Chapter Text
"Éomer! What is that noise?"
Drawn from a restful reprieve by a rough shaking of his shoulders, he reluctantly woke, blinking in the dark of the bedchamber towards his wife. Lothíriel was leaning toward him, her eyes wide with confusion and sleepy fear.
"What noise?" he asked hoarsely.
"Do you not hear? From—from the hearth, I think."
Éomer yawned, glancing over at the empty hearth—it was Midsummer, after all—and heard to his surprise a strange yowling cry. He groaned, rubbing his eyes. "It sounds like Muron."
"Muron has never made that sound in his life! I am sure of it." Lothíriel's face was pinched with worry, and Éomer sighed.
"A mouse, then? Surely it will be Muron's breakfast, if so."
Lothíriel frowned. "It does not sound like a mouse, either—and Muron already would have caught it, I am sure of that."
"I suppose you are wanting me to find out exactly what is making the noise," he said.
"Please."
It was impossible to deny his wife at the best of times, and in her current condition she tended to have odd frights. Best to do as she wished, then he might sleep again all the sooner. Éomer swung his legs over the bed, fetching the lit taper on a small table and making for the hearth.
As soon as he crouched down, shining the light of the candle in the dark stone hearth, all became clear—he laughed loudly, causing the inhabitants to fuss in alarm and Lothíriel to call, "What is it?" is a very reproachful tone.
"It appears we have made a grave mistake," he said, still chuckling. "For we have always assumed Muron was a he—did you ever confirm it?"
"No," Lothíriel said after an awkward moment. "I...suppose he never smelled like most tomcats, but I simply considered us lucky."
"Muron is a female, my love. More than that—she is a mother."
Lothíriel's soft gasp was audible, as was the shuffling and slight groaning as she bounded heavily out of bed, making for the hearth as well. Her expression was eager in dim light, smiling hugely at the sight of the tabby with several tiny, rather ugly looking kittens burrowed up at the cat's belly and making the quiet, mewling noises they had heard earlier. Muron was looking decidedly smug, Éomer decided. The new mother was lazily swinging her tail around, gazing up at her mistress as if for approval. Which was readily given.
"Oh, Muron!" Lothíriel cried. "You have given us kittens!"
"Oh, Béma," Éomer groaned. "Not more cats underfoot!"
"How can you be so dismissive?" she asked, frowning at him. "It will be some days before the kittens can possibly make nuisances of themselves, and I certainly have no objection to giving them away when they are weaned."
"Good! For I must insist upon it."
"You are an unfeeling brute," his wife said, prodding him in the ribs with a finger and making him wince.
"Yes, but I am your unfeeling brute, my love. May we return to bed now? My knees are positively creaking."
Lothíriel huffed, but allowed him to help her to stand. She was a bit wobbly on her feet, and Éomer kept his hold on her elbow until she hoisted herself into bed.
"Do you know," he said thoughtfully, replacing the taper before taking his place beside her. "I do not wonder at all why Muron has had kittens."
"She found a friend in the stables, I would wager," Lothíriel's tone was dry, and he laughed.
"Well, yes, but that is not all of it—I think she saw you increasing and became quite jealous!"
His wife tried to be offended by his teasing, but he reached out to pull her close, her swollen belly only getting in the way—and she joined him in laughter. "Oh, Éomer! Do stop!" she cried, with a little shriek. "Oh, you are squishing the baby!"
"A small amount of hugging will hardly harm a baby!" he said. "Besides, I need you—right here." And Éomer settled her into his arms, her head resting on his shoulder and their legs tangling beneath the covers. He gave a little sigh of contentment—Lothíriel felt so wonderful beside him, even if her size made it a tad difficult.
"What is it?" she asked, gazing up at him with a quirked brow. "Why do you sigh?"
"No reason!" Éomer said lightly. "Only that I missed you while I was asleep."
"What nonsense!"
"'Tis true, my wife, I assure you." And he planted a lingering kiss on the top of her head.
"You do know," Lothiriel said with a yawn, "It is not the thing to be in love with your spouse. Let alone to be yearning from them when they are merely an arms' length away."
