That Which They Defend, Part Three

[caitri]

THREE: AT MOONBEAMS GLISTENING




The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
And in the glade a light was seen
Of stars in shadow shimmering. …

Enchantment healed his weary feet
That over hills were doomed to roam;
And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,
And grasped at moonbeams glistening.
--The Song of Beren and Luthien, “A Knife in the Dark,” The Fellowship of the Ring


Jim woke up, feeling tired and sore. He opened his eyes hesitantly; there was warmth on his face from sunlight—morning light, it seemed to be.

He was in one of the Houses of Healing. He recognized the white stone and the smell of the place.

Remembered the pale face of the woman who was watching him, who smiled hesitantly when she saw that he was awake. “Welcome back, James T. Kirk,” Éowyn said. She turned to a tall, fair-haired man sitting nearby. “I must find my brother,” she said. “I’ll be but a moment.” She placed her hand on the man’s shoulder in farewell, and he smiled up at her, touching it gently, and then she was gone.

Huh, Jim thought with astonishing clarity. How about that?

“You have been asleep for the past day and a half,” the man said. Jim thought he recognized him, but couldn’t think from where. “And before that you were in fever. Éomer was deeply afraid for your life, but Aragorn and the Healers sent him away. He was not happy about that,” he added.

“I can imagine,” Jim said. Frowning, he added, “I’m sorry. I feel like I know who you are, but I don’t remember—“

“I am Faramir,” the man said, bowing his head slightly, “second son to he who was the last Steward of Gondor.”

A flash of memory, then: The man’s white face, body limp, lying on a pallet near Éowyn’s; Aragorn working steadily; Jim bringing him the precious athelas plants.

“You look a hell of a lot better than when I first saw you,” Jim said before he could stop himself.

Faramir grinned at that. “I imagine so,” he said cheerfully. His teeth flashed white and his eyes shone with good humor.

Jim found himself smiling back at the man. I like this guy, he thought.

“Jim!” He turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Éowyn had returned with Éomer.

The Rohir’s face was pale, and there were dark smudges under his eyes. He was dressed simply in a long-sleeved tunic and breeches, hair flowing freely. His expression was one of simultaneous relief and—something unidentifiable. Something deep in Jim clenched at the knowledge, and he struggled to keep his voice and expression light.

“Hey, Horse-Lord,” he said. “Miss me?”

Éowyn flashed Jim a look of irritation. “My brother hardly left your side—“ she began, even as Faramir took her hand.

“Hold, beloved,” the fair-haired man said gently, and she paused, her face softening.

“Foolish boy,” said Éomer, but his expression was relieved. “Prattling as ever.”

“You know it,” Jim said agreeably.

~

The Healers kept Jim in the Houses of Healing for four more days. Éomer was kept busy with Aragorn and Imrahil as the three men worked on returning the city of Minas Tirith and its populace—plus the Host of the West—to something like normalcy. According to Éomer, despite Imrahil’s earlier coolness to Aragorn, the two men now worked well together as a team.

“How like you your splendid leisure?” Now King of the Mark himself, Éomer visited Jim each day in the Houses of Healing, and now that he was safely recovering, the Rohir took perverse delight in tormenting the Captain.

“Bored out of my mind,” Jim said. “What do you think? I wouldn’t mind being confined to bed so much if someone were in it with me,” he continued, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Éomer laughed. “I hardly think that your idea of entertainment would meet the House’s definition of ‘bedrest,’ my gúthwinë,” he said affectionately. He sat down carefully at the end of Jim’s bed. “Besides, I thought my sister would be more company to you in your time of need. Where is she?” he asked curiously.

“She and Faramir needed some alone time. C’mon, man, I’m a grown-up, I don’t need babysitting. What?” he added as Éomer frowned thoughtfully.

The Rohir was quiet for a moment. “What think you of the Steward’s son?” His dark eyes were curious.

“I like Faramir.” Jim had had numerous occasions to speak with the man as they both recuperated from their wounds. In fact, he had spent quite a bit of time with both the Man and with Éowyn while he was healing, so he didn’t blame the pair for needing some space to themselves. Oddly, they reminded him of Nyota and Spock in a way—both serious, but with an undercurrent of lightheartedness when they were together that made them both shine. “He’s a good guy. And—he makes your sister happy.” He said this almost hesitantly, knowing that his friend was very protective of the shield-maiden—and uncertain how he would react to Faramir’s advances.

“He does,” Éomer agreed. “I—am relieved. I had feared for her heart when I learned that Aragorn loved another.”

Jim felt his lips curve upwards at the other man’s affection for his sister. It was somehow at odds with the gruff exterior he projected for most of the world. “You’re a good brother. You know that, right?”

Éomer snorted. “She is all my kin left to me. Why shouldn’t I wish for her welfare?”

Jim grinned at that, and let the matter drop. “So,” he continued, “tomorrow the Warden is finally going to let me out of here. Whatever will we do then?” He lay back, his uninjured arm crossed under his head, the picture of innocence.

The Rohir quirked an eyebrow at him. “I don’t know, Man of the Stars,” he said in a completely different tone. “You tell me.”

~

As it happened, the next morning Faramir found Jim before Éomer did.

“I have something to ask of you,” the fair-haired man said as Jim gathered together what few belongings he had in the House. He seemed unaccountably nervous. Uh oh, thought Jim.

“Yeah? Shoot. Tell me,” Jim clarified at the Man’s puzzled glance.

Faramir hesitated a moment before plunging on. “I wish to ask King Éomer for his sister’s hand in marriage. What think you he will make of my suit?”

Jim grinned in relief. “Dude, you’ll be golden. You’ll be fine,” he explained.

Faramir exhaled in relief. “I am glad to hear this.” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Though I confess myself confused at your odd words and can only hope that your understanding of the King of the Riddermark is better than mine of you.”

“What, man? I speak perfectly good Standard,” Jim shot back, “it’s the rest of you who talk funny.” They both laughed companionably.

That was when Éomer entered. “Jim,” he said, nodding in greeting. “Faramir, how do you fare yet?”

“I am well,” Faramir answered. He looked suddenly hesitant again, swallowing visibly. Jim placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder, and the other man nodded to him in thanks. “My lord,” he said, turning back to the Rohir, “I wish to ask of you—I wish to ask you something.”

Éomer frowned, furrowing his brow. “Oh?”

“I’m gonna let you guys talk,” Jim said. He grabbed the small bag of his belongings and stepped towards the door. “I’ll just be out here—“

“Stay,” Éomer said, clasping him by the arm and holding him in place. His grip on Jim was hard and tight, and Jim had a brief flash of worry. Had he been wrong about his friend’s reaction to what Faramir would say? “Please,” the Horse-Lord added, relinquishing his rough hold on the other man.

Jim stepped back, puzzled. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

Éomer turned back to Faramir. “Go on,” he said.

