“My Lady?”

A soft voice nudged into her mind. Lothíriel’s lids began to flutter hesitantly. She really tried to open her eyes but they were resisting.

“My Lady?” Again that soft unknown voice.

After several fluttering heart beats, she finally managed to force her eyes all the way open and met the gaze of sky blue eyes in a strange face. A face covered with freckles.

Freckles!

Winfrith; her newly appointed handmaiden.

She had come to wake her and help her prepare for her wedding.

Her wedding!

All at once she was wide awake and she sat up with a jolt, making Winfrith jump.

“My apologies, my Lady. I did not want to startle you.”

“Oh, no,” Lothíriel pushed back from her face those tendrils which had escaped her braid, feeling slightly giddy after the abrupt movement, “you did not startle me. I just remembered that today is the wedding.”

There was a tiny smile on Winfrith’s face, but she made no comment. Instead she retrieved the tray she had left on top of a chest.

“I have brought you mint tea and some fruit bread and butter. While you are eating I will fetch hot water for your morning toilet.”

“Thank you, Winfrith.”

Lothíriel plumped up the pillows and settled against them, holding out her hands to accept the tray. Perhaps she could get used to having an early meal in bed after all.

Winfrith left the chamber to fetch the water and Lothíriel discovered that the handmaiden had already stirred the fire. The flames snapped and crackled in the hearth, radiating pleasant warmth. Now, in the second half of the month of Viressë, spring would have arrived in Gondor, the air mild and the vegetation awakened. Here in Rohan nature was at least a month behind, the coldness and the gloom of winter not yet forgotten.

Lothíriel wrapped her hands around the mug of tea, blowing lightly into it. Taking a sip, she looked over the rim at her wedding gown hanging on the screen. There were actually two gowns, both of different shades of the traditional bridal colour, which also happened to be the colour of her coastal home. The simple but elegant velvet gown with its gored train and drapey sleeves had been deliberately chosen to have the same deep peacock blue as the banner of Dol Amroth. It was meant to be worn over the satin dress for the ceremony, which would take place outside on the terrace in front of Meduseld. Later, for the festivities, she would shed the velvet gown. Inside the hall it would be too warm for it and she would wear just the ice blue dress, which had a high narrow collar and long fitted sleeves. Lothíriel had found that the shimmering satin hugged her barely existing curves too tightly but Arwen had assured her that it was not at all indecent.

She took her eyes from the gown and looked down at the fruit bread in front of her. She knew she should eat something, but she didn’t feel hungry. Or rather her throat felt as if somebody had put a noose around her neck and was tightening it, and further down, her stomach had metamorphosed into a hard inflexible lump.

This was a bad time to get nervous. For most of the day, there was not really anything significant going to happen that would justify getting nervous right now. Tonight she would be given enough opportunities to get tense. Tonight she and Éomer would have to consummate their union.

Who, in the name of the Valar, had come up with those syllables to paraphrase what Amrothos had put in simpler and more concrete words: she was going to be bedded.

That didn’t sound well either. Amrothos phrasing was, no doubt, more vivid but also cruder.

Lothíriel took a deep breath. No, this was not the time for nervousness and tension. She would save that for later. She just had to concentrate on something else. For example forcing food through her tight throat down into her disobliging stomach. As a start she downed the contents of the mug in one. Not a very bright idea. In doing so she had gulped down a fair amount of air as well. She pulled a face. Now she had an unpleasant feeling of fullness in that area, on top of the already knotted feeling. She pressed her palm on her stomach and rubbed it in circles. After some massaging she was granted success. The air made its way back out of her stomach via her throat and escaped from her mouth with a loud burp. Its volume could have easily rivalled that of a crib biting horse – an appropriate comparison for Rohan, Lothíriel thought. But she really needed to eat something or she might faint during the ceremony after all, despite the fact that she had assured Éomer she wouldn’t.

The thought of her betrothed brought back the thought of tonight and her stomach tensed even more. Not a very good omen. She really wished she had at least some experience and would go into the wedding night with more than a vague idea what was going to happen. She knew about the pure mechanical course of the event, but she was uncertain of what she was expected to do to contribute to the success of the venture.

Lothíriel broke off a tiny piece of bread and put a small knob of butter on it. She took a deep breath and popped it into her mouth. She chewed carefully. She liked the taste of the goat butter, which seemed to be common in Rohan, and goat milk was said to be much easier to digest than the milk from cows.

By breaking off tiny bits and with careful chewing Lothíriel finally managed to get down a single slice of fruit bread; not exactly a sumptuous meal but that was all she was able to take in. She felt as if she had eaten half a roast ox.

Undecided if she should get up or wait for Winfrith to return she let her eyes roam the room and her thoughts wander over the past couple of days.

From the way Éomer had greeted her and had been treating her she ought to believe that he was quite content with the idea that she would be his wife. And had he not been interrupted constantly - he would have told her so - of that she was certain. After all, he had already mentioned that he thought her beautiful and that he wanted her. The way things stood and taking into consideration that she was definitely in love with him, she would assess the overall situation as rather positive. It could only improve if he would admit to some feelings for her.

She needed company. She had always believed that those who were not content with their own company were lacking spirit and imagination. But today her imagination let her follow peculiar trains of thought. She needed a diversion; something or somebody to take her mind off things: off her nervousness, off the wedding night, off Éomer – if that was possible at all.

