#dolamrotha

He has been away on campaigns before, of course. Sauron’s fall and the dissolution of Mordor’s armies had not rid Middle Earth of evil. After re-swearing the Oath of Eorl, he has had to aid Aragorn numerous times in keeping their mutual enemies at bay, both within Gondor’s borders and without.

But he has never been gone quite so long. Ecwen had been six months old when he’d left, and six months has it been since his departure. To say that Lothiriel misses him would be an understatement. He has been as consistent as he can, with his letter writing, but that is simply not the same as having him home. Of being able to turn to him for help with Ecwen’s midnight tears, to laugh about Olfete’s attempts at making flower crowns, or to be able to press her face into the curve of his neck at the end of a long day. Their bed has been cold, in more ways than one, for six months. Lothiriel is weary of it.

His last letter had said he would be home sooner rather than later, as quickly as Firefoot’s hooves will take him, but there is the well-being of the returning eorlingas  to consider, the new treaties with North Harad to solidify, and all the many miles still to travel.

Lothiriel had known what it would mean to wed a man in such a leadership position. How many times had Ada been called away for just as long when she was a child?

That knowledge helps–somewhat. The ache of missing him–of their girls missing him, for surely that explains at least some of Ecwen’s fussiness–will not be eased by anything other than his eventual return.

“Modor, look!” Cries Olfete, pulling her from her melancholy thoughts. “Buterflégan!”

And it is. A handful of them, brightly colored and graceful in the spring sunshine.

“They’re pretty,” Olfete declares, abandoning her play to climb into Lothiriel’s lap for a better view.

“Pree!” Echoes Ecwen.

“They are indeed,” Lothiriel agrees, “thought not as pretty as you, min swetes.”

Ecwen babbles happily as Olfete giggles, leaning her head against Lothiriel’s shoulder. Their oldest daughter looks very much like her. Dark skin, dark eyes, darker hair–hræfnsweartu, Eomer has always said of them both. Ecwen, even at only a year old, has her father’s tawny hair, his green eyes. But there’s no mistaking the House of Eorl in both of them, in the delicate point of Olfete’s nose, in the stormy expression Ecwen makes when she is well and truly displeased. It has been both balm and pain to see Eomer so plainly in them during the campaign.

“But where’d they come from?” Olfete asks.

The butterflies, Lothiriel thinks, and resolves to stop being so gloomy. Being so will not make Eomer arrive faster and will only serve to upset the children. Olfete has always been very perceptive and Ecwen mercurial, so even the hint of a sour mood is enough to make them both less than happy.

“From far away, I expect,” she says, stroking a hand through Olfete’s dark hair. “Perhaps Haruni sent them.”

“Haruni sent them? Why?”

“Let me show you.” At this she reaches out, gently, carefully, toward the flock of butterflies. One–bolder than the rest–inches towards her finger from its safe perch on a bloom. Lothiriel waits, patiently, until it is settled on her finger to slowly bring it back towards them. Olfete is watching in wide-eyed fascination, one fist tight around the silver chain of Lothiriel’s necklace.

“She will not hurt you, Olfete. I promise. Can she give you her gift?”

Cautiously, Olfete nods. Lothiriel brings the butterfly close to her daughter’s cheek where it obligingly flaps its wings. Olfete giggles, wariness quickly giving way to delight.  

“It tickles! What is it?”

“A butterfly’s kiss. Our loved ones can send them to us on their wings, no matter where they are.”

“Ecwen should have some too!” Olfete declares.

“Mo!” Cries Ecwen, in obvious support of the idea.

Lothiriel laughs, bringing the butterfly close to Ecwen’s nose. Fearless as ever, Ecwen eyes the animal with fascination–so much so that her eyes cross. Lothiriel laughs, Olfete giggles, and Ecwen grins, even though it is likely she doesn’t understand what is so amusing. She grins wider at the touch of wings to her nose and mercifully doesn’t try to bat the butterfly away with her chubby, baby fists.

Eventually, the butterfly takes flight, fluttering off to rejoin its kin in the flowers.

Ecwen has crawled into Lothiriel’s lap as well, her head on Olfete’s shoulder. They watch the butterflies in comfortable silence for a while.

Just as Lothiriel begins to contemplate gathering them both up for a nap, Olfete stirs, turning a little to fix her with a piercing stare. It is such an utterly Eomer-like expression that Lothiriel’s breath nearly catches.