Faramir took a deep breath, light-eyed gaze traveling back and forth between the two men before settling on the Rohir. “I wish to ask for the Lady Éowyn’s hand in marriage.” His face was pale but his voice was even, though he stumbled slightly over his words before Éomer’s unreadable expression. “I know I am no longer—that is, the King has returned, but he has promised me a place at his court, so I am not without means—and I care for her deeply—“

“Enough!” Éomer barked. He glared at the man with an intensity that would make lesser men shake in their boots. He strode forward, bending his face close to Faramir’s, expression fierce. “Do you love her?” he demanded. “Do you?”

“Éomer, what’s going on—“ Jim started.

“Yes!” Faramir replied, shaken. “Of course I do!”

The Rohir’s expression lightened then, and he stepped back with a small smile. “Good,” he said with satisfaction. “I am sure my sister will handle your marriage negotiations to her liking.”

Faramir stared at him in shock, then smiled in incredulous relief. “You mean you approve?” He looked dazed and happy—Jim couldn’t help but grin back at his joy.

“You have a stout heart,” Éomer said. “With my sister, you’ll need it. And possibly a stomach of iron,” he added thoughtfully. He turned to Jim. “I almost feel sorry for him.”

~

“What was that all about?” Jim asked as he followed Éomer out into the courtyard, where Seren and Firefoot were waiting patiently. Seren whickered at Jim in greeting, and when he reached to scratch behind her ears she nuzzled him affectionately. He pulled back slightly before she touched his damaged arm, which still hurt—and would for a long time yet, the healers had told him. Éomer had gotten most of the poison out, but enough had gotten into the torn muscle of his flesh to make the wound still painful as it healed. He’d also been warned he’d probably have an ugly scar there, not that it bothered him—it could join all the others he had. Weirdly, the Battle of the Morannon held less painful associations than the other marks he carried.

“She missed you,” the Rohir remarked instead. He wore a fond look as he watched the two of them.

“Yeah?” Jim grinned at him, then turned back to Seren. “I missed you too, girl,” he told the horse. She whuffed at him, unimpressed. “No, I did,” he hastened to reassure her, before turning to the Rohir. “You sure she’s not full Mearas?”

“She cares for you. As do I.” Éomer’s warm expression froze, as if he’d said too much, and Jim felt a pang inside. We can’t do this, he reminded himself. “Come,” he continued gruffly, “we are quartered on the seventh level of the city.”

They rode in silence as Éomer led Jim to their new quarters. For the first time he had a proper look at the city itself. It seemed that before the Host of the West had descended upon them, the population had been less than half of what the city could comfortably hold, and many buildings were in poor repair, stately courtyards allowed to become overgrown with weeds. Of course, that had been to their advantage when—God, had it only been over a week ago? No, it must have been closer to two now, maybe even three—Jim had been desperately searching for kingsfoil in the older, abandoned parts of the city.

“So what was that whole scene with Faramir about?” Jim asked again. “Really?”

“I needed to know that he was worthy of her,” the Rohir answered. “I know that he is a brave warrior, and I know that he is the Steward’s son.” He turned to Jim, lips curved in a surprisingly impish smile. “But I didn’t know that he truly loved her, not until he told me so. It is easy enough for a man to say such things to a maid, but to say them before her kith and kin, that is something else again.”

“Kith?” Jim echoed. He knew the term was Rohirric, and that it meant something approximating “friends” but also implying a deeper level of kinship.

“My sister considers you another brother,” Éomer said impatiently. “Did you not know this?” Jim shook his head wordlessly. The Rohir’s expression softened then. “She watched over you while you were ill, James T. Kirk, Rodorbeorn. The first time because Gandalf asked her to, the second time because she wished to. Her heart is not one easily moved. She cares for you.”

“Oh,” Jim said, subdued. Aside from his crew on the Enterprise, and before that Bones and Pike, no one had given a damn about him in a long, long time. It felt—indescribable. A rush of affection, wonder, and delight surged through him, followed quickly by another, increasingly familiar emotion: regret.

He had been in Arda over a month now. He had friends—close ones. The longer he was here, the more it was going to hurt when he left.

Jim had always been a Spartan man, keeping few personal mementos, always ready to leave at a moment’s notice. There was very little about his life that he wished to remember, before going to Starfleet Academy. He had watched other cadets, other crewmen, grapple with homesickness, missing their loved ones.

Jim had never missed anyone until now, he realized with a shock. He missed Bones. And he missed his ship.

“Gúthwinë?” Éomer’s voice was quiet, concerned. “Are you well?”

Jim shook himself out of his reverie, and gave the Rohir a smile. “Yeah,” he said, “I was just—thinking.”

Éomer made a thoughtful noise, and they continued onwards. The paths through the White City were also complicated, with each level of the city having its own massive Gate—and each Gate facing in a different direction. Though the design had been an effective one for the city’s defense, it made travel within difficult and time-consuming. When at last they emerged through a sloping tunnel into the seventh level, they passed a giant statue of a crowned king. Jim idly wondered if he was the God of City-Planning, and if so, what he accepted in sacrifices.

The seventh level held the King’s House with its magnificent Hall of Feasts, the barracks of the Tower Guard, and the Tower of Ecthelion itself. It was the highest part of the city proper, and easily a thousand feet above the plains below.

A dead tree stood in the otherwise immaculate courtyard. Jim frowned at it curiously.

“It is the White Tree of Gondor,” Éomer explained, following his gaze.

“How long’s it been there?” Jim walked closer, inspecting it. The tree had been dead for a long time—it reminded him a little of the Petrified Forest in Arizona back on Earth. The wood of it was a chalky gray color, the pallor of it closely matching the white marble of the surrounding architecture.

“It was planted by King Tarandor,” Éomer answered. “It has stood in death since Belecthor II, almost two centuries gone.” Jim whistled quietly. The Rohir lowered his voice reverently before continuing. “Gandalf and Aragorn have found another such sapling of Nimloth. They will plant it here tomorrow, and take this”—he nodded at the dead tree before them—“down to the Tombs of the Kings. And so shall the reign of Kings begin again, and so shall Arnor become unified once more.”

“And so the War is over?” Jim asked, suddenly chilled inside.

Éomer nodded. “And so the War is over.”

~

Jim wasn’t sure what Éomer meant to do when they got to their room in the King’s Hall—and it was definitely their room, with Jim’s armor and weapons there along with the Rohir’s. And a large, inviting bed that took up most of the room.

He didn’t think Éomer had planned to push him up against the door the second it closed behind them, clutching at the front of his tunic, any more than Jim himself had intended to start pulling at the other man’s belt, plunging his hand into the other man’s loose breeches to firmly palm his cock. Éomer probably hadn’t meant to let out a deep, bone-melting groan as Jim touched him intimately, and Jim hadn’t planned to pull him down into the comfortable bed, with its thick mattress covered with wool blankets and the soft fur coverlet.

But there they were, and that’s what they were doing.

“My gúthwinë,” Éomer murmured in his ear, eager hands sliding under Jim’s tunic, before pulling it up and over his head. He clasped Jim tightly to him, warm mouth covering his.