She nearly giggled in relief, when after an announcing knock, the door opened to reveal not only Winfrith but also Lady Cynewyn who was keeping her promise from the night before and had come to help her prepare for the ceremony. She was wearing, probably by Gondorian standards, a simple gown. But the moss-green velvet with the golden embroidery at the hem suited her perfectly and she had managed to confine her thick curls under a golden crespinette.

“Good morning, my Lady. I hope you had a restful night.”

“Good morning, Lady Cynewyn. Thank you, I slept quite well.”

The wife of the Marshal of the Eastmark stepped next to her bed, taking a look at her food tray, without a doubt discerning that she had hardly eaten anything. But she forbore to comment on it.

“Would you like me to take this so you can get up, my Lady?”

Lothíriel handed her the tray. She folded back the quilt and swung her legs out of bed. Putting her feet on the ground, she drew them back again quickly. The tiled floor was not only beautiful but also icy cold. Cynewyn had watched her manoeuvre.

“I am sorry,” she said ruefully. “We should have placed more rugs in this chamber. But the last time it was used was in the summer, and then the coolness of the stone floor is rather pleasant.”

“Can it really get so hot in Rohan that you crave for cooling?” Lothíriel asked, taking a pair of slippers from Winfrith and putting them on.

“Not over long periods of time,” Cynewyn explained. “But for us Rohirrim, who are not used to heat in general a sennight of hot weather feels like a rather long stretch.”

“When do you think the weather will improve?” Lothíriel could hear Winfrith transferring some of the hot water she had brought in big buckets into the washbowl.

“It already has,” the wife of the Marshal laughed. “The sun arrived together with you yesterday. It is bright and sunny outside, but also pretty windy. We will have to braid your hair or you may not be able to see a thing when the wind blows it into your face.”

“That is why you chose to wear a crespinette, I suppose.” Lothíriel motioned to the fine net holding the lady’s thick curls captive.

Cynewyn touch her hair, “I am afraid I have passed on this unruly mass to all three of my daughters. As it is easy to identify Erkenbrand’s and Alfrun’s offspring, you cannot overlook ours.”

“So your son is going to be a curlyhead, too?”

“I hope not,” Cynewyn pulled a face in mocked horror. “Can you imagine the teasing he would have to endure? A rider with a mop of corkscrew curls.”

Both women laughed. Lothíriel was already feeling a little bit calmer and more relaxed in the company of Lady Cynewyn.

Winfrith stepped around from behind the screen. “The water is ready, my Lady, if you please.”

Lothíriel slid from the bed and went to the washing facilities behind the screen. As she had taken a bath just the evening before, she began, after taking off her chemise, to wash herself with the help of a facecloth and flannels. Winfrith had repositioned the screen so that the warmth of the fire flowed over from the hearth. She also found tooth powder, bleached wool and a mug with water to rinse her mouth. Last night, before she had gone to bed, she had braided her hair into a loose plait. She wondered what Lady Cynewyn planned to do with it, so that it would withstand the gusts of wind. They seemed to be part of Edoras, as she had discovered yesterday.

Having finished with her morning toilet, she put on her robe and joined the two other women.

“I think you should begin by donning the underdress,” Cynewyn suggested, “and then we will see to your hair. The velvet gown can be put on without disturbing your hairstyle.”

Lothíriel saw no reason to object and let Winfrith help her with the satin dress. Its cut did not allow her to wear a chemise underneath, but she was quite certain that, with the velvet gown worn over it, she would not get cold outside now that the sun was shining.

Winfrith had placed a large oval looking glass on one of the chests and while the handmaiden was pulling the laces tight at the back, Lothíriel had the opportunity to look at herself in the first piece of her wedding gown. She had to admit that Queen Arwen had immaculate taste. She wouldn’t really have known what to choose.

The ice blue satin was laced tight around the waist and the folds of the skirt began at the level of her hips and fell in heavy lines down to her feet. Beside the beautiful silver embroidery on the high collar and the cuffs, its best feature was that it made her look as if she actually had breasts.

Both other women looked at her approvingly.

“I think from today on there will no Rohirrim left in doubt that they are going to have a very beautiful queen,” Cynewyn assured her with a smile, and Winfrith gave a nod to second that opinion.

“Thank you.” Lothíriel smoothed her palms over the soft fabric. “Do you not think they would rather have a useful queen?”

Cynewyn regarded her steadily. “I think you have already offered proof of that particular quality of yours when you cut the arrowhead out of Éothain. The tale did its round yesterday night at the feast. And it also went around that many of the chests that were delivered from Gondor did not contain just your personal dowry, but healers’ equipment also.” Suddenly she began laughing, shaking her head slightly when she caught Lothíriel’s surprised expression.

“We all, who have known him for years, should have realized that Éomer’s choice of a wife would be rather unusual. But we certainly did not expect him to choose a princess from Gondor who is also a healer.”

Lothíriel hesitated a moment, wrestling with herself, before she asked. “And what do you consider being the more unusual part of his choice? The healer or the Gondorian princess?”

Cynewyn regarded her thoughtfully. “The Gondorian princess,” she finally answered, probably simply not able to be anything other than blunt, but she went on to explain. “Like all of us, Éomer grew up with tales of Queen Morwen, his grandmother. The noble lady from Gondor, who did not care about her husband’s people and who tried to persuade Thengel to abandon his duty as the heir of Rohan. It is said she had great influence over her husband and while he reigned his court was dominated by Gondorian customs and everybody in their vicinity was forced to speak the common tongue. When Thengel King died, Morwen could hardly wait for his funeral before she left for Gondor, taking three of her daughters with her. Her youngest, Théodwyn, Éomer’s mother, stayed behind in Rohan. They say both she and Théoden broke with their mother.”

