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Éomer Éadig, King of the Mark, had faced many terrible things in his life.
He had ridden against orcs and mûmakil. He had stood upon the Pelennor Fields beneath a sky darkened by war. He had charged into battle when all hope seemed lost and looked death in the eye more times than he cared to count.
Nothing had prepared him for pregnancy cravings.
The discovery came on a winter night.
He woke in the middle of the night to restless movement beside him, followed by a small, distressed groan that immediately pulled him from sleep. Confused, he looked around to find you sitting upright against the carved headboard, wrapped in a blanket.
Silver moonlight spilled through the windows of the royal chambers, casting pale light across the room, just bright enough to make out your expression of terrible distress, brows drawn together, lips tightly pressed together.
It made his stomach drop.
"My love?" he murmured into the darkness, already pushing himself upright. "What is wrong?"
His hand found yours first. The other rested instinctively upon your stomach, where your child grew safely. Almost four months now. Not enough for a great swelling yet, but enough that he thought about that small life more often than he thought of anything else.
"Éomer..." You sniffled.
The way you said his name did nothing to calm him. At once, a dozen terrible possibilities rushed through his mind.
Were you in pain?
Had you been frightened by another nightmare?
Were you worried about the child again?
"My love, speak to me," he urged gently.
You looked at him and found so much love and terror balanced in the frown between his eyes. Your lips trembled.
"I really need lemon cakes."
Éomer blinked once.
"You... what?"
"Lemon cakes," you repeated miserably. "The fluffy ones. With sugar on top."
He simply stared at you dumbfounded for some seconds.
Of all the dangers he had imagined, pastries had not been among them.
He softly called your name, squeezing your hand gently, "it is the middle of the night."
"I know." You nodded.
"The cooks are asleep."
"I know."
He sighed, then looked at the window. "It will be dawn in a few hours..."
"I know."
"Then surely this can wait until morning," he offered, hesitant.
You looked at him and reluctantly nodded again. But then he noticed how your lower lip began to tremble and how your eyes shone with tears.
Éomer froze.
No.
Absolutely not.
"Nonono."
Panic sank in his chest. He threw the blankets aside and jumped out of bed so quickly he nearly tangled himself in them.
"I will find some!"
Before you could say a word, he was already reaching for a robe. Then he paused just long enough to kneel beside you and press a kiss to your forehead.
"Do not cry over pastries," he pleaded softly, gently cupping your face, thumb brushing over your lower lip. "I beg you."
......
In the deep hours of the night, the King of Rohan was striding through the silent corrdors of Meduseld. The only sound was the distant crackle of hearth-fires, along with the occasional grumbles under his breath.
Once inside the kitchens, Éomer walked to the small door at the back, which led to the cook's quarters and knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
And a third time, more insistently.
At last, a muffled voice came from behind the door. Whatever words were spoken, he could not make out properly, but they were certainly not welcoming.
A lock was slid open and the door opened a crack. The chief cook peered out, with a robe pulled over her sleeping garments, candlestick in hand. She was a stout woman with enough years behind her to fear neither lords nor kings. Her eyes narrowed sleepily before widening in surprise.
"My lord?"
The sight before her was not quite what she had expected.
There stood Éomer King, Lord of the Riddermark, slayer of countless foes, rider of Firefoot, hero of the Pelennor Fields... Now wrapped in a hastily-tied robe, barefoot, his eyes heavy with sleep and his golden hair completely disheveled.
"I require lemon cakes," he stated.
The woman looked beyond confused now.
"My lord... I do not understand."
Neither did he.
"Lemon cakes," he repeated. "The fluffy ones with sugar on top." He made sure to use your exact words, and tried to maintain a dignified posture although, at this hour, the request sounded no less absurd spoken aloud than it had in his chambers.
The cook stared at him.
"The ovens are cold," she said flatly.
"I am aware."
"It is still the middle of the night."
"I am also aware of that," he grumbled.
She folded her arms. "Are you certain that this matter cannot wait until morning?"
"Apparently not." Éomer sighed deeply. "The Queen was quite adamant that she needed lemon cakes now."
"Now?"
He rubbed a hand across his jaw. "I think she might cry if I return empty handed."
The woman thought for a long moment, then her expression lit up at once.
"Oh..." A knowing smirk grew on her face and she fully stepped out of her quarters. "That makes sense."
"Does it?" he asked, beyond confused now, as he watched her tying her apron with surprising energy for someone who had been roused from sleep.
Chuckling softly, she asked, "How far along is the Queen?"
Éomer scratched the back of his neck, nearly blushing. The heir had not yet been announced beyond a trusted handful of people.
"Almost four months now," Éomer confessed, still hovering awkwardly near the door while the cook lit the oil lamps around the kitchen.