This was the first time they had done this when they weren’t drunk, exhausted, or within hearing distance of a dozen men. Jim had to restrain himself from rolling the other man over, from doing all the things he had dreamt of doing to him for weeks. Instead, he tried to think of transwarp equations as he pulled up the other man’s tunic, exposing the flat planes of his chest and stomach, lightly covered with soft dark hair. He bent his head to playfully bite at one of the Man’s small dark nipples, capturing the nub between his teeth.

Éomer growled something low in Rohirric, then pulled Jim’s mouth to his for another passionate kiss. Jim let himself enjoy the sensation of the other man’s tongue in his mouth, playfully darting against his own; of the surprisingly soft hair of the Rohir’s beard against his chin. Éomer smelled like sweat and wool, of leather and horse. The Rohir kept one hand on Jim’s elbow, the other on his shoulder, holding him lightly in place, so when Jim couldn’t help but start rubbing his thighs rhythmically against the other man’s hip, it was an easy matter for Éomer to twist so that they lined up. He was just as hard as Jim was.

“Éomer,” Jim murmured, coming up for air, “please, please tell me you have something to use for lube—oil, lotion, something.”

“Under the bed,” the Rohir said. Jim sighed in relief, and ducked down to peer underneath it, searching. There was indeed a small pot of something under there, and he reached out and grabbed it, just as Éomer playfully swatted him on the ass.

“Finally got you where I want you,” the Man said smugly, and Jim laughed so hard he almost upset the little ceramic jar in his hands.

“I see how it is,” Jim answered with amusement, peering at his friend. Éomer was relaxed, bronze skin flushed with arousal and affection. He looked so natural lying beside him—Jim’s throat ached suddenly and he focused on the object in his hands. “What is this stuff?” he asked curiously, opening it up to peer inside.

“I got it from the Elf,” Éomer said.

“I don’t want to know,” Jim said, and he really didn’t. Opening it up, the jar held a substance that looked and smelled—and yes, tasted, like olive oil. Dabbing some on his fingers, he turned to grin at the other man. “So,” he said cheerfully, “who wants to be on top?”

~

They emerged some hours later flushed, sore, and happy. By then it was well into the afternoon.

Éomer actually looked sheepish. “I was supposed to have met with Aragorn and Imrahil some time ago,” he said. “I have been derelict in my duties.”

“Dude, you helped save the world, that gives you some wiggle room for things like this. Trust me, I know,” Jim said with a wide grin.

The Rohir raised a curious eyebrow at him. “Saved your world more than once, have you?”

Jim’s grin grew wider. “As a matter of fact, I have,” he said. “I’m awesome like that.”

Éomer shook his head. “Prattling child,” he said fondly.

When they found Aragorn, the Man was by himself. He stood in the King’s Hall, a sober, dark figure amidst the white splendor of the room. A large table, a wooden one at odds with the marble, was covered with numerous scrolls, which he was examining seriously.

Jim coughed lightly as they approached, advertising their presence. Aragorn looked up, serious expression changing to one of good humor when he saw them. “My friends!”

“Apologies, my lord,” Éomer said seriously, with a half bow. “We were—that is—we were detained,” he said simply.

Jim nodded. “It was my fault, sir,” he contributed. “Éomer had nothing to do with it.” The Rohir shot him a look. “Well not much.” He received a glare for that effort. “It was my fault,” he repeated. Aragorn looked both amused and bewildered. “So what’s up? What do you here?” He peered at the scrolls with interest.

Unsurprisingly, he couldn’t read them. They were covered in a variety of writing styles—the heavy, rune-like markings that formed Westron letters, and the long, vaguely italic-like script of Tengwar, the written language of the Elves.

“Gandalf has gone in search of Radagast,” Aragorn answered, eyes on Jim. “He said he may be some time, but that he would surely return by May.”

Jim stared, not sure whether he felt relieved or disappointed at this development. He’d been here a month already, and now another month—he swallowed, and attempted a smile. “Well, then,” he said, “I guess I’ll—just—have to find something to do in the mean time.”

“My men and I will return to Rohan on the morrow, by your leave,” Éomer said to Aragorn. “The growing season is upon us and there are few enough left in Edoras yet to see to both the fields and tend the stock.” He turned to Jim. “You are welcome to ride with us, James T. Kirk,” he added mildly and with a glance to the future King, “as we will ourselves return for the coronation.”

Aragorn nodded. “I wish you good journeys, my friends,” he said. He shared a significant glance with Jim. “Both of you.”

~

Éowyn was surprisingly sanguine about leaving—particularly since when they found her both she and Faramir were grinning at each other like idiots, he apparently having just asked her a certain question.

Jim and Éomer spied them through the corridors outside the House. Jim put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Hold on, we need to let them have some space.” He grinned at the Rohir. “They need it.”

Even as he spoke, Faramir was twirling Éowyn around the room in delight.

Jim smiled at the happy pair. “Look at them,” he said softly to Éomer.

“They are well-matched, I think,” said the Rohir. His eyes were dark in the late afternoon light. There was something in them that made both men burn, then look away. “I envy their happiness.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jim agreed.

They waited a few minutes more before joining the couple, pretending that they hadn’t witnessed the intimate scene.

“My lords,” Faramir said with a wide, beaming smile, “it seems we are to be brothers after all!”

“I rejoice with you,” Éomer said to the other Man with a nod.

Faramir looked dismayed at this stern response until Jim explained, “He’s really happy. Really. It’s an…inner…happiness.” The fair-haired man relaxed at that, looking down fondly at the woman by his side.

“We wish to be married soon, brother,” Éowyn said. “Is this acceptable to you?”

“Aragorn has awarded me the fiefdom of Ithilien,” Faramir said to Éomer. “I will rule there as Prince, with my Lady by my side. She will not be without aught,” he added, as if this were necessary.

“It suits,” the Rohir said. Turning to his sister, he continued, “I wish us to return homewards. We will return in a month for Aragorn’s coronation—and your own wedding, if you will have it so.”

Éowyn grinned up at her brother, then turned to Faramir. “We will,” she said.

~

Jim followed Éomer and Éowyn home to Rohan. They would be returning to Minas Tirith for Aragorn’s coronation, so he supposed he may as well stay with his friends.

They took their time with the return journey. Spring was giving way to summer, and the sun was warm on their backs. The Riders were all jovial, happy to be on their way home once more. They sang constantly in the melodic Rohirric Jim was coming to learn more and more of each day.

“Rodorbeorn, sing us a song of your land,” asked a Rohir named Ceorl. He was very young—much younger than Jim. He turned red when he saw how he had startled the older man with his request. “If it’s not too much to ask, sir,” he added respectfully.

