Chapter 2

As Éomer proposed the bridal toast, he reflected that after the broaching of the fifth barrel was perhaps not the best moment to retire. It would have been wiser to get away earlier or later. As it was, his men were neither sober enough to rein in their tongues nor so drunk as to be unable to form a coherent sentence. He just prayed that the princess’s command of their language was not yet up to understanding the many ribald suggestions called after them when he whisked her out the door leading to the private quarters behind the hall.

Even so, judging by the colour flaming in her cheeks, their intent must have been clear enough. Traditionally, it was held that the more outrageous the propositions of the wedding guests, the more fertile the marriage. And of course the Rohirrim hoped for many sons for their king.

“Please forgive my riders,” he said. “I assure you they hold you in the highest esteem and will treat you with all honour.”

She had already regained her usual composure. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Anyway, by the time they wake up tomorrow morning, they’ll be too busy with their aching heads to remember anything.”

A smile flitted across her face. “I can believe that readily. Our housekeeper in Dol Amroth always brews up a large cauldron of evil tasting herb tea after feast days.”

Éomer laughed. “Wulfrith does the same. The smell alone is enough to make you crawl away as fast as possible!” He smiled in reminiscence at the memory of past revelries, but his smile slowly faded. So many of those he had feasted with had perished in the war: Théodred, Dúnhere, Grimbold… They had known they might die any day and lived accordingly.

He became aware that the princess regarded him uncertainly and wondered what his face had shown. “Never mind,” he said.

An uncomfortable silence descended and he cast about for something to say to break it. In a way it would have been easier had she been openly nervous. Or better still, giggling and a bit tipsy. But she just stood there utterly self-contained and stone cold sober, waiting for him to make the next move.

He motioned at the hallway. “Has Wulfrith shown you round yet?”

“Only the kitchen and storerooms, not the private quarters,” Princess Lothíriel answered.

“Well, they’re probably less spacious than you’re used to, but I hope you’ll like them anyway.”

She murmured a polite reply.

He opened the door to one of the rooms, only to realise that no fires had been lit and they couldn’t see anything. “This is the solar where you can sit with your ladies and be undisturbed.”

She peered in and nodded.

“There are always many nobles and their families visiting Edoras, I’m sure you’ll make friends quickly,” he added and closed the door again. “That way you won’t be lonely when I’m away.”

“I see. Will that be often?”

“I’m afraid so. I like to get a first hand picture of how things stand in my kingdom, so I will be travelling often.”

“Would it be possible for me to come with you? I would like to see more of the country.”

He regarded her dubiously, standing there in her elegant dress and with not a hair out of place, and thought of the rather basic accommodation they would have to put up with. Somehow he could not imagine her sleeping in a simple farmhouse or a tent out on the plains somewhere. “Perhaps to the Hornburg,” he said. “In summer, it’s an easy ride.”

“That’s settled then.” Again he caught a hint of steel in her manner, gone as quickly as a fish jumping in a pool. “Thank you, my lord. I’m sure I will enjoy sitting in the solar very much,” she added.

“Good.” Éomer began walking down the hallway, giving a quick explanation of the other rooms. “Next door is the nursery, but Wulfrith thought you would want to arrange for the furnishings yourself, so we haven’t done anything to it yet. Then the rooms down my end: the council chamber, library, some guest chambers and the guard room.” He stopped in front of the door leading to the anteroom to their personal quarters and opened it for her. “I’m sure you’ll soon feel at home. Our rooms at least are arranged in the Gondorian manner.”

“The Gondorian manner, what do you mean by that?”

He motioned at the two doors leading from the anteroom. “Oh, just that we have separate rooms: on the right you have the queen’s chamber, on the left the king’s. I’m an early riser myself and wouldn’t want to wake you needlessly.” He often went for a ride in the morning to get some thinking time for himself and she would hardly appreciate being woken by him – it made sense to avoid that kind of conflict from the start.

