Archive of Our Own ^beta

The spring brought forth wonderful blossoms that year; the gardens and fields where farmers grew their crops were finally flourishing after many years of hardship and war. The mood among all who lived in Imrahil's house was hopeful and carefree, almost celebratory. Soon enough they would have even more to celebrate, though Lothíriel was unaware of this as she walked, arm in arm with her lady's maid, to her father's study.

Once admitted, the maid took a place by the wall and Lothíriel stepped forward to the large oaken desk. Imrahil glanced up at her, and nodded before returning his attention to one of the several papers on his desk. "Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn, hîr vuin a Ada," she said, sinking to her knees in a deep curtsey and lowering her head. Father was distracted by his correspondence today, she noticed, for it was several moments before he responded.

"Rise, daughter."

Lothíriel did as she was bid, though she kept her eyes downward.

"I have secured for you a match with the King of Rohan," Imrahil said, his voice echoing in the tall chamber. Lothíriel's eyes snapped upward before she caught herself. Fortunately her father did not see, his attention still focused on his papers. "We will travel to Rohan in ten days' time. I need not hope you will do the lineage of Dol Amroth proud, for I know you will behave properly." His tone betrayed far more emotion than Lothíriel was accustomed to, and in her mind she imagined his kindly face smiling. "I understand that this is going to be an adjustment for you. If you have any questions, you may ask."

Oh, how many questions she wished to ask! But her father had shown much confidence in her when he said that he was not concerned with how she would conduct herself. So she bit her tongue, and said, "I have no questions, Father, for I trust you completely." This was true, of course, but she was curious. Perhaps her brothers would be more forthcoming with details, for they surely had known of this.

"My wise daughter," Imrahil said, standing before walking around the desk, placing his cool hands on her shoulders in a show of affection before kissing her forehead. "I know you will be happy."

...

There seemed to be enough clothing for a half-dozen princesses, not just one. Lothíriel could only stand helplessly for fitting after fitting as her wardrobe was prepared at break-neck speed for her forthcoming journey. Day dresses, evening dresses, cloaks, underthings, nightclothes, stockings, shoes, perfumes, soaps and ribbons: would her stay in Rohan be long enough to use everything?

Imrahil was to escort her and her several trunks of clothing to Minas Tirith, where he would stay and Erchirion would take his place as Lothíriel's escort. Once they arrived in Edoras, Erchirion would continue north, leaving Lothíriel behind with her maid to act as chaperone.

It was an odd arrangement, she thought. She had never been outside of Gondor, yet her father considered her ready to spend the summer in a foreign nation, living in the house of its king and her betrothed and without any of her own family to support her. She decided it was a sign of trust, but the thought of such an unfamiliar situation made her apprehensive. And though no one thought to explain it to her, Lothíriel had surmised that she would be alone because her father and all three of her brothers were needed elsewhere. She simply was not a priority, when another man would be responsible for her welfare. But why would they think to do such a thing, before she was even married?

It was not her place to question it, though she did.

...

Weeks later, Lothíriel was granted her first sight of Meduseld in the dark of night, her dress torn and her maid crippled. Erchirion had ridden ahead of the main group after the accident, and so there were lights showing from the windows of the great hall. One of the guards carried her maid up the steps, and Lothíriel was left to trail behind, which she did with no small amount of apprehension. Would this be her first sight of her future husband, with their caravan in such a state, having arrived three days late and she herself not having bathed in a nearly a month?

If the travelling coach hadn't tipped over a hidden rock. If the maid had not been caught under it. If several days of rain had not delayed them at the Snowbourne. If it had been safe enough for Lothíriel to wash herself after weeks of travel. If her father had not arranged such a ridiculous journey for her.

She blinked in the brightly lit hall. There were a few people milling, mostly servants and a few of what looked like healers. She barely had a half-second to see a wooden throne and several brightly colored and equine-themed tapestries before her attention was claimed by a woman with silver hair.

"I'm to direct ye to yer bedchamber," she said, her Westron sound but heavily accented. "My name is Hamwyn—I am the housekeeper here. Yer brother gave me instructions before he left with the king to help stable the horses."

Lothíriel nodded, the thought of a bed bringing her exhaustion to the forefront of her mind. The woman continued to eye her, but not with suspicion. Interest certainly. And something else…something unlike the calculating looks she was accustomed to.

"Would ye care for a bath before ye retire?" Hamwyn asked. "And perhaps a warm meal?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, and after seeing her maid carried to the infirmary to be taken care of, Lothíriel followed Hamwyn to where she would be staying.

What she had been expecting, was not this. From listening to the gossip that filtered through the court at Dol Amroth, Lothíriel had fallen trap to the belief that the people of Rohan were far less sophisticated than their Southern cousins. But the oaked bed was draped in rich velvets, and embroidered tapestries lined the walls. A knotted rug covered nearly the entire floor, so it was quite an elegant if quaint, space.

However, she soon found her eyelids drooping, and it was in a half-trance that she felt Hamwyn helping her into a nightgown and brushing her hair. Tea was offered, and subsequently refused, and it was not a moment too soon before Lothíriel felt her head sink into the pillow, and Hamwyn leave the room after extinguishing the candles. Sleep came quickly, though not before a deep set anxiety of what would happen the following day surfaced and invaded her dreams.

...

A knock on the door startled Lothíriel awake, and blinking away her sleep, she croaked, "Enter!"

It was Hamwyn, which surprised Lothíriel. Servants in Dol Amroth did not announce their presence; it was considered a mark of their skill if they performed their duties without being noticed. But this woman was now stoking the fire, clucking to herself.

"I am very sorry, madam, but yer presence has been called for by yer brother. How he can be so heartless as to insist ye rise before the sun to see him off—and ye having only arrived at midnight. I told him as much, but what a scowl that boy has! He would not hear my point."

Lothíriel was yawning now, only half-registering Hamwyn's words. Of course Erchirion wanted to see her before he left—likely he would imparting a last morsel of wisdom, courtesy of their father. As much as she wanted to stay in bed, a direct order from her brother could not be ignored. She sighed and roused herself, the sight of a dim sky through the curtains making her weariness seem all the heavier. Why must he depart before dawn!

Hamwyn helped Lothíriel to dress in a warm frock (though late spring, the mornings were still cold) before brushing her hair back casually. She grew alarmed as she saw Hamwyn prepare to leave—surely this sort of hairstyle was not allowed here? Such wantonness! But Lothíriel had no choice except to follow the housekeeper, who bore a candle, to wherever Erchirion was. Lothíriel walked behind her, trying to tie her hair back somehow but mostly managing to rumple it further. At least her father was not here—she would be disgraced to appear in such a state.

The great hall of Meduseld was nearly empty; signs of a hurried breakfast still littered the tables (which Lothíriel found to be distasteful—why had the servants not cleaned yet?), and two men stood by the central hearth. Erchirion was one, dressed in travelling clothes; he was conversing with a taller and much broader man, at whom Lothíriel felt herself balk.

"Ah, the king is here as well," Hamwyn said, stopping and nudging Lothíriel forward. She had somehow lost all feeling in her legs, and keeping her eyes lowered she approached the men.

"Sister," she heard Erchirion say. She curtseyed to him, dreading the moment of introduction, which was not long in coming. "I wanted to see that you were properly introduced to Éomer before I departed. Show your respect."

It was only years of such situations that prevented Lothíriel from utter humiliation as she sunk down to the ground, keeping her head bowed. Etiquette dictated that the man address her first, and she waited. But only silence met her, before—

"What in Béma's name is this?"

Lothíriel watched the chaos unfold with hooded eyes. She knew it was in her honor, but instead of feeling welcome, she felt out of place and uncomfortable. Accustomed as she was to the staid, formal events of Dol Amroth and even Minas Tirith, the loud joking, the individuals meandering around the hall, and the mingling of men and woman made her blush with confusion. She was behaving as she ought despite sitting at a high table next to king himself, whose presence alone discomfited her. Why it was even considered appropriate for them to sit together—escaped her.

Perhaps she could have handled the raucous noise of the feast if her day had not been so long and so disorienting. Firstly, there had been the king's incredulous response to her and his subsequent argument with Erchiciron. Well, it had not been an argument so much as a scolding. Lothíriel had only heard snatches of it (as they spoke in whispers), but it was clear that she was not what the king expected. And he had not seemed pleased, either.

It had been a disheartening start to the day. After she had been dismissed by Erchirion, Hamwyn had taken her to the kitchens for breakfast. The open curiosity of the staff had embarrassed Lothíriel, and she had found it difficult to choke down her scone and tea. Barely satisfied, she had then been rushed away by a maid on a tour of Meduseld.

Lothíriel was sure she would never find her way around the huge house. While the palace in Dol Amroth had been built in a series of circles, Meduseld had clearly been built on and renovated several times; wings extended in the oddest of places and she was sure that the outside dog kennels should not have been built a mere stone's throw from the kitchens. It was all very haphazard, and after finding herself dizzy from hunger (and luncheon still a long ways off) and the confusing tour, Lothíriel asked the maid to show her to the sick room, where her maid from Dol Amroth was resting.

Normally she would not have ventured to visit a servant, and clearly the maid was as uncomfortable as herself. It was the only way Lothíriel could think of to pull herself together, and it was there that Hamwyn finally found her. Luncheon had been a private affair in her rooms, Hamwyn rightly guessing of Lothíriel's exhaustion. She had been too tired to eat, and after being left alone, Lothíriel had fallen immediately into bed. It seemed only a half-minute later that Hamwyn returned, cheerfully chirping that it was time for her to dress: the welcome feast was soon to begin.

Though with only the memory of a half-eaten breakfast to sustain her, Lothíriel found it awkward to eat in front of a man she was not related to. Nor did the bowl of brown goop seem at all appetizing to her uneasy stomach. And so she watched the guests—not that their vivacity comforted her in any way.

This would, undoubtedly, be the worse summer of her life. And it was a mere prelude, for would she not live in such a wild place for the remainder of her years? At this thought, she felt her throat closing and a stinging in her eyes. Bowing her head, Lothíriel brought her napkin to her cheeks to mop any traitorous tears.

"If you dislike venison so much, you certainly are not obliged to choke it down."

This warm, quiet voice was so much unlike the harsh expletive she had first heard from its owner that Lothíriel momentarily feared that a stranger was speaking to her. She turned her head slightly to the king, who had leaned close to her. Thankfully disallowed to speak as he had not asked her a direct question, she kept her eyes fastened on her clenched hands in her lap. Had he seen her tears? His remark caused her to think he had—and she was forced to suppress a flush.

At her silence, the king spoke again. "Perhaps you would care to leave the feast early? You seem tired from your travels."

"Thank you, sire, I would."

"May I escort you to you chambers?"

"No, thank you, my lord." Such indecorous behavior would condemn a princess such as I, was what she did not say. I would rather poke forks in my eyeballs than endure your unsettling presence any longer, was another thought which she did not speak.

The king was quiet for a moment. "Would you like me to send for Hamwyn to escort you?"

"Yes, I thank you, sire."

Lothíriel sat, perfectly demure, as the king summoned a servant to fetch Hamwyn. Her position did not reflect her rapid thoughts: Why was the king treating her so...thoughtfully? So attentively? In Dol Amroth, the women were expected to stay at functions as long as they were required to, no matter their state of health or exhaustion. Perhaps she should have told the king she would stay. After all, that is what her father would expect. But her weariness, coupled with a dizzy head from too little nourishment, was making her feel quite ill. She did not wish to embarrass her betrothed.

Still, as her head sunk into her pillow a half-hour later, she allowed herself a small amount of selfishness and decided that she was very glad she left the feast early.

…

The following morning, however, brought a new challenge. Hamwyn informed her, after bringing a breakfast tray, that Lothíriel was free to do as she pleased that day. Lothíriel was too distracted by the sight of fresh bread and tea to pay very much attention, but after Hamwyn departed and she was left alone, the problem reasserted itself.

She was free? To do as she pleased?

Lothíriel could not recall such a thing ever happening to her before. Even as a child, her study and play times had been strictly adhered to by a succession of governesses after her mother had died. Any unoccupied time she'd had then had usually been filled by embroidering cushion covers, and so without anything else to do, Lothíriel made herself busy.

The maid who had shown her around Meduseld the previous day had informed Lothíriel that the queen's solar was at her disposal. Lothíriel decided that that meant that she would be undisturbed there; she gathered up her sewing kit and made her way to the solar. It was a very fortunate thing that it was only two rooms down from her own! If it had been any further away, she might have stayed in her own room for fear of becoming lost.

The large chamber seemed to loom around her; for the first time Lothíriel realized that she was completely alone. Her chaperone ought to have been there with her. As a matter of duty, she should inquire as to how to hire another.

That day passed far more pleasantly. Even when her eyes and fingers grew tired of the brainless work, Lothíriel stood by a large window and enjoyed the sight of the tall mountains that watched over Edoras. These mountains were far taller than any she had seen, even Mount Mindolluin, out of which Minas Tirith was built. It was all rather spectacular, and did much to lessen her anxiety.

Supper that night was not a feast, though the atmosphere was still as relaxed as ever. Restored from her day of solitude, Lothíriel found herself feeling less uncomfortable as she was placed once more by the king for the meal. He again tried to lure her into conversation, but she was prepared, and rebuffed him completely. Her father would be proud! Though, she did sneak a glance at the king as he turned away from her and saw to her surprise—disappointment. Was he unhappy? How could something that pleased her father—indeed, a behavior that he insisted upon, be of such consternation to his sworn-son and her betrothed? Lothíriel wiped her face of emotion, lest her brows furrow and betray her troubled thoughts.

"May I escort you to your chamber?"

The servants were clearing the tables, and most of the guests were rising to leave. Lothíriel had not expected the king to address her again, and she blinked. "No, thank you, sire," she said.

"Very well. Until tomorrow, princess." He rose as well, and just as Lothíriel was considering whether to leave alone or to find Hamwyn somehow, a man walked to the head table, bowing briefly to the king before addressing him in Rohirric. Lothíriel felt her skin prickling; she knew she was being discussed.

"Ceorl wishes to express his thanks to you," the king said to her. "Would you care to accept?"

"I do not understand," Lothíriel murmured, keeping her gaze lowered. "I have done nothing to earn his gratitude. It is not necessary."

Another exchange of conversation between the men. Now more footsteps were coming near, and Lothíriel wondered why the king allowed others to approach him without ceremony.

"He says—" the king paused. "He says that you attended him in the Healing Houses in Minas Tirith after the battle on Pelennor. He recognizes the mark on your, ah, neck."

Lothíriel resisted the urge to cover her neck, swallowing several times to clear her throat. "I must plead ignorance. He is mistaken, sire," she said in a cool voice. Dizziness was creeping in on her vision, and she was sure her face was burning bright red. There was no response to her comment, and the king spoke once more and the crowd dispersed. Lothíriel clasped her hands together to hide the trembling.

"I am sure that you have not been planted in your seat, princess. There is no need to stay in the hall." The king's tone was dry, and Lothíriel wondered if he had made a joke. She did not dare ask. She stood and swept a very elegant curtsey before taking her leave on trembling legs.

She went straight to her chamber, and wasted no time bolting the door behind her. Her heart was still thudding, and she leaned her forehead against the door, breathing deeply.

A sudden knock made Lothíriel jerk her head away.

"Lothíriel? Are you alright?"

It was the king! Had he followed her? She gulped, unable to answer, her hands still clamped on the bolt.

"I am sorry for your distress," he continued through the door. "I did not realize that Ceorl's inquiry would upset you. May I fetch anything for you—tea? A book? Hamwyn?"

Lothíriel stepped back in surprise, staring at where he would be standing. The king was asking if he could fetch her anything—just as a servant would? This whole place was backwards!

"Lothíriel?" The voice came again, this time softer. Tears were threatening to spill from her eyes, and she wiped them with her silk sleeve. An urge to confide—to open the door, to speak to the king as she would a friend, nearly overpowered her. But her father's face filled her mind, and she stiffened.

"I am well, thank you," she said. To her ears, her voice was not at all convincing, but a moment later she heard his footsteps walking away.

Now alone, Lothíriel allowed her shoulders to sag, and let out a deep, exhausted breath. Too close.

The screams had numbed her ears long ago—all that was left now was a ringing and a pressure that made her seem small and large at once. There was no need for hearing the healers, for an unspoken communication had already been established. Sharpen the knife. Fetch poppy. Find another bed. Bring water.

If only her eyes had been so deadened! The more she stared at the blood—the open bodies, the lost limbs, the stained linens—the more vividly the horrible red shone. It shone on the stones where she stepped, it shone on her dress, her hands, her hair . . .

One man grabbed her arm, hoarsely shouting at her with crazed fear in his eyes. She did not hear or understand his words, and at his strong grip she could only stare at his face where a gaping wound gushed blood and fluids. A healer pushed him back onto a cot, forcing poppy syrup between his lips and turning back to Lothíriel to say something. What was she saying?

More bodies were carried out to be buried than stayed to be treated. When there was no room in the crypt, the dead were piled unceremoniously in the corridor and left to stink. Why were there so many? Should not the invasion have reached the healing houses yet? How much longer would she have to wait to join the dead?

Another wagon of wounded straggled through the entrance, and Lothíriel helped another healer to lift the men. Too many emblems from Dol Amroth, too many dead . . .

Somehow a horrible, ugly and very much alive orc had been at the bottom of the cart, and when it was unearthed, it rose with a terrible screech and a sword in one hand. Lothíriel screamed, covering her face, waiting for it to descend upon her neck . . .

A gasp caught in her throat, and with a sensation of strangulation Lothíriel woke. Her skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, the covers twisted around her legs. Had she cried out?

There was a shaft of sunlight entering through the hangings on the bed, and she focused on it with all her might. There was sun. There were no screams. No blood. She was safe from danger, if not from nightmares.

She pulled the velvet drapes open, blinking in the bright light. Deep breath. Lothíriel swung her legs over the side of the bed, hating the dizziness that kept her trapped within her dream. If she closed her eyes, she would see the orc again, intent on killing her with a black blade. The ringing in her ears sharpened.

Think happy. Think happy. Her gaze darted around the room, bringing her to reality. Her dressing gown, a gift from her father before leaving for Rohan, and such a pretty burgundy was draped across a straight-backed chair. The empty fireplace. It would be a warm day, if a maid had not been in to relit it. An antiquated hanging on the wall, showing a black wyrm with fierce eyes. Lothíriel shuddered—not the hanging then. Washstand. Washstand! Perhaps a quick wash would pull her into the present.

With trembling fingers, Lothíriel unlaced her creamy nightgown and let it flutter to the ground in a heap. She snatched a clean cloth from the stand and dipped it into the pitcher, goose pimples racing across her skin at contact from the cold water. She scrubbed her face, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her arms, her belly, her legs; redipping the cloth several times as her hot flesh warmed the cooling water all too soon. Rubbing with all her might, her skin began to sting as red blossomed. Bile rose in her throat, her mind's eye filled once again with blood.

Oh no, not the red, not the red . . .

A knock made her drop the rag, and she started violently. But it was only Hamwyn's cheery face that came through the door, not a deranged orc.

"Tut tut, child," Hamwyn said, looking her up and down before setting down a breakfast tray. Her voice was distant, but Lothíriel could make out the words above the ringing in her ears. "What have ye done to yerself?"

Lothíriel could not answer, her throat still tight and her nightmare so near. She clenched her hands together to try to stop them from shaking.

"Now, I've seen such a look before. I'll call a bath for ye. A warm bath!"

It was not until Lothíriel was submerged in the almost-too-hot water that her knees stilled. Then, her legs. Her breathing began to slow, though her fingers still gripped the rim of the tub. She nearly jumped when Hamwyn touched her, rubbing a scented cloth across her shoulders and neck. With a pang, she realized that Hamwyn was singing in a soft voice. Lothíriel's eyes drooped, and blessed black descended in her mind, with only the Rohirric song to fill her hearing. Her skin was surrounded by warmth. Still one thing remained uncomfortable—her mouth tasted of blood. She spat into the bath water, a swirl of pink dissipating into the soapsuds. She must have bitten her tongue.

Eventually the rest of her body relaxed, and Hamwyn gently guided her head to rest on the tub on top of a thick cloth.

"Sage," Hamwyn said quietly, and Lothíriel peeked open an eye to see the older woman uncork a small bottle. She dabbed a small amount on her finger, and saying something in Rohirric, anointed Lothíriel's damp forehead before smiling. "I doubt ye'll be the last to need such a thing."

"What is it?" Lothíriel asked in a small, hoarse voice. Her throat felt raw.

"A protection," Hamwyn said. "Against nightmares."

Lothíriel did not ask how Hamwyn knew of the nightmare. She did not want to know. She wanted to melt into the water and never resurface, never to face such terror again.

But alas, such a luxury would not be allowed. Hamwyn helped her to climb out of the bathtub, and toweled down her skin for her before applying a soft cream that smelled of camomile. Lothíriel almost asked if the cream was medicinal as well, but then decided that she did not need to know. A soft, golden-colored dress went over her underthings, and with practiced hands Hamwyn knotted Lothíriel's hair into a complicated series of braids which she thought attractive, once she caught sight of herself in her hand mirror.

"Now," Hamwyn said, gently pinching Lothíriel's cheeks. "I will fetch ye a fresh breakfast tray. Would you like to eat in yer room, or perhaps in the gardens? They are mighty fine this year, and it is a lovely morning."

Lothíriel thought for a moment, such a choice giving her pause. "I—I would like to eat in the gardens," she said, feeling shy. "Unless, of course, I would be a nuisance—"

"Nonsense!" Hamwyn said, gathering up the wet towels and discarded nightdress. "Ye are a guest, ye may do as ye like! If ye still feel nervous, I'll tell ye that Éomer King eats there himself, sometimes. When he needs to be alone."

"As long as he is not there now, I would not want to interrupt—"

"I doubt he will be, princess. Normally the king spends his mornings with the council. Go on with ye, I will bring your breakfast to ye presently."

Lothíriel knew the way to the gardens, but that did not keep her from feeling nervous, roaming the halls of Meduseld by herself. It felt odd not to have a brother or a maid on her arm. The few guards and servants that she passed bowed respectfully, and despite of her solitude she felt completely safe.

The tall rose vines that crept up the back of Meduseld had offered up the first of their summer's blooms in brilliant pinks and red. Lothíriel stopped by an especially large flower, which she measured with her hand. Her fingertips did not quite reach the edges, and smiling, she leaned forward to smell its heady scent.

"Princess Lothíriel!"

It was not Hamwyn's voice that filled her ears, but her betrothed. She turned quickly, lowering her eyes and hiding her hands behind her back. Indeed, she recognized his dusty boots. She thought she heard a small sigh, and the boots came closer.

"Do you like roses, princess?"

Now she had to speak to him. "Yes, sire."

"My aunt Elfhild had an affinity for them. She planted many in her day, and they grow like weeds. I am glad you like them, for it would be far too much work to remove such beastly plants!"

Keeping her head ducked, Lothíriel smiled to herself. Then she saw his hand extended to her, and she hesitated. Was her lingering vulnerability the culprit for her even considering staying in his company? They would be married soon anyway, surely no great disaster would come from touching her intended? Her father would not discover such an innocent act.

She laid her hand in his warm one, and his fingers closed around hers. "Lothíriel," he said softly, and he lifted her chin. "I am no monster. You may look at me, you know."

His eyes were a very nice shade of golden brown in the morning light, and a wry smile twisted his lips. It was a kind face, as well as a handsome one. She bit her lip, not knowing what to think.

He continued, "It frightens me, Lothíriel, that my future wife will not look me in the face! I wonder if I am so ugly, or if I have done something to offend her."

"You have not offended me!" she said, the words bursting from her before she could stop them. She flushed red, and lowered her head.

"Now, none of that!" The king's tone turned stern, and he lifted her chin once more. "Not when we've made such progress!"

The temptation to laugh made Lothíriel falter. He was looking expectantly at her, but she was spared by the arrival of Hamwyn. "Good morning, sire," the woman said, setting the tray down on a stone bench and jolting both the king and the princess. "I brought extra victuals, as ye asked."

"Thank you, Hamwyn!" The king gave her a grandiose bow and a smile, which confused Lothíriel and made Hamwyn turn a bit pink.

"Och, now, no need to be so cheeky," the older woman said, smiling. "Send a guard for me when yer done, and I'll fetch the tray."

"It shall be done, madam."

Hamwyn took her leave, winking at Lothíriel before disappearing behind a gigantic rhododendron. Still holding her hand, the king led her to the bench. "Now," he said. "There is not enough room for both of us to sit."

"I will stand!" Lothíriel said quickly.

"Nonsense! I would not inconvenience a lady in a such a way. Come, you may sit on my lap." The king sat, and tugged her gently towards him.

"Oh! Oh no!" A sense of panic, a sense of treading in unknown waters filled Lothíriel. "Please, my lord, it would be most inappropriate—"

"Inappropriate? For a betrothed couple to exhibit intimacy?" A frown now warped his features, and he muttered, "If that is the case in Gondor, then I cannot know how it has existed for so many generations."

She took advantage of his distraction to pull her fingers from his grasp. "Truly, my lord," she said, risking boldness to make her point. "I would prefer to continue my tour of the garden, while I eat." This was not strictly true, for such a thing would be considered crass in Dol Amroth, but she had learned that she did not like to make her betrothed unhappy.

"Lothíriel," the king said, his expression keeping her from attempting to leave. "This is not Dol Amroth, or even Gondor. You are not being watched, nor does anyone expect you to act a certain way. This is my home, and it will soon be your home—please do as you wish and fie on anyone who says differently! You will be queen here, I hope you know, and not a mere ornament."

Once again, she did not know what to say. His words made her feel uncomfortable and hopeful and hesitant and strong, all at once. And especially fearful, as if she were standing on a cliff, beckoned by the glassy, warm sea below. He continued to stare at her, and she realized he wanted her to say something. "Th—thank you, my lord," she stammered. This was evidently not the response he wanted, but he seemed to shrug it off.

"Would you care for some bread, princess?" he asked, looking away. A barrier had risen between them. It should have relieved her, for this distance was more of what she had witnessed in her parents' marriage, and of those in Dol Amroth. But it just made her melancholy. She accepted a slice of fresh bread from him, though her appetite was quite gone. The king stood. "If you care to walk, Lothíriel, I will walk with you. If that is not breaking any rules, of course."