“And now the grandson of this much despised queen has chosen another Gondorian noble woman to be his bride,” Lothíriel soberly took stock of her words.

“No,” Cynewyn replied simply. “Éomer chose you to be his wife.” She laid her hand on the younger woman’s arm. “Come; sit on the bench, my Lady, so we can dress your hair.”

After Lothíriel had settled herself comfortably, the lady pulled a ribbon from the small embroidered purse she wore at her girdle and held the ends together.

“This is the perimeter of the Queen’s circlet. What do you think, Winfrith?”

“It will be too big for my Lady. We will have to braid her hair around her head so the circlet will be supported by it.”

The handmaiden handed Lothíriel a pair of elegant shoes, buttoned at the ankles and made of fine suede. They had been dyed in the same colour as the velvet gown.

Cynewyn eyed them doubtfully. “They have rather thin soles. You will be freezing. At Meduseld you would be better wearing sturdy shoes. With these stone floors there is always a draught around your feet.”

Lothíriel looked down. The dainty footwear looked very pretty with the silver buttons and decoration.

“I suppose I am not going to die from cold feet.” There was nothing to be done but to accept her fate. When Arwen had picked out the shoes she had probably done it with her own experience from the summer months in mind. Lothíriel just hoped she was not going to get a cold because of it.

Winfrith took a brush and, undoing the plait, began to brush her hair with gentle, even strokes.

In one of her letters Cynewyn had explained that after the wedding ceremony, when bride and groom or in this special case the king and his bride had spoken their vows, Éomer would asked his kinsmen to give him their consent to crown his new wife as his Queen-Consort. After the Rohirrim had expressed their agreement, he would put the Queen’s circlet on her head.

The newly appointed handmaiden proved herself to be very skilful in the braiding of hair. Somehow she managed to conjure an elaborate style that would withstand the gusty winds without looking plain or severe.

“That is very lovely, Winfrith,” Lady Cynewyn praised her effort. She again took the ribbon and held it as a measurement around Lothíriel’s head. “And it will support the circlet,” she found to her satisfaction.

Lothíriel took a calming breath. “That means I am prepared – as well as I can hope for – and ready to leave.” She thought that her own voice sounded awfully strained.

Cynewyn smiled at her. “There is some time left. Perhaps you would now like to eat some more or have another drink of tea. Winfrith will go to the kitchen and bring you whatever you might fancy.”

She did not feel the slightest bit of an appetite, but her common sense told her that she couldn’t hold out the whole day with only a slice of fruit bread in her stomach. The last thing the Rohirrim should have to witness was a fainting Gondorian princess.

When Cynewyn saw her hesitating she made a suggestion. “Perhaps you would like a hot beef-broth with a fresh egg yolk whisked in it. That is easy on the stomach but nutritious.”

“That is a very good idea, my Lady,” Winfrith agreed. She left the chamber without waiting for Lothíriel’s approval, taking the tray with the leftovers with her.

“You will feel better, as soon as you have eaten something,” the lady assured the nervous bride.

“That is what I told myself earlier.” She let out another breath, irritated with herself. “I do not understand this. I was not this tense yesterday. It only began when I opened my eyes this morning. Suddenly I felt as if . . . Sweet Elbereth, I do not even know how I feel,” she groaned.”

There was again this calm friendly humour in the older woman’s eyes. “I think you would only have a reason to be concerned if you were unmoved and indifferent right now.”

“You are probably right.” Lothíriel managed a smile.

Lady Cynewyn pulled a folded piece of parchment from her purse.

“While you are waiting for Winfrith to bring you the broth, have a look at this. Gandalf gave it to me for you.”

Lothíriel took the parchment with a surprised arch of her eyebrows. “What is it?” she asked rhetorically, at the same time unfolding what appeared to be a note.

“It is the wording of your wedding vows.”

Now she felt even more surprised. “But you sent me a description of the Rohirric wedding customs including the words I have to say, many months ago,” she reminded Cynewyn and began to read what was written on the parchment in a precise lettering.

“The night before yesterday Gandalf arrived in Edoras – out of nowhere, as is his way - announcing that he would preside over the wedding ceremony,” the lady told her. “And during the feast yesterday he disappeared together with Éomer for a while to discuss some details and changes, whatever they may be. I suppose this wording is the result.”

Lothíriel stared at the lines in front of her. These had nothing to do with the mundane wording she had once received from Lady Cynewyn. This vow was very different. It was much more, rather, a declaration. There was not one single word here she wouldn’t be able to speak in truth and with conviction, but why had they, Gandalf and Éomer, decided to diverge from the common Rohirric customs?

Cynewyn must have seen from her expression that she was at a complete loss. “Is something wrong, my Lady,” she inquired, concern in her voice.

“No. Everything is fine.” Lothíriel replied absent-mindedly, slowly shaking her head. “I suppose I just have to memorize these words.”

“Then I will leave you to it,” the older woman declared, still looking doubtful. “I will have a look at how everything is proceeding and return later with your father to fetch you. Winfrith should be back soon.”

