To Lord and Land
[eomer x OC] [friends to lovers] [war and grief] [Besties with Eowyn] [horse 🐎] [hidden relationship]
first look
The lands of the Riddermark were touched by the early morning frost, the lifting hold of winter’s cold. The barren stretch of lands were soon to be all green. Now, it was alive with sparkling gold.
A hefty breath escaped her parted lips. It gave life to a wisp of cloud that dissipated before her eyes.
Her palm patted the thick neck of the horse below her. “Good boy.” She cooed.
Their pace was slow; each needed a break from the breathtaking elopement that pushed their bodies to utter exhaustion. Her eyes still stung from the fast air. The dull ache in her thighs spoke to how long it’d been since she’d rode so hard. Working at her own stand in the market took up time that used to be used for riding.
Endless vast stretched from Edoras. The only tell of stopping was from mountains on one side. Their tops were coated with a dense white. It would still be months before they were relieved of their snow, and thus a wet season would wash the Kingstead with a flood.
Her outer layers were stripped. She was left in a simple brown wool gown to air out the built heat of the ride. Sudden chills traveled down her spine in a powerful zip. It gave her an excited thrill.
In the distance, a figure emerged. It split the early morning golden light with the color of red and brown leather. The red tunic was bright and brilliant. Long flaxen hair flapped in the wind at their shoulders. The horse was thick, still young. It excitedly galloped in a way the rider excitedly rode.
They tried to wave her down. She turned her back and continued on her ride.
Her nostrils stole a long inhale of the rising warmth of the grasslands. Her eyelids drifted closed to linger in the joy of it.
“Hey!” A voice finally sounded. The hasty clobbering of hooves against rock came nearer. “Hear me, did you not, back there? I was talking to you.”
The rider was a young man. About sixteen, same as her.
“No,” she replied as she kicked her horse past his.
“I screamed halt five – nay, ten times,” the rider declared.
He urged his horse to follow hers. They walked alongside her, though she kept her eyes decidedly on the distance ahead.
“I had no reason to. I’d done nothing wrong.”
“Where are you going?” He countered. He tilted his head. It dropped a length of his wavy hair from behind his shoulder. It fluttered in the light breeze that now brushed against them. His round face was red. The sharp winds of the ride pulled the color to his cheeks.
The boys of Edoras were all the same. It was unlike her small town on Eastfold where girls were respected as people, not chased down and given constant tokens of attention. She deplored the compliments on her smile and ‘glittering’ eyes. It was better when she went unnoticed back home.
She remained quiet to his question. A fact he seemed unbothered by.
“What’s your name?” He asked next.
Again, she kept her eyes trained to the distance.
“My name’s Eomer.”
A morning ride was meant to be peaceful. It was time to be awash in the beauty of a new day. To feel the lifting chill of the earth to the rising of the sun.
Peace. A thing that he was ruining.
He swallowed thickly as he followed her line of sight. “You know, my sister and I ride out here all the time. Alas, it is not morn. Eowyn likes to sleep. You should ride with us sometime.”
She bit her cheek, already growing irritated with the sound of his voice.
It was her morning. Her only time alone with her horse. Ever since her mother and her moved to Edoras, she was in that stand at the market until the sun went down. She woke especially early just for this ride. The time of year was her favorite, the perfect time of day for a long strong ride, to forget it all and just run.
This rider – this boy – was ruining that.
“I’ve never seen you around before,” he said. “Edoras is not very big. New, are you?”
If it was small, and he’d never seen her before, then she was obviously new.
Her hands tightened at her reins and jerked them back tight. The experienced horse responded, stopping short. He repeated the action, dark brow flexed curiously, but his stallion responded wildly. It did not like being redirected so suddenly. It gave a warning grunt as it slowed.
“Do the mothers of you Eorlingas not teach you manners?”
The rider was stunned. His eyes wide and big at her sudden tone.
His eyes looked downward. “My mother died.”
The anger zapped away to embarrassment. Her mouth. She knew better than to be so blunt. It was a source of contention between her mother and her, as it was wielded very sharply for how powerful it was.
She swallowed and tucked away a thick section of hair half torn from her braid. “Oh.” The sting across the bridge of her nose turned hotter. “Well, sorry.”
Eomer gave a small smile. The light catching in his big green eyes. “That’s alright. Atleast it’s got you talking.” He urged her horse to walk alongside hers once more. The action felt personal and entirely irritating once more.
Who the hell was this Eomer and why was he so frustrating?
“Care to tell me your name now?”
The way the smile spread across his face, lazily, as if smug to have gotten her just in the position to be told what he wanted. It riled her all over.
Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Ugh!” She groaned before she kicked her horse and rode away as hard as they could manage.
She rode back to the city to her family’s stable. “Good boy, Eryx.” He was awarded his treat for riding so well. She went through the turn-down chores, giving him a good brushing and washing before placing him back in his stall with some hay.
The sun was higher in the sky when she emerged. She cursed herself for lingering so late. Her dress was damp with sweat and entirely improper for the market. It was a quick change to a nicer, thicker dress before she rushed to her family’s stand. The air was dense with yeast and warmth as she neared.
Oh, yes. She was late.
She slipped inside, tied an apron at her waist, in the hopes it might escape her mother’s notice.