He was unhappy with her, that much was obvious. As was his distaste for rules. A conundrum gave Lothíriel pause—who does she honor? Her father or her husband? This would take far more time to think out than she had at the moment, and impulsively, she lifted her eyes to his. "Yes, my lord," her voice sounded very small. "I would like you to walk with me."

This moment of revolt seemed to pass unnoticed by the king, who stood with a smile and offered her his arm. She took it, puzzling that touching his arm felt so different than touching her brothers. She wondered if he had noticed her forthrightness for what it was—a rebellion, against all that she had been taught in her life. She doubted it, in a country where the king bows to servants and women give orders to men.

"Lothíriel, I must ask you something," the king said as they wandered down the stone path. He paused, looking intently forward before speaking. "When I met Hamwyn this morning, she mentioned that you did not pass a restful night."

Her grip on his arm tightened, and she felt blood rush to her face.

"I wish to know if you are well, Lothíriel."

"I am well, my lord," she said, the lie coming easily.

"Are you truly? Because if you are homesick, I will not prevent you from returning to Minas Tirith early. Or if you do not like the food, or anything else, please tell me."

"I have no complaints, my lord."

The king paused. "Is it me you do not care for?"

"Oh! No, it is not."

"Then—would you share with me your distress?"

Such a thing had never been asked of her before, and Lothíriel's stomach knotted. Why was he inquiring so diligently of her? He had no need to! She opened her mouth to say so, but he spoke again.

"Perhaps things are different where you are from. In fact, I know things are different! But here in the Mark, husband and wives share everything, including their thoughts, opinions and feelings. I think it would be helpful if we practiced before the wedding!" He chuckled, and Lothíriel wondered if he was joking. Perhaps not about the marriage customs; she could certainly believe something so strange of the Rohirrim. She did not answer, and he added, "But I will not press you. Think on it, is all I ask."

"Yes, sire."

…

Late that night, as Hamwyn was preparing to leave Lothíriel to her sleep, the latter being primed and settled into bed, Lothíriel made a bold move.

"Hamwyn—" she began.

"Hmm?" the old woman was gathering the used clothing.

"I was thinking—I must have a chaperone during my stay here. My father will be most displeased to discover that I have been without constant attention, as my previous maid is still in her sickbed."

Hamwyn gave Lothíriel an inscrutable look. "I see."

"I do not know how to go about finding one," Lothíriel admitted, spreading her hands across the soft blankets. "Might you help me?"

"If it be yer desire, madam."

It was not her desire. Lothíriel had never cared for the continuous company of a maid, even a silent one. She had, in fact, rarely enjoyed any person's company at all. Except perhaps Hamwyn's—and the king's. Neither expected her to act in any special manner, only as herself. The trouble was, the longer she was in Rohan, the less Lothíriel felt that she knew herself at all.

"It is my father's desire," she said, her voice low. "And so it is mine."

The hall was growing hot. The warm meal, following by a crush of people dancing, had risen the temperature by several degrees, and Lothíriel could feel her frock sticking to her skin most unpleasantly. Were she in Dol Amroth, she would ask her father for permission to seek a breeze outside of the hall. But she was not in Dol Amroth. And the king, whom she ought to ask, was deep in conversation with a large, bearded man several paces away. She did not want to risk breaking social etiquette by interrupting their exchange, nor could she continue breathing the humid air any longer. She swept her eyes across the crowd, searching for Hamwyn. Surely Hamwyn would oblige Lothíriel and escort her outside. But she was nowhere to be seen.

The front doors of Meduseld were opened, but the cool air that entered did not make it very far into the hall. Lothíriel stood by the doors for a little bit, trying to air out her dress with tact. She even took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her neck, which was considered grossly rude in Gondor. But what a relief it brought!

Feeling bold as she began to grow more comfortable, Lothíriel put one foot out the door. Then the other. Then she faced her body to the breeze, closing her eyes as it caressed her flushed skin further.

"Rain's coming."

She was probably not meant to hear the guard's low comment, but she opened her eyes and saw, to her astonishment, a dark ridge of clouds gathering several miles away. It was an amazing sight; stars disappeared behind the storm front as it continued to creep closer. So absorbed was she in the beauty of nature that she did not quite realize that she came to be sitting on the top step, resting her elbows on her knees and leaning forward, trying to take in as much of the sight as possible. Lothíriel did think, for a half moment, that she would be scolded dearly by her father for not having a chaperone, and then scolded by the housekeeper for dirtying her dress. She decided that if the laundry in Meduseld begrudged her staining her gown, she would simply throw it out. No one would notice, one dress out of a hundred gone missing.

The air was growing crisper, and she breathed deeply the fresh scent of impending rain. It smelled similarly to the storm air at Dol Amroth, but far less salty. As long as it was only rain, she would be content to sit here all night.

A heavy body sat next to her, and she started, pulling herself into a more proper position and trying to smooth her hair.

"I see you escaped the dancing." It was the king. Of course it was the king! Only he would have the luck to come across her in such a vulnerable moment.

"I apologize, my lord, I only wished for some air. I will return at once."

He caught her arm as she tried to stand, and she risked a glance at him. His eyes were pleading. "Do not go," he said. "I did not mean to make you feel that you have done wrong. Your actions are perfectly understandable."

A direct order she could not disobey, and she sat, adopting a more dignified posture. Though she did return her gaze to the sky in front of them instead of lowering it as she ought. She was not ready to be guilted into not enjoying the view, and she knew the king would not do such a thing anyway.

In the silence, a guard clamored down the steps, causing the king to move closer to her to let him pass. Lothíriel stiffened, and he did not move away.

"The storm will likely go around us," he said in a low voice. "Weather here often splits around Edoras. Half the storms we see, we do not get!"

Lothíriel found that interesting, and she wanted to ask why that was, but she did not quite have the courage. Women might be free to ask questions in Rohan, but she was a Gondorian through and through. Her thoughts and feelings were hers alone, a guarded secret. She recalled what the king had told her in the garden: that husbands and wives in Rohan share everything, including their thoughts. That idea was so strange to her, and she wondered how it affected a marriage. Imrahil would probably say it weakened marriages, if wives were allowed to criticize. What would the king's defense be, she wondered.

At once a clap of thunder sounded, and Lothíriel felt the stones beneath her shudder. She nearly toppled over in fright, but was caught by her betrothed's firm grip. "Steady on!" he said. "Perhaps we will get the storm after all."

Limbs shaking, Lothíriel tried to pull herself free from his grasp. She had to get inside! She should have anticipated thunder; it was a summer storm, after all. "I must leave—" she began.

"Leave? Certainly not! After all I have done to speak to you privately? You cannot continue to flee from me, princess."

She did not understand all of what he meant, but she knew she was being commanded to stay. Terrible luck, for the clouds were coming even closer. Lightning rent the sky, and she closed her eyes tightly, tensing as she anticipated the thunder.

Even as it echoed through the sky, she felt herself drawn—into the king's arms? He was holding her tightly in a very warm embrace. Why on earth—?

"I apologize, Lothíriel," he said into her hair. "I did not realize you were frightened, please go if you need to."

More thunder shook the city, but this time Lothíriel did not shudder, and she felt her trembling beginning to slow. "N—no," she managed to say. "It is doing me good." Though the deep booms continued, she forced herself to listen to them fully. Eventually she opened her eyes, and watched forks of lightning draw closer. It was beautiful! There was nothing frightening about this. What had she been scared of, all these years?

"If you count the seconds between the lightning flash and the thunder, the storm is that many miles away," the king said, his chin resting on her head. "My father taught me the trick, years ago. It is something to think of, besides whether or not you will be struck by the lightning."

The idea that this man worried as a child that he could possibly be struck by lightning was laughable, and Lothíriel struggled to suppress a giggle.

"By all means, laugh at me!" he said catching on. "I am sure I am not the only child who was ever frightened of something."

"The thunder scares me," Lothíriel said after a moment's hesitation. "When I was young, I feared that the palace would be shaken from its foundations and cast into the sea. Whoever decided that Dol Amroth should be build on a cliffside should have thought it through!"

Her betrothed chuckled, and as the last of her distress over the storm dissipated, Lothíriel became newly aware of his arms around her. Suddenly his chest seemed very broad and very firm against her shoulder, and his beating heart very loud. She shuddered, though this time it was not for fear of the storm. His grip on her tightened, and her breath caught in her throat.

Before Lothíriel could extract herself from this perilous situation, she felt a large raindrop on her head, and she looked skyward just as the clouds opened, and rain poured on them. She gasped, too surprised to be bothered as the king hauled her to her feet, covering her as well as possible with his arms. He swept her inside, just as a crowd of dancers from the hall began to mill around the doors to watch the deluge.

No one even spared them a second glance, Lothíriel noticed. Rohan's lords, ladies and courtiers seemed unbothered by their king and future queen sneaking off alone. The cold wind was now whipping the hall, and her dress damp, Lothíriel shivered. The king took another look at her, and did not stop their trek until they reached the small fireplace at the end of the hall.

He left her there, and Lothíriel rubbed her arms. How could such a freezing rain have come to Edoras in the middle of summer? The king reappeared, rubbing his face and beard with a cloth and several more in hand. Lothíriel accepted one, dabbing at her face before drying her trembling hands.

"You missed some." He pulled the cloth from her hands and lifted it to her face, studying her carefully (to her immense embarrassment) before wiping the remainder of the drops from her nose and cheeks. He was not bothered by the cold, she noticed, for his hand holding her chin in place was as warm as ever. Lothíriel felt a lump form in her throat, trying to look away from his earnest features but finding herself unable, or unwilling to. He held her gaze, a smile tugging at his lips as his thumb brushed across her lips. Her heart thudded most uncomfortably.

Shrieks pierced the air; several more wet bodies were tramping into the great hall, setting hounds barking and sloshing mud around. Lothíriel pulled away, determined to look anywhere but at her betrothed, who sighed before his hand dropped.

"You should change out of your clothes before you run the risk of falling ill," her betrothed said, his tone far too loud and his brow too stern for the moment that had just passed between them.

Lothíriel swept an awkward curtsy before running from the hall.

…

She was embroidering her best attempt at a rearing horse the following day when Hamwyn entered the queen's solar. It was a welcome distraction: horses were beyond her; flowers and the occasional landscape where the only approved artistic expressions in Dol Amroth. But this morning Lothíriel was feeling rebellious.

"I came to ask ye," Hamwyn said, setting down a tea tray. "Do ye still wish for a chaperone? I am going to the market today and can make inquires."

Lothíriel had forgotten her request. In fact, she had not even realized it was time for tea. Where had the day gone? Into the disgraceful horse on her handkerchief, of course. "Ah, yes, I do think you ought to make inquires," she hedged.

Hamwyn paused. "Do ye want me to?"

"No," Lothíriel admitted, all honesty.

"I did not think so."

"But you must!"

"I am not your father's goon," Hamwyn said, her tone dry. "I am not under contract to follow his orders. I am asking ye if ye want a chaperone."

"No," Lothíriel said again, now feeling miserable. Her head drooped in a most unladylike manner.

"Confirm to me when you decide," Hamwyn said, heading towards the door. "I shall help ye either way."

Lothíriel nibbled on the end of her quill—a habit which many governesses had tried to eliminate—and with a stroke of inspiration, began to write.

Dear Father,

We arrived safely in Edoras on the seventh day of May. Our late arrival was due to storms and an accident, but no lasting damage was done. Erchirion left the following morning.

I am adjusting well to life in Rohan. I hope to do you and our family credit.

Your obedient daughter,

Lothíriel

It did not seem quite right to her, but she knew it was all her father wished to know. He had only asked for confirmation of their arrival from her, rather than Erchirion, because her brother would be travelling further. Otherwise she would not have been given such a task.

She thought for a moment. Her father likely did not need to know if she was adjusting. He would not be worried about her at all. After all—when had she given him cause to?

When she had spoken to her betrothed, alone. When she had touched him. When she had spoken to him, unattended by a chaperone, and allowed him to embrace her. When she had disobeyed her uncle's direct order to evacuate Minas Tirith as armies lined up in front of its gates. When she had instead gone to the Healing Houses, getting her hands dirty and acting not as a princess, but a common maid. Lothíriel shuddered, looking up and out the solar window to the gardens below. The flowers still bloomed brightly, and were it not for fear of meeting the king again, she would reward her impeccable behavior the past days with a solitary walk. Though it was a foggy morning, the air would no doubt be restorative.

When she had returned to her chamber after the storm was quite over, shame had overwhelmed her. She knew that if her father knew of how she had spoken, how she had acted—he would likely end the betrothal and disallow her from a future alliance. It had been a simple thing to avoid the king after that: she began requesting meals in her room and rarely left her chamber or the solar. It gave her a sense of familiarly, of rightness. It was how she had always lived in Dol Amroth—neither seen nor heard. The only niggling doubt that persisted was a worry that her actions, or lack of them, displeased the king.

The king. He was a mystery to her. His behavior was so unlike that of the men she knew; namely, her father, brothers, cousins and uncle. Rohan's king was cheerful and expressive. He had a sense of humor, but still wore dignity like an invisible mantle. He made her feel nice.

Lothíriel liked him.

She hated how awkward she felt around him, she hated the constant fear that she was either disappointing him or her father, but she did like him. She sighed, and dipped the quill in more ink to add a postscript.

The king is kind. He has made me feel most welcome in—

She stopped, grimaced, and scratched it out, but it was too late. That letter was crumped, and joined a half-dozen others in the empty fireplace.

Lothíriel slumped in her chair, running her fingers through her hair and closing her eyes. She did love being alone—she could indulge in all sorts of bad behavior and fancies. She had not tied her hair up in days, and there was an ink stain on her right sleeve. It made her feel rebellious, but it also made her nervous, as if her father was waiting around the corner with his disapproving eyes.

She pulled forward another parchment.

Dear Father,

I hope you are well. Our journey concluded safely and nearly on schedule. Rohan is a very pleasant place, and I—

Oh, it was no use! He did not want to hear her inanities. He had no time for it. Lothíriel groaned, and rested her head on the desk. She could hear servants speaking in the corridor, their voices fading as they continued walking. As much as she valued her solitude, the past several days of little human interaction was becoming a burden. Perhaps that was the reason for her unsuccessful writing attempts. She looked up to determine whether the garden looked empty of inhabitants (it did), and then exhaled before retrieving her cloak and exiting the room.

She still found it strange to wander about alone. No one questioned her right to be there; servants and guards alike stood by to allow her to pass. She wondered briefly if she ought to finally request a chaperone.

The front doors were opened for her as Lothíriel stepped out into the damp air. It was indeed refreshing; the air was cool but not cold, and the sun being hidden made for a comfortable feeling of peace. She paced for among the roses, breathing in the freshness like medicine and lifting her face to the sky, enjoying the feeling of the fresh dew on her cheeks. She was divided between feeling better and restless guilt.

Faramir! Lothíriel's eyes shot open, and the cloudy sky stared back. She could write to Faramir! Under normal circumstances it would be dreadfully improper, even though he was her cousin; but he had, after all, married Éomer's sister. If anyone could understand the discrepancies between Gondor and Rohan, it would be Faramir. He could give her advice, and she doubted he would be bothered by received correspondence from her. If the Lady Éowyn was anything like the gossip made her out to be, Fararmir's Gondorian sense of social etiquette would be long chased away.

Lothíriel returned to the solar as quickly as she could without appearing rushed, throwing her cloak on a chair before sitting down to write.

Dear Cousin,

I hope you are well. As my father may have informed you, I am summering in Edoras as King Éomer's betrothed; we are to marry next spring. I have found the culture of Rohan most perplexing, and I was hoping you would be willing to impart some wisdom to me.

My primary concern at present is my lack of chaperone. The maid who came with me is laid up for the next months with an injury, and I am unsure whether I ought to seek another. Society here does not demand that I should, in fact I think I would appear quite odd. I would prefer to not raise gossip and tarnish the king's name and household. Your advice as to how to proceed would be most appreciated.

Yours most sincerely,

Lothíriel

With that, Lothíriel sealed the envelope with red wax, feeling assured that she had written it well. If Faramir did write back and suggest a chaperone, she would do as he bid. Until then, she would wait. She smiled to herself, set the letter aside, and began another.

Father,

We arrived safely on the seventh day of May. Erchirion left the following day in good health.

Your obedient daughter,

Lothíriel

Yes, that seemed well enough. Straight to the point, and without venturing further than her father had asked of her. He had not implied that he wished to know if there were any disasters (the carriage accident could be counted as such), and Lothíriel was quite sure she should avoid all mention of the king. What would her father say if he knew that she and the king had spoken privately?

This letter she sealed as well, and set off to find Hamwyn with correspondence in hand, still in the throes of new confidence. Lothíriel made just one wrong turn, discovering at the end of a corridor an ornate door which she surmised lead to the king's chambers. It was with a sense of lingering nervousness that she traced back her steps and found the kitchens, only to discover that Hamwyn was not present. The scullery maids were watching her with interest, and before they could see her flush, Lothíriel turned.

"Steady on!"

She nearly shrieked, throwing her hands in the air as a heavy body bumped into hers. The letters went flying, and a pair of strong hands kept her upright. There was a snicker from the kitchens, and Lothíriel felt that she recognized the grip of the man who had caught her. She stared at the ground, unwilling to risk anything further.

"Lothíriel? Are you all right?"

"Yes, sire," she mumbled, wishing she could remove her arms from his hands. It was most disconcerting, especially as the memory of the night of the storm made her blush deepen.

"You will not fall?"

"No, sire."

He loosened his grip, and Lothíriel clasped her hands together with the dear wish that he would dismiss her soon. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him bend over to pick up her letters. "Are these yours?" the king asked.

"Yes, sire."

He paused. "Would you like them back?"

He was holding them out to her, waiting. Lothíriel accepted them, wishing that the floor would open and swallow her whole. When had she become such a dunce?

"Are those letters that you wish to be sent?" the king asked at her continued silence.

"Yes, sire."

"Where, exactly? I am sending a few messengers out at the end of the week. You could send your correspondence with mine."

"Oh—ah," Lothíriel glanced at the envelopes, somehow forgetting who they were addressed to. "I have one for my father, and one for my cousin Faramir."

"Well! How do you like that—my letters are going to Dol Amroth and Ithilien, too!"

The king's comment and tone surprised Lothíriel so much that she looked up, and saw a laughing grin on his face. Was he making a joke? Her eyes widened—he undoubtedly was making a joke! She attempted a friendly smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "Thank you for the offer, sire," she said. "I am most grateful."

"You are most welcome," he said, and held out his hand to her. She stared at it, wondering what on earth he wanted, and he prompted patiently, "I can take them from you now, Lothíriel."

"Oh! I—thank you," she said again, and placed the letters in his large hand.

"By the by," the king said. "Have you been well? I have not seen you for several days."

"I am well, sire."

Silence. Then, cautiously, "Are you avoiding me?"

"No, sire."

"That is reassuring to hear. Will you join me for supper, then?"

Lothíriel hesitated. On the one hand, she ought not to be sitting with him in public. On the other hand, perhaps she had missed his company. Just a little bit. "Yes, I will, sire," she said, feeling a prick of dread for what her father might say.

As if sensing her discomfort, the king added dryly, "There will be plenty of others in the hall to keep our behavior in check, Lothíriel. There is no need to worry."

"No, sire."

Another long pause. "I do not wish to keep you from your other pursuits," the king said, sounding a bit stiff to Lothíriel's ears. "And I am long overdue for luncheon. I will see you tonight. May I escort you to supper?"

"No, thank you, sire."

"Very good."

Lothíriel was left alone in the corridor with her very tumultuous thoughts. She walked towards her chamber while shaking her head, as if to clear it. It did not work. How was it, she wondered, that the king always seemed to find her in a vulnerable moment? Or was it he that made her feel so vulnerable?

Why was that, anyway?

Lothíriel stirred, her consciousness alerting her to some outside force. She opened her eyes, blinked, and scrambled away from the light, a scream building in her throat.

"No fear, princess," the king said, his jubilant features lit by a single candle which he held in his hand. "I need you at once."

Her heart still thudded fast, though now perhaps because he held her hand tight as they raced down Meduseld's corridors. She had barely had time to snatch a cloak to protect her modesty, so excited was the king to get to… wherever he was taking her.

"Where are we going, sire?" she dared to ask.

"To the stables!"

Of course. What else could animate a king of horse-lords so much, than a horse? Lothíriel thought regretfully of her warm bed. Even more so when the cool night air sucked the air from her lungs, and she stumbled down the steps toward the stables. The ground was chilly beneath her flimsy slippers.

The stable was very well lit, especially compared to the dimness of Meduseld and the dark of the night, and Lothíriel blinked as her eyes adjusted. The king continued to hurry her forward until they reached the final stall, a few stablehands clustered around nearby playing a game of dice. He unlatched the door for her, and with trepidation, Lothíriel went in.

Whatever she expected, it was not this. A very pregnant mare was lying on her side, bleating into the night. The king knelt down, murmuring something in Rohirric as he patted the mare's weirdly large belly.

"This is Dreamfleet," he said, looking up at Lothíriel. "She was bred with my own mount, Firefoot," he nodded to her left, and Lothíriel turned to see the head of a very tall, grey horse peeking in from the next stall to see the commotion. "I am very excited," the king added unnecessarily. "Firefoot is one of my closest friends. I look forward to training his son or daughter."

"I see," Lothíriel managed to say. Truth be told, she was bothered by the sight of the laboring Dreamfleet. It seemed too personal, too intimate. She had never witnessed a birth before, and it disconcerted her even more that the king was attending the mare as a physician would.

"I thought you might enjoy the experience," the king grinned at Lothíriel, who blushed.

"I suppose I might."

He reverted his attention back to the mare, who let out a loud screech. At once a flow of fluid burst from her backend, and Lothíriel covered her mouth in horror.

"Excellent timing!" the king exclaimed, and gave Dreamfleet another pat. "Come on then; we will watch from outside." With that she was led once more from the stall, and he latched the door behind them. "It should not take too long," he whispered into her ear.

A short birth Lothíriel would very much appreciate; already she was feeling mildly ill from the sight of the blood and the stench of it combined with hot animal. The king was leaning on the door, resting his head in his hands as he kept his eyes fastened on the mare. She could not help but stare at him instead: without his intense gaze on her she felt comfortable enough to thoroughly study him for the first time. His golden hair was falling out of its plait, whisping around his face and fluttering as he breathed. He had rolled up his sleeves, baring strong, tanned arms that made her legs feel weak. His features might have otherwise been unremarkable; straight nose, straight brows, brown eyes and a dark beard. What was it about him that had caused her, until now a perfectly normal princess, to be watching the birth of a foal in the middle of the night?

"There!" he pointed, still speaking very quietly as the mare grunted. "Do you see the white thing coming out? Inside it is the foal!"

She could only nod, numbly, only half-listening as she watched in sick fascination.

"First the hooves will emerge; and then the head and shoulders. After that the rest should slide out quite easily!"

The king's casual observance and explanation did nothing to calm Lothíriel's nerves. In fact, it rather embarrassed her: would she be expected to be as knowledgeable of such a function as he was?

"There it is!"

The first part of the foal could now be seen, and the continued bleating of Dreamfleet made Lothíriel tense. More unmentionable fluids, blood and debris were now spreading across the floor, and Lothíriel had to swallow her disgust. She was unwilling to lose her nerve in front of the king, for would he say? He was the king of horselords; a wife who could not stomach them would embarrass him beyond belief.

Another great grunt from the mare, who shuddered, and the remainder of the body did indeed slide onto the hay with a splat, splattering gunk on the walls. The foal lifted its head, its nose just poking from the burst sac, and sneezed.

Lothíriel heard the king sigh a breath of relief. "That is more like it!" he said, and looked down to grin at her. Her heart thumped most oddly. "What do you think?"

"I think—I think I might vomit," she said in small voice.

His attention was back on the new mother and its babe, and Lothíriel watched as the mama began to lick the foal, peeling away the remainder of the white sac. "It looks like it will have Firefoot's coloring when it's older," the king commented. "What do you think—filly or colt?"

"I—er, I do not know."

He leaned forward, looking intently as the mother continued to clean the baby. "Filly," he said with confidence. "A healthy looking one, too." He turned to smile at her once more. "She is beautiful. A job well done, Dreamfleet!"

Lothíriel did not think the foal beautiful at all. It was still wet; its fur matted with blood and other things which she did not wish to know. Its legs were long and knobbly, and did not look like they would support the body. The king seemed unconcerned, however.

"Firefoot, you did your part well, too," he said to his horse, who whinnied. "What do you think, Lothíriel?"

She gulped. "I think it looks alright."

"Alright?" The king turned to her in astonishment. "Bema! You look a little green. Are you alright?"

"I am f—fine, I simply need some air." The stench of the birth, coupled with the stuffy humidity of the building, was making her feel flushed.

"I will take you back," he said, and clasped her arm in a firm grip. "They will do well enough; the boys will see that nothing goes wrong."

"I could not take you from your horse—"

"Nonsense! You will be my wife; you are the only one that could take me from my horse. I will escort you back," He was still smiling at her, and she did not know what to say. They passed out of the stable and into the fresh air. The half-moon lent little light to the dark street, but the king seemed to know his way around well enough and did not slow his steps. Lothíriel tried to ignore the feeling of his skin under hers, which she was finding very difficult in her present state. "Thank you for joining me," he said, his excitement having been replaced by a tenderness which made her feel warm. "I thought you might refuse."

She would have refused, given the choice. There had hardly been a choice though, but she did not feel it necessary to point that out. Lothíriel thought about this, and decided that she was glad that she had come. "Thank for you the, ah, invitation, sire," she ventured.

"Do you ride very much?" he asked as they began to mount the steps to the hall.

"Oh, no," Lothíriel said, lifting her skirts so that she would not trip. "Women riders are not at all the thing."

"In Dol Amroth."

"Well, yes."

"Lothíriel, my dear," he said, his voice vibrating in the air. "I am afraid that you will have to learn to ride, no matter your qualms about it."