“Yes, that is just fine with me.” Lothíriel looked up, having managed to slip on her customary mask of composure.

After Cynewyn had left she turned her attention back to the short script in her hands. Why had Gandalf and Éomer changed the common words? Why was she expected to speak this vow in front of all the witnessing citizens of Edoras and the wedding guests? She recalled the words Merewyn had said without really thinking. The people of Rohan believed their King would wed her as part of a political arrangement with Gondor. Did Éomer fear that his kinsmen considered her another uncaring noblewoman from the south who had been dragged to their land against her will? Were these words supposed to be a public declaration to reassure the Rohirrim? Had the decision been made after consulting her father and King Elessar?

So many questions. Amrothos had been right. Her urge to ask questions would land her in trouble one day, even if this trouble came only in form of the headache she felt approaching. This was her wedding day. Could it get any worse? She was a bag of nerves; her stomach was rebelling and her head throbbing. And now she had to memorize these lines that Gandalf had sent her, and all she wished was for Éomer to know that she was truly going to mean these words, that for her they were more than hollow phrases.

Do not push, Amrothos had advised her, and Erchirion had made a similar comment. She should not expect everything to happen at once. After all, they had a lifetime at their disposal to become acquainted with each other.

When had she started thinking in quotes made by others?

She just had to get over this day and night and tomorrow everything would be back to normal. Her nerves would have soothed, her stomach settled and the headache gone. One step after the other. Therefore, she had better begin by memorizing these lines. She had not any intention of making a fool of herself in front of her new people by getting into a tangle.

Fortunately she had always found learning by heart easy - or unfortunately, because soon as she had the words memorized her mind began to sink its claws into the implications of the changes again. She wished it were possible to turn off her brain.

Winfrith returned with a bowl of beef-broth and forcing it down provided at least some kind of diversion. Today she was thankful for small favours.

At last – or perhaps much too soon – Lady Cynewyn was back, announcing that a large crowd, the citizen of Edoras and many Rohirrim from the environs of the capital, had gathered at the foot of Meduseld.

“Everybody is ready, my Lady. The King and his guests and the Rohirric dignitaries will be expecting you on the terrace. Your father has come to escort you.”

Lothíriel swallowed heavily and got up from her seat. The moment had come. With the help of Cynewyn and Winfrith she put on the velvet gown. How could she have forgotten that the train was this long? She just hoped nobody would step on it. The same went for the drapey sleeves. Not very practical.

She hesitated, then took the small parchment and rolled it up, slipping it under the narrow sleeve of her underdress. She doubted that she would have a chance to look at it even if she found that she suddenly couldn’t remember the words, but somehow it made her feel better to have it with her.

For a last time she contemplated her reflection in the looking glass. Quite impressive. She didn’t look as delicate as usual.

“You look stunning, my Lady,” Cynewyn confirmed her own positive evaluation. “Shall I ask your father to come in?”

“Yes, I think it is time,” Lothíriel replied, but when the other woman was about to turn away to open the door, she held her back. “Lady Cynewyn, let me express again my gratitude for all you have done for me over the past months. Your correspondence has helped me more than you can imagine and so did your company last night and this morning. And my thanks for finding Winfrith. I am convinced we will do very well together.” She smiled at the handmaiden who acknowledged her words with a quick curtsey.

“As I said, my Lady, it has given me great pleasure to be able to give you support and be assured that you can rely on me whenever you wish for my assistance or my companionship.”

The women exchanged a warm smile, and Lothíriel was certain that she had formed a first friendship in Rohan. Perhaps she could even count Lord Elfhelm as another friend. His and his wife’s welcome had eased some of the anxiety that had been building up inside her with every league they had travelled closer to Rohan.

The lady went to the door and opened it. Imrahil must been waiting outside in the corridor. He stepped inside the chamber, taking in his daughter’s appearance. The expression on his face was not one of wistful pride, which one should have customarily expected from a father who was about to give his only daughter to another man. Imrahil of Dol Amroth looked quite simply complacent.

“My dear, you do look decidedly lovely, but I will refrain from paying you any hollow compliments by muttering something like ‘a true Swan Princess’. I think the one time I tried that comparison you informed me that you do not see any big difference between a swan and a goose.”

Lothíriel appreciated her father’s notion of trying to cheer her up and ease some of the tension he had to know she was feeling. She managed a smile. “Especially on dry land, away from its natural element, a swan just waddles like a goose.”

Imrahil smiled down at her, now perhaps a bit wistful after all, and touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, “You are not leaving your natural element, my dear. You are just about to finally reach it.” He bent and placed a light kiss on her forehead. Then he raised his right arm, offering it to her. “Chin up, Lothíriel. You are not going to meet your hangman, but your husband.”

“Thank you, Father. You are very encouraging.”

She placed her hand on the back of his and let him lead her out of the chamber. Entering the great hall she found that the top table had been put on the dais, already laid with plates, goblets and cutlery. Down on the floor beautifully carved tables and benches had been placed close together only leaving a wide aisle in the centre. Everything had been prepared for the wedding feast.

At the end of the dais King Elessar and her brothers were waiting for them, her liege wearing the colours of Gondor, her brothers those of Dol Amroth. All were smiling at her in greeting, even Elphir, although his smile could be considered slightly pained. At least he made an effort.

“Sweet Elbereth, Lothíriel, that gown is gorgeous,” Amrothos declared, gesturing to her with a flourish. “It’s a good job that it was not left to you to choose it.”

