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The Lion and his Lady  by Lialathuveril

A/N: Here’s a quadruple drabble as a small Christmas present to my readers. My shortest Éomer/Lothíriel scenario ever!

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all of you!




True Love Knows no Season


It was love at first sight. He was a warrior, proud and strong, tempered on the Fields of the Pelennor and admired by all. She was a lady, gracious and refined. Eyes like dark velvet, neck elegant as a swan’s, moving with a dancer’s natural grace. The first time they met, they exchanged nothing more than a quick glance. She held her head high, ignoring him, every line of her body bespeaking her noble lineage. But he knew the signs, knew that she had noticed him, just as he had noticed her. Others might covet her, but she was meant for him. For him alone. 

Circumstances conspired to keep them apart and he had to return to his native land. But the wide, grassy plains of the Mark brought him no peace, for he could not forget her. Just the memory of her hair falling in soft waves, the look she had cast him from under those long, dark lashes sent a fire running through his veins. So he waited, practicing a patience quite unlike his usual fiery temper. The opportunity arrived one spring night when the scent of blooming lilac filled the air. He took it.

Éomer crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“That’s all very well, Swidhelm,” he told his stable master, “but the fact remains that Firefoot broke down the dividing partition to Snowflake’s box.”

“A fact, I am afraid, that will become all too apparent in eleven months’ time,” Aragorn added, from where he stood stroking the mare’s neck. Only the slightest quiver trembled in his voice.

Swidhelm shuffled his feet. “Maybe it was meant to be?”

Éomer snorted. The man had missed his calling, he should have become a bard! Fancy stabling an unknown mare right next to Firefoot on the very day she had arrived here. Sourly he regarded his trusted steed, who looked extremely pleased with himself. Unbearably smug in fact. Not that Éomer could really blame the stallion; the snowy mare was a very pretty piece of horseflesh, the best that Gondor could offer.

Looking at Aragorn, he raked his hand through his hair. “And how shall I explain this to the Princess of Dol Amroth?”

“Explain what?” A voice enquired from behind him.

Taken by surprise, he spun round. Alabaster skin, eyes smoky grey, hair like ravens’ wings.

It was love at first sight.


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