She took a moment to respond. Somehow, with the sight and smell of blood long gone, she was feeling like the birth had been a special experience, rather than a harrowing one. Horses were suddenly much more interesting than she had believed. "I would like to learn to ride," she said. "If—if there is someone who can teach me, that is; I would not want to be a bother—"

"You are not a bother!" the king chuckled, and led her past the solemn guards and through the front doors. "Were I the lucky bastard to teach you to ride, I would thank my lucky stars for a student so lovely and kind."

Lovely and kind? Lothíriel frowned.

"The stablemaster will teach you," he added abruptly, as if noticing her discomfort. "You will be quite up to par in no time."

His confidence was overwhelming, or perhaps it was the late hour that was making her feel strange and unsettled. They finished the trek to her chamber in silence, and when he left her with a bow, Lothíriel wished that he had stayed, as if he could have made sense of everything. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, taking a deep breath to order her thoughts.

However, try as she might, her thoughts would not be ordered no matter her effort. Lothíriel retired to bed with a yawn, but found that once she was tucked beneath the heavy quilts she could not sleep. Her mind seemed intent on drawing forth exactly what she did not wish to recall. The smell of the stables, the sight of blood gushing from the horse, the king's lean but muscular body, his smile when he looked at her, the scrawny, wet foal emerging from the mare's backend…

Dawn found Lothíriel sitting upright in bed, hugging her knees close to her chest as she stared at the emerging light through the drapes. The fire had long since burned out, and the chilly morning air was already cooling the chamber. Her back, protected only by her thin nightgown, was covered in goosepimples, but she could not find the strength to cover herself.

She thought of her maid, confined to the sick chamber while her leg healed. She thought of what her father would say when he discovered that Lothíriel was sleeping alone, walking alone, and seeing the king alone. It did not bode well for her, but worse for the maid, who would likely be sacked. And what of Lothíriel? How would her father respond to her indiscretions? A strong sense of mutiny was surfacing in her chest, and her brows creased as she considered this. Perhaps if her father had wanted to insure her best behavior, he ought to have accompanied her, or at least had one of her brothers spend the summer in Rohan. But his responsibilities as prince of Dol Amroth, and her brothers as interment diplomats for King Elessar, were far more important than a simple marriage of convenience between an already firm ally and a princess who had never shown any sign of rebellion before. Why, this could be considered her father's own fault!

Immediately Lothíriel felt guilty for her disloyal thoughts. As undeterminable as her father's actions were, it was not her place to question them, after all.

Another thought pricked at her. The king seemed to believe that wives and husbands—at least in Rohan—were supposed to question each other. Would she have to question him? That sent a confusing tremble through her body. She was not ready to take that step.

But she would have to. After they were married, she would live in Rohan permanently. How many years would that be? Fifty? Sixty? She was only twenty-one, and that meant that she would live three times as long in Rohan as she had in Dol Amroth. That would be forty years of being judged by Rohan's standards, of being expected to act as a Rohan woman would. Perhaps...perhaps it might be more important to learn to behave as a Rohan woman now. As a queen that the king would be proud of. And if that were the course she ought to take, then should she not seek to do as the king suggested? Here in the Mark, husband and wives share everything, including their thoughts, opinions and feelings, he had said. Apprehension sent a shiver up her spine, and shaking herself from her reverie, she left her bed.

Lothíriel rummaged through her wardrobe, the options of gowns and frocks nearly overwhelming her. She had never been allowed to pick her own clothing; even Hamwyn had been choosing the best options for her according to the daily weather. But Rohan women picked their own clothing, surely. A day dress would be appropriate, and nothing that would be too warm nor too cool (the weather being unpredictable, for the most part), nor too bright.

A knock sounded on the door, and she stared as Hamwyn entered. "I know it is early, ma'am," the woman said. "But I heard that you want to begin riding lessons."

"Yes," Lothíriel said, feeling stupid as Hamwyn set down a set of garments that looked rather rugged.

"I brought ye something more sensible for riding," she explained. "And the king told me to inform you that you may go down the stables anytime ye wish to, and the stablemaster has been informed that he is yer teacher as long as ye wish."

"Yes," Lothíriel said again, reminding herself that this was something she needed to learn to be a good queen, though it filled her with more alarm. She had not realized that the king meant that she began riding right away.

"Would ye like some breakfast, ma'am?" Hamwyn asked. Lothíriel met her clear gaze, and made a mental note that she should make eye contact with those she spoke to. Staring at the ground was not a habit she noticed among women in Edoras.

Lothíriel gave a shy smile and confirmed that she would, and after Hamwyn left, sat down to inspect the clothing she had brought. Trousers and a tunic! She could only stare at the rough weave, and deciding that separating herself from her Gondorian upbringing might be more difficult than she expected.

A few days later, Lothíriel was embroidering once again, alone in the solar, when the king entered without a knock.

"Hello!" he said, ignoring her barely smothered yelp of surprise. "Do you have plans for this afternoon?"

"N—no, my lord," she managed, feeling uneasy at the sight of his grin.

"It is Market Day," the king explained. "I thought you might wish to go."

"A market?"

"Yes," he said, bemused. "It is where tradesmen sell their goods and—"

"I know what a market is," she snapped. Then, realizing the tone of her words, blushed and began to speak, "I am sorry—"

"Come with me?" he interrupted.

"W—with you?"

"Why not? I am ample protection against any who might do you harm, and I am a fair translator."

"I would not wish to distract you from your duties, sire," Lothíriel demurred.

"Nonsense! Fetch a cloak if you desire—it is windy today. I will meet you in the hall." And he exited the room with a final smile, closing the door with a bang.

Lothíriel had much time to reflect, walking down to the public square on the king's arm, how exactly she came to be so wayward towards her father's expectations. Was it that he was not watching her every move? Was the casual attitude of the Rohan people seeping into her? Or, she wondered as the king patted her hand with a smile—the charm of her betrothed?

He explained to her that markets were held in Edoras every three days. Then, each spring and autumn equinox, a larger market took place which was attended by traders from Gondor, Eriador, and even as far north as Dale. "I regret that you were not here in the spring," he told her. "Spring markets are the most exciting. Everyone is happy to be outside after of being cooped up in the winter, and so there are games, entertainments, exotic foods…"

Lothíriel was relieved that she had not been there. It sounded frightening. The two dozen or so stalls which she could see already were making the hair raise on the back of her neck—how could she have allowed herself to be persuaded into this? There were so many people!

"And what would you like to see today, princess? Are you feeling peckish? There is a very tolerable pie stand that sets up by the tavern. Ah—here is a woodcarver. See anything you like?"

The king's enthusiasm and overwhelming concern made Lothíriel both nervous and giddy. She did not understand why he was treating her in such a way. He spoke now to the seller, and they jabbered away in Rohirric while she handled some very nice pieces. Most were horses—horses rearing, horses grazing, horses running, mama horses with foals, horses with warriors on their backs. Some were dark wood, some light, some speckled. There were other animals too—birds, fish, cows, goats, sheep—and smaller, intricate beads that must have been intended to be worn as jewelry. Lothíriel could imagine her brothers' disgust at wearing simple, unadorned wood as decoration. It simply would not be done in Gondor.

"He also carves on commission," the king said, drawing her from her reverie with a start.

"Oh—oh. That is very nice," she said, putting down a knotted ornament.

He continued to eye her, and Lothíriel turned her head away with a blush. "Would you like to buy anything?" he asked.

"Oh—oh no!" she said at once. "I could not."

"Could not?" The king's smile was fading.

"I left my spare money in my chamber," Lothíriel explained lamely. It was indeed a floundering excuse—she had no spare money at all—but how could she explain that she had never purchased anything herself in the entirety her life? Noblewomen were not supposed to, after all! The king would think her both overindulged and inept, and he would not be wrong. She was struggling not to wring her hands together—even though she dearly wanted to.

He had moved closer to her, allowing the seller to set out more of his wares. "It is no matter," he said. "Truly, if you find something you like—"

"Please no," she said, feeling herself crumple. "Please, I—"

He waited expectantly.

"I have never bought anything before," she said in a whisper, causing the king to lean down closer to her to hear. She felt a tremor at his closeness.

"Would you like to practice?" he whispered back.

She was momentarily taken aback. That was his response? He did not look disgusted at her confession at all! "No!" Lothíriel insisted. "I could not."

"'Course you can! Here are some coins—stop protesting!—I will be right here if you need me."

The coins were cold in her sweating hands, and she felt her face burning. She felt a nudge on her back from the king, and she stepped forward. "Ah...ah, sir," she whispered, then turned around to the king. "I do not speak Rohirric, how could you—!"

"Madam? I speak Westron, very good." The woodcarver was grinning at her, revealing a mouth which lacked many teeth.

"Oh—thank you," Lothíriel said, feeling stupid. "I would—I would like to buy something." Was this how it was done?

"You have no complaint from me," he said, patting his chest proudly. "I sell many things, even to noblewomen."

She stared at him for a moment, dazed. He sold to noblewomen?

"Choose something!" the king murmured behind her.

"Oh. I see—I would like to buy this." She picked up a mother horse, who was touching noses with its little baby.

"You may. What price?" the woodcarver asked.

What price? Was she to pick the price? That made no sense! "I have—" she opened her hand, revealing a half-dozen copper coins. "This much." How much was it, anyway? She was unfamiliar with this currency.

"For you, first time buyer, I take only one coin," he said, and reached over to take one. "Come again. Thank you very much!"

"Thank you, sir!" Lothíriel said in response, relief seeping into her as the king took her arm to steer her away as she clutched both the coins and the horses. Other market-goers were crowded around them as they entered the dusty street, and she balked. But her fear from the exchange was over, and she turned to glare at the king. "How could you make me do that?" she said. "That was horrible!"

"It was very well done, all things considered," he said, and she saw that he was holding back a laugh. She scowled.

"I have never been so embarrassed in my life," she vowed.

"You are young yet!" His cheer was unabated, and he squeezed her hand. "Very beautiful piece by the way—it was well chosen. May I carry it for you? I will not lose it, I promise."

Lothíriel simmered in mutinous silence as they stopped to browse at several more stalls. He did not force her to converse again—which was fortunate for him, for she itched to kick him. If only she hadn't any qualms about assaulting a king.

Whispers circled around her, and noticed for the first time that many people were watching her with wide eyes. She lifted her chin, lowering her eyes and pretending not to notice. Her skin began to prickle, as it often did when she felt unable to escape. The sun was hot as they lingered, and in combination with her long-sleeved frock she was beginning to sweat. Hurry, hurry, she thought, willing the king to feel her distress.

"Do you like this?" he turned to ask her, holding to her breast a golden necklace threaded with amber.

"Oh! Oh—it is lovely, to be sure," she said, very aware of their audience. "Is it for your sister?"

"No, silly girl," he said, smiling. "For you, if you like it."

"Oh! That is unnecessary, my lord, I have too much jewelry already." Surely he would not really buy her something so expensive? Although they were to be married, as of now they were yet unwed and standards had to be maintained. If they were in Dol Amroth, their reputations would never recover!

He frowned, and placed back the necklace. "I understand," he said.

Lothíriel felt her spirits deflate, low as they were already from the scrutiny she was experiencing. How had she offended him? Was it not the more considerate option to prevent him from spending his own money on a scandalous gesture? Eyes lowered, she held back a snivel of shame.

"Well, come on then," the king's voice returned somewhat to normal. "Let us search out some repast." He steered her through the crowds, which parted for them with muttered greetings and a few bows. The king took all of this in with good grace, chattering back in Rohirric to many of the people.

The pie-stall by the tavern was busy; it was fortunate that the king kept such a firm hold on her hand, otherwise her trembling knees might not have held her upright. Eventually the line moved, and they were under a large hide covering, surely meant to bring comfort to the stall's customers. She let out a breath.

"Do you like beef or lamb?"

Lothíriel did not really care for either, and she bit her lip. "Er—the beef, I suppose."

"It can be hard to eat lamb, after one experiences how fluffy they are," the king looked down at her with a grin. "Eowyn actually cried over a lamb roast once, when we were children."

His sister had cried in front of him? How awkward! Lothíriel could not imagine crying in the presence of her brothers—likely they would walk away in revulsion.

He paid for the pies, and handed one to her. It was greasy and hot, and she just managed to not grimace. "These are my favorite," he said with relish. "Always worth a trip to the city, when I was on patrols."

Lothíriel nibbled at her pie, following the king through the remainder of the market. It was full of spices, and the gaminess of the meat turned her stomach. She did not understand the people of Rohan's inclination towards such heavy food. She could not finish her portion—she would be sick for a week if she did. How would the king react? Would he be angry with her? She had to at least try to eat it.

The road was growing bumpy; this part of the city was less travelled. The city square faded behind them. She was unsure of where they were going now—these streets were deserted, the inhabitants presumably at the market themselves.

"I thought we could visit the barrows," the king said over his shoulder. "I think you might like—"

Her foot caught in a rabbit hole, and with a shriek, her ankle gave way and she tumbled to the ground, just as he turned to look at her. Her nearly-intact pie went flying, splattering to the ground along with her hope of winning the king's approval.

"Lothíriel! Are you alright? Are you hurt?" he crouched down to help her into a sitting position, his expression concerned as she whimpered at the pain in her ankle. His kindness was making her heart hurt, and she wiped her dirty, stinging hands together. She thought of the pie, of humiliating herself at the market, and wanting so badly to not be an embarrassment to the king. It was too late for that now, and so she could not stop herself.

She began to cry.

It was uncontrollable—when had she become so volatile? Remembering how she ought to be acting only made her bawl harder; if she had stayed true to her father's standards she would not be in this horrible position. And now what would the king think?

He was gently lifting her hands, and to her astonishment he kissed her palms. "Tell me where it hurts," he told her, and she sniffed.

She could not say it. Her mother had always warned her—as had her numerous governesses—that she should never, ever discuss her body with a man. Even her future husband. She tried moving her ankle but pain shot up her leg, and more tears spilled from her eyes.

He had not missed her movement. He was too clever! "Did you twist your ankle?" he asked. He leaned over, pushing up her skirt before lifting her foot. Her sobbing began anew. "It is not broken!" he assured her at once as he moved it around. "It is probably a simple sprain. Easily healed within in a few days, if treated properly."

Lothíriel covered her face with her hands as her body shuddered. Shame was prickling across her skin: how she wished to be anywhere but there!

"It cannot hurt this badly! Whatever is the matter?"

She wailed.

"Princess?" His tender tone had an edge now.

She snivelled, trying to ignore the snot and tears that were flowing down her face. "I—I—" she tried to say, then burst forth. "I have never heard a man say that before in my life!"

"Say what?"

"A—ankle!"

A pregnant pause met her words, and then she heard a bellowing laugh from the king. She opened one eye to stare. "Come on then, I will carry you back," he said, his jovial manner quite returned. He scooped her up in his arms, ignoring her cry of alarm. He showed no difficulty in the task, and a few moments into their trek back to Meduseld, he murmured, "I am sorry, Lothíriel. I feel I may have overwhelmed you today."

She released a tremulous breath, distracted from trying to ignore how nice it felt to be so secure. "N—no," she said. "I enjoyed myself." It was at least partly true: while the market itself had indeed been overwhelming, being with the king was worth the discomfort. Even the hurt ankle.

"Then next time—" she looked up to see a wide grin. "Next time you ought to wear more sensible shoes. Slippers on a hike! Utterly ridiculous. Though perhaps I should have warned you."

"Slippers are all I have. I suppose my father did not see a reason for any other footwear," Lothíriel admitted.

The king grunted. "Your father has never visited the Riddermark. An honest mistake, perhaps. You shall have boots by the end of the week, I promise!"

The sun was setting; dusky purples streaked across the sky. The noise in the streets had dimmed to a hum; most stalls were closed or in the process of closing. Lothíriel still felt detatched from her surroundings, and so she did not even berate herself as she leaned her head on the king's shoulder, and with a sigh closed her eyes.

A soft bed enveloped her, and a murmur of voices woke her. She was in her chamber, which was lit with dozens of candles. She could see Hamwyn pulling off her slipper, another maid bringing a pot of steaming water and bandages.

"You might give her something to help her sleep." The king's deep voice resonated within her, and a tremble wracked her body. "She has been upset."

"She looks as though she'll sleep on her own, sire," Hamwyn said. "But I'll bear it in mind."

"Good night then, princess." She felt a kiss on her forehead, and she closed her eyes, too distressed to watch her life crumble before her any longer.

Lothíriel stared out the window of her bedchamber, moody as she had ever been. All her intentions to adapt to Rohan's culture, to be the queen that the king might be proud of, seemed to be wrapped up in the silly brace around her throbbing ankle. Her foot was propped up on a stool across from her seat, and every so often she would scowl at it, as if it were the fault of the injury that she feel so morose.

How embarrassed she was! As difficult as it normally was to look the king in the eye, it would be impossible now; her humiliation was complete. It was not only her clumsiness, it was her lack of self-control that led to her flood of tears, and probably repulsing the king forever. What would he want with her?

She might have embroidered to pass the time, but her supplies had been left in the solar and she could not retrieve them. And she still stung enough to stubbornly refuse to ask Hamwyn to fetch them for her. A cup of tea was balanced on the windowsill, but without the heart to drink it, Lothíriel had let it grow cold. She rested her chin in her hand, frowning at the sun that dared to shine so brightly on such a miserable day.

A rap sounded on the door, and Lothíriel could not bring herself to answer. However, it swung open anyway, and she scrambled to right herself.

The king stepped one tentative foot into the chamber, half-hidden behind the door as he looked at her earnestly. Lothíriel clenched the armrests of her chair, wishing to flee but anchored by her sprained ankle. He frowned. "Stay there!" he said, in as close to a commanding tone as she had ever heard from him. "I will come to you."

She gritted her teeth, and forced a smile as he shut the door behind him, one hand hidden behind his back. "It is kind of you to visit, sire," Lothíriel said.

He did not answer, instead flourishing a handful of wildflowers from behind him with a wide, hopeful grin. It was Lothíriel's turn to stare, and her lips parted slightly. "For you," he explained to her silence.

"For—for me?"

"Of course, silly girl!" The king walked over to her and placed the flowers in her hands, and Lothíriel continued to stare, dumbfounded. "I wanted to see that you are well," he said, fetching a chair and sitting rather close to her foot, which made her flush.

"I am well, sire, thank you. And—thank you for the gift."

"You are most welcome." He was still grinning, and Lothíriel looked quickly away, instead focusing on the blossoms.

"They are lovely," she managed to say. "Though I do not know their names."

"No matter. If you like them, it is enough."

Lothíriel could not help looking up to meet his eyes, noticing the warmth he seemed to be exuding. She blushed, groping for words. "I—I am sorry for my behavior yesterday, sire. I was...clumsy and—"

"That is not your fault," he said gently, moving as if to pat her knee, but pulling his hand back before it touched her. He clasped his hands together. "I was insensitive to how you might feel in such an unfamiliar place."

"I—" Her words caught in her throat, feeling overwhelmed by his chivalry. "Thank you," she whispered. "I was a little...overwhelmed."

The king smiled. "Have you begun your riding lessons yet?"

"Oh—no, I have not had the chance." It was a lie, and she felt stupid as she realized he knew that she did little else than eat, sleep, and embroider.

"Well, I spoke to the stablemaster this morning and we choose a nice mount for you. A little mare, sweet-tempered and calm. Her name is Moon Shadow. I do hope you like her, and that you might visit her soon so she can become accustomed to you."

"Oh!"

"Surely you cannot have more excuses!"

Lothíriel lowered her gaze. "I—I do, I am afraid, sire. You were generous to supply suitable riding clothes for me, but...I have only my slippers, and—"

"As we learned yesterday, they are a trifle inappropriate for the terrain. And for riding as well, I might add," the king finished her sentence. "Do not fret! I am sure Hamwyn can find something for you."

…

Lothíriel made her way to the stables several days later, in a sturdy pair of boots that were far too large with barely a limp, determined to do whatever she needed to encourage the king to like her better. Her determination to please him drove her onward even at this hour, early enough that the stables were empty when she peeked in to find the stablemaster. A handful of stablehands were mucking out stalls, and she wrinkled her nose at the smell before closing the door. She would wait then.

A few horses were in the stableyard, in the process of being exercised by a young man. She wandered closer, noticing that Dreamfleet and her filly were standing by the fence. Lothíriel approached them hesitantly, holding out her hand as she had seen others do. Dreamfleet nuzzled her hand, and after a moment the horse blew hot air into Lothíriel's face. She petted Dreamfleet's nose, and Dreamfleet let out a soft whinny.

"I like you much better now," Lothíriel said in a whisper, daring to stroke between her eyes. "It was rather awkward when your filly was born, no? Perhaps we can be friends anyway. Although I am sure I would wish to befriend anyone who saw me in such a state as you were—but you are a horse, after all."

"Want to give 'er a treat, ma'am?" The man who had been leading a tall bay around the yard paused by them, tieing the bridle of the horse to the fence. Lothíriel flushed at his frank examination of her. Had he heard her speaking to Dreamfleet?

"Oh—I would—can I?"

"'Course, ma'am. I'll fetch yuh an apple then."

Lothíriel scratched Dreamfleet's chin as the youth wandered away. She wondered if she could pet the filly, but decided that she had better not. If the behavior of the swans in Dol Amroth were any indication of how a female horse might react to their babies being threatened, she might well lose a hand.

"'Ere yuh go, ma'am." The man entered the corral again, tossing her an apple, which she thankfully caught. She held it to Dreamfleet's lips. "No—no! Flatten your hand, ma'am!"

Lothíriel opened her palm, his warning barely keeping her fingers from being caught in Dreamfleet's mouth. She turned to the young man and smiled politely. "Thank you for the apple," she said. To her astonishment he blushed, and dug his heel into the ground.

"'S nothin', ma'am. Do yuh know Dreamfleet 'ere?"

"Ah—yes, I was fortunate enough to watch her filly born."

"'S a nice filly. 'Er father is the king's 'orse, yuh know."

"I was aware, yes."

"That means the filly'll prolly go to 'is wife. 'E's gettin' married, yuh know."

Lothíriel smiled to herself at that. "I heard the gossip," she said.

"Say, are yuh free in the evenin's, ma'am? Tha's my time off, 'n I—"

"Lothíriel!"

She turned, grateful for a diversion from the young man, who was beginning to make her feel rather embarrassed. To her surprise, it was the king walking towards them, a strained grin on his face as he watched her intently. She blushed.

"I see you have befriended Dreamfleet," the king said as he approached, ruffling the mare's mane as she whinnied in greeting.

"She is very friendly," Lothíriel said. "This man—" She gestured towards the youth, whose eyes had widened. "He was kind enough to give me an apple to feed her."

The king's attention turned to the young man, who paled under the stern glance. "Good morning, Ranulf," he said. "How are you this day? I see you have met—my betrothed."

"Good—good mornin', sire. Sorry, sir, I was just—" He turned on his heel and hurried away. Silence followed his departure, Lothíriel looking after him with concern.

"Very nice boy, he is," the king muttered, his brows drawn together. "Too nice."

"I thought he was exceptionally nice," Lothíriel said.

"Of course you would say that. He was flirting with you."

"Surely not!"

The king gave her a pointed look, and Lothíriel felt hot prickles spread across her skin. "He most certainly was," he said. "I was watching. Ranulf usually eschews company, yet he invited yours."

"—Ah, oh. I see."

"I do not think you do, princess. If I had not come at the right moment, I rather think he would have tried to take you to a tavern for an ale!"

The confidence Lothíriel had gained from Dreamfleet's friendship was fading, and she felt like wilting. Young Ranulf's behavior, as well as the king's, was causing her immense discomfort. Flirting? Why, that was abominable! "I did not know he was flirting," she said in a small voice, avoiding the king's eyes. "In—in Gondor, men only flirt with courtesans. At least, that is how my governesses explained the matter to me. I did not recognize it."

"Then I am surprised you even understand what flirting is," the king said in a dry tone. She was unsure how to respond, and instead scratched Dreamfleet's chin. "Anyway," he continued. "I saw Wídfarla—the stablemaster—having an early breakfast in the kitchens. He should be down—"

"You are right," Lothíriel interrupted without thinking. "I do not understand flirting. I—I apologize. I suppose—I suppose that here it is considered normal."

He cast her a bemused glance. "That is correct," he said. "Very normal."

She sighed to herself, staring out at the other horses tethered in the yard. How many more discrepancies would she find in her character before going mad?

"But it is no large matter that you do not understand," the king said, as if reading her thoughts. "We shall practice, you and I."

"P—practice?"

He grinned at her, and Lothíriel gave a weak smile in response, her heart beating fast for no reason apparent to her. "Certainly," he said. "I have always intended to flirt with my wife, and I would certainly like to flirt with you. In fact, I already have, and I was already aware knew that you do not quite understand the concept. Although I admire that you admitted it."

He admired her? A warm glow started in her chest, and she bit her lips to keep from involuntarily smiling. He admired her! She met his eyes, very aware that his large hand had covered hers, resting on the fence. He was awfully close!

The king cleared his throat, something over her shoulder catching his attention. "Here is Wídfarla now," he said. "I have a meeting with my councilors, so I will wish you luck on your first lesson.

"Th—thank you," Lothíriel said lamely. He lifted her hand, stroking the knuckles with his thumb while still penetrating her with his intense gaze. Then, he turned her hand over and dropped a kiss on the inside of her wrist. She shivered.

"See you at supper?" he asked.

"Y—yes."

"Good day, Lothíriel."

She could only stare at his retreating back as Wídfarla approached. "Good morning, ma'am," he said, his Westron very good. "I am glad that you have come prepared."

"Good morning, sir," she said, dipping into half-curtsey. It felt ridiculous in trousers, and she decided adamantly to never curtsey in riding clothes again.

"Have you met Moon Shadow yet?" Wídfarla directed her to the stables, and they entered together.

"No, sir."

"No matter. Today will be an easy day, and tomorrow the real work will begin! Éomer king did mention that you have not ridden before, and so we will go slowly. Here she is—there, she is already interested in you! Offer your hand—there's a good girl—steady now. Go ahead and scratch her ears, she likes that, and then—"

Wídfarla's stream of chatter filled Lothíriel's ears, and instead of overwhelming her it bolstered her. Moon Shadow was a very pretty white mare, though not as proud and tall as Dreamfleet, and her pink nose was wet and warm in Lothíriel's hand. Wídfarla continued speaking.

