Chapter 6: Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Please Kill Me Now
The Obligatory Éomer/Lothíriel Side Plot

I despise Éomer/Lothíriel. Then again, I despise most “normal” pairings and usually ‘ship things like Théoden/Snowmane and Dolores Umbridge/her kitty plates, among other such abominations. Thus, I must mock this unnatural and clichéd sideplot to Farawyn fics. Seriously, this is every É/L fic EVER, except the serious ones have more witty banter no one ever reads anyways.

Éomer of Rohan was, once again, angry and sodded—but, naturally, that came as no surprise to everyone who had to deal with him, as they had had to put up with his incessant bitchery for the past… well, forever. Not that Éomer was by nature a fussy or disagreeable person; perhaps he had been under the influence of too many bad fanfictions, or possibly he was just in a constant state of aggressive drunkenness that could easily rival that of any braindead frat boy from upstate New York. Whatever the case, things did not bode well for poor Éomer at all, even in the wake of Sauron’s defeat. Two years, three months, one week, five days, and about eleven hours had passed since then, and Éomer was keeping track— for a good reason, of course. He was keeping track of the hours and days that defined and added to his misery.

There were still orcs and other less than pleasant remnants of evil days about, and governing his kingdom did keep Éomer busy. When, at night, he finally settled into an empty bed, that emptiness overcame him-- drained him, even. There was nothing for which he could live, for his sister was married. His darling, baby, adorable wee sister. He liked her boobies, but her boobies were in Gondor, being fondled by a steward who looked like a rolled-up crepe with a nose. And, as Éowyn had written to him, she was pregnant. By... Faramir. The Crepe. Dressing up like Crash Bandicoot while singing into cones of chocolate ice cream (no sprinkles) was the only thing that kept Éomer from slashing his wrists with kitchen utensils and departing this cruel, cruel world.

So two years, three months, one week, five days, and eleven hours of loveless, wifeless, sisterless anguish had passed before Éomer, for the first time in practically forever, set out on a journey to Emyn Arnen. Éowyn had written to him earlier in the year, begging him to visit her before the child would be born. And then, for the trillionth time that year, it struck Éomer: his sister was married. Her dratted husband would be there, and most possibly his dratted family would be as well, or whatever remained of it after many of its members took to dying in hilarious manners. This was, Éomer deduced, the grandest and best time of all to be sodded out of his wits.

As soon as Éomer arrived in Ithilien that July, he knew the whole experience would be an altogether shitty one. It was raining, he was beginning to run out of rum, he was cockblocked, and he had had the misfortune, while still travelling on a wee road next to a stream, of witnessing Barack Obama skinny-dipping with a couple of unicorns. Hopefully, he thought, seeing Éowyn and the Crepe won’t be that bad, at least compared to this.

He was wrong. Dreadfully and utterly wrong. Sighing, he pushed open the door to their home and was greeted with yet another horror: Éowyn and the Crepe standing before him, wearing oversized chicken costumes and evil grins on their faces.

“Oh, Éomer,” Éowyn said through her raspy man-laughter as soon as Éomer entered the parlour, “Faramir and I know exactly what you want.”

“A canoli? Some sleep? Not to have the image of Barack Obama in his birthday suit ingrained in my mind forever?” he offered. “Maybe, if you would be so kind, a hello?”

“We know you want a woman,” the Crepe said sleazily.

“That has nothing to do with anything and I don’t want to marry!” he whined, somewhat confused by what in the world they meant by all this. Neither of them had even greeted him properly.

“In light of my recent marriage and subsequent ‘family way,’ I was remembering that not only are you a rather drunken five-year-old in a man’s body, you need to grow up and be kingly, and then you’ll need an heir,” Éowyn gently reminded him, “and for that, you need a wife. Besides, a wife will tame you well.”

Éomer, blushing furiously, looked away and down the corridor, pretending he wasn’t listening. Maybe if he focused on a random mop and various cleaning supplies some of the servants had probably forgotten to put away, then Éowyn would leave him the hell alone. And that mop, in his stupor, was looking oddly attractive. Those long, sopping, dirt-caressed strips of fabric! That long, phallic handle worn with years of use and love! Its beauty almost beckoned to him; the mop was parting its moppy linen lips to moan his name to the ignorant heavens! He wanted that mop with all the desire that had ever existed within him, wanted its moist love-strands to caress every last centimetre of his body. He would surely burst if he could not have such a beauteous creature for a lover!

“Not necessarily,” Éomer droned reassuringly, swaying on his feet and pointing to the sexy mop, which, in his inebriated mind, he named Ricardo. “I could get that with child.”

The Crepe laughed. “But it’s a mop.”

“So?”

“It doesn’t have… um, you know. Bits.”

“Have you checked?”

“Uh… no.”

“Then don’t assume. Ricardo is offended.”

“Ricardo?!” Éowyn interjected, by this point completely confused.

“The mop. Now apologise, both of you. I’ll not have you insulting my husband.”

Éowyn sighed. “Fine, I apologise. But look, Éomer; you cannot remain unwed forever. Don’t you know how lovely it is to be married and to have a family? Even I, rather uncharacteristically, am rather too fond of it.”

“I’ll adopt little orphan Annie! She can rule Rohan after I’m dead!”

“Why on earth would you ever want to adopt a ginger?” the Crepe spat. “It’d kill you faster than you could say worthless git.”