“I see,” she said. “Though some married couples in Gondor share a room; my parents did.” Her eyes had a sad, faraway look. “Still, I don’t always sleep well. This way I can read in bed without disturbing you.”

Éomer nodded. “I think it’s a very sensible idea. There are occasions when I’m in and out at all times of the night.” He thought of foaling time in the spring when he liked to keep an eye on the progress of his mares. They always chose the most awkward times to foal! “In fact, sometimes I’m away the whole night. This way there’s no need for you to stay up for me.”

For some reason she seemed to stiffen. “As you say.”

There was another uncomfortable silence. He sought refuge in formality and gave a courteous bow. “Well, I believe your maid is waiting for you in your rooms. Just…eh…send word when you’re…ready.”

She curtsied. “I will, my lord.”

Éomer had dismissed his squire Ceola earlier on, so his own chambers were empty. Consisting of a bedroom, an adjacent study and a small bathroom, they had long ago, in the time of Théoden’s queen, served as the nursery. Later Wormtongue had taken them over to be near the king at all times, but they had since erased all traces of his presence and replaced the whole furniture. Now the room just held a bed, a couple of clothes chests and the weapons stand for his armour, all Éomer needed.

He paused at the window for a moment and stared out towards the mountains to the south. Cold and remote, they glittered in the moonlight. As cold and remote as his wife? Then he chided himself for his fancies. Drat it! Why did Éowyn have to make him so uneasy? And she had probably forgotten all about it by now and was dancing away, enjoying her husband’s company, leaving him to brood over her words.

Resolutely turning his back on the window, he began to shed his clothes. Ceola had laid a robe ready on the bed and he shivered when the cold fabric slid across his skin. It was a ridiculously ornate affair, richly embroidered green brocade with a white silk lining, but he supposed he could not visit his newly wedded wife in his usual bedtime attire of nothing but a loose shirt.

In less time than he had expected there came a discreet knock on the door. When he opened it, he found Dordes, Princess Lothíriel’s maid, outside. The elderly woman, grey haired and with a nose like a hatchet, had come with her from Dol Amroth. “My Lord King, the queen awaits you,” she announced.

“Thank you.”

For a moment he thought he saw a worried look in the woman’s eyes, then she curtsied deeply.

Éomer held out his hand when she would have retired. “Dordes, have you been with the princess long?”

“Yes, my lord. Since she was a little child.”

An old retainer, just as he had thought. “Has she always been so…reserved?” he asked.

The woman’s face went blank. “It is not my place to say. Is that all, my lord?”

Éomer could understand a dismissal when he heard one. “Yes, thank you. You may go.”

She curtsied once more and withdrew. Éomer stood staring at the door opposite a moment longer. His wife awaited him. He would really have to start thinking of her as Lothíriel Queen, not the Princess of Dol Amroth. Or simply as Lothíriel. It seemed inappropriately familiar somehow.

He took a deep breath and entered his wife’s chambers.

The air was warm from a fire burning on the grate behind an ornately carved screen and a couple of lamps shed their mellow light on the room. The big four-poster bed, used by generations of Kings of the Mark, took up most of the space, but there was also a small table by the window with a tray on it that held the traditional jug of mead.

Princess – Queen – Lothíriel sat on the bed and for a moment did not seem to notice him. With slow, dreamlike motions, she combed her long black hair that fell like a rich, shiny mantle around her and stared at a vision that only she could see. The lamp by the bedside outlined her figure clearly through the creamy white fabric of her nightgown and Éomer felt a jolt of desire run through him, surprising him with its force.

As if she felt his regard she looked up that moment and her eyes widened. Éomer cursed himself for what must have shown on his face. Hadn’t he learnt better control than that? He didn’t want her to think that he had nothing on his mind except bedding her as quickly as possible. Hastily he crossed over to the table. “A cup of mead?” he asked, turning his back on her. “It’s traditional in the Mark.”

“Yes, thank you.”