“No, no,” Jim said hastily. “I just—we don’t sing there as much as you do. I’m trying to think of something.” He thought for a moment, then with a grin began to sing:

But the wild road I was rambling,
Was always out there calling ,
And they said a hundred times I should have died.
But now my present miracle
Is that you're here beside me,
So, I believe they were roads that I was meant to ride

Like a soldier getting over the war,
Like a young man getting over his crazy days,
Like a bandit getting over his lawless ways,
Every day is better than before.
I'm like a soldier getting over the war.

The men around him made appreciative sounds when he was done, hooting raucously.

“This song was written by a fine poet,” one Rohir said appreciatively. Jim thought his name was Éothain, but he wasn’t sure. “What was his name?”

“An old Terran guy named Johnny Cash,” Jim answered. “He’s always been one of my favorite, er, poets.”

“You should sing more at the fire tonight,” said Ceorl.

“Aye, and now it is your turn, lad,” said a man called Dúnhere.

Éomer smiled at Jim when he gave a sigh of relief. “What?” Jim asked, but his lips curved upwards in response to the Rohir’s amusement.

“They think of you as one of us now,” Éomer said. “You have become a true Rider of Rohan in their minds.”

“It’s true,” Éowyn agreed. He must have looked puzzled, for she continued, “You fought among us at Pelennor and at the Morranon; your blood was shed with ours. You have become kith to us all now.” Her eyes were very light then. “You are become another brother to me.”

Jim swallowed heavily. There was a part of him—a not inconsiderable part—that was immensely touched by the warmth of these people’s regard. He had his family back on the Enterprise, but he was Captain there first and foremost: their leader. Here, he was just one of them: Jim Kirk, Man of the Stars, Rodorbeorn.

All his life, Jim had been someone off to the side: First because he was George Kirk’s son, later because he was a genius with aptitude scores off the charts, still later because he was a refugee and a self-destructive ass. Finally, he had been a Hero of the Federation, more myth than man except to his bridge crew and the admiralty.

In Arda, he was just a Man, one among many. Since he had entered the Academy, Jim had worked hard to be better than anyone else, trying to prove himself to—well, Pike, but mostly himself. And that was exhausting. Here, to be accepted for who he was, no more and no less, to have no ghostly father looking over his shoulder and no Admiral daring him to be better—it was like being let out of a cage he hadn’t quite realized he was even in.

“What think you, James T. Kirk?” Éomer asked curiously.

Jim blinked, realizing he had been lost in thought for some time. The men up ahead of them were still singing, exchanging more songs and laughing as they teased one another good naturedly. “Nothing,” Jim lied quickly. The Rohir looked doubtful, but let it pass, much to his relief.

As they continued on their travels, the other men even made a game of teaching him Rohirric, largely through the bawdy marching songs they favored on the road. Jim had some aptitude for music and languages, and by the end of the week he could sing along with them—more phonetically than anything else. The language itself was taking longer, however.

“Ic gielp steormaedan,” Jim repeated after Gleowan obediently. “How was that?”

The man nodded approvingly. “Very good, Rodorbeorn,” he said. Those around them were grinning into their beards. Éowyn rode next to him, head bent down as she bit her bottom lip in amusement.

“Okay,” Jim said with mock-annoyance. “I can tell you didn’t really just tell me how to say My horse is fast. What was it really?”

Éomer answered, expression deadpan but eyes glinting with amusement. “You just said that you were a conceited starmaiden,” he answered, and everyone in earshot let loose loud, happy laughter.

Jim turned back to Gleowan, who was grinning at him without shame. “Dude? Seriously?”

“He is called the joker for a reason, Jim,” Éowyn said with a chuckle.

~

When they returned to Edoras, Théoden King, son of Thengel, was laid to rest among his Fathers and his Fathers’ Fathers. They placed his bier in a mound near his son’s. Éomer and Éowyn both were solemn, remaining dry-eyed through the singing of the grave-songs. Their tears were shed in private, afterwards. Life went on. It was spring now, and the cool brown and green furrows of March had given way to a verdant April, the plains prosperous with fecund produce.

In Rohan, Jim remembered his farmboy roots. With the fall of Mordor, the few Orcs yet surviving were in hiding, and though Éomer’s Éoreds continued to hunt them down, the new King of the Mark found himself busy with other matters. Though largely untrained in the matters of ruling a kingdom, the Man had taken to the work with a firm resolution and a sincere desire to help his people.

“I wish my Uncle were yet living, Rodorbeorn,” he said one evening after a long afternoon spent with Erkenbrand settling civil disputes. Though such duties were often performed by the various Marshals of the Mark, any citizen who wished could appeal to the King for a secondary ruling. “I fear I am unsuited to the tasks that lay before me.”

“Bullshit!” Jim answered. “You’re awesome at it.” He smiled reassuringly. “Besides, if a Starfleet Captain can’t get out of paperwork, a King of the Mark shouldn’t either. Ow!” This last was uttered when Éomer tossed a scroll at his head. His irritation was quickly forgotten when the Rohir shot him an eloquent, hazel glance, and they turned their thoughts towards—other pursuits.

Yes, time flew. And of course, there was also Éowyn’s wedding to plan. To Jim’s amusement, unlike other brides, the Lady of the Mark could have cared less for the fittings of her wedding dress, or tasting cakes, or any of those other things Terran women were so fond of. No, as a true woman of Rohan, she was preoccupied with selecting which horses she would take with her to Ithilien.

“You wish to take Hasufel?” Éomer said in horror at dinner one night.

“Aye,” his sister said, “and Ceinder.” She grinned at Jim. “Those two will breed mounts that run like the wind, mark you me.”

“And how freely do you think to ride as Lady of Ithilien?” the Rohir asked in irritation. “You will have your new keep to think of, and your Prince to aid, and maybe at some point you may even think of having babes.”

Éowyn had snorted in amusement, sharing a look with Jim, which of couse only made the other man glower harder at them both. As time went by, he became even more moody: something Jim had thought hardly possible. More than once Jim had bit back a snarky retort, thinking to himself that if Éowyn was the one getting married, why was her brother the one who was becoming increasingly irascible?

“Because you are a prattling infant, that’s why!” the Man had growled one evening when Jim had asked him as much. He had stomped away, then, and Jim had turned to Éowyn in question.

“Do not be angry with him,” she said gently. “Our kin are careful—it is not within our nature to, as you have told me before, leap without looking.” She looked after her brother thoughtfully. “I fear that his heart has leapt without his knowing, and he has only just begun to realize what that means.”

Jim had swallowed, looking away. “We knew what we were getting ourselves into,” he said. “We both did.”

“Aye,” the woman agreed. “But what one’s mind knows seldom makes the difference to one’s heart.”

Jim shook his head. “What should I do?”

Éowyn gave him a small, bittersweet smile. “Only you know the answer to that, Man of the Stars.”

And so today they were out by themselves, chopping wood near a stream, with the warm summer sun beating down on them pleasantly. The Man stood stripped to the waist, clad only in leather leggings, his long hair tied back in a queue as he worked at chopping and shaping the posts that would go to replace the old paddock. There were men enough to do this task, but the former Marshal had taken to this particular chore with a single-mindedness that reminded Jim of Bones analyzing bloodborne pathogens.

