rohir is standing and watching her with obvious amusement. 

“Good day, my lord!”

“So you’ve said already.” 

Unable to help herself, she sticks her tongue out at him, earning another deep laugh. Blushing and thanking the Valar she’s been able to extract herself without revealing her identity, she tugs gently on Niprhedil’s reins, turning her towards home.

“So am I never to know the name of my rescuer?” Comes the Rohir’s voice again. 

Lothiriel’s flush deepens and she throws him a glare over her shoulder. Surely he has guessed that to do so could be damning, certainly for her, and mayhaps even for him!

“There is a higher chance of you falling in that river again than me giving you my name, my lord. This is farewell, truly.”

She thinks she catches a flash of disappointment in his expression before she presses her heels against her mare’s side and rides off.

–

“You are very distracted this evening, brother.”

Eomer winces as Faramir steps up beside him, looking far too smug and knowing in the flickering candle-light of Imrahil’s hall. He likes his almost brother-in-law, but he likes less the man’s damnable ability to read people so well. 

“Perhaps I am simply unaccustomed to you Gondorians’ idea of an evening well spent.”

“Hm,” murmurs Faramir, “I suppose that could be true.”

Minutely, Eomer relaxes. Perhaps the Steward’s famed powers of perception have been addled by the flow of fine Dol Amrothan wine and Eowyn’s presence?

“But I think there is another cause.”

“He met a mystery lady in the woods today,” chimes in Eothain, nudging Eomer’s shoulder as he does so. “Hasn’t been able to think of anything else since.” 

“Eothain,” he hisses, annoyed and mortified all at once. Annoyed, because his captain should know better than to say such things in front of Farami. Mortified, because it’s true. 

“Oh?” Says Aragorn, appearing from seemingly nowhere at the worst possible moment.  “Did I hear something about a mysterious lady?”

“Just so, sire,” Faramir confirms. “And in the woods, no less.” 

There is something worrisome in Faramir’s tone. 

“Rather an odd place to meet a lady, Eomer.”

“I did not intend to meet anyone. I only wanted to wash my hair before tonight’s…festivities–”

“On Eowyn’s orders, no doubt–”

“Yes,” Eomer begrudgingly admits. “She told me I was under no circumstances to smell of horse in Imrahil’s ballroom.”

“A wise woman, your sister.”

“The wisest,” agrees Faramir.

“You,” Eomer says, pointing a finger at Aragorn, “are meddling, and you,” a jab in Faramir’s direction, “are biased.” 

Faramir shrugs while Aragorn grins. 

“Come now, Eomer, tell them about your lady! One of them is bound to know her–”

Which is precisely why he hadn’t said anything in the first place. What if she was no lady? Or worse, what if she was already someone else’s lady, which would make his cursed, illogical fixation on her even less appropriate? But Bema help him, when was the last time a woman had surprised him like that? Made him laugh so easily? Before the War, most likely, and certainly before the Kingship that has made him such a prize for Gondorian and Rohirric noblewomen alike. Besides, if she had wanted him to find her, she would have given him her name, instead of riding off in a righteous–and infuriatingly attractive–fury. 

“I have not been to Dol Amroth in many years,” Aragorn says, pulling him from his thoughts. “And am likely to be of little help in your search for her.”

Eothain turns hopeful eyes on Faramir, whose expression is far too contrived to be truly innocent.

“I may not know many ladies of the area,” he admits, “but my cousin might be of more use to you.” 

Eomer cannot help but arch an eyebrow at that; Elphir, many years married, has eyes only for his own wife. Erchirion’s great love is the sea, and Amrothos knows far too many ladies to be a trustworthy source.

“I do not mean any disrespect to your cousins,” Eomer says, “but I cannot see Elphir, Erchirion, or Amrothos being acquainted with such a lady.”

“You might be surprised. As it is, I wasn’t referring to them.” 

“You have another cousin?” Asks Eothain. “Bema, just how many children does Imrahil have?”

“Four. The three boys and a single daughter.” 

Eomer’s brow furrows. Yes, he does think he remembers Imrahil mentioning a daughter, at some point between Pelennor and Morannon. The week remains a blur, even now, and it’s not a time he particularly likes to dwell on–no matter how grateful he is for the Prince of Dol Amroth’s friendship and Eowyn’s miraculous recovery. 

“She’s here somewhere,” Faramir murmurs, before his face splits into a wide smile. “Ah. Found her. Lothiriel!”

A tendril of worry slides abruptly and unpleasantly into Eomer’s stomach. For the back of Faramir’s cousin’s head is worryingly familiar: long, dark waves of hair, raven-sheened in the candles’ glow, tumble down her back. 

And then she turns, clearly searching for the source of her name and Eomer nearly chokes. For she–Lothiriel, Faramir’s cousin Lothiriel, Imrahil’s daughter Lothiriel–is the hairbrush wielding lady from the river. 

She drifts over, so focused on her cousin that she seems not to notice him, saying, “You called, Faramir?”

“I did. It seems Eomer King needs assistance in locating a lady I think you know very well.”

Her brow furrows in the same adorable way it had earlier, when he’d accused her of being lost, and then she turns sharp, dark eyes on him and–

“Oh, no,” she moans. “You are Eomer King?”

Aragorn and Eothain burst into laughter while Faramir’s smile sharpens into something nearly predatory. “He is, Loth. Won’t you be a good hostess and introduce him properly to the lady of the river?”

Blushing to the roots of her hair, she drops into a quick curtsy. “I–hello again, my lord.” 

“Hello,” he says, grinning despite the own warmth he feels in his face, “I am glad I did not have to go for another swim to learn your name, Lady Lothiriel.”

–

(Months later, the betrothal of Lothiriel of Dol Amroth to Eomer King goes smoothly, until–

“I cannot say how grateful I am to you for allowing me to visit your home, Imrahil,” Eomer says, ignoring the sharp pinch of his fiance’s fingers at the insde of his elbow. 

“It did seem to suit you, on your last visit,” Imrahil says benignly, similarly ignoring the glare his daughter gives you. “The sea air has that effect on people, I’ve found.” 

“The sea is lovely,” Eomer agrees, unable to keep from smirking as Lothiriel blushes beside him, “but I myself have always preferred rivers.” 

From behind them, there is a sudden gasp and then a cry of “Lady Ivriniel!” 

“Oh, Valar, she’s fainted again,” grumbles Amrothos. “We’re always telling her she needs to wear less layers in the summer months–”

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” Lothiriel squeaks. “Too many layers.”

“Too many layers indeed,” agrees Eomer, with a kiss to her knuckles.