#Éothíriel

[sluttyseacadet]

Éomer and Lothíriel because I can't stop thinking about them

#they're rotting my brain #they were originally wearing clothes but where's the fun in that #it's best if we remove them completely #éomer #lothíriel #éomer x lothíriel #éothíriel #eothiriel #my art

[heckofabecca]

sketch of an upcoming scene in Beneath Golden Eaves, part 2 of my Lothíriel-centric series Far From The Swan-road.

#lothíriel #lothiriel #éomer #eothiriel #éothíriel #becca draws tolkien #far from the swan-road #my art

[infracti-angelus]

Pale Fire, Chpt 5

PALE FIRE, a Lord of the Rings fanfiction

Pairing:  Éomer and Lothíriel

Summary: Lothíriel wasn’t unacquainted with infatuation; after all, she was nearly twenty-one years old and (by Gondorian standards, at least) well past her prime. But while she was acquainted with infatuation and the whispers of attraction, this was entirely different. And it infuriated her. And when his line of sight but glanced over her, she felt heated from top of her hair to the base of her foot. No, not heated. Burning. Set aflame.  She felt as if she were the swine roasted on the spit for tonight’s dinner.

Rating: M

Click here for Chapter 1

Click here for Chapter 2

Click here for Chapter 3

Click here for Chapter 4

Chapter 5: The Incident

His manner and bearing belied a cool aloofness. Indeed, the only fault that could be found in his interactions with the other partygoers was his stiffness, most likely due to inexperience as a warrior thrust into the role of king. But his eyes betrayed him. Lothíriel didn't know how to describe it, but his gaze held such awareness, a true presence in this very moment, that it almost alarmed her. And when his line of sight but glanced over her, she felt heated from top of her hair to the base of her foot.

No, not heated. Burning. Set aflame. She felt as if she were the swine roasted on the spit for tonight's supper.

If this was what a brief look of indifference caused, she couldn't imagine what it would be like to be the center of his attention. The likelihood of that, however was in her favor, since he was making it a point to not rest his eyes on anything for longer than a few seconds while his captain was otherwise occupied, probably due to the amount of eligible women being blatantly paraded past by hopeful fathers.

Lothíriel felt perpetually flushed, not helped by the arrival of more partygoers. She announced to the rest of the family that she would find Ada, which left a very put-out Amrothos holding Alphros whilst Rosilith secured a dance ("or two!" she winked) from Elphir. Venturing this way and that and consciously keeping her gaze averted from the table housing the King of Rohan, she was able to cover a large amount of ground without any sign of her father. The surrounding lords seemed no longer content with her excuses and she could sense the electricity of their frustrations with each additional dance refusal. She had officially given up looking for her father and was going to seek out wherever Amrothos and Alphros had set up camp when her path was blocked.

"My lady," a masculine voice drawled.

"Lord Brayan," Lothíriel dipped her head in acknowledgement, schooling her features to one of cool indifference.

"You're looking…well."

Lothíriel inwardly squirmed. The epitome of gentlemanliness, Lord Brayan gave no indication to being the contrary. His gaze remained respectfully on her face the entire time, which was more than she could say for some of the other lords she had encountered. They had lasciviously dragged their eyes on her form, and one had even waggled his eyebrows suggestively (he'd been thrice her age, and she had to contain her laughter). Despite this, the statement from Lord Brayan left her ill at ease.

"Thank you, my lord. Excuse me." Lothíriel took a step to the side, attempting to extract herself before this chance meeting could evolve into something more.

He stepped to be in front of her again, blocking her path. Lothíriel felt a bubble of panic before narrowing her eyes. She had done much more difficult things than rebuff unwanted advances from a nobleman.

"I must confess, I find your appearance to be a bit of a surprise," he said, taking a step towards her to close some of the empty distance.

"Oh?" she countered, trying to sound entirely uninterested in his opinions (which wasn't hard).

"I thought you were sequestered away on your seaside palace," he said.

Lothíriel's brow quirked without her intending it to. She knew he meant what she was wearing, but spoken aloud he was referring to her presence in Gondor. Classic misdirection.

"Hmm," she said. The less she answered, the less fuel she gave him.

"It's nice to see your family let you out of that sandcastle." Lothíriel bristled at his reference to her ancestral home as a sandcastle.

He continued, "If you were mine, I would keep you tucked away, safe and sound. It's still very dangerous for such a journey. Then again, I'd be sorely disappointed if they did that."

Lothíriel stepped to her left this time.

"I could also understand if you were to get too bored being locked up, and need a release for your pent up energy." He stepped again to impede her escape. "Perhaps you've passed the time with other…activities." Lothíriel looked up sharply, and by the glint in his eyes, he knew he had touched a nerve. He grinned. "Horseback riding, perhaps?"

Damn him, Lothíriel thought. She could comprehend the deeper implication of his words.

He was extremely close to her now. She knew he could see down the front of her dress; his eyes dilated. "I'd like to see more of you."

Damn him again.

"Dance with me," he demanded and grasped her hand to place a kiss on her pulse point. Coils of revulsion curled inside her stomach. Lothíriel wished she could shed her skin like a snake. The memory of his lips on the inside of her wrist reminded her of a jellyfish sting.

"No," she extracted her hand from his. "Thank you," she added as an afterthought.

"When I wanted to escape, I had a special, isolated place I would go to," his voice lowered. "But I'd be willing to share it with you." He did not give up, despite her rebuff. She glanced around to see if she could find her family.

She noticed her father across the room –there he was! — and glanced at the man he was talking to.

Lord Brayan grabbed her wrist and pulled her into him, sliding his finger suggestively down the back of her dress. "If you're good, I'll let you come."

Lothíriel locked eyes with the King of Rohan. Fire seeped through her veins. Elbereth, the way he was looking at her. She felt a flush envelop her, and tore her eyes away from his as Lord Brayan's words registered in her mind.

If Lothíriel hadn't known the commotion it would cause, she would have thrown a fist (Erchirion had taught her how to fight when she was eight because Amrothos had, in her words, "kept trying to drown" her). Nonetheless, she knew the disgraceful behavior of her potential actions would only bring shame on her family, and perhaps affect their livelihood.

Lothíriel, instead, yanked her arm out of his grasp and took a step back. Her face burned in anger and she all but hissed "No, thank you" before she rudely (not enough to sate her rage, but enough to make a point) pushed past him and found the first exit she could.

She sought refuge in the pleasant but ill-tended gardens of Minas. Once lovely like the city, they too had fallen into disarray with the growing shadow. Even with the end of ethuil, spring, the gardens were lackluster. They could no longer compare to the gardens in Dol Amroth, but perhaps now that there was a new King, the gardens would be tended to once more. Even with the threat of war upon the lands, the gardens still held hints of aromatic scents from medicinal herbs cultivated by the Houses of Healing. Lothíriel leaned on the nearest stone balustrade and squeezed her eyes shut. She could still feel the imprint of his grip around her wrist as he pulled her against himself. She stifled the urge to retch.

Lothíriel breathed shakily. She was on the brink of one of her attacks. No, not now, she thought. She swore under her breath. She would not relive her encounter with the Corsairs. She refused to do so; she refused to let Lord Brayan trigger that memory. Recalling that pain seemed to be a reliable distraction, she sunk her fingernails into the flesh of her hand, causing angry crescent shaped welts to appear. Focusing on the sting in her palm, she could feel attack dissipate. Merciful Nienna, thank you.

It was dusk but the air still held the warmth promised by fast-approaching laer. Lothíriel found herself a well concealed alcove inhabited by a stone bench. Perhaps she could obtain a moment of reprieve before rejoining the party. She dusted off the moss the best she could, hindered in her task by the fading light. She would have to, unfortunately, see and interact with Lord Brayan eventually. Hopefully he didn't follow her out, or she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. Before she could turn to lower herself onto her seat, she heard a masculine voice behind her.

"My Lady, I-"

Lothíriel spun around and at first all she could see were broad shoulders. Before she could identify the speaker, she saw two shadows and a flash of steel to her right.