The time spent outdoors had colored Éomer’s skin a darker bronze, and Jim admired the flat plains of his chest, with its dusting of dark hairs. The Man was in a better mood today, seeming to take savage satisfaction in hewing the logs and shaping them into something purposeful.

Shaking his head with a sigh, Jim took a deep breath and began. “Look, man, we have to talk.”

“About what?” Éomer didn’t look at him, just kept working away at cutting the wood, shaping a rough stake at one end.

So that was how this was going to go. Jim sighed. “You know about what.”

The Rohir frowned, his face turning dark. “I know not.”

“Yes, you do. Éomer. Look at me.” Hands stilled at their work as hazel eyes met his. They were wide, dark, and—Jim felt something shrink within himself—pained. “We can’t go on like this. It’s not fair to either of us.”

“Has there been word from Gandalf?” the Rohir demanded. “Or Aragorn?”

“No.” Jim refrained from flinching, but only just. “You know that as well as I do.”

“And what will you do if you must stay here, Rodorbeorn?” Éomer asked softly. “Will you pine away and perish, like unto Lúthien once separated from Beren?”

“Not gonna happen,” Jim said with more confidence than he felt. “Even if Radagast never comes back, my crew will find a way to me. They always have before. It’s what we do.”

“Aragorn’s coronation is in two weeks, my gúthwinë.” The Rohir looked away. “It pains me to think of you leaving.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not so happy about it myself,” Jim admitted, “but that’s the way it is.”

They were quiet as they finished the work with the paddock. That night they made love, hesitantly and then with a roughness Jim hadn’t expected, Éomer laying a territorial claim to him with lips and hands, teeth and tongue.

In the cold light of early morning, hours later, Jim reminded himself of all the things he had waiting for him back home: his ship, his crew. His life…a life that was steadily becoming a distant waking dream to the one he led now…

~

The beginning of May found them back in Minas Tirith, the White City in tumult over Aragorn’s forthcoming coronation.

“I’m glad we don’t have to do any planning for this,” Jim said to Legolas and Gimli over breakfast one morning. The Elf and the Dwarf had opted, along with the rest of the eight men who called themselves the Fellowship, to remain in the city with the future King. They were currently watching as servants anxiously followed Aragorn around, including a tailor who kept holding up bolts of fabric to the stern-faced, black-clad man and making distracted cries every time he moved and a pin popped out of place, or something. “I’d feel bad for him if he hadn’t, y’know, signed up for this and all.”

Legolas wore a small smile. “It will only get worse,” he said. “Wait until the Lady Arwen arrives and wedding preparations are made.” The three friends laughed. “Speaking of weddings,” the Elf continued, “what think you of Prince Imrahil’s proposal?”

“Imrahil proposed to someone?” Jim asked. He turned to Gimli. “When did that happen?”

The Dwarf frowned at him. “Ye mean ye’ve not heard?” he asked. “I know ye spend most of your time frolicking in bed with your Horse-Lord these days but—“

“Gimli, hold your tongue!” Legolas said firmly.

Gimli glared. “Mmphmm,” he grunted.

“Apologies,” Legolas began. “He meant it not—“

“I don’t mind.” Jim said. He stretched luxuriously, feigning an easiness he didn’t quite feel. “Éomer and I have our fun. So what?” He paused; both the Elf and the Dwarf had odd looks on their faces. “What?” he repeated.

“Well,” Gimli began slowly, “I know that our ways are not like those of your land, but we have customs here, and—“

“King Éomer needs heirs,” Legolas said shortly. “For heirs, he needs a wife. For a wife, he needs an alliance. Come Elessar’s kingmaking, every Lord in this part of Arda will be presenting their daughters to both Aragorn and to Éomer in the hopes that they will one day be a Queen.”

“So?” Jim said. The two men were looking at him like he was an idiot. “Éomer has eyes in his head, doesn’t he?” he asked. “He’s welcome to pick whichever one he wants. Whenever Radagast gets his skinny Brown ass here, I’m going home, remember? What Éomer chooses to do is his own affair, not mine.” Even as the words were spilling from his lips, Jim knew they weren’t true—not completely.

“Of course,” the Elf said politely.

“Right,” agreed Gimli.

“No problem at all,” said Jim. He suddenly didn’t feel hungry—quite the opposite, really. “Excuse me,” he said. “I think I need to get out of here for a while.”

~

Seren was in the palace stables. He brought her an apple and she whickered inquiringly at him, brown eyes sparkling. Jim smiled as he fed her. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked her.

“Do you always talk to your steed?” a familiar voice said from behind him. Jim turned, smiling at the Rohir.

“Only when you talk back,” Jim said sweetly, and Éomer laughed. It was a clear, honest sound, and Jim couldn’t help but smile at it. The other man had changed so much from when they had first met. Jim knew a lot of it was because of their friendship. He wondered what would happen when he left… Don’t go there, Kirk, Jim told himself firmly. Just. Don’t. “I need to get out of here for a while,” he said instead. “Want to come with me?”

Éomer nodded, and soon they were cantering through the city. The streets of Minas Tirith were narrow, and their progress was slow, but finally they reached the city’s gates at the lowest level, and were on the fields below once more.

“Think you truly that Radagast will return for you?” Éomer asked after some time.

“It’s what Gandalf said,” Jim answered. “I’ve no reason to disbelieve him.”

“The Stormcrow is an honest man,” the Rohir conceded, “but we know little of the Brown wizard.”

Jim pulled Seren up shortly, turning to stare at the other man. “What are you getting at?” he asked uneasily.

Éomer turned Firefoot about so that they and their mounts were facing one another. “I’m just wondering if you should be so ready to—to depart,” the Rohir said frankly. “I know it displeases you to think on it, but—“

“But nothing!” Jim said, more harshly than he intended to. “Look, my people have gotta be looking for me, okay? I need to get back there, there’s things—things I have to do.” Old memories of another life flooded his thoughts: remnants of his mindmeld with Ambassador Spock two years ago. The other Kirk never came to Arda, whispered a little voice in the back of his mind. What if you don’t ever return? Pushing those doubts aside, Jim blustered on. “Look, we always knew this was gonna happen, okay? Remember? Eyes wide open, all of it.”

Éomer flinched. “I remember,” he said, voice low. “I—“ He broke off. “Forgive my foolishness. It was unseemly of me.”

Jim shook his head. “No,” he said, “I should have—I didn’t mean—Fuck!” He stared upwards at the clear blue summer sky. “This is hard for me, too, y’know.”

The two men were quiet a moment, and then it was as if something between them had dissipated, and things were easy once more. Jim quirked his mouth upwards. “Wanna race, Eoh?” He used the Rohir’s other name seldomly, but he used it now—the closest to an endearment he could allow himself.

“Foolish boy,” Éomer said with a grin, and then they were off.