"Well, why don't we try mounting and dismounting? Let us lead her outside; I will find a block. Afterwards we might exercise her a trifle, unless you feel you are not ready for it. I hope you will tell me if you are tired, or uncomfortable. I hope this is a pleasant experience for you…"

…

Upon returning to her chamber to bathe and change before luncheon, Lothíriel found a folded letter on her writing desk bearing her father's seal. Rather confused that he had written to her, she opened it straightaway.

Dear Daughter,

I appreciate your prompt report of the journey. Expect Erchirion to return to escort you back by September the first. Enclosed is a note for King Éomer—see that he gets it.

I hope you are doing Dol Amroth, and I, proud.

Your loving Father.

Lothíriel was beset by emotions. Disappointment—had she expected her father to write more? Irritation, for he had ordered to to give his note to the king without so much as a 'please', as if she were a lackey! She crumped up the parchment and threw it into the fire crossly. She may be his daughter, and she may be a Gondorian woman, but she was not devoid of self-respect! She stared at the wadded ball for a moment, and then fell on her knees to pick it back up, pulling out the king's note and smoothing it on her knee. Temptation to read what her father had to say to the king overcame her, and she touched the unbroken seal with trembling fingers. No, she was not changed enough to be dishonest. She would have to search out the king that afternoon to give him the note. The prospect filled her with both apprehension and an excited thrill. Lothíriel turned to her waiting bath with a contented sigh—she did so wish to see him!

Éomer watched Lothíriel from over the top of the parchment. She was looking very pretty in a light grey frock with her hair done up in a braided circlet. She wrung her hands together as if nervous, though he could not imagine why. Actually, he could—her tentative knock on his study door was an indicator that she was not quite comfortable seeking him out. But he was glad she had.

"May—may I go now, sire?" she said, her voice soft, lifting her eye to meet his.

He stared for a moment before shaking himself. "If you would like," he said. His answer obviously conflicted her, and he sighed. "You may sit," he said, and gestured to the chair across from him. She sat, her back stiff. "Your father was confirming with me the wedding location and date," he told her, setting down the parchment.

"I see."

"Do you mind very much getting married here, in Edoras? I know women generally prefer to marry in their own homes, but I am afraid the Eorlingas are keen on the idea of a royal wedding. It has been many years since we have had a queen."

"The—the what?"

"Eorlingas, dear girl. That is what we call ourselves."

Her brows drew together. "Oh. I did not know."

Éomer resisted the urge to laugh. This girl—this kind, beautiful, darling girl—was far too serious! He was sure he had never even heard her giggle, and smiles were rare. "Why? What did you think we were called?" he asked, bemused still at her words.

"Ah—in Gondor, we call your land Rohan."

"It is the Riddermark, or the Mark of the Riders."

"And you are referred to as the people of Rohan."

"We are Eorlingas; singular, Eorlinga." He leaned forward, watching with interest as a red flush spread across her neck and collar.

"I know so little," she mumbled, barely audible.

"It is of little importance," he said gently. "If I were to live in Dol Amroth, I would have many customs to acquaint myself with. It is not your fault. You have plenty of time to learn."

Lothíriel's head was lowered, and Éomer felt a pang in the region of his chest. "How was your lesson this morning?" he asked, hoping a change of subject would animate her.

"Oh, it was lovely!" She looked up at him with bright eyes. "Wídfarla was very kind, and Moon Shadow such a dear. He said I may begin riding tomorrow, and perhaps in a few weeks I might be competent enough for a longer ride!"

"That is good news indeed," Éomer said. "I would like to take you for a ride when you are ready. There is much beauty in the Mark that I think you would enjoy."

"I imagine I would, sire." A smile grew on her face. Once more his chest tightened oddly.

He cleared his throat after a moment. "Anyway, our wedding will be in Edoras on the first of June of next year. Do you object?"

"Not at all."

"Would you tell me if you did?"

"No, sire."

Éomer saw no trace of irony in her face. Once again her honesty stunned him. "Lothíriel," he said, and wished she was close enough for him to hold her hand. "I am glad you are here. I have enjoyed your company greatly."

"Oh—thank you, sire." Her voice sounded like a squeak. He decided that loved it. "I—" she began to say, and then caught his eye and blushed again. "I should go now, sire."

"As you will. Do enjoy your riding lessons, princess. I cannot wait until we might ride together!" Éomer smiled her as she curtseyed and left, feeling oddly empty when the door shut behind her.

…

Éomer stood at the great doors of Meduseld, looking out into the night. Any annoyance he had with the absent princess had burned out hours earlier, for now he was half-sick with worry. Not for the political concerns that would arise if a princess of Gondor was harmed in his lands, but because he knew Lothíriel and her timidity. He should have been protecting her; she had struggled since arriving in Rohan as unused as she was to the freedom. And now her ignorance had possibly caused her harm. She had not been ready for such a long ride—two weeks of lessons was obviously insufficient.

He was going to thrash the idiot guard she took. Any man of sense would have brought her back hours ago. He should have taken her himself! It was his own worry that he was pushing her too far, too quickly, and she was shy further away from him just as a frightened horse would. He just wanted her to like him!

A stablehand materialized in the darkness, taking the steps to Meduseld two at a time. He bowed to Éomer, who without his normal humor, only looked down at the boy with level eyes.

"They're back, sire," he said. "Rode in the back way. Safe and sound."

Relief blossomed through Éomer's body, but he was not cured of his temper yet. He nodded at the boy, who turned and ran back down the steps. Éomer took a deep breath, his anger surfacing again.

Two forms were straggling towards the hall, the smaller one beset by a heavy burden. Éomer knew the princess's form well enough, and he watched as the guard tried to help her up the steps and was rebuffed. That was unexpected, considering her shyness.

The little party eventually came into the light, the guard looking up towards Éomer with panicked eyes. At least he was sorry. Éomer did not spare his betrothed another glance, though he knew she was trying to catch his eye. He turned and stalked further into the hall.

Hamwyn was sitting by the great hearth, knitting from a ball of dyed wool. She, too, had been concerned about Lothíriel's whereabouts, though she coped with it far better than Éomer. She even smiled as the new arrivals followed him into the hall. He heard a low conversation from behind, and then a set of hurried footsteps retreat into the night. So the guard was unwilling to face his sentence. Éomer did not blame him.

"My lord."

Now this was a surprise: the princess had addressed him first! For that bravery, he could forgive her a little. He turned and faced her.

He saw her burden at once—she was holding a lamb! And not a small lamb, either. It was frozen in her arms, frightened to death and bleating softly. Her arms seemed tense and wobbly, as if she had been carrying it for far longer than she ought. This contrasted with her eyes which met his with a defiance that he had not expected at all.

"Why do you bring an animal into my hall?" he asked, making his voice stern.

"It is a gift," she said, clearly putting effort into not sounding scared. "During our ride, we came across a shepherd who was assisting one of his ewes give birth."

"It is not lambing season."

"Nonetheless, the lamb was being born!" Lothíriel said, her voice raising in volume. "We assisted. It took a very long time, but for our help, the shepherd gifted us this little one, which was born in the spring. We had to travel back at a slower pace. That is why we are late."

Éomer was stunned into silence. He took in the sight of her; her messy mop of hair, the wheat grass covering her cloak, muddy boots, and line of spittle dripping down her arm, courtesy of the lamb. It struggled in her grasp, but still she clung to it. She continued to meet his eyes stubbornly, though unshed tears lined her own.

He could not help himself. He laughed.

The princess startled, and the lamb took advantage of her distraction to squirm from her grasp. It clopped across the stone floors, bleating, until Hamwyn rushed forward to snatch it up.

"I will take it out," she said, hauling the lamb out of the hall.

Éomer continued to laugh. Perhaps relief was making him giddy, and the ridiculousness of Lothíriel's arrival made it worse. He would not have expected such a scene from his princess in a hundred years!

Eventually he calmed enough to notice that the other late-night stragglers in the hall had dissipated, and Lothíriel was left alone standing across from him. Her eyes were sparking, and her tiny hands were clenched into fists at her side. She looked as if she wanted to hit him!

"Now, now, no need to take offense," he said, holding up his hands in surrender. "I meant none."

"I have taken offense!" Lothíriel snapped. "You bother of a man, how dare you laugh at me! You have not been trekking through mud and Eru-knows-what-else all bloody day! You have been safe and dry and well-fed like a...a spoiled prince!"

Éomer sobered quickly. Lothíriel clearly had more of a temper than she let on, and while her outburst made him want to laugh again, he refrained. "You have had a trying day," he said. "I will fetch Hamwyn back and she will see that you are made comfortable."

"No!" she said, pointing a finger in his face. "No! No! If I want Hamwyn, I will find her myself! Stop coddling me! I am not made of glass!" She began to stomp away, but Éomer stepped in front of her, holding up his hands to bar her way.

"I am sorry I laughed," he said.

She was frowning at him, no—she was scowling. So, this was the princess behind the mask she wore. Remarkably, her twisted face did not make her any less pretty. In fact… Well, this encounter was already a disaster, so Éomer decided it was a good a time as any. He pulled her into an embrace, dirty cloak and all, and kissed her soundly.

He had not dared to do so until now, for he figured that since those strict Gondorian rules had it out for women, they would be probably forbid nice things like kissing. Lothíriel seemed to be separating herself from those rules, however slowly, and now was a good a time as any for Éomer to test her limits.

She did not slap him, which he considered a positive. Actually, she seemed rooted to the spot, and when Éomer pulled away, her mouth stayed open in surprise. He grinned.

"I am glad you are not made of glass," he said, taking his time to brush her hair from her cheeks.

She squeaked what sounded like, "Eep!" in response, her eyes wide.

"Shall I find Hamwyn, or do you insist on doing so yourself?"

Lothíriel squeaked again.

"Very well. I will see you in the morning, princess." He bowed and left the hall, still smiling to himself.

The fire cracked in the grate; the rain and wind which had assaulted Meduseld all day had driven away the summer warmth and replaced it with a fresh coolness. Lothíriel, not at all used to colder weather, had been uncomfortable enough to ask a servant to light a fire in the queen's solar, where she had been hiding all day. Now long after supper, she was sitting with her knees pulled to her chest and admiring the fire. But even this disgraceful bout of selfish indulgence had not brought her the peace of mind for which she had hoped.

Her legs hurt, her arms hurt, her back hurt. What had possessed her to go for such a long ride? It would be many days before she did such a thing again. And the lambing...well, of course she had to help. The shepherd had been in a panic, for he was a mere apprentice and had not assisted in a birth without his master. It was fortunate that her guard had been raised on a farm and knew exactly how to help. Lothíriel had found the process far more rewarding than Dreamfleet's labor, and the sight of blood had not bothered her in the least. Nor had it caused any nightmares to find her in the night.

But that was not the reason she had not wanted to leave her bed on that morning. She was ashamed, for how could she have spoken to the king in such a way?

Common women in Dol Amroth were often beaten for such a thing, and sometimes divorced as well. While her father would never physically harm her, even for such a terrible insurrection, she would still be punished. His disappointment and embarrassment would be far worse than any discipline, in her opinion. But he was not here, and she would have to face the consequences according to the king's standards. She paused in this thought. Would he punish her at all? Last night, he had not seemed bothered by her words in the slightest. Was such blatant disrespect tolerated here?

Now the thought which she had been avoiding filtered into her mind: the kiss. He had kissed her! It was outrageously inappropriate, but that was not her initial thought of the experience. She found it...strange. Strange but nice. She did not want to admit it to herself, but she thought she may have liked it. Or she would like it, were it less unexpected and she knew what to do when he kissed her.

This was more confusion to add to her already heavy burden of mind. Her nightmares for the past years since the war had been increasing leading up to her journey to Rohan, and she had begun to fear that her father or brothers would discover her after a breakdown. Now the apprehension of the king discovering her disobedience was filling her mind—for he had become close to it, after the most recent nightmare. If he did find out, surely he would send her back. What man would want damaged goods? To her, it was clear that no man would wish to marry a woman so weak and easily disturbed.

For the years of misery it had caused, Lothíriel had long since wondered if she had done the right thing, disobeying Denethor's orders to flee with the nobles. It had seemed so right at the time—after all, dying men that protected their city were far more important than her own safety. If Minas Tirith fell, what would her safety be worth anyway? But she knew she had been little help to the healers, untrained and squeamish as she was. More a hindrance—for what it not her negligence that brought about the death of a trained healer from that horrible orc?

Lothíriel squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will her frantically beating heart to slow. Unbidden images rose in her mind, and a small whimper escaped her. Her fingers clenched on a tepid cup of tea. Not again . . .

A soft knock sounded at the door. Lothíriel took a deep breath, thinking that it was Hamwyn. "Enter," she said, her voice cracking.

But it was not Hamwyn who entered. It was the king! Lothíriel's free hand immediately flew to her dressing gown, which was only haphazardly covering her breasts. Blushing, she could only stare as he took in the sight of her.

"So, this is where you have been shut away," he said, sounding casual though his warm eyes were filled with worry. "I was hoping to see you today. When you did not attend supper I asked Hamwyn where I could find you."

Hamwyn, the traitoress. "I apologize for my absence, my lord. I will attend my duties tomorrow," Lothíriel said, standing and dipping into as proper a curtsy as she could manage, in her nightdress and holding a cup of tea. the king continued to watch her, his face twitching.

"I do not know whether to laugh or shake you," he sighed. "You have no duties at this time. Do quit the formality, Lothíriel, it makes me blasted uncomfortable."

Her blush felt like it would never fade. They stood, avoiding each other's gaze, until the king seemed to pull himself out of his reverie. "I apologize for disturbing you," he said. "I will leave now—"

"No!"

Had that truly come from her mouth? So many years of controlling her tongue, and of late it had taken on a life of its own. Lothíriel pressed her lips together as the king raised his brows. "No?" he asked. At her silence, he continued, "Would you prefer for me to stay?"

Lothíriel bit her lip. She was experiencing many rapid thoughts, mainly how she ought not to spend time alone with a man and how much she wanted to do just that. Propriety had long flown out the window; a few minutes' conversation would not harm anyone. His presence filled the room with warmth and safety, which she did not want to yield quite yet. Oh, she wanted him to stay!

"Th—there is tea, if you would like," she said, waving her hand clumsily and forgetting that the teapot would be cold by now. The king smiled, and she dropped her gaze. She heard him fetch a chair, and sunk into her own as he placed his so that they were facing each other. Her back was ramrod straight, as it ought to be, and she wrung the folds of her dressing gown between her sweating hands. Lothíriel would see her father's disapproving face in her mind's eye, and his voice echoed. Show respect.

"My lord, I apologize for the scene I caused yesterday," she said. "And especially for—calling you an unfortunate string of rude names. I should not have treated you so."

"On the contrary," the king said, watching her closely. "I deserve every whit of your censure. I would rather you forgive me for my quick judgment and poor temper."

He was apologizing to her? Her confusion reached an unprecedented high. No man had ever apologized to her before, nor had she seen her father or brothers show the regard to any woman which the king had just shown to her. He was, in fact, treating her so warmly that Lothíriel began to wonder what merit there was in cold and unfamiliar arranged marriages. It was almost as if...he was her friend. She had never had an intimate friend before.

"Are you well, Lothíriel?" the king's voice broke through her thoughts. "You do not look at all well."

"I—" She intended to lie, to say that she was well, but it stuck in her throat. Her lingering thoughts of the healing houses had left her feeling fragile, lacking the strength to pretend wellness.

"Lothíriel…" His tone betrayed nothing but concern. "You are awfully pale. Does this have anything to do with your nightmares?"

Oh, he knew! How could he have known? Her lips trembled, and wishing with all her heart for the king's good opinion, she blurted, "I should not have stayed behind! I did not know that I would be recognized, or even that we would survive the war at all!"

The king seemed a bit startled at her passionate words, but Lothíriel found she could not stop.

"I did not want to die, chased to the ground after the Dark Lord razed my country," she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "If I was to die, it would be on my terms. I—I wanted to help, if I could. And so when Denethor gave the order to flee, I hid in a closet until the guards passed my father's house. I was alone—my father and brothers were on the Pelennor, and our servants were so frightened that they left without searching for me. I did not want to die away from home!" At this she felt as if she were pleading with the king, begging him to understand. Her hand twitched, as she wanted to hold his for reassurance.

"I understand," he said quietly. "Do go on."

Lothíriel explained how she snuck to the healing houses, giving a false name to the head healer in order to be allowed to stay. Though untrained, there was much running of errands and fetching supplies for her to do. She paused at this point in her telling, unsure of how to proceed. Ought she to inform him of her lingering trauma? Would he understand?

She answered that question to herself, almost at once. Of course he would understand! Did he not see the killing first hand? Lothíriel looked up, meeting his eyes. "I could not sleep for weeks," she murmured. "Even after returning to Dol Amroth, long after the war ended. The blood and the screams...they were too much for me to handle. I had never even seen an animal butchered before!" She bit back a sob. "You must think me the greatest coward!"

"No."

Surprised, she saw the seriousness with which the king uttered the word. In fact, he was looking rather sternly at her. "You are not a coward, Lothíriel, and you must never think so. You stayed behind even in the face of death, when so many others were too willing to flee! For that, you are one of the bravest women I know."

Lothíriel stared at him. Without warning, he grinned back.

"My dear girl! That does explain something to me."

"It—it does?"

"Indeed! I spent some time in Dol Amroth after the war. You do not remember, do you?"

"I do not! I would have remembered!" At this profession, Lothíriel blushed, which made the king's smile widen.

"Your despair is not uncommon to those who have witnessed such monstrosities. You spent much time in your mind, trying to force yourself to forget, no? That is what made you blind to your surroundings. I can say that with confidence, as I do have some experience in the matter."

Lothíriel strained her mind, trying to remember the summer after the war was ended. She did not remember very much of it at all, except for a few scattered memories of which books she had read and how many pillow covers she had embroidered. She did recall, however, with perfect clarity the fear that she had felt following her every footstep. The feeling still crept on her sometimes; she was unlikely to forget it soon. Had the king truly visited her home?

She was brought back to the present as the king pulled his chair closer to hers, his warm eyes fastened on her face. "Do not think me forward, Lothíriel, but I find you most adorable when you are processing your thoughts."

Her mouth parted in surprise at this comment, and emboldened by the private thoughts she had already shared, she said, "It is most forward, my lord! Truly, we should not be alone together until after we are wed."

"Is that the standard for Gondorian betrothals, then?"

"Indeed!"

"I don't like it."

"You are not required to; merely to follow it."

The king's expression soured, and as it reminded her of a spoiled child, Lothíriel felt a laugh building in her. To her horror, a snort escaped her lips. Her hand flew to her face, a flush spreading across her cheeks as the king looked at her quizzically. "I beg your pardon!" she said.

"For what?"

"For my unladylike snort. It is most unbecoming for a woman to laugh, let alone in front of her betrothed!"

"Unbecoming?" the king scowled. "That is utter shit."

"Oh!"

"Lothíriel, I cannot go on without telling you how ridiculous your Gondorian properties are! Perhaps our barbaric, Northern ways offend Gondorians, but your manners offend me worse. It horrifies me that a man as courageous and kind as Imrahil has beaten you down in such a way!"

"He has not beaten me down!" Lothíriel protested. "There is nothing wrong with my behavior, it is how I was taught to act. It is expected of me, a princess of Gondor, to uphold the highest standards of behavior, as terrible as they seem to you!"

"So you are saying that the standards for your public behavior make you happy? You are content to follow them."

Lothíriel hesitated. "Well—that is to say, I do not mind them anymore—"

The king shook his head, his brows drawn together in consternation. "Then you have been beaten down. Where is your spirit, Lothíriel? It emerged to direct you to the healing houses: have you shut it away again? How could you allow someone else's expectations to have such control over you?"

"Duty, my lord, is the beginning and end of it. You may find me strange, but it is how I have always been!"

"And is it how you will be going forward? Without your father or brothers dictating your every move?"

His questions struck Lothíriel dumb. She had been feeling increasingly unsettled for the entire evening, and now with such a climax she could not offer another defense. This would take further thought—much further thought.

"I am sorry if I have bothered you," the king said, sensing her discomfort. "It was not my intent."

"It is merely my inborn habits that are bothered," Lothíriel said. "Perhaps that is not such a bad thing." As she said it, she knew it was true—and smiled at the king. He responded in kind, his grin flickering wickedly in the firelight before settling back in his chair.

"Let me tell you about my sister," he said.

Éomer could not focus on the figures in front of him. His eyes were burning from trying to concentrate on his task, and for the thousandth time since he became king, he pitied himself for not being prepared. He should have been more attentive to his lessons as a child! Mathematics had come naturally to Eowyn, but not to him, and now he was suffering for his lack of diligence.

As if his wandering thoughts weren't enough—the presence of Lothíriel in a chair near him was even more of a distraction. Every few moments he could not help but sneak a glance at her poised figure and her serene features calmly embroidering...something. He had no idea what. But he did smile, to think of how she had come to join him that evening…

It had been just after supper, and as Éomer gave Lothíriel his hand to help her stand, he had been surprised to see her smiling openly at him. "Thank you, sire," she said. "And may I say—I do hope there will be no nighttime outings tonight. I am rather short on my sleep, I am afraid." He grinned at her, remembering the night he had forced her to endure the trauma of birthing a foal, as well a few nights previously when they had stayed up until dawn talking.

"I have no outings planned," he said with a grin.

"Then good night, sire." She began to curtsey, but he held her hand fast, knowing that she could not continue without taking her hand away, which he also knew she would consider rude.

"Do not do that," Éomer said, his voice harsher than he had intended. He tried to catch her eye, unsuccessfully.

"I apologize, my lord," she said.

"No more of this my-lording, either," he added. "I think we have come quite to the point where you may call me Éomer."

Her face was impassive. "If you wish, my lord."

He bit back a groan. She was impossible! All he wanted was to speak to her naturally, and to have her respond. He wanted them to be easy with one another, like they had begun to do a few night earlier! He wanted her to enjoy his company! "May I walk you back?" he asked at last. "I do not wish you to resprain your ankle!"

Her cheeks turned rosy, and he resisted the urge to touch them. "You may," she said. "Just this once!"

"Such a tease!" he said, enjoying her deepening flush. He stepped down from the dais, lifting her by her waist to set her down on the floor. "The steps are a bother," he murmured to her red face, and tucked her arm through his. The corridors were deserted; most servants were occupied in clearing the meal or in the kitchens. The soldiers who ate in the hall were long gone, either to the nearest tavern or to the training grounds.

"Thank you for your assistance, sire."

"So I may assume that you are spending the evening in?" Éomer asked.

"I am, my lord," she said. He gave her pointed look, which she did not see as her eyes remained downward. He barely refrained from begging her to call her by his name.

"And what are your plans? No more births—equine or otherwise?"

He could see her brows draw together. "I planned neither of those!" She cleared her throat after this exclamation, and continued, "I am only going to pursue my embroidery, sire."

"Alone?"

"Certainly, my lord."

"That does sound more pleasant than my evening," He pulled a woeful face. "I am stuck calculating accounts and budgets."

"Alone?" Lothíriel asked, the barest trace of teasing in her voice.

"Unfortunately, yes," he sighed. "If only I could have the company of another to keep me from insanity…"

They had arrived at her door, and Éomer could see that she was hesitating. "I—" she began, then stopped.

"Go on!" he said.

"If it were proper, I would join you," she said in a rush.

"Oh, it is proper," he assured her.

"To you, perhaps. Not to me, and not to my father."

"Well, I am the king here," Éomer said. "And I rule that it is perfectly proper."

Lothíriel had frowned at that. "I suppose you are right."

"I am always right. Fetch what you need! No need to dally."

Now he continued to study her from the corner of his eye. She had not moved from her seat since they arrived, electing to sit silently in the farthest chair from his desk. Some company. How could she even see what she was sewing, so far from the fire that warmed his back? He slumped in his chair, fidgeting with the quill in his hand. His conscience was berating him—if he had known she would prove such a distraction, he should not have invited her. How else would the accounts be finished? The court treasurer had asked for them by the following day.

"Are you having difficulty, my lord?" the princess's quiet voice reached him, her eyes never leaving her work.

"Ah..." Éomer sat up, shaking his head and looking down at the parchment, where a half-finished calculation had been abandoned several minutes ago. "Why do you ask?" he said finally.

"You are fussing."

"Mathematics are not my strong suit," he admitted.

"What are you calculating?"

"The interest we are supposed to pay on the borrowed grain from Gondor." The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. Éomer wished he had not admitted his country's poverty to his betrothed—what did she think of him?

"Calculating interest is a matter of a simple equation," Lothíriel said, and she stood and walked to the desk, looking concerned. He marvelled at this—she was approaching him? She stopped close to him, picking up the parchment and running her eyes down the numbers. She smiled. Éomer grew alarmed.

"Your multiplication here is wrong," she said, pointing a finger at a number towards the top of the page. "That has, ah, ruined all your sums."

He groaned. "I should not have bunked all my schoolwork as a youth."

"It is a simple fix! I will show you." She placed the parchment down, dropping her embroidery on the desk as well. She picked up the quill, and began scribbling. "You forgot to carry the two," she explained. He watched her hair fall over her shoulder. "That will change that answer, and if you apply it to the equation—" More scratching. Éomer saw her breath raise and lower her bosom. "There!" she said, all too soon. "That is your correct amount. It really is easy, my lord—" she turned to him, catching his gaze. "If I can do it, you certainly can as well."

"It is too late for me to learn," he said, his throat feeling dry. "Can you tell me if my other calculations correct?"

She bent over the desk, attention returned to the sums. He saw with interest that she was resting her elbow on the table. How distracted she must be! Daringly, he placed his hands on her waist and pulled her down into a sitting position on his lap—he did not want her back to get sore from leaning over, after all. She did not notice, scratching away at his reprehensible arithmetic. Éomer pulled the stray hair from her shoulder, smoothing it down her back and watching it glint in the firelight. Still she did not notice. He was considering the potential repercussions of kissing her creamy shoulder, when she stopped her work and straightened.

"Did you see the changes I made on this calculation?" she asked. "If you use the equation I did, it would cut out—" Lothíriel had turned her head to him to explain, and Éomer jerked back to the present. She frowned. "You were not watching!" she accused.