"My lord!" she cried in warning as the figure wielding a sword approached and shouted something. She instinctively put her arm out to protect the man—Lord Brayan?—in front of her and move him out of reach.

If she had thought the King's eyes made her burn, she was so wrong. The unnatural sensation of cold metal sundering her flesh was followed instantly by agonizing pain. Her whole arm felt aflame and the trauma of her body accepting such a wound blinded her to the subsequent scuffle. A glint of a dagger and the whole affair was over, with the uninvited man hailing victorious.

Lothíriel felt her heart palpitate at an alarming speed and she began gasping for air. Immediately the man knelt to the ground in front of her –how did she get down here? -and guided her arm to his lap.

"The laceration is mild. You are in no danger of losing any permanent feeling," he stated, his tone clinical and dispassionate marking him as an experienced war veteran. She could feel the pressure of some sort of fabric he pressed down to staunch the bleeding.

Lothíriel could not thank him, could not quip that loss of feeling would be a blessing, or even check to see if he had sustained any harm. Indeed, she could not even breathe and her vision started to blur.

"My Lady?" the man's voice had colour to it now. He was clearly alarmed.

Lothíriel tried to even her breathing or she knew she would pass out from hyperventilation, as she'd seen it happen to more than one noblewoman. She only managed to choke out a mangled noise. With her left hand she reached behind her and attempted to unbutton her gown.

"My Lady!"

"Lothy!" Amrothos' concerned voice joined the shocked one. Lothíriel looked up to see Amrothos jumping over a corpse and skidding on blood to kneel by her side, joining the man who had blond hair. "Lothy, what happened? Are you alright? What's wrong!?"

If Lothíriel had been in her right mind, she would have chided Amrothos for pestering her with questions without waiting for answers, but the relief of the arrival of her brother surpassed everything, and she managed to choke out "corset."

She could see comprehension flash across his eyes, and Amrothos, with a set task given to him, immediately took over unbuttoning her gown. After opening the back, he reached the lacings and began to loosen them. But he was going too slowly and her lungs burned as if someone had jabbed an iron poker, blazing red from heat, into them. Everything was aching and the edge of her vision started to blur. She could feel herself slumping from the lack of oxygen; Amrothos started to panic. Immediately she felt his hands shoved aside, and a quick glance revealed a solid arm reaching around her. It held a small dagger, still dripping with the assassin's blood, and took her brother's place. A swift motion and the lacings of her corset were sliced apart and she could finally draw a full breath. She slumped forward all the way forward, into the blond man's chest. She felt exhausted and closed her eyes; her head felt too heavy to lift. Though her arm still burned, the pleasure of filling her lungs with the night's fresh air caused her to inwardly rejoice.

"Lothíriel, what happened?" Amrothos questioned again. She felt the man she was leaning on inhale and felt the reverberations in his chest as he answered for her.

"I followed her out here to speak with her. She was able to warn me in time before either of us were killed." He cursed in a foreign language-was that Rohirric?—and continued, "I wasn't quick enough and she sustained injury." His voice was deep and reminded her of waves on the shore during high tide: powerful and unstoppable, but peaceful and soothing. There was a certain lilt to it that betrayed an accent she wasn't familiar with.

Lothíriel could feel hot, white light pulsating from her arm with each heartbeat. She steeled herself for the effort it took to speak and croaked out weakly, "Amrothos, please get Ada."

"I will be right back," Amrothos replied, eager to do something useful. He stood up and darted away, evading the pool of blood on the floor.

Lothíriel took another deep breath and exhaled shakily. The man's arms, which still held her, tensed slightly. After a few more moments of breathing comfortably in silence, Lothíriel finally shifted. Wincing a little, she untucked her head from beneath his chin and glanced up.

She shivered. And his arms tensed around her again.

It was the King of Rohan.

"Do you have the strength to stand?" he asked, the tone of familiarity he had used with her brother was replaced with a strained one.

Gooseflesh prickled across her skin at his breath on her neck. Lothíriel nodded. He carefully shifted her from his lap and stood. Gently, he picked her up at the waist and set her on her feet. Lothíriel swayed a bit and he caught her before she could tip over.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, looking up at his face. His jawline was incredibly sharp even beneath his trimmed beard, and she tempered the urge to reach up her hand to cup it. She observed that his jaw was clenched. She watched the corded muscles in his neck twitching, and noticed that he wouldn't look her directly in the eye.

"Lothíriel?!" she heard her father's panicked voice call to her. The King of Rohan stepped away from her immediately and his stinging gaze honed in on Imrahil. Lothíriel turned around and saw her father, Amrothos, a few of their most trusted Swan Guards, and a Rohirrim hurrying toward them.

"Ada," Lothíriel cried out immediately, rushing into her father's embrace and holding onto him tightly with one arm while cradling the other. Lothíriel could hear whispered Rohirric behind her. Imrahil gripped her tightly by the shoulders to move her away from himself so he could take inventory of her injuries.

"You've been harmed," Imrahil's voice was low and tight. He took off his splendid mantle and draped it over her shoulders, as her dress was sliced and was starting to slip further down her body. Without the King's heat, she realized how chilled she was. The majority of her back was bare, and the mantle provided cover she didn't realize she needed. She watched as the Rohirrim left his King and slipped away.

The King of Rohan cautiously approached them and cleared his throat. Imrahil looked at him. "Prince Imrahil," he spoke lowly and quickly, "I do not think it prudent to stand out here in the open any longer where prying eyes may discover us."

His eyes darted toward Lothíriel and back to her father, raising an eyebrow. Imrahil's eyebrows furrowed and he looked at his daughter. His eyes widened at what he saw and he nodded in agreement. Lothíriel felt confused.

Imrahil looked at the King, knowingly. "You are wise, my friend, and I perceive you have a plan. Mayn't I be aware of it?"

"This must be dealt with discreetly. It would do no good for our peoples to know what has happened here, on this night. Peace is still too fragile, and news of assassins infiltrating during the coronation day would cause chaos."

"And Lord Aragorn?"

The warrior-king looked thoughtful. "I am loathe to divulge this information to him immediately and taint this day with ill tidings. I would have us deal with it privately until tomorrow at least. The less people who know will be to our advantage."

Lothíriel turned at footsteps coming towards them, and the Swan Knights instinctually went into a defensive pose. The footsteps belonged to the Rohirrim returning from his errand. The Swan Knights only relaxed when Imrahil motioned them to with a wave of his hand.

He spoke rapidly to his king in Rohirric. The King of Rohan turned to Imrahil and explained. "I asked Éothain to procure the services of Éowyn. Your daughter needs her arm tended to, and I think it best that we do not go to the healer here, or else it will be reported. We needed someone trustworthy, and Éowyn has been studying the art of healing. Éothain has informed her of being needed, and she is waiting in her room with the appropriate supplies. That is, with your permission."

"That is agreeable," Imrahil said, turning from Lothíriel and speaking in hushed tones with the Swan Knights. The King of Rohan's expectant gaze shifted to Lothíriel. It took her a few seconds to realize he was waiting for her approval as well. She nodded mutely, a warmth spreading through her that had nothing to do with her wounded arm on which she was still putting pressure. At her consent, the King spoke to the man named Éothain in their language, and though she could not understand them, it sounded like they were arguing.

Suddenly she felt a hand at her elbow, and she was being ushered away by the Swan guards. Lothíriel stumbled often, and was steadied by one of her father's most trusted guards. Lothíriel didn't register for several moments that the knights were following Éothain through the servant corridors to the guest rooms. The further they walked, the more agitated Lothíriel could feel herself become. Finally, they arrived in a wing that Lothíriel recognized as being reserved for important dignitaries, and Éothain rapped on a solid wood door in a staccato rhythm before the lock clicked open. A beautiful woman with long golden hair answered the door a crack, her face drawn tight and worried. Upon seeing Éothain, she cried out and embraced him. She spoke quickly with him in their native language, and motioned for Swan Knights to stand guard at the door. She smiled tentatively at Lothíriel until she noticed the garment wrapped around her arm, and then the woman's face paled.