By the time he had poured the drinks, he had his features back under control. Although a cold bath would have helped even more! He picked up the two cups, plain, earthenware ones with no handle, then realised there was nowhere else to sit except on the bed if he didn’t want to loom over her. After handing one of the cups to the princess, he perched at the foot end, leaning back against one of the posts.

“It is said that when our ancestors came from the north they toasted their victory on the Fields of Celebrant with just such simple cups. So for luck we keep up the tradition.”

She took a small sip. “That’s nice.” All traces of alarm had vanished from her demeanour and she looked as unconcerned as if she was exchanging polite conversation at a banquet instead of being alone with a relative stranger. Surely she had to be nervous inside? Or was she just naturally cold blooded? He thought of Éowyn’s words of the house with its shutters closed. That was overly fanciful, wasn’t it? Women! Why did they have to make everything so complicated.

A case of maidenly nerves was only natural, he decided and took a swig of mead. The rich, sweet taste filled his mouth. It was really nothing to worry about and she would soon settle in.

“The Riddermark is a beautiful place,” he said, trying to put her at her ease. “And the Rohirrim are an honest and forthright people. I’m sure you will come to like it here.”

“I hope so, thank you.”

“And if you’re missing your family, perhaps they can be persuaded to visit.”

She nodded. “Yes, Amrothos has promised to come in the summer, when the passes are open.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” He chuckled.

That earned him a smile. “A promise, I hope.”

“Will you be missing your country?” he asked. He hadn’t found the time to visit, but from what he’d heard Dol Amroth had a very pleasant, warm climate.

She only shrugged. “I don’t think so. I have no love for the sea.”

“Why not?”

She looked down at her cup of mead and turned it round in her fingers. “I just don’t.”

More closed shutters? “Princess Lothíriel,” he said suddenly. “Allow me to ask you a question: was it truly your wish to marry me?” He wanted to know her mind. Although he had no idea what to do if she professed herself unhappy with their bargain!

Her eyes flew up to him. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, just something Éowyn said.” Would she mind that he had discussed her with his sister? “She wants me to marry for love, you see,” he added.

“And is that what you want?”

“No,” he said slowly. “I was honest with you when I proposed to you. I am happy to neither ask for love nor to offer it. But are you?”

“Yes.” The word was empathic. “I assure you, my lord, I came into this with my eyes wide open.”

He released his breath in relief. “Well, I’m glad to have that cleared.” He grinned. “Siblings! They always think they know what’s best for you.”

Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Exactly!” She hesitated, then took a deep breath “My lord, when you did me the honour of asking for my hand, you said you preferred frank speech.”

“I do.”

“Then I will be honest with you too: I had other suitors besides you, but my father left the choice up to me.”

Éomer blinked in surprise. “And what decided you to accept my offer?”

With a frown she drew her knees up to her chest and balanced the cup of mead on them. “Two reasons really. First of all I know that my father and brothers would all have been slain in the Battle of the Pelennor if it weren’t for the coming of the Rohirrim.”

She had married him out of gratitude? The thought made him uncomfortable. “You can’t know they would have died,” he pointed out. “And it was really Aragorn’s arrival that decided the battle.”

Princess Lothíriel shook her head. “No. They were at the gate with the Witch King about to assault it with all his forces. None would have survived if the Rohirrim had not come that moment.” She sounded oddly certain.

“And the second reason?” he asked.

She stared down at her cup of mead. “The others all spoke of love to me, even though they did not know me at all. You did not.”

She looked vulnerable somehow, sitting there with her black hair falling about her. Wasn’t she very young to be renouncing love so roundly? “What if you regret it one day?” he asked bluntly.

For a long moment she said nothing, then she raised the cup to her lips and downed the remaining mead in one gulp. “I have never told anybody of this, but I suppose I owe you the truth, my lord.” Putting the empty cup on the bed, the princess looked him straight in the eyes. “Understand this: I will only speak of it once.” She paused, as if gathering her strength. “There was somebody. But don’t worry, he’s dead.” She grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest. “He…he…fell in the war. An orc raid…he was a great warrior and defended his companions... but there were simply too many of the enemy.” She stared into nothing. “They had these huge black bows and they laughed as they shot him! And then they left him to die and I could do nothing to help him. Nothing! It was horrible.”