"Oh, I was watching," he said. "Not your, er—captivating mathematics, but I was watching."

"Watching what?" Her brows creased in confusion, and Éomer nearly laughed.

"You," he said.

"Me? What on earth for? You should have been paying attention to the sums."

"You are far more interesting."

Her mouth fell open in a small O. Then her cheeks flushed red—had she finally noticed her position?—and Éomer grinned.

"You are deplorable!" Lothíriel exclaimed.

"Yes," he said. "But you have not moved." It satisfied him greatly to see her blush deepen, spreading across her neck.

"No, I have not," she said coolly, her chin lifting. "It would be most rude to refuse such a comfortable seat, when it is offered by a king."

"Comfortable, is it?" Éomer asked, placing a hand on her waist to draw her closer. She was awfully stiff, but he was determined.

"Too comfortable." Her blush was not fading, nor had she taken her gaze from his face.

"Béma, Lothíriel! What would your father say to hear you speak so?"

"He would say that I am too flighty to marry a king."

"What if the king likes flighty?"

"No, no," she corrected. "Kings are only allowed to like what is proper."

"Then it is probably not worth being a king!"

She sighed, her head drooping slightly. "Nor a princess."

Her hair had fallen over her shoulder again, and once more Éomer pushed it back. Her skin was very warm, and very inviting, and—

He was not sure who moved first, Lothíriel or himself, but it did not signify. What was important, was that she was kissing him with more emotion and passion than he had seen from her yet. He pulled her even closer, enjoying the feel of her soft body pressed so close to his own. Her breathing was ragged, and her hands were hot as they tangled in his hair.

Éomer pulled away at last, desperate for air, and choked out, "I did not know you enjoyed mathematics so much!"

She was breathing heavily, staring at him with both confusion and wonderment in her eyes. He stroked her back, feeling her tremble under his touch, and he smiled.

"I—I am sorry," Lothíriel said. "My sincere apologies, my lord, I—"

"No!" Éomer grasped her hands and held them fast. "Call me by my proper name."

She bit her lip, and he almost kissed her again, so adorable was she! "Is it not bad enough that I am kissing a man to whom I am not married?" she asked. "A troth could be broken for such an offence!"

He suppressed a sneer. "A troth could be broken for a lack of kissing," he muttered. "Kissing is usually such a good indicator of—ah, compatibility."

"It is an indicator of wantonness," Lothíriel said, and her stubborn voice cut through the tension that simmered between them. "I am embarrassed."

"Do not be," Éomer said. "I enjoyed it very much."

She tilted her head, considering this information. Then she opened her mouth, and said, "So did I." This concession he did not expect, and he smiled at her. Surprisingly, she smiled back, and her whole face lit with the joy of it. A strange, tingly feeling made Éomer shiver.

"I ought to retire," she said softly. "It is getting late."

"Good night then, Lothie," he said, and gave her a push off of his lap, and she was obviously disinclined from moving herself. She gathered up her things before walking to the door. Just as she was about to disappear through, she turned back, and with a smile, said,

"Good night, Éomer."

Lothíriel strode confidently from her chamber, the day feeling bright and full of hope. When exactly she had decided to shed all pretense of trying to please her father, she did not know. Likely it had been while her lips were pressed to Éomer's the night before.

It was a lovely, sunny morning, and she was determined to enjoy a stroll in the garden. It seemed the right thing to do: chirping birds, blooming flowers, and a pleasant summer breeze would fit her mood completely. Even Hamwyn had noticed this drastic change, when she had brought her morning breakfast tray.

"Ye look very well this morning, madam," Hamwyn had said.

"I feel very well, thank you," Lothíriel had smiled then, shocking the poor woman.

"Och! I see yer malaise has passed then, eh?"

She was embarrassed to think of her recent behavior: it had not been seen as healthy or happy to anyone in Meduseld, which she was only beginning to understand. In Dol Amroth, a woman who did her duty without complaint was considered well, but in Rohan if a woman did not express her happiness, others thought her sad or angry. And so Lothíriel determined to show that she was not the miserable creature which she had been, until last night.

She nearly sighed to think of Éomer—Éomer! What a handsome name—and of the way he'd looked at her. There was something magical in his gaze, something in his warm eyes that made her feel so, so…

Lothíriel stopped mid-step, surprised to see that the garden was not uninhabited, as it often was in the morning. A defeated looking figure was slumped on a stone bench, and as she crept forward bravely, she saw that it was the king!

He was leaning over with his head on his hands, looking remarkably small for a man of his stature. Lothíriel felt that she had been hit in the stomach—how could he look so broken when she felt so alive? She placed a hand on his rigid shoulder, and in a tremulous voice, said, "Éomer?"

He jerked, and looked up to meet her gaze with bloodshot eyes. His lips did curl into a shadow of a smile—for her, she hoped—and then his face drained again. "I apologize," he said, his tone heavy and forbidding. "I am not myself this morn."

Lothíriel did not know what to do. She had no training or education for this. So she did what she wanted: she sat down next to him, and clasped his hand tightly in her own, before kissing it gently. Éomer stared at her.

"If—if you want, you may tell me of your troubles," she said. She had never made such an offer to anyone before. No one she had known would have welcomed such a thing. But Éomer was different, and she wanted him to smile again.

"Lothíriel..." he murmured. "I am not at all fit company for you."

"Nonsense. You look as if you ought not to be alone."

Another wan smile crossed his face. He hesitated before asking, "Do you remember when you told me of your nightmares of the war?"

She nodded, her stomach twisting sickly. Suddenly his expression did not seem so mysterious. She knew exactly how he was feeling, and her heart ached.

Éomer sighed, tightening his grip on her fingers. "I should have told you then that I suffer from nightmares as you may have drawn comfort from it! But I was worried that you would find me repulsive, or cowardly, or—"

"Stop." Lothíriel covered his mouth with her hand, her brows furrowing. "You told me then that I was not a coward for experiencing nightmares. Now must I say the same to you?"

"It would not be true," he growled. "I am far more accustomed to gore and blood. You were sheltered, it is only to be expected."

"Only to be expected? Because I am fragile? Because I do not know hardship? You grant me mercy and yet refuse it for yourself because...because—"

"You ought to be protected," Éomer said, his gaze hard and intense. "You must be protected. You, and our mothers, and sisters, and daughters. War is not glory. I am truly sorry for your pain, but that does not excuse my own. I should have a better handle on myself; I am hardly fit to be king as is."

The sunny day was no longer looking so bright. How could it have descended into misery so quickly? Lothíriel exerted her willpower to not break down completely. "Éomer," she began, placing a hand on his face as he tried to turn away from her. "Éomer! You must listen. If you are allowed to tell me how I may feel, then I can certainly do the same for you. Is that not how things are done in the Mark?"

He frowned, waiting for her to continue. She took a deep breath.

"You are not weak for fearing your memories. Nor are you weak for when your mind recalls with perfect clarity the horrors you exert your all your strength to forget. That is simply human. Just as is the opportunity to forget again tomorrow. You may trust me in this!" Lothíriel smiled at him, and without the previous intention to do so, leaned forward and kissed him.

It took only one or two surprised moments before Éomer responded, pulling her close and kissing her back without abandon, nearly lifting her off of the bench. He seemed more brutal than normal; his previous kisses had been gentle and coaxing, but now he seemed desperate. Lothíriel held tight to his arms, feeling his muscles flex under her touch. Her heart was hammering.

A giggle burst from her lips, and she pulled her head back slightly, not surrendering her grip on him. "I am very relieved, my lord, that you are not upset because of our behavior last night!"

He smiled, looking significantly better though a shadow still lurked around his eyes. "I would never!" he declared. "My own restlessness is to blame, I fear. Perhaps you, a little bit. I found sleep very difficult to find last night. That is what brought my dreams so close." He wrapped her tightly in an embrace, setting his chin on the top of her head. She could feel his words rumbling in his chest, making her stomach flutter.

"I apologize," Lothíriel said into his tunic. "But only a little bit."

Éomer chuckled. "We certainly have our problems, you and I. I suppose a decent night's sleep will be a rare thing, when we are wed!"

"Why should it?" she asked.

He paused before speaking. "Because when one of us wakes in torment, it stands to reason that the other will too."

"Good heavens! I am not that light of a sleeper. I will not hear you from across Meduseld!"

"Across Meduseld?" They broke apart, Éomer looking flabbergasted and Lothíriel feeling like she had said the wrong thing. "Lothíriel, my dear girl, are you completely unaware that most married couples share a bed?"

She considered this, recalling to mind the vague explanations of her governesses before she said, "I thought that only happened when a child was made, otherwise they sleep separately."

Éomer groaned and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Lothíriel stared, utterly mystified. "I am not the person that should be telling you this," he said at last. "Actually, I ought to be meeting with my marshals right now."

It was disappointing; she had hoped for more time with her betrothed. Her sentiment must have shown, for he picked up her hand with a grin.

"Would you care to join me?" he asked. "Now is a good time as any to familiarize yourself with what a monarch of the Mark does. Elfhelm and Erkenbrand are not terribly difficult to get along with, as long as you are not an orc!"

Lothíriel allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, tucking her arm through Éomer's with a coy glance. "My lord, I have been trained to be a queen or its equivalent my entire life. I dare you to give me a challenge I cannot overcome!"

"What if you were required to give a speech in front of one hundred people?" he grinned down at her.

Her bravado dissipated. "A Gondorian queen then. One that sits in the background and looks pretty."

"You have that down pat," Éomer chuckled, leading her into the hall. "A prettier queen I could not have asked for!"

"Not even Queen Arwen?"

He cleared his throat, and to her astonishment he seemed to be avoiding her gaze. "She was unavailable," he said, his voice gruff. She had not expected such a response, and the remainder of their walk to the king's study was in silence. Lothíriel had meant to rib him, but he had not seemed to take it well at all. "Lothíriel," he said in a low voice as he opened the door for her. "You are getting rather too good at the teasing, I think."

"Is that—bad?"

"No…" Éomer studied her closely. "But I suppose I do not enjoy being teased all the time."

His expression reminded her somewhat of a surely adolescent, and she nearly laughed. "That is truly a tragedy," she said sympathetically. "Ah, well. Woe is thee!" She received a scowl from him—most uncharacteristic—and he led her to a chair at the table, pulling it out so that she might sit. There was a pounding on the door, and it swung open without waiting for permission. Two men—one tall, lean, and ginger and the other broad, blond and hairy—burst through, railing at each other as if in the midst of an argument. Lothíriel stared at them, the chamber feeling unaccountably close. Éomer patted her shoulder, and then pulled a chair close to her to sit himself. He leaned over to whisper,

"They do not get along very well."

She could barely hear him over the loud conversation, which was in Rohirric. "Why do they not get along?" she asked in a murmur.

"They courted the same woman in their youth."

"Really!"

"Indeed. She chose to marry Elfhelm. Erkenbrand had not the humility to concede gracefully, and Elfhelm rather lorded it over him. They were close friends before they met Berghild."

Lothíriel looked upon the argument with new eyes, one part of the explanation astonishing her greatly. "She—chose?"

"Of course. It did concern her, after all." Éomer turned to her with an odd expression. "Does that surprise you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Gondorian women do not choose their husbands."

Éomer stiffened, straightening in his chair. Lothíriel noticed that he was clenching the armrest with white knuckles. "I should have known," he muttered to himself. Before Lothíriel could respond, he cut into the argument with a rapid stream of Rohirric, and the men turned away from each other to greet Éomer, though they remained tense. "This is Lothíriel, princess of Dol Amroth," Éomer said in Westron, and he gestured towards her. "My betrothed."

The ginger man strode forward, leaving the blond man scowling behind him. "My lady," he said, bowing low over her proffered hand. "It is an honor to meet you at last. I am Elfhelm."

"Good day, Elfhelm," Lothíriel said, feeling uncomfortable as he pressed his lips to her hand.

The blond man elbowed forward, and Elfhelm dropped her hand. "I am Erkenbrand, my lady," the blond man said, also kissing her hand. "You are as enchanting as Éomer described." Now she blushed fully, taking her hand away before she lost all dignity. Then men took their seats, across the table from one another with more glaring.

"I would like to read your cavalry reports, if you have them," Éomer said. Once two scrolls of parchment were placed before them, he broke into the first and began to skim through it, ignoring the tense silence. Lothíriel could not, and her eyes wandered around the room to avoid looking at Elfhelm or Erkenbrand. Éomer opened the second scroll. "Thank you for the reports," he said at last, and the silence was broken. "As long as you have already made copies for your records, I shall send these to my clerk."

"I have mine already," Erkenbrand said, overlapping with Elfhelm saying, "Go on ahead." More scowls were sent across the table. Lothíriel heard a small sigh from Éomer. She tried to send him an encouraging smile, but he avoided her gaze. She began to feel that she had said or done something wrong—but what had it been?

"Right then," Éomer said. "Let us discuss the disbanded foot soldiers. I need to know how many of your troops have yet to attain an occupation; those remaining out-of-work will need to…"

Lothíriel settled herself in, preparing for a very long meeting indeed.

Éomer watched with interest as Lothíriel entered the hall. Uncharacteristically late for supper, he had been anticipating seeing her again since their interesting discussion the night before. He could only surmise, from her slightly-nauseous expression and the way she avoided looking at him, that Hamwyn had sorted out Lothíriel's conceptions of child-making. She sat by him as a servant pulled out the chair for her, her back stiff and her face rather pale.

"Good evening, Lothie," he said, striving for normality. "I have not seen much of you today."

She touched a spoon with trembling fingers before withdrawing them to clench her hands in her lap. "I have returned the book to the library," she said in a quiet voice.

"But why? Now that you know what they are all about, they ought to provide far more amusement for you."

Lothíriel finally looked at him—or rather, glared. He pinched his lips together to keep from laughing, for he could imagine the distress and embarrassment she was likely suffering from at the moment. Éomer had experienced the same feelings the previous night, and now he was recovered enough to find the entire situation most amusing.

"I apologize for my behavior," she said, her words measured. "It was rude, especially under the circumstances."

"It was normal," Éomer said. "I was not offended then; I am not offended now."

"You should be," Lothíriel muttered, lowering her eyes. "Any Gondorian man would be disgraced by my wanton ways."

"I like your wanton ways," he said, and picked up one of her chilled hands to bring to his lips. "Do not be embarrassed, my girl. I enjoyed it immensely."

"You did not look as though you did at the time."

"I enjoy it now that it is a memory."

Lothíriel bit her lip, looking as if she were far away in thought. Éomer recalled to mind his favorite of the poems: There, in the sulk of her bottom lip, I find myself believing in a heaven that only exists when she is looking at me. The words were suddenly far more meaningful; his stomach turned, his heart thudded, his mind went blank and his mouth dry, all at once. "Look at me!" he said in a hoarse whisper, too disturbed to be polite. She did so, and the sight of her blue-grey eyes hit him like a punch in the gut. Pink color suffused her face. Béma! He was in deeper waters than he expected, and he dropped her hand as he would a hot coal.

The tension was broken as a line of servants entered, beginning to clear away platters and plates as those having finished their meal stood and began to mingle about. "I am afraid you missed supper," Éomer said, and then cleared his throat. "Though if you wish for something, I am sure—"

"I have little appetite tonight," the princess said. "Do not trouble yourself—or anyone else—for my sake."

The cleared tables were in the process of being moved to one side of the hall, and several people were pulling out an array of instruments. "I hope you will dance with me tonight," Éomer said, remembering how Lothíriel had acted as though she was fastened to the wall during previous nights of dancing.

"That would be terribly inappropriate," she said, surveying him with level eyes. How he wished he could hear her thoughts.

"Not here. So, will you agree—or will I be forced to order you about?"

Lothíriel's brows furrowed for a moment before she relaxed, a smile drawing her lips upward. "If you did order me, I would have no choice and could not be held accountable for whatever mischief you force me into."

"Come on then; your betrothed commands you." Éomer grinned as he took Lothíriel's hands in his, helping her to stand. He noticed how tiny her hands felt in his own. Whatever Hamwyn had explained to her, he dearly wished that his princess would not be frightened of him. She was so small—by his standards, at least. The top of her glossy black hair barely reached his chest. She looked up, interrupting his musings with a look of concern on her face.

"I do not know any Rohirric dances," she said, and cast him an inscrutable glance. The first set had already begun, and dancers were swirling about, a din of talking and laughing filling the room.

"I will teach you."

A blush lit her cheeks, and Éomer loved the sight of it. "I was hoping you would."

He lead her to a corner of the hall, where few dancers and observers milled about, and the music remained audible. "Tell me," he said. "How do they dance in Gondor?"

"Men and women dance separately," Lothíriel said at once. "Apart from a few special occasions—weddings, coronations, and so forth. When men and women do dance, it is only with a blood relative or one's spouse, and even then, only the hands may touch."

Éomer's hand was already running across her waist, pulling her close to him. "I am glad we are not in Gondor," he murmured at her alarmed expression.

"It—it is extraordinarily dull," she said, seeming on the verge of babbling as she flushed. "Amrothos was always the worst—dancing makes him sulky."

"I promise not to be sulky. Do you see the steps?"

Lothíriel glanced toward the other dancers, and she concentrated for a moment before saying, "It does not seem terribly complicated."

"Of course not! It is difficult to enjoy oneself when one is preoccupied with where they are going."

"But if one does not pay attention to where one is going—"

Éomer silenced her as he squeezed her hand, and Lothíriel looked up at him with trepidation. "Trust me," he said in a low voice. "I promise that we will have no mishaps."

With that, he began to swing her around, enjoying foremost the look of panic upon her face as she looked down at her feet, presumably to keep from tripping. Then he noticed the feel of her warmth on his hand that rested on her waist, and her opposite hand held onto his with desperation. After several moments Lothíriel lifted her eyes. They remained worried, even in the dimmer light, and he could not take his gaze from her. Her cheeks turned red, and she stumbled. He caught her from falling over, but in the process accidently brushed his hand against her breast. She flinched away from him, and once she was steady once more she fixed him with a deathly glare.

"Éomer," Lothíriel said in a stern voice. "That will not do."

"It was an accident," he protested, his ears feeling rather hot.

"Was it? After what I read last night, I am not so convinced!"

Éomer felt sheepish, and he tried to take her hands once more. "It will not happen again," he said. "Please let us carry on…"

Her eyes began to twinkle, and he stared, astonished. "Is my flirting improving?" she asked, her lashes fluttering sweetly at him.

"Why—why, you—!"

Lothíriel stepped in close to him again, smiling at him as he felt his heart stutter. "I know it was an accident," she said. "But I could not resist taking advantage."

"Minx," he muttered, still feeling put out but obliging her to continue the dance. She was biting her lips together, and he recognized the sign of a woman very much wishing to laugh. "Go on, then," he said with a sigh. "Have your fun."

The princess giggled. Éomer did enjoy the sight and sound of it, but not so much when it was at his expense. He had to recover some ground. "There are many other ways to flirt," he said. "Which are less distressing to the receiver."

"Do tell," Lothíriel murmured.

"By touch," he said, matching her low tone as he looked intently into her eyes. To demonstrate, he brushed his hand on her waist up her back, touching her just enough for her skin to feel it. And indeed, he felt goosepimples as he rested his fingers on her spine just where her gown ended, a few inches below her neck.

"My!" she said. "That was enlightening. Perhaps—would it be like this?" He had already been feeling the sensation of her skirt against his legs during the course of the dance, and as she held back a smile, he felt her leg against his. And again. The music in the hall suddenly felt very far away, and Éomer felt drunk on the sight and feel of her.

"I think perhaps your skills surpass mine in this field," he said, his throat constricting. "And with such little practice—I rather feel like a dunce."

The warm, heaviness in her gaze dissipated somewhat, and Éomer was able to catch his breath. "Please do not," Lothíriel pleaded. "You have taught me everything I know."

"You know too much! I am quite at your mercy, madam."

She returned his smile. "I look forward to taking advantage of that."

The dance concluded with them locked in a hot, tense silence. Éomer continued holding her close, feeling the rise and fall of her breath against his body. "I—I like Rohirric dances," Lothíriel said.

He chuckled, and released her, knowing that if he did not he would have a harder time letting her go later. Cool air spread between them, and he saw a trace of a pout on her face. "They are my preference as well," he said, and hoped it would be enough. "Unfortunately, I see Elfhelm coming this way. I suspect it is not me that he wants."

Lothíriel, sweet and unassuming as she was, seemed surprised by Elfhelm eagerly asking her to dance with him. She looked to Éomer for permission, and he shrugged. "You choose your partners," he said. She cast him a doubtful glance, but turned to Elfhelm with a pleasant smile, accepting his arm. Éomer watched her form glide to a busier part of the hall, his stomach feeling as if he was filled with lead. Why was Elfhelm still in Edoras, anyway? Should he not have departed for Aldburg after their meeting? He made a mental note to discuss it with his marshal at the earliest possible moment.

It was harder than he expected, to see his betrothed in the arms of another man. Éomer noticed a few of the younger men in the hall looking upon her with interest, and it turned his gut to see her the object of perverse scrutiny. They could only see her beauty, her lovely smile; not her kind heart or endearing manner. He nearly growled at the sight of one young man pointing her out to his friend before broke out into a whispered discussion. How dare they—this woman would be their queen!

It was several tense moments before Elfhelm returned Lothíriel to Éomer's side at the end of the set. He forced a brittle smile, for Lothíriel seemed perfectly relaxed and happy. "I did step on Elfhelm's foot once," she confessed, taking Éomer's hand as her dance partner released her. "But you taught me very well, Éomer, thank you. And thanks be to you, sir, for your forgiveness." Éomer discovered that he envied Elfhelm the dimpled smile he received. Lothíriel ought to be smiling at him, not his marshal!

"The pleasure was mine, princess," Elfhelm bowed low before taking his leave, and none too soon.

"Dance with me again," Éomer muttered, pulling Lothíriel close.

"Certainly. Though your tone leaves something to be desired…"

He did not miss her pointed look, though neither was he offended by her gentle reprimand. "I am sorry," he conceded. "I have not felt quite myself tonight."

A small smile crept on her face. "You have felt perfectly normal to me."

Éomer laughed, keeping her closer still as they began to whirl around the other dancers. Her words had made him hyper-aware of the placement of her hand on his arm, and he involuntarily flexed as his mind registered the warmth from it.

"Elfhelm is very kind," Lothíriel said, a considering expression on her face. "But I prefer dancing with you."

Éomer would accept that, though he may have preferred more. "That is well, princess, for I will allow you to dance with none but me the remainder of the night."

Her smile filled her face with light, and Éomer's heart with—well, love.

Lothíriel woke with a gasp, clutching her throat as she saw, in her mind's eye, a black blade descending upon it. She blinked in the darkness as her heart hammered and her limbs shook. The velvet hangings on her bed brought to her to the present—she was in Meduseld. She had survived the war. The orc had not killed her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying with all her might to suppress the memory of the healer who had worked alongside her, who had been the victim of the orc. The blood sprouting across the snowy white apron…

She sat up, wrenching herself out from under the covers, burying her feet in the thick rugs the covered the floor. Despite her dizziness, she stood, and ran her fingers through her hair and across her scalp as if she could physically scratch the memories from her mind. It did not work.

If it were daytime, she would wash herself, dress, and go for a ride. Riding was astonishingly helpful for easing one's anxieties, she had learned of late. But she could hardly do so in the pitch black of night. Lothíriel wrenched open the curtains, looking out to see if there was even a hint of dawn approaching. There was not, and her jaw clenched. She rubbed her trembling arms, panic making her thoughts erratic. What could she do? She had to do something. She could not return to her bed—she could not go for a ride—she could not—

What did Éomer do, when nightmares found him? This consideration calmed her emotions somewhat. What did he do when the fright made him shake and his sleep escaped from his grasp? Lothíriel was seized by an urge to ask him, to confer with him and find comfort with him! So often he had cheered her and brought her out of low spirits. But she could not justify bothering him.

She could, however, justify taking a turn down a few corridors. Perhaps that would help to release her nervous energy, and even exhaust her so that she could sleep once she returned to her bed. Lothíriel shrugged on her dressing-gown for modesty's sake; the clammy sweat across her body had yet to evaporate. The sound of the latch on her door as she lifted it sounded unnaturally loud in the dark quiet of Meduseld, and she tip-toed through and shut it behind her with an echoing click.

Lothíriel may have been petrified at the black of the corridors months ago. But desperation drove her forward, as well as the knowledge the Éomer would take her in dislike if he discovered that she was frightened of dark places. She wandered into the hall, the room seeming unnaturally empty and a bit spooky; she tightened her dressing gown around her shoulders and turned down another corridor. This one led to the kitchens, and for the sake of exercise Lothíriel walked to the end, and then retraced her steps. Next corridor, same process. Her footsteps made very little sound, and after some time she came to realize that her feet were bare. Forgetting her slippers! Such a discretion would be unthinkable in Dol Amroth, but Lothíriel simply smiled to herself and hoped her feet did not get too cold.

The last corridor she faced went to the king's chamber, and despite the darkness Lothíriel could see the outline of ornate carvings that surrounded his door. Slowly, she pressed forward, hoping that no guards were nearby and would think her intentions dishonorable. She stopped a few yards away from the door, wondering if Éomer was sleeping. But of course he was—it was the middle of the night, after all! At last she yawned, and began to feel tiredness return to her limbs.

She paused at the door to Éomer's study, and after a brief struggle with temptation, she lifted the latch and peeked in—empty. Moonlight shone through the open window, adding only to the peace that overcame her as she studied the chamber, considering.

Lothíriel entered the room.

Even the mere memory of Éomer's presence seemed to comfort her somehow; her fear began to melt away as she breathed in the sight and scent of—of him. With a sigh she sank into his great chair by the empty fireplace, tucking her feet underneath her as she leaned her head back. She thought of her betrothed; his easy laugh, his handsome face, his comforting presence and the way he kissed her...her eyes closed, and she drifted to sleep with a smile on her face.

...

A chuckle broke through Lothíriel's dreaming, and she blinked, rubbing her eyes as a shaft of sunlight made her wince. "My, my," a familiar voice said. "This is mighty suspect, do you not think, Lothie?"