She spoke sharply with Éothain who answered in what Lothíriel perceived as a snippy tone. Lothíriel watched as Éothain shrugged the woman off and left while she was in the middle of a sentence. The woman looked extremely frustrated before taking a deep breath, schooling her features to one of calm and turned to Lothíriel and invited her in.

"My name is Éowyn," she said softly as she locked the door, gesturing at a padded bench at the foot of her bed for Lothíriel to sit on. Lothíriel's blood pumped thunderously through her veins and she could feel her body vibrate with energy as she moved to the bench and sat down. Despite her upbringing, Lothíriel could not still sit. She watched Éowyn glide with impossible grace over to a table positioned underneath a window. There were a variety of herbs mixed into poultices, a sharp needle and thread, and cotton fabric strips. A set of closed doors led to an adjoining room, which was for a spouse as was custom in Gondor. Perhaps Éothain's? Based off of their interaction, Lothíriel wasn't sure. Her general knowledge of the Rohirrim and their naming customs could very well point to Éowyn being Éothain's sister, which would make more sense. The room was large for just an apprentice healer, even if she was foreign, but perhaps it was due to Éothain's rank. A fireplace on the opposite side of the room boiled a pot of water and crackled comfortingly, though it did nothing to soothe Lothíriel's reeling mind.

"I'm Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," she provided, as she tried to think of anything that would keep her still, "and I'm so dreadfully sorry to disturb you during the festivities." Lothíriel gripped the fabric of her dress with one hand and forced herself to sit still as Éowyn approached her. The Rohirric beauty was dressed in the traditional dark blue robes of the Houses of Healing. The fabric was almost black in order to disguise blood stains, and had the White Tree of Gondor embroidered in shimmery thread on the left side over the collarbone. The robe was tied with a swath of fabric, silver in color and purely decorative, which indicated she was an apprentice. The higher up in training, the plainer and more practical the belt was. The Warden of the Houses of Healing had a leather belt which held many pouches and slots for tools. Her hair was down but plaited back. Its pale gold colour reminded her of a ghost crab Lothíriel routinely saw scuttling across the sand after dusk near one of her favorite places to sail.

Éowyn knelt down next to Lothíriel and reverently unwrapped the fabric from around her arm and folded it. She replaced it with a damp cloth. "Is he alright?" she inquired quietly, while pouring a sterilizing concoction over the wound to prevent inflammation.

Lothíriel ceased the bouncing of her leg and winced at the sting, startled out of her reverie. "Pardon?"

"Is the King alright?" she clarified, dabbing at the wound to clean it.

"Oh! How did you know he was involved?" Lothíriel puzzled aloud. Éowyn gestured towards the fabric at her feet that had been used to slow her bleeding. The discarded item was a costly tunic of brocaded green.

"The King of Rohan was wearing this. It used to be King Théoden's, and it has blood on the outside of it. Yours has not seeped through it yet."

"Oh!" Lothíriel flushed. She hadn't even realized that the King had given her his own tunic. She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed him in nothing but his under-tunic and breeches. She looked at the woman who was tending to her. Lothíriel thought that she looked frightfully pale. "Your King is completely unharmed, as far as I am aware," she reassured, recalling that the people of Rohan had already lost one King. Lothíriel watched colour return to her face and a look of immediate relief.

Éowyn breathed a prayer of thanks in her own language. Smiling at Lothíriel, she handed her a less than half full small glass phial to drink from. "This is the last of the poppy tears I could find. It should help to dull the pain while I stitch the wound closed. After this, all I have is willow bark," Éowyn explained.

Lothíriel downed the bottle in hopes that it would help. She immediately felt her heartbeat slow down, though she didn't feel sleepy like the last time she had been in this situation about a year ago.

"How is it that you were wounded?" Éowyn asked casually as she prepared the needle.

Lothíriel recalled vaguely that the King of Rohan had said Éowyn was trustworthy, but didn't know to what extent. She settled that it wouldn't hurt to tell the healer, but Lothíriel froze at seeing the threaded needle coming toward her. Éowyn, believing Lothíriel's hesitation to be from lack of trust, paused in her task. "Éothain told me it was ill-tidings for all, that you were attacked."

"He told you what happened?"

"Not the complete tale. I've known Éothain since we were very young. He grew up with my brother and I, and the three of us are still very close. My brother and he, especially. It is rare to see them parted. He said just that you were involved in a scuffle with an enemy, and the consequences of it are far reaching for us all."

"I was in the gardens," Lothíriel explained as she exhaled through her mouth, "when I heard a voice calling to me. It was your King, though I did not know it at the time. I saw a flash of steel in the corner of my eye. I tried to move him out of the way, but I wasn't fast enough. " Her speech slowed as the needle Éowyn held initially pierced her flesh. Lothíriel's eyes took on a glassy quality, and she appeared to be reliving some horrific memory from a time long passed.

"Breathe in through your nose and exhale through your mouth," Éowyn coached. Éowyn had witnessed many soldiers experience this after the Battle of the Morannon and had herself struggled with the episodes of the warriors' waking dream after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Lothíriel dug her nails into her upper thigh to ground herself and inhaled slowly through her nose and could feel herself return to reality as she exhaled.

Éowyn watched intently. She looked extremely contemplative as she knotted the final stitch and used a small dagger to remove the excess thread.

"I-" Lothíriel started to speak.

"Nay; there's no need to explain. It never happened." Éowyn interrupted her, making herself appear intently busy on wrapping Lothíriel's arm with cloth strips. Lothíriel looked extremely grateful, her vigor finally returning. "Well at least the assailant has been dispatched," Éowyn continued, hoping to distract her patient from feeling any residual uncomfortableness.

Lothíriel nodded. "Yes, it is good. Do you know if they captured his companion?"

Éowyn's sharp eyes snapped to Lothíriel's. "Éothain spoke only of one."

"Yes, one assassin. I'm talking about the accomplice he was with," Lothíriel said. She felt renewed energy flow through her body, like a thrumming running through her veins.

"They do not know there was a second enemy," Éowyn stated harshly.

"Well someone has got to tell them!" Lothíriel exclaimed, jumping to her feet as the urgency washed over her. She felt as if she were racing the rising tide; there were but a few, fleeting moments in which she could secure her fate. "There's a chance we could still prevent them from leaving the city."

"They are debriefing now in the war room as we speak," Éowyn spoke hurriedly. Lothíriel started towards the doors but was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder. "Ye cannot go while you're like this."

Lothíriel wrenched her shoulder out from her grip and assumed her mask of indifference. "I am perfectly capable of speech, therefore I am going."

"Nay, I do not mean to prevent ye from going," Éowyn said softly, turning her palm up to suggest she meant no harm. "But ye may want to be at least properly covered up."

Lothíriel looked down at herself and blanched. Here she had been abashed at the King of Rohan in naught but his under-tunic and breeches, while she had looked twice as disheveled. The hem of her dress was a shade darker from the rest, stained from the blood pool. A rip on the side by her right knee must have happened when she hit the ground. But truly, the most mortifying thing was the top of her dress. Its mutilation to save her life had left her with little decency. The slips of fabric that served as her sleeves sagged near to her elbows, and Lothíriel realized that had she not been keeping her injured arm so close to her body, the entire dress would have slid down to expose her bosom. In fact, the entire torso at the back of her gown was ripped open, and displayed her bare back from the very nape of her neck to her tailbone.

"Sweet Elbereth," she breathed. Éowyn said something to Lothíriel she didn't catch and ventured into the adjoining room while Lothíriel took a mental inventory of everything wrong in her appearance. Her hair, which Maren had painstakingly taken the time to curl, was haphazard and wild. Lothíriel tried to run her fingers through it like a comb, but was interrupted by Éowyn returning.

"No clothing of mine will fit you," Éowyn apologized, handing Lothíriel a small stack of folded clothes. Lothíriel regretfully knew how true that statement was; Éowyn was slender everywhere that Lothíriel was not. Lothíriel's bust and hips would never fit into any of Éowyn's dresses. "I took this from my brother's room; Éomer won't mind. There's a pair of trousers and one of his old shirts, too. I found an old belt of his that should keep everything from falling off you."