"Hmm. Well, truth be told, I simply cannot bring myself to care. And I have it on good authority that you do not care a fig what anyone else thinks either!"
Her cheeks pinked, and Éomer grinned. It gratified him to know that he could still put Lothíriel to blush despite all the months they had been wed. He hoped he could continue to do so for many years to come.
"Éomer?"
"Hmm?" He gently brushed the soft skin of her cheek, where a dimple formed with she smiled.
"I love you."
"And I you. Now go to sleep, my girl. You need your rest, as does the baby."
And with a contented sigh, she did.
The following is a deleted scene which takes place after chapter 4, following Eomer and Lothiriel's discussion in the gardens. It was quite fun to write, but at the end of the day was unnecessary for the characters or the plot. But I wanted to share it anyways. Hope you enjoy!
The music and dancing had begun, and colorful skirts twirled around the massive hall as they entered. This was fortunate, for most of the eyes were on the dancers rather than them, and Lothíriel let loose a breath.
"Do you care to dance tonight, my girl?" Éomer asked, gazing down at her with a grin.
"Not particularly. I am a trifle sore from our ride this morning." Immediately she berated herself for the blunder—how could she admit to him such weakness?
"Quite understandable," he said, eyes dancing. "I have heard there are to be card games—would you prefer exercising your mind?"
Lothíriel's mind was one quality she would claim. Smiling, she agreed, and they meandered the perimeter of the room. Éomer's height drew attention, and as they passed knots of perfumed ladies whispers broke out. She kept her chin in the air, and did not give them one glance. Her companion appeared utterly unperturbed, and the swept into the next chamber, which had been set aside for those who did not wish to dance.
"Éomer! Come play."
She gritted her teeth to see Amrothos, sitting alone at a table nearby, waving towards them. Of course he would interfere. Éomer showed no reluctance, for he half-pulled her over towards her brother.
"Good evening, Amrothos!" Éomer said. "May we sit with you?"
Amrothos blinked as he saw evidently saw Lothíriel for the first time upon Éomer's arm, and his eyes darted between them. Then a smile grew. "Of course you may," he said jovially. "Though we shall have to take turns; pal-aran only plays two. I was of half a mind to play by myself, and as we all know that is usually a sign of insanity."
"One of your many," she said silkily as they sat in the straight-backed, wooden chairs at the table. "Why are not you not dancing tonight, Amrothos?"
He grimaced as he began to set several carved pieces on the checkered board. "Eh...I was not feeling quite up to it."
"Lady troubles?" Éomer's amusement was clear, and Lothíriel held back a smile.
"One of Lothíriel's friends," Amrothos admitted. "Numriel. She has claws like a cat; I nearly did not get away."
"Numriel?" Lothíriel asked in surprise.
"Aye. It was clear she wanted something, but I did not know what. Nor did I care to find out. Éomer, would you care to take the first turn?"
Evidently Amrothos had determined that he and Éomer play first, but Lothíriel did not mind. It gave her more time to think, and her mind worked quickly. Numriel had attempted to snag Amrothos—why? It was likely to do with Lothíriel herself, considering their spat that afternoon. Did she want information? Gossip? Probably both. If that was the girl's game, it was well that they had absconded from the hall. She glanced quickly around her—Numriel had not followed them. Her fan was twisted in her hands—Lothíriel forced herself to relax.
Her brother was grinning as he took the first of Éomer's pieces. "Bad luck," he said smugly.
"Pal-aran is not a strength of mine," Éomer chuckled. "Perhaps I should have watched you and Lothíriel play first."
"Lothíriel will help you, I am sure. Won't you, sister?"
She started from her reverie, and said, "Oh—if Éomer wishes my help." Questioningly, she met his eyes, which were as warm as ever. The dimmer light of this chamber did not hide the twinkle there, but Lothíriel sincerely hoped that it hid her flush.
"Let my pride try a bit longer. When I am in imminent danger, I shall call upon you, if I may."
She inclined her head.
"Lothíriel is the best hand at par-aran," Amrothos said by way of conversation, as Éomer took his next move. "I do not think I have bested her for years."