She finally saw well enough to see before her—Éomer, of course, looking fresh and fully dressed for the day, grinning down at her with his arms crossed. The sun was shining brightly through the window, and her heart began to hammer. How long had she been there? "I—I am sorry," she said, unwinding herself from her position. Her muscles protested; she was awfully stiff. "I should not have—"

But he cut across her, asking. "Nightmare?"

"Y—yes."

"How long were you awake?"

His inquiry surprised her, and she stared at him before answering, "I woke after midnight. I took a few turns around Meduseld, perhaps for an hour or two."

"Are you still tired?"

"Yes, I suppose," she said, yawning on cue. "But it is morning—I shall go—"

"No." Éomer crouched by her, brushing some hair from her face as he looked intently at her, making her blush. "Lothie, you look exhausted! You ought to sleep more; no one will think worse of you for it."

It was not hard to convinced her, and with another yawn, Lothíriel nodded. "I shall search out my bed, then," she said, and started to rise. But Éomer rose before her, sweeping her into his arms like he had after she had sprained her ankle.

"That would be unnecessary," he said, his chest vibrating and making Lothíriel shiver oddly. "My bed is closer, and you are far less likely to be disturbed there."

"But—!"

He laughed as he shouldered through an adjacent door. "I am not joining you, sweet girl. I am going for a ride."

She swallowed her protests as she took in the great chamber around her; ornate tapestries, a massive chandelier, and a huge and neatly made bed. Éomer slid her in, feet first, under the heavy quilts; taking his time to tuck the blankets around her.

"You fit in perfectly," he said, grinning down at her with a substantial amount of insinuation. She bit her lip, forcing a weak smile. "Sleep well, then. I will see you later in the day." He dropped a kiss on her forehead, and left the room, flashing her a final, rather happy look before the door shut behind him.

Lothíriel yawned, stretching out and pulling the covers up to her nose, breathing in, warmth spreading across her skin. His study was dull compared to this—Éomer's scent was much stronger here, and she suppressed a giggle. Almost...almost she wished he had stayed, just to be with her. Someday—someday he would. That happy thought made it difficult for her to relax, but she forced her eyes closed and sought to reclaim her sleep.

…

Later, following a careful bit of maneuvering, Lothíriel returned to her own chamber, better rested and aching to see Éomer again. Hamwyn was waiting, being the one who had organized the maneuver, and wasted no time to help Lothíriel dress for luncheon. "I think I will eat in the hall this afternoon," she said, staring dreamily out the window as Hamwyn cinched her dress in the back.

"Very good, ma'am. By the by—there is a letter for ye on the writing desk. I was not sure if ye saw it."

The door closed behind Hamwyn, and Lothíriel finally pulled herself from her reverie to fetch the letter, written in her brother's hand. She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment to read—

Dear Sister,

I am returning to fetch you in Edoras early; you can expect me the last week of August. We will not linger before returning home as I am rather fed up with travelling. I thought you might be eager to leave the backward Rohan; I told Father you were too soft to live there permanently. He never seems to regard anything I say.

Best,

Erchirion

Lothíriel wadded the letter in a ball, throwing it at the fireplace though she could not see it through her tears. The parchment bounced off the wall and landed on the floor, where she stared at it in disgust.

A week early!

Her swelling happiness burst into a thousand pieces. She sniffed, brushing away the falling tears that were in danger of splattering on her dress. Frustration squeezed her heart, and for the first time in her life, Lothíriel wished she could rage and scream as much as she wanted. Erchirion was taking her away from Éomer a week early! The last week in August—that was only a fortnight away!

Lothíriel threw herself on her bed, clutching a pillow to her chest as she hiccuped, trying to keep her sobs silent. Then—with such little practice in self-control the last weeks—she buried her face in the pillow and wept thoroughly.

It was her own fault. She had been ignoring the fact that she would have to leave at the end of the summer, the prospect too painful to even admit. And now, with Éomer bringing her such joy, they would be wrenched apart for months and months until the wedding! The anguish made her moan, and she gripped the pillow tighter.

Eventually, her crying subsided enough that she sat up, sure that she looked horrible from her disgraceful show of unhappiness. Lothíriel splashed her face with cool water from the washstand, blowing her nose and smoothing down her dress and hair. She breathed deeply; as distressed as she was, she did not want to miss luncheon in the hall, where she was fairly certain Éomer would be. She would not lose another minute with him!

Her pride kept her chin high, though she felt intensely vulnerable on all fronts. The hall was noisy, but she entered and went straight to her regular seat, by which Éomer was already present. He saw her and stood, pulling out her chair for her.

"Thank you," she said, avoiding his eye as she felt his hot gaze sweep across her.

"I say, Lothie," his voice was low as he sat by her, pulling his chair close so that they could speak more privately. "Whatever is the matter?"

She sniffed, airing out the napkin provided and setting it on her lap. "What is for luncheon today?" she asked, forcing herself to sound bright. "I am ravenous." This was not true, of course. She was sure she could not force any food down at the moment.

Éomer reached out a hand, and she flinched as his finger brushed along her cheek. "I see faded tears," he said, his voice low. "Lothie…"

"I received a letter from Erchirion," Lothíriel said in a small voice. "He—he is coming a early, by a week. That means that—that I am—l—leaving—"

She felt his hands enclose hers, and she lowered her lashes. If she looked at him now, she would be done for. "Lothie, my sweet girl," he murmured by her ear. "I am sorry it distresses you so. No—do not think I am not distressed, for I am. But do not let it make you unhappy."

"I cannot help it," she said. "I have only just begun to—to—" Love you. She had barely begun to love him, and now he would be taken away. Her breathing quickened, and her eyes flew upwards to take in the sight of her betrothed; his earnest, searching expression as he studied her.

"It will be alright," Éomer said, his tone gentle. "Next June we will be married and you may stay here forever! Assuming, of course," he added, looking sheepish, "That you wish to."

"Of course I wish to." It was so easy to smile at him, even though her heart ached.

"There!" He grinned, and tilted up her chin before kissing her quickly. "It is only a winter. Nothing disastrous will happen; and you will be back for the wedding before you have a chance to miss me—er—us. The Mark. Before you begin to miss Hamwyn."

Lothíriel could see nothing but grassland in the front and to the sides of her; Meduseld had sunk behind them long ago. The air was fresh and untainted, and it whipped through her poorly braided hair as Moon Shadow tried to keep up with Éomer's stallion, which was seeming nigh impossible.

Éomer turned in his saddle then, his laugh disappearing in the rush of the wind as he saw her determinedly trying to keep pace. That he found it amusing she thought rather unfair; Firefoot was a much stronger, larger horse with years of experience and the king himself a far better rider than Lothíriel with her mere weeks of practice. She glowered at him as best she could before leaning down to whisper to Moon Shadow, who sprung forward.

They finally slowed when a river appeared before them, hidden beneath tall cattails and wild wheat. Éomer steered Firefoot around, who snorted as Moon Shadow tried to nip his rear. The king laughed again, and said, "I do not recall Moon Shadow having such an attitude. What on earth did you do to her, Lothie?"

"Nothing at all," Lothíriel said, shaking her head primly at him, though she could not hide her smile. "But I do not think she appreciates being outrun by you."

"I think she has taken on part of your personality. I am sure it is only a matter of time before you take a nip out of me!"

Lothíriel giggled, and waited for Éomer dismount before he lifted her from Moon Shadow's back, swinging her to the ground and planting a breathless kiss on her lips. She then wandered over to the river to take a peek at the rushing water, the peace of their isolated scene causing her adrenaline to fade. After several moments of enjoying the fresh air, she turned back. Éomer had taken the time to unsaddle the horses, who were grazing nearby.

"Was that necessary?" Lothíriel asked, walking back towards him.

"To my intentions, yes. I plan to keep you here for some time. Let them have their comfort, as we shall take ours!" Éomer held out his hand to hers, and she took it, feeling shy. The intense way his green eyes bore into hers made her feel a little jittery.

"It was a lovely ride," she said, swallowing her nervousness.

"Yes, it was, but I find the sight in front of me far lovelier than any vista."

Lothíriel ducked her head, blushing at his wide smile. "You ought to cease such exuberant compliments," she murmured. "You would not want me to grow arrogant."

"Be as arrogant as you like, Lothie. Béma knows you deserve it!" To her relief, he stopped the conversation there and laced her arm through his, heading back towards the river. "Let us walk ourselves before we take a rest."

She pushed her hair back from her face, seeing that on the far bank several wildflowers were in bloom. It was terribly pretty, and she sighed.

"Do not tell me you are unhappy!" Éomer said, pausing to look down at her. "I hope I did not leave Elfhelm in charge so that I could take you for a ride and you displeased with it!"

Lothíriel smiled at his teasing, and he continued their walk. "Certainly not!" she said. "I am flattered that you would make such a sacrifice for me. But…"

"But?" he prompted.

"I am dreading that Erchirion will be here in a few days. I—I wish this summer never had to end." Lothíriel scuffed her boot in the grass, feeling the dark cloud of her brother's arrival hanging over her head. It had been disturbing her for the past week, making it hard for her to enjoy her final joys in the Mark.

Éomer's hold on her arm had tightened. "As do I," he said in a low voice. "Frankly, I am finding it hard to remain cheerful myself."

This Lothíriel could barely believe; he had been his usual untroubled self of late, showing no signs of distress. But now, as she studied his profile in the bright morning sun, his smile was hard around the edges. It made her heart wrench; as despondent as she was, it bothered her more to see her betrothed unhappy, and she frowned. "Let us not speak of it," Lothíriel decided. "This day has been marvelous, I do not wish to ruin it!"

"You are quite correct." His normal grin returned. "As usual, I suspect."

"'As usual, you suspect?' By now you should surely know!"

Éomer laughed, and they turned around to meander back to where the horses grazed. "I think it is time for our rest," he said, and he left her to fetch a saddle blanket, which he spread on the ground before sitting on it, and motioning for her to join him. Lothíriel tucked her legs underneath her as she sat, her heart thumping as she realized she could see very little around them; the tall grass concealed all but the sky from view. Even the sound of the river rushing was dimmed from her ears.

"Éomer…" she began, looking away from him as she gathered her courage. "It has been on my mind for some time; I wish to ask you—if I may—why did you want to marry me? For you mentioned that you chose me."

Silence followed her question, and she lifted her head to meet the king's eyes. There was an odd expression in them as he studied her face. Then he smiled, and said, "A fair question, and I will be happy to tell you, Lothie. If I may ask you a question in return."

"Certainly."

"Very well, I will answer first. You said long ago that you did not recall my visiting Dol Amroth the summer after the war ended, correct?"

Lothíriel nodded.

"Well, I am afraid that rather hurt my pride." A rueful smile crossed his face. "I remember you very well. It was at a feast—the first night, I believe—and I thought it strange that the men sat at one side of the hall and the women at the other side, completely separated. But I could see you well from there: sitting by yourself at a high table, perfectly poised and elegant and looking like no woman I had ever seen. Now, you may call me a sentimental fool, but…" He trailed off, before looking anxiously at her. "I liked you. Your father...he is not subtle. He saw me admiring you and suggested a match between us soon after, and I agreed. Of course, I believed that he would ask you for your decision and then the betrothal would move forward. I had to return home only a couple days later, and when I received the marriage contract from your father I thought that it meant that you had given your approval. If I had known your hand would be forced—I would have gone about it differently."

Lothíriel could only stare at him as Éomer finished speaking, her brow creased as she took in this information. He took her hand as she thought, bringing to his lips before continuing, "I hope nothing I have said offends you."

"No! I am simply astonished by much of it."

"Really? What is it that astonishes you?"

She choose her next words carefully. "I find it strange that you thought me like no other woman you had seen. Have you not travelled Gondor very much? Because there are thousands of other women like me."

"I must disagree with that!" Éomer said. "Perhaps you believe you act like other women, or look like them—but the light in your eyes is completely...you."

Lothíriel bit her lip. "And what you mean by, you would have gone about it differently?"

"I would have wooed you before attempting an engagement. Having to woo you after the fact has put me under too much pressure!" The pained way he looked at her made her laugh, and Éomer continued, lifting a finger to stroke her rosy cheek, smiling. "Now may I ask you my question?"

"Of—of course."

"Do you love me?"

Her lips parted in surprise, wondering if he was funning her. But there was no guile in his expression, only warmth and sincerity shining in his eyes. He had been honest with her; and somehow Lothíriel found it easy to speak her truth. "Yes," she said, not giving into the impulse to look away; instead smiling at him. "I—I do."

Éomer's eyes crinkled as he grinned, pulling her close before whispering, "Good." Then he kissed her, his mouth warm on hers, and she wrapped her arm around his neck to hold him close. His grip on her waist tightened as the kiss deepened, and she felt for a moment that she might swoon; her mind was feeling hazy and her skin was hot and tingly as she tasted his breath on her tongue.

He pulled away far too soon, and Lothíriel felt a whimper rise in her throat. Éomer chuckled, and she was tipped onto her back, the scent of sweet grass surrounding her as he hovered over her, pushing away the hair that had blown across her face. "Lothie...my sweet girl. I love you, too."

She had no chance to respond before he kissed her again, this time with ferocity—he had her pinned in place and she could not move, which of course, she did not wish to. She felt his hand tangling in her hair as his mouth moved to her cheek, her jaw, her neck… Lothíriel's eyes fluttered open, and she blinked at the blue sky above his shoulder, remembering Hamwyn's very instructive lecture on child-making from just a few weeks earlier. Several things seemed to fall into place. "I say," she murmured, as he nuzzled the base of her throat. "This is nice."

"As nice as the poetry?" Éomer's voice rumbled deep in his chest.

"Better."

"Good. If I am to lose you soon, I have every intention of making good on our time alone." He returned his attention to her lips, and the feel of his raspy beard on her chin made her breath catch.

Several interesting moments later, Éomer lifted his head once more, and Lothíriel looked up into his eyes, not at all able to stop the smile from forming on her face, which he returned, his teeth flashing in the sunlight. "I want to say it again," he said. "I love you, Lothie!"

"Say it as often as you like!" she said, reaching up her fingers to touch his face. The feeling fluttering in her breast was so new and raw; she was profoundly grateful to be so unabashedly happy in that moment. Even the thought of her brother's coming arrival or her father's reaction, were he to ever learn of her behavior, was a distant worry, unsuited to the pleasure of the day.

A serious expression had crossed his face, and his eyes swept over her head. "Your hair is all mussed," he said, looking guilty. "I am sorry."

"Do not be—it is my own fault. I am horrid at arranging my own hair."

"I will fix it for you." He moved from where he lay beside her to where her head was resting on the blanket, gently lifting her head so that it rested on his outstretched legs before tugging out the flimsy remaining braid. Lothíriel felt her eyes begin to close at his touch as he spread her hair out before beginning to tug on it, and she winced. "Sorry," he added. "I suppose I have not done this for a female for many years; not since Eowyn was a child."

"You plaited your sister's when you were children?" At his affirmative, Lothíriel smiled up at him. "That is very kind of you! I am sure my brothers would have cut my hair off, to save themselves the bother."

"And that would be depriving the world of a lovely sight, my girl. I do not recall Eowyn's hair being so soft."

She repressed a giggle, trying to relax at his touch but finding it supremely difficult. "Look here," Éomer said in a stern voice. "If you cannot take me seriously, you will drive me to distraction. See—I've made a muddle of it!" Lothíriel felt him lift up her mass of hair, and he shook his head at her. "I will admit it; I am rubbish at this. Eowyn could have told you as much. I only wanted to try."

She sat forward, shaking out her hair. "It is not terribly bad," she told him. "No worse than when I do it myself, certainly."

"You are too kind, Lothie! You may be honest with me."

"Very well—it is quite bad, even by my standards! I am surprised Eowyn allowed you to even touch her hair."

Éomer lifted the end of her tangled braid, ticking her nose with it. "That is good practice for when you are my wife. I hope you will never mince your words around me."

She fixed him with a stare. "Are you so certain of that? Hamwyn did advise me that husbands often need a delicate touch."

"Nonsense. I cannot pick up subtlety; you must be straightforward."

"I shall bear that in mind," Lothíriel said, and glanced at the sky, noticing dark clouds threatening. "I do believe that it is going to rain. Perhaps we ought to return?"

Lothíriel glanced at the sky, noticing dark clouds threatening. "I do believe that it is going to rain. Perhaps we ought to return?"

Éomer saddled the horses with astonishing speed, grinning at her confusion before saying, "I have had a lot of practice. I would tell you of midnight raids, but—I think I had better not."

They were on their way back to Meduseld just as the first boom of thunder shook the sky, and at Éomer's command the horses picked up to a gallop. Darkness was approaching behind them; Lothíriel realized then that most of the day was long gone—it must be evening! It seemed to have passed unnaturally fast, and she felt her stomach rumble with hunger, just as another clap of thunder sounded, and she shuddered.

Rain began to pour from the sky without warning; and within seconds Lothíriel was wet to the skin, and she hunched over Moon Shadow's saddle to try to protect herself. Over the deluge she heard Éomer shout, and she looked up to see him by her, barely visible in the torrent. He was reaching for her, and without question she released the reins and allowed him to lift her from her saddle and into his own. Deftly he tied Moon Shadow's reins to Firefoot's saddle, speaking loudly in her ear, "This will be faster. I am sorry, Lothie—I should have noticed the storm approaching."

"It is quite alright," Lothíriel forced through clattering teeth. "We—we were distracted." She felt rather than heard his laugh, and his arms enclosed her as he spurred Firefoot on at a much quicker pace. The rain did not bother her so much now; Éomer's broad shoulders protected her from the majority of the elements.

The journey back to Meduseld seemed longer than their initial journey to the river, and it was far more miserable. Lothíriel decided she would be lucky if she did not catch a chill. And Éomer! He would be sneezing before the night was out.

The streets up to the hall were muddy, and Firefoot sloshed along at a much slower pace in the empty roads. Lights shone out of all the buildings, and had they not been sopping wet it might have been a lovely scene. At their approach the door to the stable was thrown open, and a few stablehands surged forward, taking Firefoot's reins and untying Moon Shadow from his saddle. Éomer alighted behind her, and with difficulty Lothíriel unclenched her arms to reach out to him. He swung her down, and then attempted to wipe the droplets from her face with his drenched sleeve, but only succeeded in making her wetter. "I am sorry," he said, looking abashed. "You are freezing to the touch! We shall have to brave the rain again to get to the hall."

"I can do that," Lothíriel said, feeling cross but trying not to let it show. Éomer took her hand and led her back to the door, before grinning at her, and they ran.

The steps to Meduseld were awfully slippery, and Lothíriel clenched his hand tightly for fear of tumbling back down the stairs to land in the mud. Once they were safely under the overhanging roof, the doors to the hall were opened by the guards but Éomer held her back. "Perhaps we ought to wait a moment and dry off as best we can," he said. "Hamwyn might have my head if we bring in so much water…"

"A—alright," Lothíriel said, rubbing her arms to bring some warm to her muscles. Éomer reached around her for her braid of hair, wringing it and splattering the stone floor with moisture. Then he brushed off her shoulders, and even leaned down to pat down her trembling legs, squeezing a fair amount of water from her trousers.

"I will not keep you longer," he said, straightening with a grin. "I know you are miserable."

"You—you should come in t—too."

"I am not cold; the rain has refreshed me. But I cannot let you go before—" Éomer pulled her into a soppy embrace, kissing her fiercely and getting her wet all over again. He was warm—how could he be warm!—and Lothíriel snuggled into his arms to try to heat herself. "There," he said, out of breath as he released her. "Go and clean yourself up." She smiled before turning, released his hand as she stared into the brightly lit hall, and saw—

Her brother. Erchirion was lounging at a table, facing them and drinking from a cup as he surveyed her with level eyes. Lothíriel felt her stomach sink to her feet.

"Béma!" she heard Éomer breathe behind her. "Go, Lothie—leave him to me."

…

Lothíriel hugged her knees to her chest, unwilling to leave the hot bath. She had long since ceased shivering and was now quite warm, except for the chill in her heart that had bloomed as soon as she had seen Erchirion's expression. Questions flooded her tired mind: how much had he seen? Why was he here so early? What would he say? Oh, no—what would her father say? There would surely be no secrets from him now. She closed her eyes, tears beginning to seep through, and all her worries were replaced by a singular thought: she wanted Éomer! She wanted his presence, his reassurance, the confidence that she felt when he looked at her.

"Supper is to begin shortly, ma'am. High time to dress." Hamwyn's unusually gentle voice broke through her reverie, and with a sigh Lothíriel left the bath, wrapping herself in the proffered dressing gown. She was steered to a low stool, and Hamwyn began to comb her hair, saying, "I heard that ye were leaving tomorrow, ma'am."

Lothíriel felt only mild irritation at her brother. She knew he had not slighted her on purpose, only that he would not have thought it necessary to inform her of their immediate departure. Months ago, it would not have fazed her; then again—months ago she would have been happy to leave. "If that is what Erchirion has decided, then it must be true," she said lightly. "And that makes this my last night here."

"We shall miss ye, princess. And not the king least of all, I should think—I would not be surprised if he has a touch of the malaise this winter."

Lothíriel smiled to herself at that. Though if Éomer would have malaise, she was likely in for full-on misery; she had none of his natural cheerfulness.

"There it is, ma'am," Hamwyn said, and Lothíriel picked up her hand mirror to admire the older woman's work: an elegant mass of twisted braids which fell down her back, nearly reaching the stool. It was so lovely, and she sighed.

"I shall never be as skillful as you," she said. "But I will practice."

Hamwyn chuckled. "When ye are as old as I ye'll likely be proficient. Come on then, let's get yer underthings on."

Several minutes later Lothíriel was fully clad and primed in a sage green dress with silver embroidery; Hamwyn had taken extra care and Lothíriel herself felt more anxious about this supper than any other, except perhaps her first in Meduseld. What would Erchirion say when he discovered that the men and women mingled, and she sat by the king? A lump rose in her throat, and a fleeting panic stirred in her chest.

A rap sounded at the door, and she jumped. "I was on my way out," Hamwyn said. "I shall see ye after the meal; try to enjoy yourself!" And so the woman left, bowing low to Erchirion as he entered through the door and she closed it behind her. Lothíriel wrung her hands, avoiding her brother's eyes—not for propriety, but for fear of what he would say.

"I came to take you to dinner," Erchirion said. "You are still my responsibility, Lothíriel." His tone held a note of underlying tension, and she took his proffered arm, her knees shaking. She noticed that he was awfully overdressed for a meal in Meduseld, but then—he would not know. As if catching her strain of thoughts, he added, "It that a dinner dress? It looks too casual."

She bit her tongue, tempted by a dozen retorts that were coming so naturally to her. But she breathed out a polite smile, and said, "I am dressed according to the customs here," Lothíriel said. "Look around the hall tonight—you will find that I am correct."

Erchirion stared at her for a moment, and she returned his gaze coolly. "By the gods," he breathed. "You are acting terribly strange."

"Let us go to supper, brother, and spare any further discussion on me."

The hall was already crowded with people—more so than a normal supper. Lothíriel imagined that with Erchirion's short notice, there had not been time to prepare a proper welcome feast and so it was probably Hamwyn who had scrounged together guests and extra food. "Where may I sit you?" her brother asked.

"My seat is by the king. You may take me there."

He paused, and Lothíriel watched with interest as he processed the scene before him: the long tables of Meduseld, no seating order or divisions and its inhabitants wandering as they greeted friends and struck up conversations. He seemed to pale somewhat, and then he shrugged. "If you say so, Lothíriel," he said, his voice wary. "If Éomer has decreed it…"

"He decreed nothing," she said, beginning to feel put out. "He prefers it, and frankly—so do I." Lothíriel released his arm to ascend the dais, seating herself without waiting for assistance. Her heart was thudding with resentment, but she managed a mask of contentedness as she lifted her chin, her eyes darting around the hall, looking for Éomer.

He arrived only a few moments later, flashing her a tight grin before mounting the dais himself. He motioned for Erchirion to join them, and her brother was placed on the other side of her betrothed. For that, Lothíriel could be grateful—she had no desire to worsen herself in Erchirion's eyes that night—and she felt her self-control slipping away as the full weight of her departure settled in her stomach.

Supper was, in a word, strained. Lothíriel had little appetite, and she could sense Éomer's discomfort beside her as his attention was focused on Erchirion for the majority of the meal. Her betrothed was doing his best to make her brother relax, and she was grateful for his never-ending charity, of which she was certainly feeling little enough. When at last the ordeal was over, Lothíriel stood to escape from the hall before she had to speak to anyone. But as she turned, her hand was caught, and she saw Éomer staring up at her.

"I am sorry," he said in a low voice, and she noticed Erchirion looking determinedly away. "This is not how I imagined the day ending."

"It is alright," Lothíriel said past the lump in her throat. "I—am sorry too. Good night, Éomer."

"Lothie…" Éomer looked as though he wanted to say more; his brows creasing as he studied her. But tears stung her eyes, and she removed her hand before rushing from the hall.

…

Dawn was an unwelcome sight, and as the sun began to peek above the mountains, Lothíriel dragged her feet through Meduseld one final time before leaving the hall, slowing down even further as she descended the steps towards the stables. She had been awake for most of the night, anxious and weary and sad, and she could not bring herself to look upon the sight of the prepared caravan, all ready to leave even at this early hour. The noise of horses, armored soldiers, and the loading of her hastily packed trucks onto the carriage seemed to pulse in her head, and she felt the beginnings of a headache.

"Sister!"

She finally looked up. Erchirion was standing by his saddled mount, pulling on his riding gloves as he glanced at her. "Your maid is already in the carriage," he said in a dry tone. "I am sure you remember her?"

Lothíriel bit her tongue. As many things as she wished to say to him—she could not, for if she provoked him he would surely be telling their father all about her behavior. The guards were beginning to mount their horses, and her stomach turned in knots. Were they to leave so soon? Where was Éomer—why had he not come to say farewell?

Amazingly, she felt a hand on her shoulder and she startled before turning, the sight of Éomer with his easy grin melting away a measure of her upset. He was holding the reins to Moon Shadow, who was fully saddled, and Lothíriel's confused attention turned towards the mare. Éomer followed her eyes, and then his grin widened. "For you," he said, and he placed the reins in her limp hands. "I do not like the look of that carriage, especially since I know it tipped on your way here. Moon Shadow will keep you far safer on the mountain trails than a carriage ever could."