Lothíriel thanked Éowyn and began to hurriedly strip off the remnants of her dress. Taking care not to unnecessarily jostle her arm, she slipped the soft shirt over her head and tucked it into the trousers. Éowyn had to assist her with tightening the belt. Lothíriel thought she looked like she'd been swallowed, but Éowyn looked at her approvingly, strangely satisfied with the end result. Lothíriel thought that was odd, but was distracted by Éowyn tossing worn leather boots toward her.

"We look to be the same size," she smiled. "You will look less ridiculous wearing these than your sodden slippers." Lothíriel looked down at her slippers and grimaced. "Now make haste."

Lothíriel threw a few words of gratitude over her shoulder as she darted into the corridor. She decided she would have to sacrifice a little time in the name of discretion. After all, imagine the fuss that would occur if some Gondorian were to recognize her, the Princess of Dol Amroth, while she wore trousers, not to mention her bandaged arm. Thus, Lothíriel followed the servants' corridors and passageways. Thankfully the party was still in full swing, unaware of the happenings, and the corridors were largely empty. Lothíriel was able to make it to the war room in record time.

Lothíriel took a fortifying breath and charged towards the doors, where two Swan Knights stood guard. One, the older of the two, looked panicked as she strode towards them. His bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise and his face paled. The younger's eyes widened, his jaw dropped open, and he flushed crimson. Both stood frozen as Lothíriel approached, and she could hear raised voices within the room. She grasped the door handle and wretched it open without delay, ignoring the belated reprimand of the elder guard croaking a distressed "Princess!"

She entered the war room.

Additional Context-  

Nienna -a Queen of the Valar, the sister of Mandos and Irmo (known as the Fëanturi), acquainted with grief and sorrow but also pity and courage. She is ranked as one of the eight Aratar, the most powerful of the Valar. Her element is grief and she is ever mourning for the wounds of the world by evil. Those who listen to her learn wisdom and endurance in grief.

#Lothíriel #Lothiriel #Eomer #Éomer #Dol Amroth #ROHAN #King of Rohan #Prince of Dol Amroth #Princess of Dol Amroth #Imrahil #Queen of Rohan #Eowyn #Éowyn #The White Lady #Amrothos #Pale Fire #fanfiction #frecklesforever93 #Éothíriel #eothiriel #infractiangelus #lord of the rings #lotr

[dreambigdreamz]

Person : So who's your favourite from LoTR?

Me : Lothíriel 💕

Person : Who?

Me : Loth. Thi. Ri. El. :)

Person : Is that your original character?

Me : No wtf human how are you even living your life without Éothíriel in it- *proceeds to type out by heart that single paragraph in the Appendix where Lothíriel is mentioned*

Person : That's it?

Me : That's all we need, really.

#lord of the rings #lotr fandom #eomer x lothiriel #eomer eadig #eomer of rohan #eomer #lothiriel #dol amroth #lotr movies #lotr books #otp #my otp #my beloveds #eothiriel #why am i like this #but like #i love them #People should know more about them #lothiriel love of my life #dreambigdreamz

[themoonlily]

HI OMG I AM SO OVER THE MOON TO HAVE FOUND YOUR TUMBLR—

Sorry, I'm just really over the moon. Your many posts about Lothíriel and the Rohirrim and EVERYTHING LOTR has made my day. I have found my jackpot haha to scroll through your blog and procrastinate while excusing myself as doing some research about LOTR. Bless you and your brilliant blog. Have a great day/night!

Oh, right, may I ask your experience getting into Éothíriel? Did it happen the first time you ever read LOTR or until much, much later? (which is what happened with me and now I can't stop ahh)

Thank you so much for your lovely message! I'm glad you enjoy my tumblr. :) I think at some point I was quite frustrated with how little you see stuff about them online, and then I decided to be the Éothiriel content I wanted to see in the world. :')

As for I got into this ship - I've loved LOTR since I first saw the PJ films, but didn't really engage in any fandom things until the Hobbit trilogy came out: it was at that point that my obsession with Tolkien really took a turn for the worse, so to speak. Even before then, I had especially liked the parts with Rohan, but I decided to try reading LOTR for the first time in English, and I quickly fell in love with the character of Éomer. And I started to devour everything I could find about him, so of course I eventually found out about Lothíriel.

Although Tolkien didn't write much about her and she doesn't appear in the story proper, I felt like there was still a lot in the story to go with - stuff that heavily implied why Éomer married this woman and what might be the circumstances of their relationship. I think it was all set up even as early as the Battle of Pelennor fields, when Imrahil discovers that Éowyn is still alive, and I think that Éomer would feel gratitude and friendship with the person who helped to save his sister (and his only living family at that point). It seems clear to me that they would interact a lot during the rest of the war and after it, being commanders in the army of the West. So he would have familiarity and probably frienship with Lothíriel's family, and it would be politically a very good match, making ties with a powerful noble House that ruled its own fiefdom in Gondor. She might even be the highest-ranking lady in Gondor at that point (excluding Arwen). Furthermore, I think it would be of great interest to Éomer (and other Rohirrim) that Dol Amroth had a cavalry of mounted knights, making them natural allies with a lot to give to each other. Éomer's heir is named Elfwine (=Elf-friend = Elendil), which also speaks of how highly he thought of the friendships he made in Gondor. 

I thought, yes, it makes sense in a lot of ways that Éomer and Lothíriel were married. But there was also a lot of potential for how their relationship came to be, and you could tell their story in so many ways, which really fascinated me. And down into the rabbit hole I went.

That's the short version of why this blog exists, really!  

Have a great day/night, too! :)

#asks

[elesianne]

A little headcanon:

Éomer and Lothíriel both have a great appreciation for family and want kids but for different reasons (+the obvious throne-related reasons of course)

Éomer has been losing members of his family since he was a child and by the time he’s king, he has precious few left, none close ones living with him; he feels an absence where he wants presence

while Lothíriel is from a close family who’s close-knit if not geographically in the case of all of her extended family – but they’re keen letter-writers, too; she’s used to having lots of family around caring for her (in both senses of the word), teaching her, treasuring her, the youngest of the family and the only daughter of the Prince, and to loving them all, even her meddlesome aunt Ivriniel

#éomer #lothíriel #éothíriel #eomer #lothiriel #eothiriel #lotr headcanon #my tolkien headcanons

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

LotR fic rec - Éomer x Lothíriel (2)

This is the second part to this post (+ this one because this particular fanfic deserved a post of its own) because one does not simply stop at 10 éothiriel fanfictions when there are so many more to read out there. Binge reading is now a thing, I speak it into existence as I go from fic to fic for this one pairing.

Of Falcons and Mûmakil, by Lialathuveril (114k)

Set a year after the end of the Ring War, this is the story of how Éomer and Lothiriel first met, fell in love and got married. They managed to do this despite several obstacles on the way including his sister, her eldest brother and a foolhardy band of Southrons. I’ve tried to keep Éomer in character to how he’s described in the books, brave and strong, with a sudden temper but also with a keen sense of humour. Lothiriel I see as quite young (she's twenty at the time they meet) and not quite sure of her role in life yet, impulsive and warmhearted

I find once again Lialathuveril’s style. After reading several of The Moonlily’s fanfictions in a row I became used to her prose, but Lialathuveril is just as good even if it’s different. The main difference being that they each have their own way to write Lothiriel, but in this fanfiction I find she became of mix of each of these author’s preferred personality for her.

Despite how long the fanfiction is, it’s easy to read, and rather quick too. You just read chapter after chapter, devouring them all, and before you know it you’ve reached the end and long for more.

I particularly like that we get as much of Eomer’s thoughts on what’s happening as we get Lothiriel’s. It’s not restricted to a single point of view, which allows you to feel closer to Eomer’s character (because sometimes it’s not the case, since he’s present in the books/movies, the authors assume we know him and don’t need to be imersed in his thoughts, therefore they focus on Lothiriel whom we barely know anything about).

Open My Eyes, by The Moonlily (36k)

A young, unusual lady teaches the King of Rohan that some of the most important things you can't see with your eyes.