He received a thump in the ribs from Erchirion. “Another one with an amputated brain,” the latter muttered.

“Those are the simple pleasures of being a parent,” Imrahil remarked to no one in particular. “Shall we proceed?” he asked his chuckling liege.

They walked down the aisle; Lothíriel led by her father, Elessar on her other side, her brothers behind them. The stone floors of Meduseld were very beautiful, no doubt, but there was indeed a draught around her feet. They were already as cold as ice cubes.

The huge door panels of the Golden Hall stood open, flanked on each side by two doorwards, wearing long green cloaks over their coats-of-mail and imposing helmets with faceplates. Lothíriel wondered if the doorwards were chosen because of their size. Those four could have easily been kin of Lord Erkenbrand.

Through the open door she could see that again a large group of people had assembled outside. A babble of voices greeted her, voices from more people than just those on the terrace. The whole of Edoras and beyond was waiting for her.

One of the guards gave a sign and the sound of a horn announced that the bride and her family were approaching. The four doorwards bowed to their future queen and her entourage, turning the hilts of their swords towards them in greeting.

And so Lothíriel stepped out into the bright sunshine and the eternal wind of the plains.

The gathered dignitaries had left a path to the edge of the terrace where two figures were waiting; one clad in white, the other in green and gold. Seeing Éomer in his dark-green tunic with the high collar and its rich golden embroidery, the King’s circlet keeping his blond mane from being blown in his face, Lothíriel wondered if the Rohirrim had chosen green and gold to be their colours because it complimented their own natural colouring or if that was just a coincidence.

Imrahil let go of her hand and Gandalf motioned her to step next to Éomer with a friendly nod. Her soon-to-be husband did not smile but looked at her with an intensity that made her knees go weak and her stomach flip. Quickly she averted her eyes and looked down at the gathered crowd, which had fallen silent with the sound of the horn. There were the citizen of Edoras, the riders of the Royal Guard of Rohan and the Knights of Gondor and Dol Amroth.

“Rohirrim!”

Lothíriel nearly jumped when Gandalf began to speak with a loud, clear voice, using the common tongue, so that all who had gathered would be able to understand him.

“Friends and guests of this land and of this people. We have come here in celebration of the joining together of Éomer King and the Princess Lothíriel, daughter to Imrahil, Lord of Dol Amroth and as such vassal to Elessar, King of Gondor.”

He turned towards the High King.

“So first I have to ask the lady’s Liege-lord: My Lord King Elessar, do you approve of this union?”

“I do approve.” Elessar replied and bowed to Lothíriel. “With all my heart I give this daughter of Gondor my blessings.” And with a bow to Éomer he added, “And my best wishes to my brother.”

He stepped back to stand next to the Marshals of Rohan.

“And so we shall proceed.”

Gandalf stood at the edge of the terrace, addressing the people of Rohan.

“There are many things to be said about a union between a man and a woman. Much wisdom concerning the joining together of two souls. With each union, more knowledge is gained and more wisdom gathered. Though we are unable to give all this knowledge to these two who stand before us, we can hope to leave with them the knowledge of love and its strengths and the anticipation of the wisdom that comes with time. The law of life is love unto all beings. Without love, life is nothing, without love, death has no redemption. Love precedes life and endures beyond death; love should be the beginning of creation and love alone should stand above all else on this earth. If we learn no more in life, let it be this.”

This introductory speech of Gandalf had nothing to do with what she had been told were Rohirric customs. But then the wizard was known to be strange in his dealings. On the other hand the Rohirrim, and especially Éomer, trusted him implicitly and would not stop him from doing whatever he pleased to do.

“The union between a man and a woman is a bond to be entered into only after considerable thought and reflection. As with any aspect of life, it has its cycles, its ups and its downs, its trials and its triumphs. With full understanding of this, this man and this woman have come here today to be joined as one in such a union. Others would ask, at this time, who gives the woman into this bond but, as a woman is not property to be bought and sold, given and taken, I ask simply if she comes of her own will and if she has her family’s blessing.”

At least those last words were the same she had been provided with by Lady Cynewyn and she knew what she was supposed to answer.

Gandalf looked into her eyes with kindness.

“Princess Lothíriel, is it true that you come of your own free will and accord?”

“Yes, it is true.”

She nearly sighed in relief. Her voice had sounded very much as always, firm and even.

“With whom do you come and whose blessings accompany you?” the wizard inquired.

Imrahil took a step forward. “She comes with me, her father, and is accompanied by the blessings of all of her family.”

Again Gandalf turned towards her. “Please join hands with your betrothed and listen to what I am about to say.”

Lothíriel held out her right hand to Éomer who took it in his right. It was his sword hand; hard, calloused and very likely with enough strength to break every single bone in hers by simply pressing it together. But his fingers enclosed hers with so much care and tenderness, that she knew she would never have to fear any harm coming from his power and strength. And his hand was so wonderfully warm; very warm. Or perhaps hers was just so very cold.

She looked into his eyes, and they kept their hold on her while Gandalf continued.

“Above you is the sun, below you are the stones, as time does pass, remember: Like a stone should your love be firm, like the sun should your love be constant. Let the powers of the mind and of the intellect guide you in your bond, let the strength of your wills bind you together, let the power of love and desire make you happy, and the strength of your dedication make you inseparable. Be close, but not too close. Possess one another, yet be understanding. Have patience with one another, for storms will come, but they will pass. Be free in giving affection and warmth. Have no fear and let not the ways of the unenlightened give you unease.”