~

The fields of Pelennor were dark green with summer grass and dotted throughout with wildflowers. Some of the plants reminded Jim of the Indian Paintbrushes and the Bluebonnets of the American midwest. After their galloping race across the plain, they slowed to a more sedate trot, watching the long, steady trains of people heading to the White City.

“Half of Arda comes for Aragorn’s kingmaking,” Éomer observed. “Men, Elves, Dwarves—if we see an entire caravan of Hobbits I don’t think I’ll be surprised.”

Jim laughed at that. “It’s going to be one hell of a party, that’s for sure,” he agreed.

They rode in companionable silence for a while.

Eventually they stopped to water their horses at a nearby stream. Seren drank deeply, making a contented sound deep in her throat. “You and me both, girl,” he said fondly.

“Do you often talk to your horse?” asked a curious, feminine voice behind them.

The woman—girl, really—was young, maybe seventeen or eighteen at a guess. She wore her long, light brown hair plaited down her back, though it was starting to come undone in places, strands escaping here and there. She wore a dark green dress and carried a rucksack over her shoulder. Her grin was friendly and amused.

“All the time,” Jim said as he grinned back. “We have great conversations, Seren and I. She doesn’t talk too much though. It’s too bad, really.”

The girl laughed. It transformed her face, Jim noticed. Her features were pleasant enough, though plain, but when she laughed her face shone radiantly. Even Éomer found it difficult not to smile at her amusement: his lips twitched upwards, and he gave her a slight bow of greeting.

“Good day to you, fair maiden,” he said in a low voice. Standing upright again, he looked around and frowned, his forehead wrinkling in curiosity. “Are you unescorted?”

The girl’s smile faded a little at that. “I am,” she said with what Jim thought was undue seriousness. “Though you should realize that my Father’s people know that I am about picking wildflowers.” She held her rucksack up slightly; Jim could see now that the blooms of several plants were peeking out of its top.

Éomer frowned. “You should be careful, little maiden,” he said. “It is not always safe for a woman to be about alone. We will escort you back to your kin.”

The girl stiffened at that. “I am no little maiden!” she said angrily. When Éomer quirked an eyebrow up at that, feigning astonished horror, she flushed a deep scarlet. “I mean I’m not small! I’m almost as tall as he is!” she said, jerking her chin at Jim.

Jim stood up slowly, careful not to wrench his still-healing shoulder. She took a nervous step backwards as he moved, so he paused and gave her one of his patented, Why would you ever be afraid of little old me? smiles. “You’re not that tall,” he said, adopting a cheerful bantering tone. To her credit and his dismay, her concern was unallayed by either his movements or his words, and she stepped backwards again, and—promptly tripped and fell. “Whoa!” he said, surprised. “Are you okay?”

“Dammit, Jim,” Éomer said in irritation. Jim stared at him; he sounded just like— “Look at what you made her do.” The Man was at her side in a few quick steps, righting her quickly. She had dropped her bag of flowers, falling on it heavily. He picked it up and proffered it to her. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“I—I’m fine,” the girl said, taking the bag and slinging it over her shoulder once more. She was blushing hard now, cheeks and neck furiously red. “Thank you,” she said, looking away awkwardly.

“No problem,” Éomer said gruffly. He stood back a few paces, and spoke in normal tones once again. “My friend and I rode here from the White City,” he said. “Our horses needed the exercise. I am Éomer, and this is my companion, James T. Kirk.” Jim bowed his head sheepishly as his friend introduced him. He sounded just like Bones, he thought to himself, suddenly, heartily homesick.

“Sorry about that,” he said, pushing away those thoughts. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The girl nodded. “I suppose not,” she said. Her blush was starting to fade as she examined him curiously. “From whence do you hail, James T. Kirk?” she asked.

“He is a Rider of Rohan,” Éomer interposed, “as am I.”

“My name is Lothíriel,” the girl said. “And I am come from Dol Amroth.”

~

It turned out that Lothíriel had walked quite a way in her quest for flowers, and as the shadows lengthened in the late afternoon sun, she was glad to travel with the two men. She rode on Seren while Jim walked for a while; though he loved riding his horse, the exercise from earlier had disturbed his wound, and it was pained and sore.

“Have you also come for the King’s coronation?” she asked curiously.

“After a fashion,” Éomer said. “My sister is to be wed to the Prince Faramir as well,” he explained.

“This is the first time I’ve ever been away from home,” Lothíriel admitted. She grinned at Jim then, impishly. “It’s all been very exciting. I feel as if I could never get tired of seeing new things, new people and new places!”

Jim smiled back at her. “Yeah, I know the feeling,” he said. “I’ve always been the wandering type, myself.”

“And you, Éomer?” Lothíriel asked with interest.

Éomer frowned. “I am a Man of the Mark,” he said shortly.

“Which means…what, exactly?” Lothíriel prompted curiously.

“The Riddermark has been under attack these many years. Protecting the land, its people—it leaves not much time for travel.” He looked ahead stolidly. “Before the War, I had never traveled past the river that marked the crossing into Gondor.”

“What?” Jim turned to look at the Man in astonishment. “You never told me that.”

Éomer flashed him an irritated look. “I need not tell you everything, Rodorbeorn,” he said.

“Ro-dor-born,” Lothíriel echoed, pronouncing the syllables carefully. She stared at Jim with interest. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a nickname,” Jim explained. He hesitated to tell her what it signified, suddenly. “My friends gave it to me when I joined the Riders of Rohan. It’s a custom of the Rohirrim to have more than one name,” he added as she still looked mystified.

“Fascinating!” She grinned, delighted. “Can I have a second name too? What should it be?”

The Rohir rolled his eyes heavenward. “Eru preserve me,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. “Another prattling babe.”

~

“Where should we leave you, Lady?” Éomer asked politely when they were once more at the main Gates of the City.

“My people are quartered on the seventh level,” Lothíriel said. “I think I remember how to get there, though, if you need to go elsewhere—“ She started to dismount from where she rode behind Jim, but he stopped her.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said, “we’ll take you there ourselves. That’s where we’re headed, too.” He shook his head. “This place is a maze, believe me. We won’t let you get lost.”

The girl laughed at that. “I thank you, my friends.” They chatted idly as they rode. Lothíriel was a pleasant companion, quick-witted and amusing. More than once she made even the stern Éomer chuckle, and Jim thoroughly enjoyed listening to her pleasant chatter.

The sun was hanging low in the sky, casting golden light over the city that made the white marble glow with warmth, like a welcome. Lothíriel looked thoughtful as as they drew closer towards the pinnacle of the city, and then finally near their destination. “The Rohirric legation is lodged near the King’s House, aye?”

“Aye, Lady,” Éomer answered.

“Do you think—when we get closer—“ The girl looked hesitant as she broke off, then continued. “I might get in trouble if I’m seen with you,” she finally said apologetically. “My Father doesn’t know I went outside the City. Is there a way to get back into the King’s House without being seen?”

Jim and Éomer exchanged a curious look. “Didn’t you say earlier that your people knew you were out picking wildflowers?” Jim asked, even as he gently steered Seren towards a back entrance he knew the servants used for loading food and other supplies into the building proper.