Very different take on the usual Eothiriel stories, I think it’s fair to say that I had a few expectations when I opened this fanfiction. While it is the usual high quality fiction provided by The Moonlily, some of those expectations were not fulfilled, which is partly to be blamed on me really. As the story progressed I tried to guess what would happen next, and in the end I liked the theory I came up with so much that I was a little disappointed by the final twist.

But aside from all personal feelings I still think that the final reveal wasn’t as dramatic as it could (should?) have been, given how much of a deal the characters made of it.

Other than that it was a very enjoyable story that I recommend to everyone, if only because it’s well written, not so long as to take a lot of your time if you end up not liking it, and because of how different it is from all other eothiriel stories I’ve read (which is 15 so far if you must know).

Second Time Lucky, by heckofabecca  (14k)

When Lothíriel makes a hasty promise to a lady in distress, she must use all her wits to keep her footing. But there's more than one type of falling... 

Very, very nice and funny to read. This Lothiriel has nothing to envy to all the others I’ve read about though she is quite different, and maybe closer to what we imagine a Princess of Dol Amroth to be like.

Bound by Duty, by Lady Bluejay (99k)

Coming to terms with her arranged marriage, Lothiriel has to face returning to Meduseld alone. How will she cope with those who did not want a Gondorian for a Queen? 

A liiittle bit of a slow burn, just enough to have me foaming at the mouth but not so long as to make me wish I’d never opened it. It’s good guys, it’s so good. Of course you’re going to tell me “why, yes, Alyssa, of course it’s good, this is lady bluejay” and you are right my friend, but it doesn’t hurt do say it twice. This is also one of the sexiest fanfictions I’ve read for this couple? I did not expect it, but the intimacy is treated in a very delicate yet bold way. Loved it. Read it.

Heart of a Queen, by The Moonlily (50k)

"You are a Princess of Dol Amroth, Lothíriel, and you were born as brave and proud as your brothers." 

GOD this story gave me emotional blue balls! I am SO HAPPY it isn’t one of The Moonlily’s longer works because it could very well have ended me right then and there. It gives you an in-depth view of Lothiriel’s inner journey and thoughts as she gets familiar with Rohan and its enigmatic king. As a reader, I was just as frustrated as her in face of Eomer’s aloofness and cryptic behavior, maybe even more because I KNEW there was more to it, we just didn’t know what yet.

As always a nice, refreshing new light shines on the characters (still marveling at how the author can do that after writing so many fanfictions for this pairing) especially on Lothiriel, and while it is not my personal favorite take of her persona, it is still a pleasure to read, and a beautiful tribute to Tolkien and his work. Much like Bound by Duty, she is much more princess-ish and feminine and delicate - and everything you might expect a princess to be. Which is all fair and good, but I have a slight preference for the bold, adventurous Lothiriel.

See ya soon for another review of a The Moonlily fanfic (at this point I should just rename this fic rec to ‘the Moonlily fangirling’)

Game of Hearts, by hannah.jpg (31k)

Humiliated at her waning popularity in Minas Tirith, Lothíriel seeks to regain her reputation: by snagging the King of Rohan, of course. What could go wrong?

I had never read about a Lothiriel like this one before this story, and I’m not sure what to think about her. The story is quite short and well-written, I’ll say that first, and I don’t regret the hours spent reading it (I am a very slow reader) because I love reading about new ways this ship gets together, they never disappoint. But I’ll also say that Lothiriel did elicit some contradictory emotions. She gets through quite a bit of character development within 31k words, therefore at the end, she’s where I like her to be (so to say). However, at the beginning, I was very put off by her characterization, and I admit I (maybe) would have stopped reading had the fanfic been 50k+, but I’m glad I didn’t because she got back in my good graces.

The story is told from Lothiriel’s point of view, though to conclude, I’ll add that it was Eomer’s character that transpires the most, even if we only get to see what he thinks through the dialogue. I guess what you don’t say is as telling as the things you say out loud.

A Long and Winding Road (292k) by The Moonlily

To flee from a dreadful fate, she is sent into hiding. But how can she hide her heart from the man who also holds her secret? 

Yeah, that’s right. Another fanfiction from The Moonlily. Another excellent story with good characterization, lovable side characters, heartfelt conversations by the hearth and painful mutual pining. This one made be very horny because the sexual tension between Eomer and Lothiriel was too much for me. Seriously, this story makes you lust for both physical and emotional intimacy, I am not alright as I write this, folks.

It’s also a slow, and I mean very slow, burn. Hold onto ya feels because you are in for a long, long ride my friends. I was just about to snap and maybe pop a vein or something when they finally acted on their feelings, I cannot stress this enough: it’s a slow burn.

Lady of the Sea (53k), by The Moonlily

How the horselord first met the mermaid.

Listen, I’m not going to say anything again, just accept that I will rec all of The Moonlily’s fanfictions and move on. I loved Lothiriel’s character in this one, I always do when she’s a bit on the feisty side, I don’t know I just think it really suits her and it compliments Eomer’s personality too. As usual, their meeting was excellent in its originality and the skillful way the author always writes that first encounter.

NOTE: I should like to add that if any of the authors whose works are mentioned in my fic recs see this, they are free to keep, use, do whatever they want with the cover(s) I made.

#eothiriel #éothiriel #éomer #éomer king #lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien #jrr tolkien #tolkienverse #lothiriel #eomer x lothiriel #lothiriel of dol amroth #lothíriel #éothíriel #karl urban #fic rec #fanfiction #fanfic #fanfictions #fic recommendation #éomiel #rohan #riddermark #meduseld #edoras #guthwine #guthwinë #king éomer #éomer eadig #eorlingas

[theemightypen]

éothíriel and 20. …on a scar for the kiss prompts?

Since the very first, Lothiriel has made it her mission to learn everything she can about Eomer. No, they had not married for love, but if he is to be the man that she would spend the rest of her life with, is it so very wrong of her to want to know him?

It does not help that he seems determined to remain unknowable, even after their wedding. And their wedding night! And the many nights following, when they have been as close as it is possible for two people to be! He seems perfectly willing to share his bed with her– and it should be said that she is not unwilling, either, because for all of his gruffness and his mighty temper, there is no denying that her husband is a very handsome man, and a good one, underneath it all–but everything else about him he keeps sealed up tighter than an oyster.

She suspects, much like an oyster, there is a treasure inside of her taciturn, stubborn husband. If only he would tell her!

At least she can say she has learned the physicality of him. She has spent many hours–likely more than she should–studying the planes of his face, the way his mouth curves in the smallest of smiles, as if it is against his will to do so. The way his eyes darken when they kiss, the overwhelming heat of his hands on her skin, the slight-but-not-unpleasant sting of his beard.

And the scars. Those fascinate her most of all.

It is not as if they are unexpected–she is the daughter of a war-time Prince, sister to three warriors, and cousin to a ranger. Lothiriel knows very well that such lives lend themselves to injuries and thus, scars. And it is very clear that Eomer’s life as a marshal has been no different.

Eomer does not like to talk about them–Eomer does not like to talk about most things, from what Lothiriel can tell–but she finds herself looking at them when his back is turned in their rooms, or when he is asleep beside her in the slowly dying light of the fire.

It is not that he is sharp with her, nor unkind. He is just…distant, though they spend most of their nights together. His answers–when she can eke them out of him–are short and to the point. Lothiriel does not mind, not truly; she has always liked puzzles, and her husband is the most intriguing puzzle she has ever faced.

“Eomer,” she murmurs, one night when he is very nearly asleep, face pressed against her collarbone. One of her hands is stroking through his hair–the full long length of it, made more golden than ever by the dim firelight and she feels absurdly envious of it–the other resting gently on his arm.

“Hm?” A customary response, similar to other times she has spoken–or tried to, anyways–to him like this.

“How did this come to be?” She asks, sliding her finger along the raised, curved edge of a scar on his shoulder.

He lifts his head to meet her eyes. Confusion, for once, is writ plainly on his often stoic face. “The scar?”

“Yes,” Lothiriel says.

“Why?”

Ridiculous man, she thinks, though it’s tinged with fondness, even now he cannot give me a straight answer! “Because I wish to know,” she says.