Éomer shrugged. “I suppose I won’t. It always looked kind of starved and mean, like it’d dig out my eyes with spoons if it felt like it.” Éomer hated gingers. They were evil and he had no idea why he’d even suggested adopting one. But still, he thought, better adopt a ginger than marry some disgusting woman who was not his sister. There was Ricardo, but Ricardo was a mop and it probably didn’t have genitalia, and that fact made Éomer so depressed that he briefly thought of sticking his own reproductive bits into a meat grinder and forfeiting his rule of Rohan.

“I’ve had an inkling of an idea for quite some time now but have forgotten to mention so until a convenient time like this,” the Crepe said coolly, eyeing the intoxicated, frantically daydreaming King of Rohan with almost too much amusement. “I have a cousin, Lothíriel, who is coming to assist Éowyn with the birth despite that she is young, inexperienced with anything at all related to sex, and has only met Éowyn once.”

Éomer raised an eyebrow. Why the hell did that stupid man need to tell him that? Who cared? “And your point is?”

“Lothíriel is unwed, Éomer, and beautiful. She’s eighteen, virginal, and quite your ‘type,’ as they say. She’s so pleasant that she can soften your wee little heart. Why, she’s due to arrive tonight.” The Crepe cracked a malicious smile, and Éomer felt his heart sink. Did the Crepe mean to set him up with the bleeding slag?

O Ricardo! Ricardo! I have already betrayed thee! Éomer’s pitiable heart wailed. Ricardo, still wet with that morning’s suds, poured his tears and soul onto the marble floor as Faramir led Éomer to his lodgings, so far away from his sexily moppish self… so far away from his love.

“Matchmaker, matchmaker, make meee a match! Find meee a find! Catch meee a catch!”

Éomer growled. The Crepe’s favourite guest – his wretched and rather sexy cousin, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth – had been prancing around Emyn Arnen for the past three days, singing that horrid song from that horrid musical. And, to add to Éomer’s horror, Lothíriel was the epitome of beauty and he was undeniably captivated by her. She was dark-haired, feisty, and – he shuddered to think of it because he really was a misogynistic bastard – intelligent. So, like any man in his position, he sulked on a sofa in the parlour for a couple of hours just to hear that nightingalish voice straining through the wall behind him.

“Do you feel prepared to shut up now?” he yelled, banging on the wall. “I would prefer to be sulky, lovestruck, and hating you in peace, if you don’t mind.”

Lothíriel quickly emerged from another room, livid and weeping. “You’re so mean, Éomer!” she wailed, beating her little fists against his chest. She was, of course, still too meek and womanly to give him a proper arse-kicking.

“Well, you’re a pee-guzzling anus monkey, and I am manlier and more austere than you are.” With that, Éomer got up and left.

That was the extent of their verbal communication. The Crepe was quite disappointed about this, but Imrahil, on the other hand, was not. “It’s just my daughter’s way of saying she loves you,” he once told Éomer after Lothíriel had spiked his drink, raped his horse, and kicked him in the balls.

He would never win her, and he could never even think of letting himself truly love her, so he scratched his wrists with paper clips and wrote some poetry. That, for a short time, solved all his ills.

Éowyn went into labour not long later. Éomer was pretty miffed about that (as well as Lothíriel not being very much available either) and the Crepe was too nervous to talk about much of anything, so while they were waiting they found Bryn Terfel playing hide and seek in the pantry. Together Éomer and the Crepe beat the Welsh singer within an inch of his life for no reason whatsoever. Lothíriel emerged with a baby sooner or later, and the Crepe immediately went to write a letter to King Elessar (or, Éomer secretly hoped, to prepare the equipment he would need to produce a snuff film starring his infant son and a couple of snow leopards)… and then Éomer gasped in realisation. He and Lothíriel were alone. Lothíriel was so radiant and happy to have a baby cousin. Lothíriel was sexy and she was smiling at him, holding the baby out to him as if they, themselves, were parents… and Éomer, at long last, was happy.

“Look at the widdle bayyyybeeeeee!!!!!!” Lothíriel shrieked in his ear. “’Tis a bleedin’ cute thing, isn’t it? A-gootchyy goootchyyy gooooo!!!!!”

“I suppose it’s okay. Kind of cute, kind of tasty-looking, like a rabbit.” Éomer glared at his newborn nephew. The creature was actually rather ugly, he thought, and he considered dropping it on the floor just to hear how loud it could scream and if it would end up all ‘tarded if it fell on its head. Before he could act, though, Éomer was interrupted by Lothíriel’s frantic grasp on his arm; she leaned on him, giggling like a moron.

“Don’t babies and marriage just melt your heart?!!!!! Oh, Éomer, I am really starting to like you because you have a soft side. There should be three fights, ten instances of mutual silence treatment, and at least one horse ride in which I outperform you and make you realise I’m just as strong and spunky as you are in this fic, but let’s just get this over with now. You’re sexy. My boobies are nicer than your sister’s and they don’t smell like cheese like hers do. We should dress up like Terence Rattigan and make mad, furious love in a telephone booth until we’re arrested by the Cambodian police. Then we can get married because I really am submissive and feminine and I want you to ravish me!”

“Well, okay,” said Éomer.

And that was that.

The dreaded Éomer/Lothíriel pairing will return to a fanfic near you in the “What a Happy Family” chapter, whenever I write that. And will Éomer ever be reunited with Ricardo, his moppy lover? Dundundun! No idea which cliché will come next and when, but do keep an eye out for another chapter. :)

-Voldie