“Modor, did the butterflies have to come from Haruni?”

“Well, no,” Lothiriel assures her, shifting Ecwen more comfortably into the crook of her right arm. “Any one we love could have sent them. Aunt Eowyn, Mistress Brandybuck, Legolas–”

“What about Faeder?”

Oh, Lothiriel thinks, willing herself not to cry. “Of course. That is who probably sent them, Olfete, you’re right.”

Olfete’s lip quivers in what is a valiant–and heart wrenching, Valar, how strong she is, for one so young–attempt not to cry. “S’not as good as Faeder’s real kisses, but. It would be ok. If he did send them.”

“I am sure he did. And besides, he will be home soon. He said as much in his last letter, remember?”

Olfete sniffles and leans her head back against Lothiriel’s shoulder. “Soon is taking forever.”

Lothiriel cannot help but huff a laugh before pressing a kiss to her eldest’s forehead. “I know. I think so, too.”

“Fa!” Declares Ecwen suddenly, with a very forceful point in the direction of the butterflies.

No, not the butterflies, but rather the broad-shouldered figure rounding the hedge behind them–

“Faeder!” Cries Olfete, launching herself from Lothiriel’s lap with every ounce of her four year-old’s strength. She is down the path before Lothiriel can even draw a breath to urge caution–surely it could not be Eomer in truth, she would have been told if his eored was so close–

But no, it is him, handsome and tall as ever, bending down to sweep Olfete up in his arms with a relieved laugh.

“How tall you’ve gotten, mitting!” He is saying, as if he hasn’t been gone for months. “And even more freckled than I remembered–

“Faeder, you’re home, I missed you–” Olfete cries, wrapping her little body as tightly as she can around him.

“I missed you too, swete.”

“How much?”

“Very much.”

Lothiriel’s heart is in her throat. Oh, Valar, she’s so happy she could burst. And there has never been anything more touching than Eomer with their children. But she also is torn between the distinct urge to throttle her husband, no matter how much she’s missed him, and give Merthwyn a serious piece of her mind, so for so obviously–in hindsight–tricking her into coming here.

“Say hello to Ecwen, too, Faeder!” Olfete orders.

Somehow Lothiriel manages to stand though her legs feel like water beneath her, with Ecwen balanced on her hip. Eomer has shifted Olfete to one side, so that one hand is free to reach out to her and Ecwen both. For once Ecwen is uncharacteristically shy and hides her face in Lothiriel’s hair as they approach. Eomer’s expression shifts–happiness to incredible sadness and regret–in the blink of an eye. Valar, how could she even feel a moment’s irritation with him? It is not as if the separation has been easy for any of them!

“She does not remember me,” he says, voice rough. “I had not thought–I should have expected–”

“Give her a moment,” Lothiriel assures him. Ecwen had not hesitated to pet a stallion the other morning; surely her own father is less threatening than that?

Mercifully, she is proven right, for Ecwen lifts her head from her shoulder with a small–but still sunny–smile. “Fa,” she says, again.

Eomer swallows. “Yes. That’s–yes, Ecwen.”

He reaches out to touch the soft curve of her cheek. Ecwen giggles, pressing her face further into his hand, and Lothiriel gives a helpless sort of laugh. “She was just surprised, I think.”

Eomer’s eyes shoot up to meet hers. “I do not think she was the only one. I–it was meant to be a kindness, Lothiriel, but–”

She steps forward to kiss him, unable to bear the note of uncertainty in his voice. As if she can be anything other than happy to have him back again, safe and whole. It’s much more chaste than the welcoming kiss she’s dreamed of giving him over the course of the past six months, but it achieves its purpose; Eomer relaxes, his hand sliding to grip her arm that’s around Ecwen’s back.

Olfete’s giggles pull them from their embrace. “See? Told you Faeder’s real kisses would be better than the butterfly’s!”

Lothiriel laughs at the confused expression on Eomer’s face. “The buterflégan you sent,” she explains, with a nod in the direction of the flower bushes.

Mercifully, he follows her line of thinking. “Ah. I am glad I can stand up to their kisses, Olfete!”

“Silly Faeder,” she says, wrapping her arms tight around his neck again, “you’d always win!”

The blush that fills his face is so endearing that Lothiriel cannot help but kiss him anew, even as Ecwen gives a sharp tug on her hair. “I agree. And welcome home, Eomer King.”