She had seen the man she loved die! How had that happened? He dimly remembered Imrahil telling him that his daughter had spent the war in Dol Amroth; surely that was too far south to be attacked by orcs? Éomer was appalled when he saw a tear roll down her cheek. He would have liked to take her in his arms, but did not think she would welcome it. “I’m so sorry,” he said. How completely inadequate the words sounded!

With an impatient gesture, she flicked the tear away. “No, I am sorry. I swore to myself, I wouldn’t cry on my wedding night, and now look at me.”

What a vow to make! “If only I’d known!” he exclaimed.

“You wouldn’t have offered for me?” She shook her head. “No, this is exactly what I need. My lord, I know that if I’m remembered at all, it will only be as the daughter of Prince Imrahil, the wife of the King of Rohan and mother of his sons. But I want my life to make a difference, even if all I do is to make sure that when you go to war you have sufficient supplies and a peaceful country to return to.” She hugged the pillow closer. “I’m not after glory, but my life should matter.”

Éomer was struck dumb. He had never really considered a woman’s lot in life, just thought they accepted their place contentedly. Perhaps Éowyn was not such an exception after all?

Princess Lothíriel gave him a wry smile, as if she could read his thoughts. “I know it might be difficult for you to understand. Even if you did nothing more in your life than grow cabbages, your choices have already made a huge difference to Middle-earth. But for me it’s different. Besides…I…” She hesitated and colour rose to her cheeks. “I would like to have children,” she said in a rush.

He was learning a lot about his wife! Whatever Éowyn had said, without doubt this was the real Lothíriel. “Surely that’s natural for a woman,” he managed to reply, his mind in a whirl.

She considered his statement for a moment. “Perhaps. But you see, my aunt Ivriniel suffered a disappointment in her youth and chose a life of retirement. But I don’t want to dwindle into an old maid who embroiders endless handkerchiefs for her family. And my little nephew Alphros is really sweet. So I told my father I wanted him to find me a husband.”

Éomer wasn’t sure if he should admire her courage or be taken aback at the cold blooded way she’d gone about arranging her future. It sounded a bit as if she’d gone looking for a stallion to breed! Then he paused. On the other hand, had he acted any differently? Suddenly his sense of the absurd caught up with him. What a pair they were!

He chuckled. “Well, I just hope I’ll be able to meet your requirements!”

She put her head to one side. “My lord, I’m sure you will manage.”

He grinned. “Thank you for your confidence. But isn’t it time you called me Éomer?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She smiled. “Thank you. You know, you’re not quite what I had imagined.”

“What had you imagined?”

She made a vague gesture. “You were just rather imposing when I first met you. A living legend.”

“Me?” he asked in surprise.

Her smile deepened. “Yes.”

She had a lovely smile when she really meant it, he thought. Her cool, grey eyes warmed and dimples appeared in her cheeks. “Shall we drink to our contract?” he asked. “I’ll show you how we do it here in the Mark.”

“But I’ve finished my mead already.” She motioned to her empty cup.

He held out his. “Share mine.”

After a brief hesitation she put aside her pillow and moved forward, reaching for the cup. “I will do my best to be a good wife and a worthy queen to your people,” she said and took a small sip.

When she would have handed the cup back, he leant forward and put his hands over hers. “And I will do my best to honour my side of the bargain,” he replied.

Slowly he lifted the cup to his lips, rather enjoying the way she blushed at his words. Her fingers trembled under his touch, but she did not withdraw them. Fulfilling his promise would not be difficult at all, flitted through his mind.

As she bent forward, her robe gaped open at the throat and her hair tumbled down. He reached out to touch the soft strands. “You have beautiful hair, as glossy as a raven’s wings.”