Lothíriel gripped the reins tightly. "My father would have my head," she murmured. "I—I could not."

"You can; if he or Erchirion give you any grief—tell them it is an order from me. Though, of course, it is not," he added quickly. "But it is a loan, and not a gift! That is important, for you must return her to me. Otherwise I could have you arrested for horse-thieving, and you would be forced to face trial in my hall."

At another time she would have laughed at his teasing, but that morn she could only manage a watery smile. "I will of course return her," Lothíriel said. "How can you doubt me?"

"I do not doubt you, princess, but my confidence as to whether you will be allowed to return is somewhat shaken." Éomer nodded towards her brother. Erchirion was not sitting on his horse, watching them impatiently, and Lothíriel ducked her head.

"I ought to go before—before—"

"Up you go, then!" Before she could protest, Éomer had taken her waist and nearly flung her upwards and into Moon Shadow's saddle, and she clung to the pommel as she struggled to breathe from shock.

"You—" she said, giving her betrothed a withering stare. "You are mighty lucky I am wearing trousers underneath my skirt, you—you dolt!"

Éomer was laughing, and he squeezed her hand. "Sweet words to remember me by," he said, and then lifted her hand to his lips. "Farewell, Lothie. Do not forget to come back! For if you do, I shall ride to Gondor and fetch you."

"Good-bye, Éomer."

With a great, long-suffering sigh, Erchirion ordered that the horns be winded, and soon the lines of horses, guards, and one rickety carriage set forth, down the streets of Edoras to the great gates. Her brother motioned for her to hurry, and Lothíriel felt Éomer pat her hand before she spurred Moon Shadow forward, not trusting herself to look back.

Elphir was, for a number of reasons, her favorite brother; he was closest to herself in temperament and so they had always rubbed along very well. He had, in fact, been the one to teach her to read—the way he told the story was that their mother had considered her too young at age four to read, but Elphir thought differently and so snuck into her chamber in the evenings to reach her letters. Despite being several years her senior, he still treated her with an affection uncommon to the other men in her family. He had been mostly absent in the last years, residing in a smaller coastal city to oversee defenses against the corsairs. Elphir was ill-suited to such a task but he had done so without complaining. He had not, to her recollection, uttered any word against anyone or anything since the day their father had pronounced his marriage like a death sentence. His wife had died giving birth to their son, and since the war ended Elphir had returned to the palace so that his son could be raised in the court, and so he himself could be of use to their father as the steward. But he was kept so busy that Lothíriel had seen little of him still, and unsure of how their relationship had changed in the past years and months, she had avoided the pain of discovering that her favorite brother was a different man.

But she gathered her courage, and with the comfort of remembering their lovely times together once upon a time, Lothíriel sought him out in his study. It was tucked into a back corner of the palace, a place she was unfamiliar with as it was terribly close to the guardhouse. To her luck, he was there, and bade her enter at her bold knock.

"Lothíriel!" Elphir stood in surprise as she closed the door behind her. "How—why—?"

"Good morning, brother," she said, foregoing a curtsey and taking a seat across from him. He sat as well, tidying his desk briefly as he studied her. Lothíriel spoke first, folding her hands in her lap. "I have missed you," she said, the words unfamiliar in her mouth but not unpleasant.

He gave her a tight smile. "I missed you as well, sister. How—how are you?"

An inquiry into her well-being was a sign that he was, apparently, unchanged—as thoughtful as ever. "I am well enough," she said. "I am eager to return to the Riddermark and each day feels like five, but I am well. How are you, Elphir?"

He fiddled with a worn quill. "I am—fine. Thank you for asking."

"I have been disappointed that you do not attend meals in the dining hall."

"I am not a social man," Elphir said, another smile—this one self-depreciating—crossing his face. "And Father keeps me busy."

Lothíriel's heart squeezed. He seemed so unhappy! "I was wondering," she said in a gentle tone. "You have studied Rohirric and the Riddermark, no?"

Elphir's face brightened. "I have indeed! Their culture is so fascinating—I used to sneak Life of the Hammerhand into my equestrian lessons. I became quite adept at riding and reading simultaneously."

She smiled as her mind conjured a very cute picture of her brother, in his younger years, doing such a thing. "Do you speak the language well?" she asked.

"I believe so. I have not been able to test it; I was still in Edhellond when their delegation visited after the war."

"Could—could you teach me?"

He was taken aback, but hesitated only a moment before beaming at her. "Of course! But why have you not learned before now?"

Lothíriel considered this. "I do not believe that Father expected my marriage to be to an Eorlinga, and so he thought the knowledge irrelevant. Perhaps I should have began to study it over the summer, but, to be frank—I was distressed and the thought did not cross my mind."

"Ah. So, you wish to hasten the time until your return by studying Rohirric?"

"Yes!"

He grinned. "And you wish me to teach you?"

Lothíriel quirked an eyebrow at him. "Do you know of anyone else who might?"

Elphir laughed, the worried lines in his forehead disappearing. "Not at all! I should love to teach you."

"Oh, thank you, brother!" Lothíriel felt a rush of satisfaction. "And—please tell no one! I wish to surprise Éomer."

"You have my word, sister—a secret it shall be!"

…

Lothíriel watched the sea surge forward, the water sparkling in the bright sun. She had escaped the palace and her difficult Rohirric lessons to find solace on the beach below the town; a private area where she vaguely recalled her mother bringing her when she was a very small child. It seemed very much the same—scatterings of shells, driftwood, and other treasures brought up by the waves. Even in the very depths of winter, a mere tepid wind was all that disturbed the beach. She dug her toes deeper into the sand before returning her attention to the letter which she held in her hand.

Had Elfhelm not intervened, I would have ridden to Dol Amroth that same day which I received your father's initial letter. You may have thought me to be teasing when I said I would fetch you if necessary—but it was a very real threat! I was still angry when his second letter came a week later, but what relief it brought! I have been imagining what your father called, 'an interesting discussion', which the two of you allegedly had. I am very, profoundly grateful that you stood your ground on the matter of our marriage. But as I said, I would come for you in either case—though, it would likely have been an awkward situation, all in all.

The day this letter will be sent, it will be precisely 217 days until our wedding day. I am not a patient man, and have taken to carving the passing of each day on my desk. Before you think me reprehensible for such an act, I will tell you this: an ancestor of mine dug out several rather crude drawings on the underside. My scribbles are a mere pittance. Perhaps I can show you the drawings when you return.

Winter in the Mark is—though not precisely dull—far less exciting than the other seasons. The snows have arrived, effectively trapping everyone into their homes for the better part of the next several months. Much of the time is spent telling stories, singing, and eating or working with hand crafts. I suppose you do not know that every person in the Mark has a craft which they enjoy during the winter, and then sell in the markets during the rest of the year. For instance, my father fletched arrows. I did try to learn that for myself, but as a youth I had not the patience for it. Do not think too little of me! As the last few winters brought war and tiresome patrols, I never adopted a craft of my own, and of late I have been trying to discover any secret talents. It is a terrible task; I have become a joke in the household as my wide-ranging mediocrity is becoming apparent. And without you here to proof-read my sums, I am quite the disgrace.

I did consider, for a time, that if your father absolutely refused to allow you to marry me, I would hire you on as a clerk. And then I would marry you anyway.

But I must only suffer for this winter. In the next, you will be here, and I shall perfect the most important ability I can think of—keeping my wife warm! Perhaps my craft, for now, will be writing you everyday. Would that bother you very much, to receive a dozen letters every twelve days?

She felt tears wet her eyes as she laughed, the scrawl of his signature barely fitting at the bottom of the parchment. How dear he was! And how sorely she missed him! Even a letter for every day they were apart seemed too little. Lothíriel re-folded the letter carefully, tucking it in the reticule at her waist as she returned her attention to the vista in front of her, her heart aching.

She did not hear her visitor approached, and when a familiar voice said her name she turned to see Amrothos taking a place beside her. "You look deep in thought," he commented. "Mooning over your lover?"

Lothíriel bit her tongue; he was completely right, and he probably knew it, too. She had no desire to start an argument. "Good afternoon, Amrothos," she said. "I thought you were reviewing the guard today."

"Not at all! I faked ill so that Father would do that for me."

"You are deplorable."

"And yet I am your favorite brother," he said, and nudged her shoulder as she scoffed. "We have not spoken properly since your return. How long did you think you could avoid me?"

"Indefinitely. I have been here for a month, I was unsure if you were even aware I was in the city."

"Well," Amrothos looked uncomfortable. "I have been busy."

"Of course."

He gave her a sidelong look, which she returned levelly. "I wanted to ask you something in particular," he admitted.

"Are you going to apologize for ignoring me? After all, I am your favorite sister. It reflects badly on you."

Amrothos chuckled, shaking his head. "You sound like Éomer. Fine! I am sorry I have not devoted myself entirely to your well-being."

Lothíriel accepted this, as she knew it would be all the concession he made, and nodded at him to continue.

"Truth is...I wanted to ask you about Father."

"You should ask Father then, not I."

"He will have my head."

"You probably deserve such a fate."

"Lothíriel…" Amrothos was wincing now, most uncharacteristic of him, and she straightened herself with exasperation. "Do you think he loved Mother?"

She considered this for a moment, a dark feeling creeping into her heart. "It hardly signifies," she said in a cool voice. "Mother is gone, after all. As far as I know, their relationship was perfectly proper. And…" Lothíriel trailed off, remembering what her father had said in his study weeks ago. "Love is a weakness, after all."

"You do not think that, surely."

"No; Father does."

Amrothos was quiet, and the cry of gulls echoed across the sky. "I disagree," he said at last. "When I was younger...Lothíriel, I have not told anyone this! But I came across them having a dreadful row once, about a year before she died."

"A row?"

"Yes!" The greater part of his burden now lifted, Amrothos breathed out, speaking much more quickly. "Father tried to embrace her, but she pushed him away, telling him it was not proper! That he should not have feelings towards her. I had never heard her speak so much before—she was fair railing at him! She—" he paused. "She told him that if he wanted affection he should hire a courtesan."

Lothíriel cringed, her parents' discontent resurfacing now fifteen years later, causing their youngest children pain. How could her mother have been so cold? And how could her father have demanded that she herself avoid love! "I think," she said slowly. "I think we cannot judge their situation, and it is unfair to hold such things against either of them."

"You seem to be telling yourself that little tidbit," Amrothos said, and she turned to see him smiling wanly at her.

"I am telling you, too," she said. "Perhaps...you should not have brought this to attention. It was long ago."

"I suppose I was only trying to impress upon you...to let you know that, well, Father is not as heartless as he acts."

"I know, Amrothos. But it was kind of you to tell me, all the same."

He stood, brushing sand off of his trousers. "Enjoy the remainder of your sojourn," he said. "I am sorry I disturbed you."

"It was very nice to talk with you, brother."

Amrothos dropped a surprising kiss on her head, and left her alone.

…

Writing to Éomer was nothing like writing to her father. Lothíriel let her thoughts flow, penning the words as fast as she thought them, unafraid of saying too much.

I cannot see you as an impatient man. I have never seen you unruffled or hassled for any reason; but then, I suppose I hardly know you at all. You can practice your patience until we meet again, then I will not have to suffer any disillusionment.

If you intend to do nothing other than keep me warm next winter, I think my craft will have to be poetry. I am unsure how marketable poems are in the market, but from your words I rather doubt you will give me any time for more challenging pursuits! Or any pursuits, really—how much freedom do you intend to give me?

Winter in Dol Amroth is not a special time; the weather does not force us indoors nor is the summer so hot and for fear of illness from heat that winter be the only time we may leave our homes. A chill wind here and there, and the sun rarely peeks from the cloud cover. Late summer when the rains come is truly the spectacular time of year. Perhaps someday I might introduce you better to my city; I do not know exactly which sights you have seen but I imagine that immediately following the war, Dol Amroth was not exactly a pleasant sight.

At present I cannot divulge to you the full measure of mine and my father's discussion on our marriage. How dearly I wish to!—but I am still too pained to recount it.

Éomer's response to her missive came exactly three weeks later.

When it comes to keeping you warm through the winter—ahem—I can allow you very little, if any, freedom. Do not let that distress your new independence, as I think it should prove interesting to both of us. As for your poetry—I should think you will be able to pen some verses worthy of 'Poems of Passion.' I look forward to reading them, myself.

I would very much enjoy an extended stay in Dol Amroth. If you are to be my escort, I would enjoy it all the better.

I had an idea a few days back: while you were here you were unable to see very much of the Mark, and after we are married I would like to rectify that. Fortunately, the month of June following the wedding is a relatively quiet time—crops are sown, and harvest is far off—and it would be an ideal time for me to take you on a tour. I hope you will be interested, for I am not entirely sure you have a choice! I am afraid you are wedding a nation. If that causes you anxiety, let me assure you that you at least will not have to share a bed with the entire Riddermark. It is only I that can claim that privilege, so simply think of it as marrying, well, just me. I am sure that will be much more manageable, on some points at least.

After re-reading his letter several times, Lothíriel decided that she was looking forward to exploring the Riddermark with Éomer. Initially it had filled her with apprehension, but she had to look beyond her own feelings. The knowledge that she would be able to speak at least serviceable Rohirric also increased her confidence. How thrilled Éomer would be when he discovered she had been studying his language during the winter!

It almost—almost—made the days slip by faster.

Elphir was a pleasant teacher; his standards were high but not overly so, and he spoke to Lothíriel with a patience that had been curiously absent from her governesses in her younger years. Both she and him were quiet, introspective souls, and so they worked together well; discussing everything from verb conjugations to the concept of shieldmaidens and even their parents' strange relationship. Lothíriel had, of course, told him about Amrothos's story, but he was unsurprised by it.

"Mother died when you were very young," Elphir told her one day. "But I knew her much better. She was a private, elegant, and extremely well-behaved woman. She did everything to the meanest detail according to the rules and customs of the palace. In some ways, she and Father were perfectly matched. But I feel—" He looked uncomfortable before he continued. "I feel that Father began to yearn for...for something more, but Mother never did."

Lothíriel did not enjoy knowing this information, but it did bring a sense of relief to her. It explained much her own upbringing, which she had begun to question. Her mother had always exhibited the ultimate qualities to admire to, but if she had truly denied herself from loving her own husband, Lothíriel decided that she did not have to be exactly like her mother.

January crawled by with a slowness that Lothíriel felt was unbearable. February still was agony; and March a beginning of fresh air of hope. The annual feasting and celebration for the victory of the war happened to fall on the first night that it was truly warm, and the days following seemed to creep closer and closer to summer. During that time, she wrote to Éomer as faithfully as he did her; the consistency of his correspondence never wavered, even when spring began.

After many years of serenity and accepting everything that has befallen her, Hamwyn has finally begun to unwind, he wrote to her about six weeks before her departure from Dol Amroth. I have never seen her frazzled before, but yesterday she nearly rapped my knuckles for teasing her about picking dust out of tapestries with a crochet hook! At first I thought that it was a poor joke (it was a rather good one, I thought), but then I picked up on her temper: she is nervous for the wedding! She has been working tirelessly all winter on your behalf, since you cannot be here to organize things nor have you any family to the task (do not berate yourself for this, for if I know you—which I think I do—you feel guilty for it. At her core I think Hamwyn truly is enjoying it...a little).

I do not know if you are aware, but she saved some of your gowns from your visit and has been overseeing a veritable task force to produce you a massive amount of state and ceremonial clothing for your new position, as well as several items that will be more appropriate for the climate. I did ask her to make sure that you will have plenty of boots.

I have been working, in my off time, with Dreamfleet's filly. I think she will be a grey as her father is, and seems to be just as spunky as her mother. I cannot for the life of me choose a name, however—what are your thoughts? As one who is familiar with the filly, I was hoping you would have some insight. Otherwise I shall just name her after you.

Lothíriel began packing her belongings for the long trip weeks before she was to leave, and so between her Rohirric lessons and the intermittent duties that were hers as princess of Dol Amroth, fell behind in writing to her betrothed. When at last she did have a moment to sit and put down her thoughts, it was a mere three weeks from the scheduled journey, and the hot breeze that wafted into her chambers brought life to her cheeks as she scribbled.

I do believe that this will be my last letter to you. Perhaps that will help me to earn forgiveness for neglecting to respond to you these last weeks! Despite that I am not involved in the wedding directly (and my sympathies to Hamwyn), I have been extremely busy myself. Remarkably, it has not made the spring pass any slower.

My eldest brother Elphir and I have been studying together from his books on the Riddermark. He is the only member of my family whom you have not met; he is a scholar and is the nearest to me in temperament and familial bond. I hope he might be able to come to the wedding, but it depends on my father and whether he trusts Amrothos to run the palace by himself. Erchirion is in Minas Tirith until next Midwinter and is therefore unavailable. I think that we shall have to invite Elphir at another time; I personally would not even trust Amrothos with running the stables. But I digress—I meant to be telling you of my studies. I found most pleasure in reading a secondhand account of Helm Hammerhand's defense of the Hornburg. I could not put it down once I reached the final chapters—I stayed awake until dawn to devour it all! I am most excited to visit Helm's Deep on our tour.

On a more unhappy note, I have barely spoken to my father since my return. I feel that he avoids my company, and our strained relationship pains me. I wish that I could please both him and myself, and you as well. It feels impossible. I pray everyday that he will not change his mind again and forbid the wedding. But I have been riding Moon Shadow as often as I can to prepare for the arduous journey back to Edoras. I took her on the beach a few weeks ago and she did not really like it; I believe the creeping waves spooked her a bit. She did enjoy the sea grass, however.

I beg of you—do not force my name upon that poor filly! She does not deserve such a punishment. I have always believed that a person or animal's name should not be longer than three syllables (Erchirion would agree with me). I heard a name that I liked the other day...have you considered Sunncwén?

It was somewhat of a mislead; Elphir had been explaining Rohirric naming customs to her in a recent lesson and he had used Sunncwén, (among others), as an example. Lothíriel meant to tease Éomer by giving him a Rohirric name; she hoped he would notice and perhaps have a laugh over it. Oh, how she wished she could hear him laugh again! His letters were poor substitute for the man himself, but she forced herself daily to believe that they were better than nothing at all.

…

The courtyard of the palace was alive with the clanging of metal gear, the snorting of horses, and the cries and loud speaking of the soldiers preparing to leave. Lothíriel felt completely giddy, but she hid it well as she serenely brushed down Moon Shadow, speaking to the horse in her broken Rohirric. The mare's ears were tuned well to the language of her native land, but Lothíriel was just grateful that the horse could not laugh at her botched pronunciations or poor grammar. She was already dressed in clothes for riding—indeed, the same clothing which Hamywn had given her months earlier. They were nearly worn through, and Lothíriel hoped that Hamwyn, overseeing her wardrobe for her new position, would think to at least one more riding outfit. Moon Shadow was clearly eager to depart; she shifted restlessly as Lothíriel untangled her mane.

"You handle Éomer's horse reasonably well."

Her father's dry tone made her stiffen, and Lothíriel whirled around to see him holding the lead to his war stallion and looking down at her with an inscrutable expression.

"Thank you, Father," she said.

"I cannot claim to like the trousers, however."

"They are practical; all Rohirric women wear them."

"There are common men staring at you!" His voice was carefully controlled, but Lothíriel felt an undercurrent of aggravation in it. She turned back to Moon Shadow.

"I do not see anyone looking at me, Father," she said quietly. "And if they are, it makes no difference to me."

He took a sharp inhale of breath, but let the topic go. "Let us depart then," he said, and waved for his squire to sound the horns. Lothíriel mounted by her herself—a skill she had been practicing—and fell in alongside her father, her heart beating fast. At last!

It was exactly two weeks until her wedding, and she would see Éomer in thirteen days. Thirteen long days.

The sun was shining bright above Meduseld, obliging Lothíriel to shade her eyes as they rode up and up through the winding streets of Edoras. How different this was than the last time she had arrived at the city! Riding Moon Shadow made her confident as she met the eyes of the Rohirrim that left their houses to watch the parade of silver and blue. And knowing that Éomer was waiting for her,anticipating her arrival—made her heart sing. She would never have to leave him again!

She knew her father was still simmering. He rode beside her rather than in front, and Lothíriel knew it made him uncomfortable. Not as uncomfortable as the sight of her trousers made him, however, though he had given up trying to persuade her into a frilly, Gondorian riding skirt with multiple petticoats.

They passed the stables, and Lothíriel smiled to herself to remember, nearly a year ago, the night Éomer had rushed her to watch Dreamfleet's birth. How squeamish she had been!

There was a delegation standing on Meduseld's terrace; guards, nobles, and even Hamwyn! Lothíriel pulled up her horse near the steps, dismounting as she looked for Éomer. There—he was standing near the center, looking uncharacteristically stiff. That baffled her, but her confusion was overwhelmed by her sheer joy to see his face again! Not giving her father a second thought, Lothíriel ran up the steps.

Everyone else had backed away as if sensing her indecorus intentions, and to her relief Éomer opened his arms to her with a weak grin, and she launched into him, making him stumble. "Hullo!" he said into her hair, holding her tight. Lothíriel looked up at him, feeling giddy as a lump formed in her throat. He was looking so clean and fresh and handsome that she felt a little dizzy. And so she did the other thing she could think of to ground herself—she pulled his face downward and kissed him.

He responded so fervently that the mere touch of his lips sent glorious tremors of comfort and longing through all her limbs. A cough sounded behind them, and with reluctance, Lothíriel allowed Éomer to set her down.

"Imrahil," Éomer said, still holding Lothíriel close with one arm around her shoulders. "I am happy to see you."

"Hmm." Her father had a black frown on his face. "Rohan looks well."

"The Riddermark, Father," Lothíriel corrected. "It is better manners to use their own terms."

"Why, I—"

Éomer cut across, his hold on her tightening briefly. "Would you care for some refreshment, Imrahil? I want to hear of your journey."

"Yes, thank you," her father said. "Lothíriel, you might clean up before dinner; you are extremely dusty."

"If Éomer needs me—"

He smiled down at her, and Lothíriel felt like melting. "You should go," he said softly. "I ought to speak to your father alone."

"Very well." She stood on her toes, kissing him once more before turning to see Hamwyn beaming at her.

"Ye look marvelous, lass!" the older woman said, giving Lothíriel a great hug. "I had a bath ordered when ye were sighted on the road. Come in, come in!" Lothíriel did turn before they left the terrace, concerned about her father and Éomer. She caught sight of Éomer speaking earnestly to her father—who barely hid a scowl—before they made to enter the hall.

The bath was divine, and Lothíriel was pleased to be back in her old chamber, if only for the night. That thought made her blush, but Hamwyn was busy trying to smooth wrinkles from a dress that had been brought in with her saddlebags and so she was not bothered by it.

"Did you have a good winter?" she asked the housekeeper, finished washing herself but rather unwilling to leave the warm water.

"Aye, it was a nice one. Relatively mild, but snow enough to ensure a good harvest this autumn."

"Oh, how lovely! I cannot wait to see snow. My brother mentioned once that it can be as tall as a man."

Hamwyn laughed. "Perhaps in the mountains. Ye'll see not so much in the city."

"I look forward to it, all the same." Lothíriel sighed a contented sigh, and her thoughts strayed to Éomer. What was he saying to her father?

"Would ye like some refreshment before supper? I can fetch something if so, though supper is not far off."

"No, thank you. I am happy to wait."

And wait she did. Only years of cultivating the virtue of patience kept Lothíriel from seeking out her soon-to-be-husband, despite her desperate desire to do so. Her pacing and hand-wringing as Hamwyn laid out a green-blue supper dress even unnerved the older woman, who was obliged, as Lothíriel was fairly bouncing out of her chair while Hamwyn tried to arrange her hair, to exclaim—

"Bema, child! Ye'll see him soon enough!"

It did not comfort Lothíriel. Knowing that her father would be close by all times made her stomach wrench in misery. How could she communicate to Éomer how much she had missed him, how she loved him, and how happy she was to be with him—with her father breathing down her neck?

Hamwyn had barely clasped a silver necklace around Lothíriel's neck when a knock sounded on the door. Lothíriel jumped up to answer it, but the older woman waved her to sit back down. Which was a wise move—it was her father, and not Éomer, that stepped into her chamber.

"I am taking you to supper," he drawled, adjusting the silver lace at his sleeves as he looked at her appraisingly. His eyes softened as he took in the sight of her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. "You look very pretty tonight," he said. "However, I am sorry you inherited my face; you would have been better off looking like your mother. She was a beautiful lady."

Lothíriel was unsure how to respond to this, but on impulse she stood to accept his arm, standing on her toes to kiss his rough cheek. "Thank you, Father," she said, deciding not to take offense. He was a little red in the face, and only harrumphed as he led to her to hall.

Éomer was already there, looking strangely ill-at-ease as he helped Lothíriel to mount the dais. He almost seemed be avoiding her eyes, and with all her good feelings dimming, she sat. She felt herself flushing at his impersonal treatment, and scanned the hall with more interest than perhaps would be normal, but took in none of the sights. Her father sat on Éomer's opposite side, and before sitting himself, Éomer made a short speech welcoming the guests to Meduseld. Lothíriel heard none of it, though she managed a smile when he introduced her to the crowd as his bride.

Once the meal began, Éomer's attention was diverted to her father, and Lothíriel was left to pick at her food in growing worry. Why he was acting so strangely was beyond her, and yet it concerned her immensely. So when there was a break in the conversation between the men, she dared to give Éomer a kick in the leg. He startled, and turned to her.

"I hope you are not going to make that a habit," he said severely. Lothíriel smiled, and his features softened as he looked at her. "What is it?" Éomer asked in a low voice.

"I have not had a chance to speak with you," she said. "I am merely wondering how you are faring."

His brows pinched slightly. "Well enough."

"But not as happy as I hoped!" Lothíriel's brows creased as she studied his face for a moment, and at last he relented.

"Lothie, you are impossible to deny!" Éomer said with a sigh. "Here it is: when I saw you ride up, I hardly recognized you."

"But—"

"I was so grateful that you came to me! I thought for a moment that you would rush right past me as if I were anyone else."