"Do not pay his long-suffering any regard, Éomer," Lothíriel replied dryly. "I am certain Amrothos has never bested me." Her brother's ears turned red, but with little other choice he laughed along with Éomer. She wished she could kick Amrothos under the table, but her legs were not quite long enough to reach—if he decided to tell any tales of her…
"Your nose is looking decidedly red," her brother noted, glancing up from the board before moving a piece. "Did you take a turn in the gardens?"
"Indeed, I did. And I am quite fine, thank you for your concern."
Silence fell. Éomer was studying the board, and suddenly he tilted his head to the side. "Did you hear something?" he asked, and his eyes fell on Lothíriel. The expression of bafflement on his face turned to knowing, and at her own confusion, he added, "I heard yowling. Like a cat."
She turned pink. "I heard nothing."
"Oh, it was unmistakable, I am sure."
Amrothos was laughing. "This is likely the first time Lothíriel has willingly not heard a cat!" She cast him a deathly stare, but he paid her no heed. "Éomer, have you heard the story of—"
Lothíriel opened her mouth to give her brother the most scathing reprimand, but before the sound left her mouth there was a rustling at the hem of her skirt. She had not the chance to glance over (risking the notice of either man), and there was an unmistakable furry head rubbing into her ankle. She felt a soft, warm vibration. Purring! Oh, great Ulmo below!
"And then, Lothíriel told Father, So help me, if you do not let me keep the poor thing, I will live in the gutter with it! Of course Father had little choice—and she was so young she would have been hard to deny, anyway. So that is how we adopted our first cat; Mib, I think she called it. Is that so, Lothíriel?"
"Yes," she said shortly.
"And a few months later Lothíriel found a pregnant cat in the streets, and we suddenly have six more cats! How did you name those? Laes, Emig, Gwinig, Honeg, Niben, and the mother was Cam. Very clever, Father said. But he forced her to give them away to the servant children once they were weaned. Lothíriel cried for days, I still remember—"
Lothíriel stood abruptly, cutting of Amrothos's horrible story. Both him and Éomer stared at her, and she said dramatically, "I must go!" The claws of the kitten were snagging her hose, and what if they heard it meowing?
"Oh, Lothíriel, it is only a story, it was years ago—"
But she did not regard her brother; she inched away from the chair, not lifting her feet for fear of trodding on the little kitten. Unfortunately, this gave more time for protestations.
"I will accompany you," Éomer said gallantly, standing as well. He moved as if to take her arm, but Lothíriel shied away. What if he stepped on the kitten? He stared.
"Er—thank you," she managed, and from some distance offered her hand. There was a smile playing about his lips, and she was sure her flush deepened. "Good evening, Amrothos."
Her brother was frowning. "Are you going to return? I still do not wish to play alone!"
"Yes," Lothíriel snapped. "Wait for us. It will only be a moment." Still she did not dare to move quickly, despite desperately wishing to leave the room. Éomer showed no disinclination at the plodding pace, and patiently walked beside her as they at last passed through the door.
The corridor was empty, and Lothíriel sighed in relief.
"What is it?" Éomer asked in amusement. "Your face is bright red; something has happened."
She swept back her skirt, and sure enough, the little tabby yowled up at her at the sudden light. "You naughty kitten!" Lothíriel chided, bending over to pick it up. "Did you walk all the way here from my father's house? In the dark?"
"The cat!" There was a stunned silence as she determinedly did not meet Éomer's eyes, and then he burst into laughter. The kitten meowed again, burying into her hands. Lothíriel scowled up at Éomer.
"You are frightening the poor thing," she said severely. "I must take him back at once. This is a terrible place for such a helpless kitten! He could be trod upon by anyone!"
"If you insist," Éomer said, good-natured. "May I escort you?"
"No! I can go alone." Lothíriel spoke too quickly; his brows rose in skepticism. She swallowed, and said, "Amrothos will be wondering where we are. Let us not torture the man by deserting him entirely."
Éomer was near enough that he scratched the top of the kitten's head. It yawned, clearly no longer afeared. "It likes you," he said softly, smiling. Lothíriel barely managed one in return.
"Thank you for your help. I—I will go now."