She started, but suppressed it at once.

He lowered his hand. “You know, we can postpone this,” he said impulsively. “Get to know each other a bit better first.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to having a stranger touch me.”

A stranger. And that was what he was to her really. He had not really appreciated before what a brave wife he had. “I understand. We don’t have to go through with it tonight,” he repeated his offer. And he’d definitely need a cold bath then!

Princess Lothíriel looked him straight in the face. “Is that what you want?”

She was blunter than the Rohirrim! “No,” he admitted.

“Even though you don’t know me at all?”

To his mortification he felt heat rise to his face. “Yes.”

“Men are strange creatures,” she mused as if to herself. “You are kind, my lo–…Éomer. But I would really rather go through with it.”

It was rather disconcerting how little enthusiasm she showed for sharing his bed. Well, he would make sure she enjoyed it, even if it took him all night!

“We’ll take it slowly,” he murmured and bent forward again to kiss her very lightly. “Just tell me if you feel I’m going too fast.”

She licked her lips in unconscious sensuality, as if savouring his taste. “All right. Should I take my nightgown off now?” With a determined movement, she reached for the belt holding her robe closed.

Éomer caught her hand. “There’s no rush.” He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on each slim finger, so different from his own calloused ones. Then he moved on to the palm of her hand, to her wrist where he felt her pulse beating nervously against his lips, and down one soft, white arm.

Looking up, he found her watching him with a mixture of nervousness and fascination. He smiled at her. “Just relax, Lothíriel.”

She tried to smile back, but did not quite succeed. “Right.”

Very slowly, so as not to startle her, he shifted closer and claimed her lips again. Of their own volition, his fingers moved up to twine themselves in her hair. Oh, but how silky soft it was! The faint scent of roses clung to her from her perfume and her skin was warm and soft under his touch. Desire rose within him. Slowly! he urged himself.

Lothíriel’s hands rested on his shoulders and when he deepened his kiss she clutched at him convulsively. Gently he disengaged and looked at her. “Are you all right?”

“I…yes.” But her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. So might a cornered doe watch the hunter! It was disturbing – he’d never had an unwilling woman in his bed before. Not that strictly speaking she was unwilling, just so very obviously nerving herself to endure his advances.

He’d also seldom had a more desirable woman in his bed. What glimpses of soft curves he had caught under her nightgown, her incredibly smooth skin, that tantalising scent… it all called to his body to take her for his own, to possess her…his wife…

He took a deep breath to master himself. “You have nothing to fear,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

With a sigh she rested her forehead against his chest. “I do! I know you’re honourable and kind to be so patient. And I’m sorry if I’m not responding as you’d like me to.”

“Really, Lothíriel, you don’t have to apologise for being inexperienced on your wedding night!” he exclaimed.

She leant against him, the thin silk of her nightgown doing nothing to disguise the soft warmth of her body, and the touch sent a wave of heat cursing through him. “I just find it more difficult than I had expected to. Éomer…”

“Yes?” Was she going to ask him to postpone the consummation of their marriage after all? He groaned inwardly and wondered if there was any ice to be had in Meduseld to fill his bath with.

“Do you think we could have the lights off?”

It was such an unexpected request, it drew his attention from the clamourings of his body. “What?”

“I just think it would be…easier…in the dark.” She looked up at him. “It’s still possible, isn’t it?” she asked hesitantly. “You don’t need to see, do you?”

Somehow the whole wedding night had not quite gone as he had expected. Éomer didn’t know whether to laugh or to wince at the thought that his new wife found it easier to face him when she could not see him. “Very well,” he said. “If you’d prefer it?”

“Yes…yes, I think I would.”

He slid off the bed and belted his robe firmly around himself. Then he extinguished the lamp on the table while Lothíriel blew out the one by the bedside. Now only the banked fire remained to light the room, hidden behind a screen, but even so by the time he returned to the bed Lothíriel was already busy drawing its heavy curtains closed. She was very determined to avoid his sight!