Lothíriel went pale at that. Éomer and Jim exchanged a startled glance as she very clearly muttered an unladlylike oath, before jumping off the horse and running like hell, disappearing inside quickly. Jim laughed—she reminded him of himself at that age. He hoped she didn’t get lost—or in trouble with her Father.

The Rohir shook his head. “What an odd girl,” he said.

Jim nodded, agreeing. “Uh huh,” he said. “I like her.”

~

When they had stabled their mounts and returned to the King’s Hall, they found that Gandalf had returned. He was in deep conversation with Aragorn.

“Gandalf!” Jim was relieved and panicked at once. “Did you find Radagast? Where is he?”

The White Wizard frowned, shaking his head. “Yes and no, James T. Kirk,” he said regretfully.

“What does that mean?” Éomer demanded. “Is the Brown Wizard here or not?”

Gandalf shot the Man a curious look at his intensity, as did Jim, before answering. “It means,” the wizard answered carefully, “that Radagast is—away. But he plans to return at the end of summer.”

Jim exhaled heavily. “That’s not fair!” he said angrily. “Look, I kept my end of the deal. I fought in your War—which, by the way, Admiral Komack is probably going to blast me for, okay? I have responsibilities in my world, too, you know. My crew, my ship—they’re out there right now. I need to get back to them, dammit!”

“We understand that, mellonin,” Aragorn said soothingly, “but until Radagast sees fit to return, there is naught we can do.”

“He’s right, Jim,” Éomer agreed reluctantly. His hazel eyes were dark with empathy. “We must wait at the wizard’s pleasure.”

“When the feast of Lughnasadh has come, the time will be right for your returning, Radagast assures me,” Gandalf said. His blue eyes were sympathetic but stern. “Bide you as you will until then.” He turned to smile at Aragorn, expression warming. “In the mean time, we have more joyous occasions awaiting us—a king to crown, and a wedding to witness. Is it not so?”

“The Lady Arwen will arrive tomorrow. Our marriage will take place a month from now.” The former Ranger’s face glowed with joy, and Jim had to smile a little at the Man’s happiness. He had learned more of Aragorn’s story in the past few days—how he had had no desire for kingship until the Lord Elrond Half-Elven had told him it was the only way he’d allow the mortal to wed his daughter.

Elrond had dared him to do better—and he had. Jim thought of Chris Pike, then, of how the Admiral had taken a cocksure kid and encouraged him to make something of his life. To do better, be better. Yes, Jim too knew the particular joy and relief that such success could bring.

“Everyone is settling down,” Jim said to Éomer afterwards, when they were back in their room.

The Man looked at him curiously. “This surprises you. Why?”

Jim shrugged. It was hard to articulate exactly—he knew many Starfleet officers managed to marry, have families and children. Hell, he’d presided over more than a few shipboard weddings already. But the idea of having either of these things himself had always seemed unbelievably foreign and distant to him, somehow. He lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“I don’t know, Eoh,” Jim said. “I’m just—I never thought it was something that was for me.”

Éomer frowned. “I know little of your world,” he said slowly, “but I know this much: That is foolishness.” He joined Jim on the bed, straddling him firmly. He bent down so that their faces were close, the ends of his long hair brushing Jim’s cheek. He kissed Jim gently, thoroughly as his hands slipped under Jim’s tunic, brushing against his sides with unaccustomed tenderness. Jim felt his pulse leap at the Rohir’s touch, gasping into the other man’s mouth. Éomer pulled back, surveying the man. “Believe you me, my gúthwinë, your fierce heart will be met by its match one day. Perhaps not by me,” and he gave Jim a surprisingly gentle, bittersweet smile, “but by someone.”

~

They lay in bed together that night. Éomer always looked astonishingly peaceful after lovemaking, Jim thought: relaxed and at ease in a way he never seemed to be otherwise. He supposed that when one lived under a lifetime’s threat of annihilation, letting one’s self go was a damn near impossible thing. Though his eyes were closed, he sought and found Jim, pulling the younger man to him and exhaling a small sigh of contentment.

Jim’s head fit perfectly into the hollow beneath Éomer’s chin. The Rohir’s skin was damp from their exertions, the dark hair of his chest springy under Jim’s cheek. He smelled of musk and leather, horse and wool. And because those scents were by now so intertwined with Jim’s sensory perceptions of the Rohir, they became dead sexy.

Jim could get used to this. That was a problem.

“It’s going to be hard to leave you,” Jim murmured.

Éomer opened one eye, regarding him quizzically. “If it’s as hard as all that, then why go?” he asked simply.

Jim sighed, rolling over onto his back. He stared at the ceiling a moment before answering. “I can’t leave my people behind, Éomer,” he said. “I have a responsibility—to my crew and to Starfleet.” He shifted, looking at his lover. “Could you leave behind Edoras? Seriously? Leave behind the Rohirrim, your sister, all of it?”

“Of course not,” the Rohir said immediately. Then, “I see.”

“Yeah,” said Jim. “So.”

They both lay silent, then.

“I have forgotten what it was like to be alone, my gúthwinë,” Éomer said after a time. “I do not relish returning to solitude.”

~

The next day was Aragorn’s coronation. Jim stood with Éomer, Éowyn, and Faramir as Aragorn, now called Elessar, walked among his subjects as their King for the first time. When the contingent of Elves from Rivendell met him in the courtyard, the Lady Arwen was revealed, and the reunited lovers wore mirroring expression of joy. Jim envied the king his destiny: a life spent bringing peace and prosperity to his world, with the love of his long life at his side.

Jim Kirk should be so lucky.

He pushed aside his own unhappiness to smile with the rest of crowd, however, and when Aragorn and Arwen—followed by everyone else—bowed before the four Hobbits who had played such a large and unexpected part in the War of the Ring, he had to grin to himself more honestly. It was true: life offered so many unexpected adventures, and they would all be met in good time.

That night it seemed most of the city was with them in the Hall of Feasts. The Fellowship, Gandalf, Arwen, Faramir and Éowyn, and Éomer and Jim: they all sat together at the head table. Éowyn was recounting Jim’s attempts at learning Rohirric with glee—particularly Gleowan’s unique brand of humor, which had continued throughout Jim’s stay in the neighboring kingdom.

“You’re joking!” Faramir’s eyes were lit with amusement as he turned to Jim. Éomer and Éowyn were both flushed with laughter, happy near-mirror images of one another. “And you kept going back for more lessons?”

“It was the idioms!” Jim protested, his own eyes moist from too much laughter. “They were so creative. C’mon, man, I had to see what he’d come up with next!”

“Of course,” Éomer agreed with mock-seriousness, “how else would the ‘conceited starmaiden’ learn decent Rohirric?” And they were all laughing again.