The wizard made a pause, waiting for Rohan’s King to separate his eyes from his bride’s face.

“Éomer King, I have not the right to bind you to this woman, nor has any other. Only you have this right. If it be your wish, say so at this time.”

“It is my wish.”

These were the first words spoken by Éomer in this ceremony, the first Lothíriel had heard from him since they had parted the evening before, and his voice was very different from the low, sensual tone he had used on her then. With this voice he could have made himself heard all over the plains and on the battlefields. This rich voice carried certainly to everybody listening right now.

“I, Éomer, son of Éomund, by the life that courses within my blood and the love that resides within my heart, take you, Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, to my hand, my heart, and my spirit, to be my chosen one. To desire you and be desired by you, to possess you, and be possessed by you, without sin or shame, for naught can exist in the purity of my love for you. I promise to love you wholly and completely without restraint, in life and beyond, where we shall meet, remember, and love again. I shall not seek to change you in any way. I shall respect you, your beliefs, your people, and your ways as I respect myself.”

While he was speaking Lothíriel could feel her mouth falling open ever so slightly and she did not seem able to close it again. She froze, staring at Éomer, rapidly blinking. Those were the same words she had received from Gandalf, the same she had memorized and was supposed to repeat when the wizard gave her the cue. She had thought they wanted her to say those lines to reassure the Rohirrim that she came of her own free will and that she would be committed to her new husband and his land. But now Éomer spoke of love and desire. Could he mean it? Or were those words just empty phrases? Or was this what he had tried to tell her when . . . ?

“Damn Amrothos!”

She was startled by her own words. She had spoken them out loud. Not really loud, thank the Valar, but loud enough for Gandalf and Éomer to hear. The former looked at her in surprise; the latter gave her his first smile on this day, which turned into a wide grin.

“My sentiments, exactly,” he murmured.

The wizard cleared his throat. “Do you mind if we proceed?”

Rohan’s King didn’t take his eyes from his bride. He shook his head. “Not at all.”

“Princess Lothíriel,” Gandalf continued with the ceremony, humour in his voice. “I have not the right to bind you to this man nor has any other. Only you have this right. If it be your wish, say so at this time.”

“It is my wish. I, Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, by the life that courses within my blood, and the love that resides within my heart, take you, Éomer, son of Éomund to my hand, my heart, and my spirit to be my chosen one. . . .”

Lothíriel spoke with a clear voice, making herself heard by all assembled. She didn’t want to hide her feelings any longer. She wanted Éomer to know and she didn’t mind everybody else knowing. She wanted him to know that she meant every single letter of this declaration.

“. . . I promise to love you wholly and completely without restraint, in life and beyond, where we shall meet, remember, and love again. I shall not seek to change you in any way. I shall respect you, your beliefs, your people, and your ways as I respect myself.”

Éomer looked at her steadily, smiling. A smile that barely reached his mouth but clearly shone in his eyes. Perhaps it was the light of the sun reflecting from all those coats-of-mail and harnesses, in the golden embroidery of his own tunic, but his eyes were more gold than green, like amber. Under their gaze she felt warm . . . except for her feet; those were still icy.

“We all have heard your words,” Gandalf went on, “and have witnessed the declarations of your mutual will to become bonded in a union. Now you may drink your fill from the cup of love and share the bread as you will from now on share everything in life.”

One of the Hobbits, Master Meriadoc, stepped forward and handed Gandalf a large, golden goblet, which he passed on to the King of Rohan. Éomer held the vessel so Lothíriel could take a sip from it. It contained hot spiced wine; a very pleasant taste. Next she had to hold it for Éomer. After he had drunk of the wine, the goblet went back to Gandalf and then Merry, and the second Hobbit, Master Peregrin, came to hand over a golden plate on which lay several pieces of a dark bread. Gandalf gave the plate to Éomer who took a piece of the bread between thumb and forefinger, offering it to Lothíriel. She opened her mouth and he placed it on her tongue, his finger brushing lightly over her lower lip. She had to concentrate to take over the plate and feed him and not to swallow the rather hard and dry bread the wrong way. Perhaps it would have been better to eat the bread first and have a sip of wine after that.

After Pippin had taken the plate away, Gandalf took a few steps back from the couple.

“The bond has been concluded,” he announced. “Now it may be sealed with a kiss.”

Éomer came closer, so close that she had to tip her head backwards to be able to look into his eyes. He raised his hands to her shoulders and let them slide slowly towards her neck. He had touched her this way before. When he framed her face between his hands, he did it with great tenderness. She could feel the roughened skin of his palms, his calloused thumbs caressing her cheekbones; again she could sense the utter strength in those hands. Yet he cradled her face as if he might break something. She closed her eyes; her own hands came up to clasp his wrists. His head bent, his mouth brushing hers. It was not a deep kiss, lips barely touching, barely moving, but he let it linger. It sent a delicious shock wave through her.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she became aware of the clapping and cheering. She could feel Éomer’s lips curved into a smile over hers. He pulled back slightly.

“I wish we could get rid of all them right away,” he murmured. “But I am afraid there is still one thing left to do.”

He straightened up and took her hand in his, turning them, so they both now faced the people of Edoras and Rohan.

“Rohirrim.”