"Why, Éomer! Of course I went to you; where else would I go?" His confession was astounding her, and she was sure she did not deserve him to think of her so.

"To any man you wish, my brave girl. You, riding Moon Shadow as if you have been doing so your entire life! And not behind your father either!" Éomer smiled stiffly. "I do hope your autonomy does not reach so far that you are going to decide I am not worth your time and cry off the wedding. Hamwyn would be most disappointed!"

"Cry off—Éomer, really! You should know better."

He picked up her hand, avoiding her gaze as he brought it to his lips. "I love you, Lothie," he said. "Though I am sure I do not deserve your affection in return."

Lothíriel sniffed, though she ached to realize his distress. He, not deserve her? "Nonsense!" she exclaimed. "I am sure it is the other way 'round."

Éomer chuckled. "Perhaps—lest we begin a never-ending argument—we should put this topic to rest for now. And permanently," he added. "There is no point is relieving it again."

"Of course! Now, I wish to know what you were speaking to my father about after we arrived."

"You." He smiled at her stricken face as she stiffened in her chair; Lothíriel was all-too-able to imagine just the sorts of things her father might say about her.

"I cannot see how that would be necessary."

"Lothie…" Éomer's voice was warm. "I admire your father very much, and I feel immensely guilty for being at least partly to blame for the gulf between you and him. I do not wish to start our marriage with that! I sought only to assure him that I love you, that I would care for you, and that the people of the Mark with whom you are already acquainted esteem you as a remarkable woman that is fit to be queen." He grinned then, and Lothíriel felt a hot blush on her neck. "Trousers and all!"

She wanted to giggle, but had just caught sight of her father's stern profile beyond Éomer. "What did he say in return?" she murmured.

"He told me I would be lucky if I could manage you better than he did," Éomer said. "Which—do not tell him—but I have no intention of 'managing' you. What a task that would be!"

It made Lothíriel's head hurt to remember all the things her father had said to her since that day in his study long ago. "I do not understand him," she said at last. "I am sorry, Éomer, to cause such unhappiness—to you, to my father, to anyone really."

"Lothie, you are the sweetest, most caring woman I know. Imrahil is right—I am fortunate," Éomer broke into a chuckle. "But not for the reasons he thinks." His green eyes seemed to hold her captive, and Lothíriel smiled as heat began to blossom through her body. Éomer seemed similarly afflicted, for he swallowed several times before clearing his throat. "I have not even had the chance to express to you how thrilled I am to be marrying you tomorrow!" he said. "At last, I am through with counting the days, and with cold baths!"

"Cold baths!" she exclaimed. "Whyever would you torture yourself so?"

Éomer stared at her for a moment. "It is entirely your fault, you know. If you had not left for the winter, or if we had eloped last summer like I wanted—"

"You never told me you wished to elope!"

He glanced back to her father, who did not seem to hear them over the noise of the meal. "It was only a thought, Lothie," Éomer said. "I know you never would have agreed—"

"I would have agreed!" Lothíriel was wringing her hands. "Oh, Éomer, I wish we had!" Éomer lifted a hand to touch her cheek, and his fingers seemed to burn her skin. She blushed, and his ears turned red as he coughed and adjusted himself in his seat.

"Perhaps I will need one last cold bath after all," he muttered.

Supper was ended soon after; no entertainments were scheduled for that night for the guests and servants to seek their beds early and so be well-rested for the festivities of the following day. Lothíriel was plenty weary from the journey, but the meal and Éomer had refreshed her, and all that was left in her heart was a thudding excitement knowing that by this time tomorrow, she would be wed.

Éomer did try to escort her to her chamber, but as soon as they rose from the table, Imrahil cut in, walking around Éomer's chair to take Lothíriel's arm. "She is my responsibility for now," he said, the reprimand somewhat dampening the tension. "You may have her tomorrow."

"That sounds promising!" Éomer's teasing grin made Lothíriel want to giggle, but Imrahil glowered in his direction and he cleared his throat. "Good night then, Lothie. Imrahil."

"Good night, Éomer. Thank you for your company during the lovely meal." Lothíriel gave her betrothed a last, shy smile, and allowed her father to lead her away.

The sound of the music from the hall was fading away, and Lothíriel buried her face into Éomer's neck, breathing deeply his scent of soap and musk. His heartbeat seemed to be somewhat frantic, though whether it was because of the exertion of carrying her, or the anticipation of lovemaking, was unclear. Nor did she care, really.

He shouldered through the door to his—their—chamber, kicking it shut behind him and bending at the knees to shove the latch through. Éomer set her on the ground then, Lothíriel barely keeping herself upright on trembling legs, and without another word he kissed her quite thoroughly. "At last!" he murmured, threading his fingers through her hair as he kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her jaw… "I have been waiting so long!"

"So have I!" Lothíriel's voice was a croak. Her bones were thrumming with some sort of unseen magic, making her feet light-headed and the sensations around her feel heady. Everywhere Éomer touched her, spreading heat and tingles brought flush to her skin, and her breathing grew ragged.

"We will go slow," he continued, evidently unaware of the tempest within her. "Lothie…I—"

"Éomer, please! I—I cannot—"

He lifted his head, looking down at her with a concerned expression. Then he noticed her own emotions, written in her face, and with a growl he claimed her lips again. "I love you," he said between kisses. "Béma, Lothie—I love you."

"I cannot go slow!" Lothíriel gasped out at last, putting her hands on his chest and pushing him back slightly. "Please, Éomer—you must listen! The governess that told me of these things said I ought to close my eyes and get it over quickly, and…and…Hamwyn said that if you had any skill it may take all night—"

"Hamwyn said what?"

"No matter! Éomer—the longer we wait, I am afraid I may get more nervous, and I do not want to be nervous…" She was babbling, but he understood her. "I do not care what others have said, I—" Lothíriel swallowed. "I…want you. Now. It does not have to be perfect, if that is what you are thinking. It is only our first night, after all."

Éomer grinned down at her, his thumb tracing her swollen lips, already tender from only a few minutes of kissing. "I am not sure if I would prefer tonight to be a high standard or a low standard for the remainder of our lives," he said. "Hmm. It is hot in here, no? Perhaps we could remove—your—"

Her heart thumped as she thought for a moment that she was about to lose her dress, but Éomer merely reached for her headdress and began to lift it from her head. It snagged on her hair, and she cried out, "Ouch!", while glaring at her new husband. His expression turned sheepish.

"My apologies," he said, setting the headdress back into its place with utmost gentleness. "I was…overeager."

"Do try once more," Lothíriel said. "But it might be wise to undo the braids first."

Éomer was chuckling as he took her hand, leading her towards the bed and pushing on her shoulders until she sat, taking a place slightly behind her. His fingers were now much kinder as they began to unweave the plaits which had secured the ornament in place so well. "Béma!" he said after several moments. "Your hair is very pretty, but Lothie! This is unnaturally ornate."

"It did take Hamwyn quite some time," Lothíriel murmured, more relaxed than she ought to be. Even the presence of Éomer so close, and his leg pressing against hers could not stop the warmth of the room and exhaustion of the day from making her eyes heavy. She could hear the fire cracking, her husband's even breathing, and the noise of the feast was so far away. . .

Her eyes snapped open as she felt Éomer at last removed the headdress from her head one more time, a thud sounding behind her as he tossed it on the bed. "I thought I would be doing that all night!" he teased, but his hands were heated as they gripped her shoulders, and with a shiver she felt his lips press against the nape of her neck. "I was very close to saying that you ought to just wear the blasted thing permanently." Éomer's breath was hot on her skin, and his nose brushed up to her hairline.

"How uncomfortable!" Lothíriel managed to say, before twisting around to throw her arms around him, intent on continuing their kissing. How long had it been since the last kissing? Ten minutes? It was far too long.

Éomer snaked one long arm around her, lifting her by the waist and dropping her with a flump onto her back, his lips never leaving hers. A growl was rumbling in his chest, the deep sound making Lothíriel shiver with anticipation; his hot hand had pushed away her skirt and were trailing up her bare leg… He broke away, standing upright to tug off his tunic, revealing a white undershirt as Lothíriel panted, trying to catch her breath. There was no smile on her husband's face now, only intensity as his eyes met hers…and then trailed down the length of her now-skewed bodice.

"My wife…" Éomer murmured. "Béma, Lothie! I feel as though I am already undone."

"Éomer…" Lothíriel reached for him, and ever obliging, he bent over her once more, capturing her lips in ruthless passion. His hand resumed its course underneath her skirt, reaching for…for…

At once several shouting voices filtered through the chamber door; then the ceasing of the music, and then a scream. Éomer was on his feet in an instant, leaving Lothíriel feeling exposed as she sat herself up, watching as he darted to the door and yanked it open, sticking his head into the corridor. But that was hardly necessary, for a moment later a piercing shriek penetrated every cranny of the room.

"Fire! Fire! Fire!"

…

Lothíriel's skirt, so pretty and clean just that morning, was soaked even after carrying just one bucket of water. The baliff's house lit up the night; flames reached towards the sky as if trying to disappear among the stars. It was hot, it was smoky, it was smelly, crowded and now wet, but Lothíriel trudged on; the well to the house, the well to the house, the well to the house.

She was not the only one carrying bucket after bucket. People she recognized as guests at their wedding had abandoned all frivolity and were helping in a mad haste. Hamwyn and her maids were carrying massive tubs from Meduseld to be filled with water; noblemen were herding away animals and children from the flames, and a daring Elfhelm had entered the house to ensure that it was empty. Many others were chasing stray fires, smothering flaming grass with wet cloths.

Lothíriel's dratted slippers, perfectly appropriate for an indoor wedding, were pinching her feet something awful as she tried to avoid rabbit holes and the stray rock. Once she almost fell, but caught herself just before tumbling to the ground. The water she had been carrying spilled down her bodice at that point, and so she sat herself down and tugged the slippers off: they were in shreds, and she tossed them away. Stockings would be enough protection for now. And if she ever married again (unlikely as it was), she would insist upon wear boots. She stood, coughing as smoke clouded her eyes and her nose. Shouts rose again; evidently the wind had shifted course. Tears running down her face, she turned to see the flames licking towards Meduseld. Oh, no! She set off for the well at once, and bumped straight into a very tall man.

His bucket spilled on her that time, and Lothíriel barely bit back a cry of frustration. "I apologize," she said at once. "I was not watching where I was going." She glanced up, and to her surprise, it was her father's sooty face looking back down at her, dazed and distressed, as if he was not seeing clearly. Her mouth fell open; somehow she could not quite associate her father with putting out a house fire.

"You should be inside, where it is safe," her father said, his brows furrowing.

"It is hardly safer inside," Lothíriel pointed out. "If the wind keeps up, Meduseld will be ashes soon enough. But if I help—!"

He was shaking his head, but stepped aside for her to pass. "Go on, then," he sighed. Lothíriel rushed back to the well, the dirt road underneath her turning to mud, sucking in her stockinged feet as if nature itself wanted to deny her attempted assistance.

She made so many trips from the well to the house that she lost count; there was only cold water, handed to her from those drawing it from the well; the sloshing road, and giving her buckets to the men by the house, watching them try to throw it onto the flames to little avail. Her feet began to feel as if they were turning to ice; the exact opposite of the searing hot fire whenever she went too near the house.

At last—not through the diligence of the people, but that the house had nothing left to burn—the flames shrunk. Every bucketful of water seemed to make a small difference. Many individuals had sunk to the ground in exhaustion, staring at the blackened timbers in a daze, dirty and wet just as Lothíriel. She endured a little longer; dragging a bucket towards the house with numb arms. She felt trembling and weak from exertion and ill from the smoke, but was able to lift it one last time to a man, who took it before glancing at her.

"Lothie!"

It was Éomer, of course. She had not noticed him at all the last hours, being too focused on her task, but once she recognized his filthy but so familiar features she felt something inside of her glow with relief. She sagged at last, and smiled weakly as he caught her arm before her legs gave out completely. He dropped her bucket, spilling the precious water but keeping her upright.

"You do not look well," he said, his eyes sweeping up and down her form. "Béma! Did you roll about in the mud?"

"I—I did almost fall, once. I…" Lothíriel looked at her dress, surprised to see just how dirty it was. "I am not sure…" she said dumbly. "What…"

"Sit!" Éomer said, in a surprisingly commanding tone. "I will get you a drink."

"But—no—" Before she could finish her protestations, a tremendous crash sounded, echoing through the streets and causing many to cry out in alarm. Éomer turned to stare, just as Lothíriel, at the crumbling, black timbers as they collapsed into a heap, sparks and ash flying every which way. One spark flew in their direction, landing on a tuft of dry grass and lighting it—Lothíriel startled, but Éomer was quick. He drew his used-to-be white undershirt over his head, kneeling down and smothering the flames before Lothíriel could even draw a breath. Éomer stood once more, his ruined shirt in hand, and glanced around them, presumably to check for any other similar sparks.

Her fright now dimming, Lothíriel bit back a giggle and said, "That is an interesting way to put out a fire."

Éomer turned back to her, grinning. "Nothing more efficient," he said. "Now let us search out some water for ourselves; my throat is hurting something awful!" He held out his arm to her, which Lothíriel took with a smile. Were it not for his seemingly undepleted energy, she might have collapsed then and there, but she leaned on him and he kept her moving. The tension in the air now gone as the house smoldered, everyone was sitting and chatting, some even laughing together. No one was hurt, which Éomer said was a very fortunate thing. "I remember a fire when I was very young," he told her, sitting her down on the steps leading to Meduseld. "A man had entered the burning house to look for anyone inside; he found three children which he was able to carry out, but he died of his wounds afterwards."

Lothíriel felt her stomach knot, thinking of Elfhelm having done the same heroic attempt.

"Fortunately Meduseld has no bailiff," Éomer said, wrapping an arm around her and holding her close, and almost against her will, her eyes began to droop shut. "And everything went smoothly; at least as is possible."

Hamwyn was directing young people, who now carried cups of drinking water to the weary crowd. Lothíriel drank greedily when it was at last her turn, the scratchiness in her throat washing away. She yawned as she returned the cup to the young girl, noticing the grey of dawn peeking above the mountains. Her dress was now barely damp, and warm air drying out the wet layers as they watched the sunrise. The crowd began disperse at last, and a quiet stillness blanketed the area.

"To bed!" Éomer said, and stood, lifting her into his arms with no effort at all. "I mislike seeing my wife so tired and worn." This Lothíriel happy to concede to, and so she snuggled her head into his bare shoulder and knew no more.

Lothíriel felt as if she had been pinned to be bed by a pile of rocks. Perhaps it was her exhaustion that kept her from making the effort of waking, or that her sore muscles from the night of running and lifting buckets of water were now incredibly, ferociously sore.

She did not even have the will to open her eyes.

That may have been in part because she was in Éomer's bed, in his bedchamber, and she was not quite sure how she felt about that. Her preconceptions of the morning after her wedding were that she would wake, snuggled up with her husband, having spent the evening before getting over her shyness around him and comfortable with the idea of intimacy. That certainly had not been the case.

If she opened her eyes, the room would be bright; somehow she could not carry out the activates she had been anticipating the previous night in full daylight. Is that what would Éomer expect of her, since their wedding night had passed unconsummated?

Lothíriel rolled over, grimacing as a muscle in her leg cramped. She lay spread out on the bed, and she realized that it was empty. Her eyes flew open at last, and she took in the mussed covers next to her. Éomer had joined her there after the fire was quenched, no? Where could he be now?

A soft knock sounded at the door, and before she could compose herself, it opened—and a troupe of servants tromped through, lugging a massive bathtub, jugs of steaming water, and a pair of trays filled with food.

"Good morning, ma'am," Hamwyn said, her cheery face appeared amongst the ranks. "Hope we didn't wake ye. The king ordered all this—" she gestured to the chaos, "For ye this morn. I hope ye passed a restful night, after all the excitement."

Lothíriel suppressed a blush, and smiled at the older woman. "Restful enough," she said. "Where is Éomer now?"

"I saw him speaking with yer father, ma'am. He said he would be right along."

She sat up in the bed, yawning and waving to Hamwyn as the servants filed out once more. Perhaps her father would keep Éomer long enough for her to enjoy a bath. She rubbed her bare arms, smearing the dirt and soot over her skin, and black spots appeared on the fresh white linens on the bed. Lothíriel grimaced once more, and tried to brush it away.

The door swung open again, this time without a knock, and Lothíriel startled. Éomer stepped through, casting her a quick smile before examining the new additions to the room. "Good, good," he said, his voice louder than normal. She noticed his face was as dirty as he had last night, though he was wearing fresh clothing. "Hamwyn was quick. What do you say—breakfast first, or a bath? Or should I say, would you prefer a hot breakfast or a hot bath? You may not be fortunate enough to indulge in both today."

His behavior was perfectly normal, at least, and Lothíriel relaxed at his familiar, friendly grin. "I believe I would prefer a bath first today," she said. "I am far too filthy to enjoy a meal."

He studied her from across the room, having not come any closer to her, which brought back her discomfort. "You slept in your clothes," he said, looking her up and down.

"Yes. Did—didn't you?"

Éomer's grin widened, and at this insinuation Lothíriel flushed bright red. "Well," she said, lifting her chin to appear unbothered. "I cannot wear my clothing during my bath, and so if you could, er—leave, or—"

"Leave? No, ma'am. Someone needs to ensure that you do not drown."

She regarded him crossly, and he continued, "I am afraid I am rather in need of a bath as well, Lothie. I was hoping to appeal to your good nature and beg to join you."

Nothing Hamwyn had told her about the intimacy between a husband and wife prepared her for this notion, and Lothíriel's mind reeled. Then she shook herself—she trusted Éomer in all things, and this as well. She had to be brave; there was no point in delaying any longer, and she nodded at him.

"Excellent!" Éomer strode forward, taking her hands in his before pulling her upward, kissing her thoroughly on the lips. Lothíriel felt dazed when he finally pulled away, and he grinned down at her. "I know our wedding night was—well, it was not precisely what you—or I—had imagined. Ahem. I am sorry, Lothie."

"No matter," she managed to say. He still held her awfully close.

"Look here," he said, his tone low as he stared intently into her eyes. "I know it would have been better—less uncomfortable I mean—in darkness, but Lothie! Tonight is your coronation and at the moment I detest even the very thought of sharing you with guests; both tonight and for the remainder of the celebrations. I cannot sit through another feast pretending to enjoy it, when all I truly wish is to be alone with you!"

Lothíriel smiled tremulously up at him, and his features softened. "I want you to be the best loved woman in the Mark, sweet girl," Éomer said. "And I want everyone to know that their king loves his queen above all else."

"Above even your country?" she teased.

"Yes," he said at once. "I love you more than the Riddermark. I could very well live anywhere else—but I could never love another."

"Oh, Éomer!" Lothíriel sighed, and a hungry glint grew in his eyes before he kissed her again, and again, and— "Bath now," he said, his voice hoarse. "Or by the time we get to it, both the water and the meal will be cold."

Lothíriel turned away to undress herself with trembling fingers, and she could hear Éomer removing his clothing nearby. Her wedding dress was completely ruined; it was covered in black soot and the hem looked as if it had been dipped in mud—which, of course, it had. Her underclothes were not much better, and she unlaced her ruined corset and threw it onto the pile of discarded clothes. Sleeping fully dressed had wrinkled everything—Lothíriel made a mental note to apologize to the laundry staff.

"You are terribly slow today," Éomer said, and she felt him embrace her from behind, his body warming her as he kissed the top of her head. "Surely you are not nervous."

"No," she said, and turned to snuggle into his arms. "Perhaps a trifle apprehensive, but not nervous."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, and Lothíriel smiled to herself. Her shift, the only clothing separating her breasts from his bare chest, was seeming awfully thin. "Come on then," he said. "I will undress you myself if you continue to drag your feet! Though you would be deserving of a tepid bath, if it came to that."

"If anyone deserves a tepid bath, it is you," she said, fixing him with a severe stare. "Infringing upon my bath in such a way."

Éomer did not respond, and without warning he bent over to haul her upon his shoulder, and she gasped. "Put me down!" she said, not daring to pound her fists against his bare back, though she wanted to. She was walked over to the tub before he obliged, and Lothíriel scowled at the smug grin on his face.

"Join me," he said. She barely had time to cover her eyes before he left her side, and likely exposing his entire body to her view.

"A warning, next time," she said, and turned away at the sound of water sloshing around as he entered the tub, spraying her with stray droplets. "Now, close your eyes."

"No, ma'am."

"Éomer—"

"Fine. Hurry along."

Lothíriel shrugged the shift over her head, taking a deep breath as she felt the cool air brush against her skin as the shift fell to the floor. She turned back to the bathtub, keeping her eyes away from her husband as she put one trembling foot in, and then the other, before sitting down with her knees at her chest. The water was warm, but the sensation of Éomer's limbs so close to hers was disconcerting. She wished again that the awkwardness had been dealt with the night before!

"May I open my eyes now?" Éomer asked.

Lothíriel looked up, confirming that he had been obedient to her wishes by keeping his eyes shut, and her throat went dry at the sight of his nakedness. She had never seen an entirely nude man before, and she swallowed. His shoulders were burnished by the sun, the muscles glistening from the water. How different that the sooty, grimy torso she had seen last night! Her knees began to shake. "Yes," she choked, and lowered her eyes.

"Béma, Lothie! You look scared to death."

She felt his hands grip her arms, which had been clenched around her knees, and was drawn forward with a splash into his embrace. "Lothie," he said gently. "I am not your executioner. I am your husband!"

"I know," she said in a small voice. "I am sorry, Éomer—I think I have made this worse for myself—at least in part. I was a little nervous when I woke; I was unprepared to have to face this for the first time in daylight."

"Consider yourself forgiven." He nuzzled her neck, and Lothíriel shivered. "Now it is my turn for a confession," he said, and pulled back to smile warmly at her. "I peeked."

His unrepentant tone brought on gales of laughter, and Lothíriel satisfied herself with giving him a pinch on the arm for retaliation. "You are intolerable!" she said, trying to admonish him but only making him laugh harder.

"I will take that as a compliment," Éomer said. "Now, forget your embarrassment and let me wash you."

…

The sunset cast slants of light across the bed, and the breeze that wafted through the open window ruffled the curtains. Lothíriel could hear the king's dogs barking from the other side of Meduseld, but it was far enough away to not disturb their peace. Having just woken from a short doze, she yawned and turned on her side, snuggling up close to her husband.

As little sleep as she had gotten the night before, she knew Éomer had gotten less. He had informed her at some point of the day (she could not remember precisely when), that he had awakened at dawn to make sure that the clean-up was proceeding well in hand, and to ensure that her father was comfortable as a guest in the hall. And so when he had fallen asleep an hour or so earlier, Lothíriel had not disturbed him, revelling alone with her private thoughts and feelings before drifting off herself.

Goose pimples broke out across her skin as she felt Éomer's fingers drift lazily upwards on her bare back, though his face remained impassive. "Surely you are not faking your slumber," Lothíriel said, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Never," he mumbled. "I am merely delaying reality a little. Lothie...you have made me so happy."

She could not hold back her smile, and she propped herself on her elbows to kiss his bearded cheek. "Yet I feel that it is nothing compared to what you have given me," she said. "I do love you, Éomer."

His lips turned upwards. "You have informed me of that several times today already, my sweet girl."

"I simply wish you to know it."

Éomer finally opened his eyes, adjusting himself so that he looked down at her, and Lothíriel found her back pressed against the pillows once more, her heart thumping fast at the expression in his eyes. Lothíriel wove her fingers into his thick mane of hair and pulled him down for a kiss. A very long kiss, in fact—despite her lips feeling chapped and dry from the amount of kissing which had already been accomplished that day. She marvelled that her nervousness had disappeared hours earlier, and in its place a very cozy feeling that she could touch Éomer as often as she wanted. It was unexpected, considering what sort of marriage she might have had, married to a Gondorian. How thankful she was for her Rohirric husband and all the love he gave her!

Éomer's hands were just brushing along her legs when a knock sounded at the door. He pulled himself away from her, looking put out. "Who is it?" he barked.

"It is Hamwyn, sire," came the older woman's voice. "I am sorry to interrupt, but the ceremony is to begin in an hour, and I must see that yer wife is properly attired for it."

He groaned, and Lothíriel smiled at his annoyance. "I would rather you stay un-attired," he muttered to her.

"And I would prefer to be dressed, if I am to be seen in public," she said, feeling the muscles in his arm flex under her hands before calling, "Hamwyn, do return in five minutes or so. I need some time to remove my husband from the chamber."

"But it is my chamber," Éomer protested, though he rolled off of her at her gentle push.

"Not any longer; it is ours. And if you stay, I shall be driven to distraction. More than I am already," she added, and stood to fetch a dressing gown, covering herself despite Éomer shaking his head at her. "You ought to dress yourself!" Lothíriel said as he continued to lie prone. "I should hate to be coronated by Elfhelm."

Éomer growled, and as she'd hoped—left the bed, scrounged around for his state-occasion clothing in a wardrobe, and dressed himself, shooting her reproachful glances as he tied the laces on his tunic. He was finished rather quickly, but lingered to give Lothíriel a long and passionate kiss before leaving the room, bowing to Hamwyn, who entered in a panic.

"What little time we have, lass! We must hurry!"

But of course, with Hamwyn's expert skills, Lothíriel was ready in plenty of time. Éomer had not returned to escort her, and unwilling to wait upon him, she left alone, feeling oddly exposed but not uncomfortable as she made her way to the hall, the deep red trail of her ceremonial gown trailing behind her. To her astonishment, her father was waiting by the entrance to the hall, and held out his hand to her as she approached.

"Lothíriel," he said gravely, and bent to kiss her, once on each cheek. "You look the perfect queen."

"Thank you, Father."

"And—" he paused, looking odd. "You have acted the perfect queen as well, Lothíriel. I am proud of you; for your actions during the fire, and for having heart enough to fight for the man you love. I am...sorry."

A warm rush of gratitude made Lothíriel's heart squeeze. "I love you, Father," she said. "And I am sorry that I have never said it until now." Dearly she wished to embrace him, but decided not to press it. "Will you take me in?" she asked. "This last time."

He smiled, the lines on his face relaxing. "One last time."