Eomer’s brow furrows. After a moment of silence, he finally murmurs, “An Orc’s arrow grazed me. I was sixteen.”

Frowning, she covers the scar with her hand. “That is so young, to be fighting Orcs.”

“Most Eorlingas are not given the luxury of long childhoods,” he says. “I joined my first eored at fifteen.”

At fifteen, Lothiriel had finally managed to convince Ada that she was old enough to ride along the shore with only two Swan Knights for guards. How different their lives have been!

“Was it very painful?” She asks, unable to keep herself from asking.

Eomer shifts, leaning his chin on his free hand while letting her keep her grip on his opposite arm and the scar there. “At the time, I thought it so. But I have endured worse since then.”

That makes her frown in the way Aunt Ivriniel always warned her against–deeply, with lines pulling at the corners of her mouth, oh, Lothiriel, you have wrinkles before you are thirty, if you keep making faces like that–and it is her turn to shift, rolling herself out from under him and turning on her side to meet his now very confused stare. Before he can ask what she’s doing, she stretches forward, replacing her hand with her mouth. The scar is puckered, strange feeling under her lips.

There, she thinks, all better.

“Lothiriel,” Eomer says, in a tone that she doesn’t recognize, “what was that for?”

Abruptly, her cheeks flood with color. It is a childish notion, and a silly one at that. To think that her kiss can heal a hurt over a decade old.

“In Gondor,” she says, looking away from his piercing, searching gaze, “when children are hurt, we tell them that a kiss can heal any ill. Or help heal it, anyways. I–it was foolish–”

Her words peter out. The silence is like a weight, pressing down on her chest. For all that she has tried–and wanted–to know her husband, perhaps he does not have the same interest, when it comes to her? Perhaps he really had just wanted someone to fill the role of Queen, to have an heir quickly and then be done with, like Lady Istoril had said–

Please, she thinks, I want to know you, and I want you to know me, we need not always be such strangers–

The sudden press of his thumb and forefinger around her chin makes her jump. “You are so kind,” he says, an even more unrecognizable tone in his voice. “So very kind, lȳtlu gesinge.”

“I try to be,” Lothiriel stutters, unmoored by the softness in his expression. “I–you deserve kindness, Eomer, after all you have suffered–”

He snorts, and pulls her into his arms, mirroring their positions from before. “I deserve to be horsewhipped, for not speaking to you of this–of anything–more easily,” Eomer grumbles. “Words are not my strong suit, Lothiriel, but I have been miserly with them with you. I am sorry.”

Stunned and elated, all at once, she presses closer to him. Her hand brushes along his ribs as she moves. She feels another scar there, thin and jagged.

“You are forgiven,” Lothiriel says, “if you tell me the story behind this scar as well.”

Eomer’s lips turn up in the small smile she knows so well by now, but it looks anything but reluctant this time.

“Very well,” he agrees. “But it must receive the same treatment as the one before it.”

They are up very, very late. Eomer has almost too many scars to count, and words to go with them, now that she has pried them from him.

Just like I thought, Lothiriel thinks to herself as she yawns through the morning meal, just like an oyster.

Although she suspects that the treasure to be found within Eomer will be worth much more than a pearl.

#eomer x lothiriel #eothiriel #my writing #LOTR fic #prompt response

[morwensteelsheen]

for the meme: eothiriel and *spins SW wheel* jynssian

lmaoooo don’t get me in trouble!!!

okay my brutally honest opinion of éothíriel is [wet farting noise]. but if I have to have a take I prefer the one that says it was absolutely an arranged marriage, likely because ol’ Imrahil wanted to 1) lock down his HBIC status even more tightly and 2) improve his access to nice horsies for his cavalry. I very much doubt there was a ~high romance~ element to it all. I also have it in my notes (maybe from PoME) that Elfwine wasn’t born until FO 8 (though the Appendices don’t confirm this—so unsure) which indicates to me that there was Some Other Stuff going on there. Either a lot of daughters or a lot of god know’s. Either way, not a huge fan of the fairytale HEA there.

JYN AND CASSIAN!! Lights of my life. I think they’re absolutely brilliant and horrifically underrated both within and outwith the fandom. People always want that semi-feral murder couple™ and I think Jyn and Cassian are effectively that, except (Cassian at least) is highly principled and ideological, and neither of them are particularly loud or melodramatic. They seriously rock so fucking hard and it makes me SO sad more folksies aren’t into them.

#asks

[eothiriel]

ÉOTHÍRIEL WEEK 2017!

HEY YO OUR PEEPS! It is the end of summer and that means…..it is time for our second annual ÉomerxLothíriel week of PROMPTS AND ARTS AND stUFF AND AWESOMENESS. 

The starting date is September 24, 2017. And our eyes are peeled, so post WHATEVER WHENEVER and we will add it to the queue, so as to space out posts for maximum viewing pleasure. But please make sure you tag your work ‘eothiriel’. 

Any type of submission is fair game: art, fic, meta, photo and gifsets, playlists, moodboards, etc. Also you don’t have to make anything to participate!! You can simply follow the blog, like the posts, and get to know some new friends.

Please please please tag your friends and reblog this post so as to create as MUCH excitement as possible. We may be small BUT WE WILL BE MIGHTY.

The prompts are optional, but should you be needing inspiration: 

Day 1: Song (i.e. your fav Éothíriel song) Day 2: Memories Day 3: Family Day 4: Highs & Lows Day 5: Simplicity Day 6: Winter Day 7: Modern AU

Best of luck to all participating, and we literally cannot wait to see what everyone has to offer. Last year was SIIIIIICK and this year will be better. Heh. 

(If you have any questions or whatever or you want help or ideas WE ARE SO THERE. Talk to us.)

#eomer #lothiriel #lord of the rings #eothiriel #éomer #lothíriel #eothirielweek2017

[elesianne]

Trying to get back inside Lothíriel’s head so I went on Pinterest and did a moodboard as you do

#lothíriel #edits and aesthetics and such #my tolkien aesthetics #lothiriel #eothiriel #éothíriel

[heckofabecca]

So last time I was planning for the sequel to Far From the Swan-road (my longest Lothíriel/Éomer fic over on AO3), I was hoping to do 3 (or 4) total stories in the series, all with 11 chapters. I was having trouble figuring out enough plot for part 2, but now that I’ve created 11 pages of headcanons for Théoden’s sisters....

THINGS ARE DIFFERENT mwahaha

#lothíriel #eothiriel #éothíriel #far from the swan-road #becca writes

[infracti-angelus]

The King and Queen of Rohan: Éomer and Lothíriel

#Éothíriel #Éomer #Lothíriel #Eothiriel #Eomer #Lothiriel #King #Queen #king of rohan #Queen of Rohan #Princess of Dol Amroth #Rohan #Dol Amroth #love #photoset

[elesianne]

A Lord of the Rings fanfic, chapter two of two

Story summary: Lothíriel felt prepared for everything that happened at her and Éomer’s wedding in the mead hall but at the end of the feast, in the privacy of their bedchamber, she knows less of what to expect and do. Fortunately her new husband is patient in this, if not in many other matters.

Chapter length: ~2,600 words; Rating: Mature audiences

Some keywords: arranged marriage, wedding night, virginity, mild sexual content, post-war of the rings

AO3 link

*

Midyear’s night: Chapter II – Morning

When Lothíriel wakes up in the morning, she is overheated.

It is strange. Usually she is more or less cold in the morning because the fire in the grate burns out during the night and though her maid builds it up again before waking her, the room hasn't warmed yet by then.

Now, though, she is so hot that it feels like she can hardly breathe. As she comes to true wakefulness, she realises that she is hot and finding it difficult to breathe because she is half-buried under a sleeping man. The man is naked and very heavy.

For a moment she freezes, until she remembers that she is now married and this is her husband and while he perhaps doesn't have the right to suffocate her in his sleep, he does have the right to be in bed with her. That is all right.

She tries to move a little to get him to move off of her, preferably without waking him because this is rather embarrassing and confusing – all the more so because she thinks she feels against her thigh something that she felt inside her last night. How can it be that hard when Éomer is asleep?