He definitely had a voice that carried.

“Today you have witnessed the conclusion of my bond with Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. Now I wish her to be at my side not only as my wife but also as my Queen-Consort. Do you consent?”

“Ay!” It thundered up to them.

The Rohirrim in general seemed to be blessed with a rather healthy lung capacity.

Éomer turned to her. “Lothíriel, will you pledge allegiance to this land and to these people?”

Lothíriel hesitated for a fleeting moment. The wording she had been given for this ritual had had her pledge allegiance to Éomer as her liege as well, but she decided to follow his lead and change the words of her vow.

“Yes, my Lord, I will pledge allegiance to land and people.”

“Then kneel to receive the symbol of your station.”

Éomer helped her to keep her balance as she went down on her knees in front of him. Somebody could have put a cushion or at least a small rug on the stones. They were not only cold but also hard.

From the corner of her eye she saw Lord Erkenbrand step up to them, carrying a green cushion in his huge hands. On it lay the circlet of the Queens of Rohan. Éomer took it and placed it on her head. Thanks to Winfrith’s skills in braiding it found a secure hold on her hair.

Éomer stretched out his hand to her.

“Rise, Lothíriel, my wife and Queen of the Riddermark.”

She took his hand and putting down a foot carefully to avoid stepping on the folds of her gown; she got up and once more faced her new people.

“Behold the Queen!” That was Lord Elfhelm’s voice.

And the reply came from all those having gathered at the foot of Meduseld and behind them on the terrace of the Golden Hall.

“Hail, Lothíriel Queen! Hail, Éomer King.”

Now she was not only a wife but a queen as well. She had not the slightest experience with one or the other, and in both cases only a vague idea what was waiting for her. All she knew for certain was that her life was forever altered. And her father thought, for some reason, that she had not left her natural element but just arrived in it. So much for unbroken optimism.

She looked down at the cheering crowd. Strange faces but still her people. She had to learn. She had to learn about them, had to learn about their lives. She had to become one of them.

“Lothíriel.”

First things first. Tomorrow she would begin to learn to be the Queen of the Riddermark; today she would begin with being a wife.

She turned towards Éomer. He pulled her closer.

“Soon they will have learnt to love and to respect you.”

She wished she had the courage to ask him if he had already learnt to love her, but this would probably be a rather unfortunate place and time to do so. Later. He had said so himself. They would talk later, when they were alone and nobody would be able to disturb or to overhear them.

“You have done wonderfully,” Éomer murmured. “But then, you would not know how to do differently.” He took her hand in both of his and drew it up to his mouth, kissing her palm and then laying it against his cheek. His beard tickled. “You look so beautiful. I wish we could be alone right now, but there are our guests and our people who expect us to celebrate with them.”

He was right. While many of those who had gathered down on the lawn at the foot of the Golden Hall had begun to walk down the path to celebrate their king’s wedding somewhere in the city, others came up the stairs and the terrace was getting more and more crowded.

“I am afraid we have to talk to every single one of them to accept their felicitations,” Éomer announced with a groan underlining his voice.

“There are even more than yesterday,” Lothíriel frowned. “Éomer, I am afraid I have already forgotten the names of most of those you introduced to me then.”

 “Never mind that.” He made a gesture with his free hand. His other still clasped hers. “I am just glad to hear my name did not slip your mind.”

That gave her a pause. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was already beginning to wonder if you would ever use it.”

She thought back, although she really hadn’t to recall the past days. She knew she had not used his name because . . .

“It would not have been proper for me to do so before,” she enlightened him.

“So, we are back to ‘proper’. Why did you not draw my attention to that fact when I used your name?” he inquired curiously.

“King’s prerogative,” Lothíriel replied with a perfectly straight face. “I would never think of reprimanding an outside ruler.”

“I am certain Aragorn will appreciate hearing that.”

“What am I supposed to appreciate?” Gondor’s King had come over to them, putting his hand on Éomer’s shoulder.

“My wife not reprimanding you.”

“Yes, indeed,” the retort came without any hesitation. “I would rather have her reprimand you. You do need it more, after all.”

“My sentiments, exactly,” Lothíriel remarked.

Elessar laughed and took her hand from Éomer’s grasp. He pulled it to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

“My felicitations, my Lady. May your union be long and happy.”

Then he pulled his friend into a hug, “And my felicitations to you, brother. Although you have got more than you deserve.”

Éomer returned the embrace. “My dear Aragorn, if we men always married the women we deserved . . . at least you would have a very bad time of it.”

After this exchange of pleasantries everybody else wanted to express their best wishes to the new couple. Beside her family and the few Rohirrim and guests Lothíriel already knew, there were so many strange faces that after a while all of them seemed to look alike and she simply stopped trying to keep them and their respective names in her head. Something else she just had to leave for later.

Whoever had spoken to them went into the hall while Éomer and Lothíriel stayed outside on the terraces. Éomer didn’t appear to be bothered by the fresh winds blowing down from the mountains. In the bright sunshine her velvet gown kept her warm, but Lothíriel had somehow lost the feeling in her feet and the cold began to creep up her legs. She cast a furtive glance down to his feet. He was wearing thick boots under his tunic. She should have done the same. Nobody would have noticed them under the wide folds of her skirts.

Finally the last of their well-wishers had disappeared inside the hall. They were, save the doorwards, alone on the terrace and Lothíriel let herself go for a moment and groaned. Éomer met that noise with an amused smile, but asked with a hint of worry in his voice,

“Are you well, my sweet?”