"Mm-hm..." The woman said while lighting the hearth of the oven, stirring the cold ashes with a poker until embers glowed faintly. "I better get to it then."
Éomer sat by the counter, trying not to interfere in her work, and watched as she gathered flour, sugar, eggs and lemons.
"Is this... Normal?" he asked quietly, brows knitting together, with his hands clasped patiently on the counter.
The cook gave him a sidelong glance while whisking.
"Oh, yes," she said matter-of-factly. "Pregnant women crave things. Strange things! My sister once demanded pickled onions at midnight! Her poor husband had to ride two towns away to find some. And I myself, when carrying my second, would have sold my soul for nothing but baked apples for a fortnight." She laughed.
Éomer found himself nodding at the woman's words, hands clasped together on the counter, feeling both relieved and faintly embarrassed. How foolish he felt for not knowing such things.
"I know little of this," he admitted. "I am a man of war. These matters..." he shook his head. "They were never taught to me."
The cook paused in her work, looking up at him with a gentle understanding in her eyes. A smile softened her face.
"You are a first-time father," she said kindly, wiping her hands on her apron. "Nobody expects you to know everything."
Éomer was not entirely certain he agreed with that.
He wished, not for the first time in the last few months, that his mother had been there.
She would have told him what to do. She would have laughed at him for marching through Meduseld barefoot in search of cakes, then explained the matter as though it was the simplest thing in the world.
Instead, he was left piecing things together one confusion at a time.
"If I understand correctly," he said carefully. "I am expected to provide whatever she craves?"
"Of course!" she replied. "The body of a pregnant woman knows what it needs. Best not to argue with it."
Éomer considered this gravely, nodding. "I see."
The woman returned to pouring the batter into a tray. Unfortunately, Éomer was already thinking ahead of every terrible outcome.
"What if she demands strawberries in winter?"
"Then may the Valar help you!" the cook laughed.
The possibility seemed to strike him as an entirely realistic concern.
The cook watched him for a moment before setting down her spoon.
"My lord... Is the child well?" she asked more gently.
"Yes, as far as the midwife can say," he replied at once, his expression softening with pride. "Very well."
"And is the Queen healthy?
At that, Éomer smiled widely. "And radiant."
The cook nodded, satisfied, and turned to slide the tray into the hot oven. "Be grateful, then, that lemon cakes are your greatest concern."
He considered that in silence.
Then, slowly, some of the tension left his shoulders. Somehow, hearing it spoken so simply, the whole thing seemed a little less frightening than it had an hour before.
---
And so the King of the Mark departed upon his noble quest back across the sleeping halls of Meduseld, proudly carrying a plate of six freshly baked lemon cakes carefully wrapped in cloth.
When he finally pushed open the door to his chambers, he found you exactly where he had left you: curled under the blankets with a distressed expression.
The moment your eyes landed on the bundle in his hands, they widened.
"You found some!"
The relief in your voice was so immediate that Éomer nearly laughed.
"Of course I did."
A smile broke across your face, so bright that it rivaled the sunrise itself, a sight he would gladly wake every cook in the Mark to see every night.
You held out both hands eagerly. The sweet scent of lemon filled the room and you could feel your mouth watering.
For a brief moment Éomer simply stood by the door watching you. He looked down at the plate, then back at you.
"I rode against the hosts of Mordor and yet never have I undertaken a mission as important as obtaining these cakes," he teased.
Your pillow flew across the room and struck him squarely in the chest. Laughing amusedly, he finally surrendered the prize.
You unwrapped the cloth immediately. Without hesitation, you seized one pastry and took a bite.
Your eyes closed in relief. A small sound of pure bliss escaped you, distress finally melting away from your body. It was warm, soft, sweet, carrying just the right ammount of lemon and cinnamon.
Éomer watched, shaking his head. Mysteries of war he understood. This… he did not, but he was satisfied enough knowing that you were finally content.
Removing his robe, he settled into the warmth of the bed next to you again.
"Was it worth waking half the staff of Meduseld?" he asked.
With your mouth stuffed with cake, you nodded. "Absolutely."
You broke off a piece and held it out toward him. He accepted it gladly.
"It is good," he admitted, sucking the sugar off his thumb.
You finally set the plate upon the bedside table and climbed back beneath the blankets, still chewing contentedly.
Snuggling into his side, you wrapped an arm around his chest. You felt his hand drifting instinctively to your growing belly as he held you close.
"Our child is so fortunate to have you," you muttered, tiredness tainting your voice, sleep returning fast now that your mind was finally at ease.
Éomer smiled to himself and brought you a bit closer. He found relief in your words; maybe he could do this after all.
The war was over, the Mark knew peace and his greatest victory these days was finding some pastries.
It was, Éomer reflected as he pressed a kiss against your hair, a remarkably pleasant change.