But even her small movement is enough to wake him. He wakes up faster than she did, without a moment of confusion.

He mumbles, 'Lothíriel', and kisses her shoulder and moves away from on top of her. He flops on his back next to her, apparently completely unashamed of his nakedness and hardness, and says, 'Good morning.'

'Good morning.' She curls up a little on herself, shy of being naked in his presence although before they fell asleep Éomer saw and explored every inch of her.

'Did you sleep well?' Éomer enquires, perfectly politely. It feels strange in the circumstances.

'I did. Very soundly', she replies.

'So did I. You tired me out.'

Half of her wants to protest at that, but she is also – flattered. Is that what a woman should be when a man says that?

She is left pondering that when Éomer gets up, says 'I'll light the fire', and goes to do so. As he kneels in front of the fireplace, still naked, Lothíriel peeks a glance at his muscled back and bottom, and then lays her head back on the pillow, startled.

There are scratches on his back, not deep but clear enough, and she is fairly certain that she is to blame for them. She remembers clutching at him with desperate hands and scrabbling fingers towards the end of him thrusting inside her, when it had become… pleasant and he also touched her with his fingers and made her –

But now he is saying something, and she missed it, and has to ask him to repeat it. He has put on some clothes meanwhile, too.

'I'll get some fresh water for us', he repeats. There is a soft smile on his lips. Alone with her, he is gentler than she has seen him otherwise

That is a very good thing, Lothíriel supposes.

While he is gone she tugs a blanket to her and wraps herself in it, and stares at the crumpled bedsheets around her.

What else could she think of but last night? There is a strange tiredness and a not very terrible soreness inside her reminding her of the night. It had been – rather confusing in many ways, but better than she expected. From Éomer's gentler manner with her, from his patience with her nervousness and inexperience, from his making sure that she too was pleasured instead of just taking his own pleasure in her body, she can surely  conclude that he will likely to be a good husband for her.

Her mother told her, after Lothíriel became betrothed to Éomer, that what arranged marriages and love matches ultimately had in common is that one cannot know whether the marriage will be happy from beginning to end, or for a little while and then grow sour and cold.

'An arranged marriage that begins as a good partnership with shared ambitions often turns to good, enduring love sooner or later', Idhrenes told her daughter, and Lothíriel believed it because that was how her parents' marriage had begun and become.

She can only pray that her own will turn out the same way, and resolves to do her own part in making it so.

Perhaps, now that the wedding night is over and her virginity given to him, she will be regaining her equilibrium soon and stop being so nervous and silly. Now that she knows what to expect in private, too, things should be easier… although there are still some things that her aunt Ivriniel talked about that haven't happened yet.

Éomer comes back with a jug of water and a basket of bread.

'A truly poor breakfast for the king and queen', he says as he puts them down on the wash table in a corner of the room. 'I told them to bring a proper breakfast to the next room a little later. Before that there are some things to take care of.'

Wrapped in her blanket, Lothíriel shuffles over to have a drink of water. She almost trips on her shift and his undertunic that lie in a pile on the floor, shed and forgotten there last night.

She does not feel like much of a queen in this moment. She does feel like Éomer's wife, though. They are both messy-haired as they stand there at the wash table side by side, and she has an ache inside her and he has the marks of her fingernails on his back.

'What things are there for us to take care of?' she asks him.

Éomer empties his mug and gives her one from a hook on the wall. 'I will tell you once we are back in bed.'

That makes her raise her brows, as does Éomer taking half a loaf of bread with him as he returns to bed. Lothíriel drinks her water and follows him.

She doesn't take bread with her. Éomer munches on his piece as they settle to sit side by side against the headboard.

After a moment he breaks into laughter and says, 'You are looking at me like you think that I am a northern barbarian, like I once heard a countryman of yours call one of my men when they were both drunk and quarrelling in a tavern in Minas Tirith. Do you regret our union already, lady?'

Lothíriel laughs too, won over by his easy manner. 'I do not, my lord.' Since he used her title teasingly, she uses his. 'In truth, everything that has happened since we left the feast last night has been so new and strange to me that I should not wonder at a king eating the breakfast of a peasant in his bed.'

'A peasant would more likely break his fast on gruel', Éomer argues with a grin. 'And this bread is very good, fresh-baked and warm.' He breaks off a corner for her. 'Try it.'

He holds it in front of her mouth so she has little option but to bite into it. She chews and swallows and says, 'Yes, very good. Éomer, what are the things we need to take care of, and what is the time?'

'Many hours to midday yet', he tells her, and makes her wait for the rest of his answer while he finishes the bread. 'No one expects to see the newlyweds before then, I am sure', he continues. 'I want to spend the morning here with you. I only need to meet with my council for a moment before your coronation in the afternoon.'

Something warm spreads in her chest at his mention of wanting to spend the morning with her, though she doesn't know what he wants to do.

'Now, your morning gift', Éomer says. He moves to sit opposite her, and looks at her.

'I had forgotten about that', Lothíriel says. 'But now I remember. You insisted on it during your negotiations with my father.'

Smiling that crooked half-smile that she has come to know is not malicious at all, Éomer says, 'He said that his daughter needs no payment for her virginity. But it is a custom of my people, a security for your possible widowhood. Not that you would be left destitute anyway, but the gift is traditional.'

He takes her hand in his. Speaking more formally, he says, 'Lothíriel, I give to you a house a little way outside the town of Aldburg, and the fields that belong to it. They are good fields, bearing a decent crop every year whether it is rainy or dry. There is a very competent family farming the land, and they lease the house too. It is now yours to do with as you wish, and to leave to whoever you want. It was my father's mother's house. Her morning gift, in fact.'

Before she can react to that, he adds, 'And I give you a horse.'

Lothíriel says the first thing that comes to her mind at that, inane though it is. 'I have a horse.'

And she smiles. Of course the king of the Rohirrim, the horse-folk, would give her a horse on their first day as husband and wife.

Éomer grins, and it is a grin of true joy and pride. 'Not a horse like this. She is one the Mearas, the race of the greatest horses in Middle-Earth, a nobler creature than any horse of Gondor. She is tall and strong, not tame like an ordinary horse but willing to carry the royalty of the Mark like all her kin. She will be yours if she accepts you.'

Lothíriel frowns in worry. 'Do you think she might not?'

She is elated at the thought of getting to ride one of the Mearas. She has admired them from afar, Éomer's grey stallion and other equally wondrous horses on a pasture near Edoras. She remembers Shadowfax, the greatest of all the Mearas, whom Mithrandir the wizard rode and took with him to the West.

'I think she will.' Éomer stretches as he continues, 'You are my queen and easy to recognise as queen by your posture alone, and you are a decent horsewoman. Hrímfax – that is her name – is not as wild as some of the Mearas, not like Shadowfax, though she is his kin. She will be a faithful companion to you for decades  – for they are more like companions than servants, the Mearas.

'You will have to give her up every now and then, though', he hurries to add, 'because we need her to foal if she will. There are not so many Mearas: we need all of them to breed to make sure that their race doesn't fade from Middle-earth.'

'Of course', Lothíriel says. She tries the name. 'Hrímfax. What does it mean?'

'Hrímfax', Éomer corrects her pronunciation. 'It means Frost-mane. She is a dapple grey, though she will most likely lighten to white in time. She is young still.'

'I look forward to meeting her.' Lothíriel smiles at him. 'Thank you, Éomer, for the gifts.'

Gathering her courage, she scoots closer to him on the bed and sets her hand on his arm and kisses him. She likes his kisses.

Éomer seems surprised at her advance but kisses her back at once, his hands going around her and into her hair that is truly a frightful mess, unbraided as it is.

He doesn't seem to mind it. As she licks into his mouth and holds onto his upper arms where they bulge delightfully with muscle, Lothíriel thinks that Guthild was certainly right about men liking to touch women's hair.

After a while Éomer takes his lips from hers to say, 'Kissing is better laying down', and pushes her gently to her back. He settles above her on all fours, looming over her and staring at her, and oh, isn't that a thing that makes warmth bloom between her legs.