Prince Imrahil came up to them, a young woman at his side. He coughed to get their attention. “My lords, my lady,” he said formally with a short bow, “I wish to make my daughter known to you.” She was looking down, trying to hide her face in her long hair, which had a garland of white flowers interwoven in it. Jim examined her thoughtfully; she seemed familiar somehow.

“This is the Princess Lothíriel,” Imrahil continued. Jim and Éomer shot each other an astonished look. Princess? “I was hoping you might keep her company while I--”

“Of course!” Éowyn said before he could even finish, and he smiled gratefully at her before bowing and disappearing to do—whatever it was he had to do. The Lady of Rohan smiled welcomingly at their new tablemate. “Good e’en,” she said, making room for the girl. “Come sit between my brother and I.”

“Thank you, Lady. I am honored.” Lothíriel spoke in a quiet, soft voice—completely at odds with the cheerful, rambunctious girl they had met the day before. She still didn’t look up even as she sat down.

“Tell us, my lady,” Éomer said in an unusually gentle, teasing tone, “do you often go hunting for flowers?”

She looked up in astonishment, face growing red when she saw exactly who she sat next to.

“Hiya,” said Jim with a bright grin. “So. Princess, huh?”

“You’ve met, already?” Éowyn asked politely. She raised an eyebrow at her brother (Oh really?), who raised both of his back in silent answer (What? I didn’t do anything!). Jim bit his cheeks to keep from laughing at the silent by-play between the siblings, and Faramir met his gaze; the Man was just as amused as he was.

“Yesterday,” Lothíriel said, oblivious to the silent conversations around her, her face still pink. “I was—I was out picking flowers and came across Éomer and Jim. They were very kind to me.”

“Yes, my brother and our kith here are kind when it suits them,” Éowyn said dryly.

“Kith?” Lothíriel echoed. Her eyes grew brighter with interest; it was obvious that she loved learning knew things. “What does that mean?”

“It means ‘friend’ in Rohirric, roughly,” Éomer said. “We have been trying to teach Jim our tongue with mixed success.”

“Aye, and we have been much amused by his attempts,” Faramir agreed. In flawless, unaccented Rohirric, he said to Éowyn, “I’m lucky I was fascinated by languages as a boy, no?”

Éowyn answered in the same tongue, “Yes, very lucky, my love.” She kissed his cheek affectionately, beaming at him.

Jim shook his head. “I always thought I was good with languages,” he said to Lothíriel, “and then I came here. I’ve spent three months among these people and I have just enough Rohirric to keep out of trouble.”

“Oh, you’ve improved since this morning, have you?” Éomer asked. Jim made a face at him, but the group as a whole laughed at their banter.

“I thought you were a Rider of Rohan as well, Jim?” Lothíriel bit her lip shyly, though her cheeks were flushed with amusement as well.

“I am,” Jim agreed. “But adopted, basically.”

“The Rodorbeorn came to us after the Battle of the Hornburg,” Éowyn explained. “He rode to War with my brother and fought bravely at both Pelennor Fields and the Morannon.”

The girl still looked quizzical. “I always read that the Rohirrim were—that they hesitated to welcome outsiders.”

Éomer nodded. “It is true. Our people have had many trials in the past and we do not welcome strangers who have not proven their worth to us,” he admitted. He turned to Jim with a fond smile. “I will admit I was not sure what to make of this Man at first, but he soon showed himself to be a true friend to the Rohirrim, and a worthy ally to the Men of the West. I would not trade our time together for all the world.”

Lothíriel grinned at Jim. “You are lucky--Rodorbeorn,” she said. “I’ve always dreamed of having adventures, doing mighty deeds.” She turned to Éowyn then, flushing slightly. “Lady, my Father told me—is it true that you dressed as a man and joined the Muster of Rohan, and met the Witch-King of Angmar himself in battle?”

“Aye, and slew him,” Éowyn answered.

“She can read?” Éomer asked Jim while his sister told the girl of her battle with the Nazgûl. “What think you of that?”

“It’s a good thing?” Jim offered. He knew that the Rohirrim had a runic writing system called the cirth, but their culture seemed to prize oral conventions above literary ones—thus the importance of songs and poetry to carry on their history, laws, and traditions. Though Éomer and Éowyn both knew how to read and write in several languages, having grown up in the royal house, they were both fairly unusual in this regard. Jim wasn’t sure about the customs of Dol Amroth, but from what little he had observed so far it seemed that Lothíriel was highly unusual in both her education and her interest in the outside world—things both he and Éomer valued. He grinned impishly. “Smart chicks are hot?”

Éomer open his mouth to answer, but that was when Lothíriel turned back to them.

“What do you think?” she asked them expectantly.

The men exchanged a glance. “We’re…not sure?” Jim offered as a stop-gap until they could figure out what she was asking—diplomatically, of course.

“Oh.” Lothíriel looked disappointed.

“I agree,” Éomer said immediately, to Jim’s surprise, and the girl perked up again.

“I knew you would!” she said in relief.

Jim shot the Man a curious look, but it was clear to him that the Rohir had answered on a rare, almost unheard of impulse—and he wasn’t sure what he had agreed to, either.

“What did she know?” Jim whispered to Faramir. The other Man furrowed his brow, confused. “We weren’t paying attention, we were arguing,” Jim explained. Faramir nodded at that, expression clearing.

“The Princess Lothíriel was explaining her thoughts on what she has learned of herb-lore,” he explained. “Her Father disapproves of her interests in these pursuits, but she wants to study with the Warden of the Houses of Healing. And Éomer has just agreed to talk to him on her behalf.”

Jim nodded, looking at the girl and the Man. She was talking quickly, avidly; his lips were quirked in amusement. He likes her, he realized in amusement—and felt a keen pang of jealousy despite himself.

That was when Prince Imrahil returned. He gave a short bow to Éomer. “My lord, may I speak to you a moment?” he asked.

Éomer nodded, getting up. “Of course. Pardon me, my lady,” he added to Lothíriel, who looked after him glowingly as the two men retreated from the noise of the Hall.

“Do you really think he’ll ask my Father to allow me to stay?” she asked Jim hopefully.

He smiled at the princess. “He said he would, so I’m sure he will,” he said. “He’s a Man of his word, trust me.”

She blushed at that. “And—he won’t tell my Father about--?”

“No,” Jim said, “he won’t tell him about how you snuck out either. He’s awesome like that.”

“Aye,” she agreed, looking in the direction they had gone to. “I think he may be, at that.”

Éomer and the prince returned then, the Rohir’s expression unreadable. Jim frowned; his friend had been in such a good mood moments before.

“What happened?” he asked as his friend sat down.

“I have spoken with Prince Imrahil,” he said, not looking at him, or at the princess. “He—is willing to consider allowing Lothíriel to stay in Minas Tirith, and to study with the Warden. On one condition.” He poured a goblet of wine, drinking it down hastily.

Éowyn eyed him curiously. “Aye, and that is well, brother, but what is it?”

Éomer didn’t answer her directly; instead, he looked at the girl sitting next to him. “That I wed Princess Lothíriel.”

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