Lothíriel was so surprised by the use of this term of endearment that she totally forgot why she had felt she needed to groan. She blinked.

“Lothíriel?”

“I am fine,” she managed. “But I think I would like to go inside as well. It is getting rather chilly out here on the terrace.”

“Indeed?” Éomer seemed to consider this, but then shrugged one shoulder. “Probably true when you are wearing skirts. And you should sit down, I think. You have been standing up now for quite some time.”

“I am not going to break down,” she insisted.

“I did not expect you to do so. You are much too stubborn for that.”

Before she had the chance to reply, he had started for the hall and, his hand wrapped around her wrist, dragging her - more or less - behind him. Lothíriel began to doubt that he had a real notion how much more powerful he was in comparison to her. She already had the image before her eyes of being hauled along the centre aisle towards the top table when Éomer came to a halt at the threshold of Meduseld. He released her wrist and offered his arm.

“My Lady Queen.”

She put her hand on the back of his with a graceful arch of her wrist.

“My Lord King.”

They entered the Golden Hall, and moving down the wide aisle between the tables, they nodded their greetings to all those who had already taken their seats for the feast and were now getting to their feet again to pay their respect to the Royal Couple.

At the top table the guests of honour; her family and the Marshals and the members of the Royal Council and their respective wives had been seated. As all of them sat next to each other, facing the hall, Éomer had to lead her around the entire table to their chairs at the centre. Her father was sitting on her other side. When she had taken her seat and he sat down again, Imrahil placed his hand over hers.

“Is everything well, my dear?” he asked warmly.

“Yes, Father. I am very well.” She couldn’t help an onset of forthrightness. “I am afraid my feet are as cold as ice,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I definitely chose the wrong shoes.”

Imrahil chuckled. He motioned a serving wench.

“Have some of the mulled wine. That will warm you up.”

Lothíriel was not certain if it was a good idea to have any wine at all. Since her not so fortunate experience after the drinking bout with Amrothos the past summer she had avoided all kind of spirits. But her father had a point. The mulled wine would warm her up.

Lady Cynewyn came up to her and asked if she would like to shed the velvet gown, but for the time being she decided to keep it on.

Before those assembled in the Golden Hall were allowed to indulge in the feast, they had to listen to the customary speeches. Elessar, her father and Éomer himself kept them short; the Marshals both refrained from giving one. Only the head of the Royal Council, Lord Aldhelm, felt he had to say a lot, not everything entirely appropriate for a speech at a wedding but rather for a council meeting. Fortunately Gandalf managed to cut him short without offending him.

The feast began, more and more often made less monotonous by toasts, especially those given by the Hobbits, which were all quite amusing, and by the dwarf, which Lothíriel did not always – or rather mostly – understand. But judging by Elphir’s indignant expression and Amrothos’s outbursts – Erchirion managed to keep a straight face by biting his lips – she came to the conclusion that Gimli’s remarks had to be considered as being rather frivolous.

From the corner of her eyes she saw Éomer and her father watching her with a sort of amused concern, but barely keeping their faces straight. It was somehow very disconcerting not to be able to follow the general conversation at your own wedding.

She managed to eat some pie and salad, and some bread, but despite having meant not to drink more than one goblet of mulled wine, she suddenly found herself already having finished the second. Now she was getting rather warm, at least in general. Her feet hadn’t improved much – if at all. It had gone dark outside and the hall was lit by torches and candles, their flames radiating additional heat to the fire in the huge centre hearth. It was probably time to take off the outer garment.

She tried to catch Lady Cynewyn’s eye. She was quickly granted success and the Lord Elfhelm’s wife hurried up to her chair, bending down so that they could speak in low voices.

“It is getting quite warm,” Lothíriel let her know. “I think I would like to take of the velvet gown.”

“Perhaps you may consider retiring, my Lady,” Cynewyn suggested. “It is rather late.”

Lothíriel stopped short. “It is?” Suddenly her stomach was in knots again and her nerves made their presence felt once more.

“Yes, it is,” the lady confirmed with a perceptive smile. “Winfrith is already waiting for you in the Queen’s chamber. I will accompany you.”

Lothíriel hesitated, not quite certain if it was required to bid an official farewell or if she could just slip out of the hall, hopefully unobserved by any of the celebrating guests. Somehow she had an inkling that Gimli would feel her departure required another of his toasts.

Her gaze went over to Éomer. Of course, he had heard – or at least guessed - what had been spoken between her and Cynewyn. He returned her look and put his hand over hers. Not much had changed. His was still wonderfully warm and hers icy cold.

Cynewyn had grasped the back of her chair and when Lothíriel made a move to get up, she assisted her by pulling the heavy armchair back. Those who were sitting down to the left of her would probably not notice that she had departed, but it couldn’t be avoided that those on the opposite side of the table – not least her father and her brothers - saw her leaving. Well, today even Elphir would not be able to think of an excuse to snoop after Éomer when he followed his wife later.

She knew Éomer was watching her leave. She could feel his eyes on her back until she stepped out of sight through the doors into the corridor behind the hall. The shiver of awareness that went through her was not caused entirely by the much cooler air here.

Soon he would enlighten her as to the questions to which even Amrothos had refused to give her straight answers.

Now she truly knew how it felt to be a bundle of nerves.

TBC