Several batches of dough rested near an open fire. They were covered with cloths. One more was spread on a back table dusted with flour. She helped herself to the dough and began to knead. It used to hurt her arms to knead all the dough in the morning, but with the many weeks of constant bread work, her arms were strong enough to stand it.
Her mother exited the back flaps of the white canvas stall and entered the open air section. Steaming loaves were in her long apron as she carried them to the display tables. It was still early. There were plenty of people who would be in need of bread, the day after a holiday. The prior feasting often left them all in need of more.
“Those are for buns,” her mother stated.
Instead of kneading one large mass, the dough was then separated into smaller batches.
The smell of raw flour was a mixture of emotions. It reminded her of time in the kitchen with her grandmother, back in the East Fold, on the farm, where they would bake little sweet rolls together and eat them greedily. Of course, it also reminded her of the constant work at her mother’s stand now that they moved to the city.
A rush came later that morning. People awoke with the realization that their partying left them without breakfast. They bought loaves and sweet rolls and buns and flat breads. All of it was equally purchased.
She kept the front of the house for the customers as her mother stayed in back and prepared more dough, kneaded and baked more of everything.
The market lined the main path of the city with dozens of tents and canvas stands selling wares of every imagination. It was the life blood of the people. Every day, Eorlingas poured through the path to purchase their daily needs of milk and flour and eggs and fabric and leather and even horses. It was the most important path of their life. Most of the city people made their living from their stand. Her own family was no different. The money they made from their baked goods paid for their own way of life.
Her fingers were busy braiding strands of dough that she forgot to keep her eyes on the open stream of people filtering by the stand. She felt a sensation crawl across her face. Her skin tensed, went hot. The dough fell away from her grasp as she casually raised her eyes.
“Hello.”
She rolled her eyes. “Are you following me now?”
Eomer leaned against the table looking at her work. “What’s that?”
“Challah bread,” she replied hiding it beneath the spread of her fingers. Braiding dough took patience. Sometimes it did not turn out as perfect as she liked. The last thing she needed was him noticing the uneven sections. “What are you doing here?”
“I am not the only. Everyone is in market.” His arm gestured at those around them. “You ride very fast, you know. I tried to catch you.” He followed her as she turned from the front table, deeper into the tent with the other tables of baked goods. “If you don’t want to tell me your name, that’s okay.” She hesitantly raised her eyes to his, uncertain where he was going with it. “I can make one up.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Make one up?”
“I have to call you something.”
The tenacity of Eomer was starting to feel less annoying. She felt the slight slip of her own, and even contemplated answering his question, when a loud hum sounded outside the front of the stand. It was the hum of voices over top one another. The source of excitement: King Theoden and his son, Theodred. They were traveling down the main path when Theoden turned to the stand.
“Ah. My newest acquisition,” he told his son.
“Oh my,” she mumbled beneath her breath. “The king.”
King Theoden entered the bakery tent and gave a small smile when she bowed low to his arrival. “Mildritha. Your mothers’ breads make the city smell sweet.”
She blushed. “Thank you, my lord.”
His eyes then jumped to Eomer to her side. “I see you’ve met my nephew. Eomer. Has she enchanted you with her sticky rolls?”
She cocked her brow. Nephew of Theoden. Unbelievable.
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Eomer replied.
Sticky rolls were her own specialty. Not her mothers. Her own.
She carefully grasped the nearest one, struggling not to tremble under the pressure of the many lordly eyes upon her. “Allow me, your grace.”
Eomer’s fingers brushed her own as he took the offering with a small smile. “Thank you, Mildritha.”
The way he said her name made her heart flutter strangely. She felt her flush as its sound slid all over her. The heat of the tent grew tenfold.
Thankfully, her mother entered from the back. Her eyes went big with surprise. “Your grace.” She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “You honor us again with your presence.”
Her dull brown eyes looked at her daughter with a tense stare. A warning of the king’s arrival would have been appreciated, it said.
“My love of your bread brings me yet again. Your lovely Mildritha was just showing my nephew her sticky rolls. What say you, boy?” His chin tilted.
Eomer’s head bobbed in delight as he ate the sticky sugary bread. “Delicious.”
Her mother gave a sharp elbow to her side. It was accompanied by a sharp stare.
“You flatter me, my lord Eomer.”
His chewing slowed. A small curl toyed at the corner of his mouth. Sparkles glinted inside his eyes in the split moment they lingered in hers.
“Nonsense,” King Theoden interrupted before more could be said. “I’ll take a dozen. My niece Eowyn will love some.”
“Of course, your grace.” Her mother turned to her. “Mil, pack up the kings order.”
She did as she was told while her mother showed some new bakes of the day. He listened intently. The man held a softness in his stare. A calm piece of heart, it appeared. It lived in his son, also. There was an air around them that perfumed not only respect but of their gentle nature.
King Theoden was a figure in her life as long as she remembered. He’d ride through her small town with his riders and buy so much bread that her mother worked for hours just to replenish what he’d bought. His smile was that of a kind man. He’d hand her a coin or two if she lingered around. Sometimes he’d offer her pieces of the bread as a small token with a smile.
“I’ll send my servants to come fetch my things,” the king proclaimed.
He gave a thankful expression before he bid his leave and moved on down the line of tents. She leaned against the table to watch him go. A teenage boy lazily followed after, still taking bites of his roll. He looked over his shoulder more than once. She pretended not to notice his stare despite the traveling warmth it left down the backs of her arms.
“Such a good man,” her mother hummed beside her.
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