Éomer slid between the sheets just as she finished and complete darkness enveloped them. He felt the bed shake a little from Lothíriel settling down. With sight gone, his other senses sharpened: he could hear her light breath and caught a whiff of her scent.

“Better?” he whispered.

“Yes, I think so. Thank you.”

Éomer shifted to lie on his side. “Now we just have to try and not poke each other’s eyes out by mistake,” he joked.

That drew a little chuckle from her. “I’m sorry to be so awkward,” she whispered. “You must think me very foolish.”

“Don’t apologise,” he told her. “You have every right to be nervous.” Besides, he liked a challenge.

The curtains did not quite manage to shut out all the light and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out her face as a slightly paler oblong. Leaning over, he lightly ran his fingers over the sheets, tracing the shape of her body. “Just relax, my sweet.”

She did not reply, but rolled over towards him, her hands sliding up his arms with a touch as trembling and hesitant as the flutter of a captured bird. Éomer caught his breath at a sharp stab of desire piercing him. How much he wanted her. And she had no idea what she did to him! Bending down, he began to kiss her, first exploring the smooth curve of her throat and then claiming her mouth again. She tasted as sweet as mead and this time he felt her respond tentatively.

He could not help himself, he slid his hands inside the sheets. There he got a surprise: she must have shed her nightgown in the darkness, for he encountered nothing but bare skin. For a moment he hesitated. “Lothíriel–”

“Shush,” she whispered and wrapped her arms round his neck to pull his mouth down on hers, effectively silencing him. It was not an invitation he could refuse. Shrugging his own robe off his shoulders, he joined her between the sheets and ran his hands over her body. She was all softness and warmth, quite irresistible. All his!

Hunger rose within him, but he was determined that she should enjoy their night together. Slowly! To distract himself, in his mind he began to recite the first thing he could think of, Firefoot’s bloodlines. Dam line: Dawnwind by Greatheart out of Swifthoof, Greatheart by Thunder out of Silvercoat… First with light fingers and then with his lips, he began to trail spirals and curls on her skin, following those enticing curves. Sire line: Wildfire by Brightblaze out of Stormcloud, Brightblaze by Foebane out of Nightbreath … Taking his time to caress every inch of her skin, he slowly explored the shape of his wife’s body. Stormcloud by Lightfoot out of Swanneck… When she gasped softly and responded by arching her back, he was nearly undone. Swifthoof by…? His mind went blank, yet poised over her, he hesitated. If only he could see her face.

That moment Lothíriel drew him down on her and slung her arms around him, surprising him completely. It was too much. He let his need take him and sweep them away like a wave breaking over them, falling and tumbling.

***

Yet much later, when he woke in the dark hours of the night and drew the curtains apart to let in some fresh air, he wondered. His wife slept curled on her side, hair in a dark tangle about her, and when he slid an arm around her he felt her chest rising and falling slowly. He nestled against her back and took a deep breath of her scent. Just touching that soft skin was enough to stir his desire again.

Éomer smiled at the memory. She had matched him passion for passion, surprising him.

And yet…

He felt the smile fade slowly. Was it truly his skill that had made her relax and called forth her answer?

That moment Lothíriel gave a sigh in her sleep, as if she could follow the turn of his thoughts. Éomer chided himself for harbouring silly fancies that did not really matter. They had made a bargain and he was certain that she would fulfil her part of it very ably. As for himself, he found his new wife highly desirable, so what more should he want?

He drew up the sheets and closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be another busy day with more feasting and the presentation of the morning gift; it was no use brooding on things that he might have imagined anyway.

But just before sleep claimed him, a treacherous thought slipped through this mind: in the shelter of the darkness, whom had she kissed with such ardour?

Him, Éomer?

Or a Gondorian warrior with grey eyes and black hair?

A/N: Special thanks to Sian for her suggestion regarding Firefoot's bloodlines!