Amused by how quickly he seems to settle down, Éomer lifts her head from his chest so she can watch him all but melt back into her bed, his exotic dark hair rumpled against the fine linen pillows, the warm firelight flickering across the planes of his face like a lover's caress.

Instead of poking him awake, or making some sort of quip to prolong their conversation, she lets herself settle as well, watching him until she is fairly certain he has fallen asleep, struck by the raw trust in that gesture. Here he is, in her bed, in her kingdom, as naked as the day he was born with his weapons all the way across the room. She could slit his throat if she so wished, or drip poison past his lips if the spirit moved her to do it, and she might even succeed.

Not that she would, of course. She has known Eskel less than a week's worth of days combined, but already she is more than passing fond of him, and the thought of harm coming to him distresses her intensely.

Slowly, carefully, she extricates herself from under his heavy arm and slips from the bed so she can pad about the room barefoot, tidying up their discarded clothing and banking the fire for the night, not wanting to give the servants who will come in to rouse her in the morning too much of a fright. It takes some creative maneuvering to winkle the blankets out from beneath him but she manages eventually, and when she climbs back into bed to settle down beside him, she covers them both first with a cool sheet and then with a warm blanket, then pulls the curtains closed around the bed to block out the light and keep in the heat.

Settling down beside him in the now near-dark, she waits for her eyes to adjust as much as possible so that she can watch him sleep.