He asks, 'How sore are you?' There is that certain glint in his eyes. 'We have hours still until we have any duties.'

Hours? That is a little intimidating, if he is implying what she thinks he is. 'A little sore', she admits. 'Not unbearably.'

Éomer's brows rise. 'If you were, I would have been a brute. But we must not make you any more sore. You have to manage the coronation ceremony and feast. It will be a long evening and night of celebration again.'

Somewhat to her surprise, Lothíriel feels a twinge of disappointment. It is silly, because Éomer is right. She will have to be in the centre of attention, the whole city of Edoras and all their wedding guests looking at her when Éomer crowns her his queen. It would not do to be wincing from pain when she kneels before him.

'But', Éomer says with a grin and a caress of her blanket-covered breast, 'there are still things we can do that will not make you markedly more sore which will be a very pleasant way to spend the morning.'

She suspects that these things may be some of the ones that aunt Ivriniel spoke to her about. They had sounded rather strange and intimidating and even shameful then, but here in the warm, crumpled bed and the heat of her husband's gaze, she wants to find out how exactly they work.

'Will you allow me to unwrap you?' Éomer's fingers are creeping beneath the blanket that covers her body, making her breath hitch.

She allows it.

She lets him bare her body to him again, and to kiss her breasts, and to spread her legs and touch her softly and then firmly between them until she makes desperate noises and closes her eyes under the weight of his gaze on her.

She lets him teach her how to touch the hardness between his legs so that it becomes ever harder and after a while of her touching it he, too, loses control of his voice and his pleasure. There is something… wonderful in managing to make him come undone with just strokes of her fingers around him. She kisses him on his shoulder and arms and chest while his breathing evens after he spills on her stomach, deciding not care about the unpleasantly cooling mess.

And then he wants to touch her again. He settles between her legs, kissing his way up her thighs, ticking her with his beard.

'One thing I must remember to say', Éomer says from between her thighs, as casually as if they were conversing at a dinner table. Lothíriel can barely bear to look at him there. 'Don't often make your hair as complicated as it was yesterday. I don't want your maid to undress you every night – it should be my pleasure – and I don't want to spend half the night untangling all those things from your hair either.'

Wondering if it is possible to die from blushing, or to ever stop blushing, Lothíriel nods. She wouldn't wear anything that complicated on ordinary days anyway.

Grinning and looking very satisfied with himself, Éomer puts his face between her legs and proceeds to make her gasp with embarrassment and whimper with desire and sob with pleasure.

He urges her to get a little more rest afterwards, reminding her – as if she didn't know – that this is the only day they can tarry in bed.

He lies down and pulls her to his side. She lays her head on his shoulder and he puts his arm around her, his finger splayed on her waist, and before she falls to sleep Lothíriel thinks that she could be very happy in this marriage.

Even her mother told her that mutual respect paired with mutual desire makes for a good partnership of spouses.

*

A/N: Tolkien wrote that the Mearas will carry only the king of the Mark and his sons, but I changed that to include queens and princesses as well. I try to be as canon-compliant as possible for the most part, but this is one detail I wanted to change.

The morning gift is an Anglo-Saxon custom: morgen-gifu. It is/was a custom of many other cultures, too.

There will be sequels but I'm not sure when as I am still working on the next one. You can subscribe to the series on AO3 to get an email notification when I post a new fic/chapter :)

#lord of the rings fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #eomer #éomer #lothiriel #lothíriel #éothíriel #eothiriel #my fics #midyear's night #my éomer/lothíriel fics #elesianne's fics

[elesianne]

A Lord of the Rings fanfic, chapter one of two

Story summary: At Éowyn and Faramir's wedding Lothíriel daughter of Imrahil receives two proposals, and Éomer makes one.

Chapter length: ~2,100 words; Rating: General audiences

Some keywords: arranged marriage, proposal, getting to know each other, post-war of the ring

A/N: My starting point for this fic was a couple of questions: How in a world where there are legendary, great romantic love stories do those fare who marry for more prosaic reasons? How do they negotiate their marriages and accept them as what they are?

The first chapter is from Lothíriel's POV, the second from Éomer's. Second chapter will be posted in a few days.

AO3 link

*

Stars above the golden hall: Chapter I – Lothíriel

'Lady Lothíriel, a moment?'

Lothíriel turns, startled, from her conversation with some ladies of the court of Rohan to see lord Duinhir looking at her expectantly.

He is a lord of western Gondor like her father, holding the fiefdom of Morthond Vale along the river Morthond, west of Land of the Prince. Lothíriel knows him well as kind, prudent man.

'Of course, my lord'. She allows him to draw her aside to her quieter hallway, away from Faramir and Éowyn's marriage celebrations that are becoming ever more raucous as the hour has grown late and the newlyweds have departed already. Her guard stays close to her, as instructed by her father.

Duinhir appears more than a little flushed, like most men by now at this merry celebration in the way of the Rohirrim. He keeps a polite distance, though, and speaks decorously as is his wont.

'You look lovely tonight, Lothíriel, a fair southern flower here in the northern land. I hope that you shall forgive me my frankness: I wish to speak directly to you of a private matter.'

Alarmed, Lothíriel adjusts her expression to passivity as she listens on. She does not like where she believes Duinhir to be heading. He is a good man, a valued ally and neighbouring lord of her father's, but he is well over fifty years old. He had two grown sons that he lost in the war, the elder of whom Lothíriel might have married if he'd survived the fighting.

Lord Duinhir must have been young when he married, and he is still a strong man unbent by age though grief has carved many new lines on his face during the last few years. But he is too old, too much like a distant uncle that she has known all her life, for her to imagine him as her husband.

Lord Duinhir begins, 'As you know I lost both my sons on Pelennor fields.' She sees the shadow of grief for Derufin and Duilin on him still. 'I have no other heir that I would care to have succeed me as lord of Morthond Vale, and thus I am forced to look for a wife again.' He sighs. 'My dear Glaerdil passed away soon after Duilin's birth, and with two strong sons I didn't think I needed to marry again. Yet here I am, an old man soon, looking for a wife young enough to give me an heir. You are from a learned and noble-hearted line, Lothíriel, and deemed so yourself. Is there enough compassion in your heart to speak on my behalf to your father?

'Our blood in Morthond Vale does not run as pure as in Dol Amroth', Duinhir continues before Lothíriel could give him any answer, 'but my people are many and my land is fairer now than ever as it is at last free of the shadow of the dead men in the mountain above our valley. And I promise that I would treat you with more care and esteem than some young buck might.'

It is certainly a most unconventional proposal, and not a welcome one, and yet she finds it a difficult one to turn down.

In Duinhir's eyes is a rather heart-aching combination of hope and sorrow, all mixed with kindness. She does not doubt that he means his words.

'You are a most noble lord, Duinhir of Morthond Vale, though you disparage the heritage of your line.' She fights to find the right gentle words. 'I have known you to be so since I was a child, and I know that any lady who becomes your wife will be a fortunate woman. I do not think, however, that that honour is for me.'

There is only a very small flash of disappointment on Duinhir's face: he appears not to have had much hope. He seems tired all of a sudden, though, his features more shadowed and lined.

He says, 'Thank you for your graciousness in my rejection, my lady. I need not speak to your father, then.' Quite unnecessarily, he bows his head to her. 'It is probably for the best, anyway, for me to seek as bride someone whom I haven't known since she was the height of my knee.'

Lothíriel nods, still shaken. 'Perhaps a lady of Rohan? With this country's grievous losses, there are many who sadly lost their husband or betrothed, and more who will have a difficult time finding a man to marry because their noblemen's ranks were so depleted as the price of their heroic deeds in the war.'

Duinhir nods at her in turn, and appears to sink in thought. 'I have thought of it myself.  Indeed, perhaps some young enough widow who still has a wanting or need for a husband – preferably someone who has had a babe or two already, it would be the safest option, you know, knowing that she can –' But here he appears to remember who she is talking to and quickly apologises. 'Forgive me, lady Lothíriel. The hour is late, and I am both maudlin and inebriated, forgetting how to talk to the Prince's daughter! I beg your pardon, and bid you good night.'

Before she can wish him a good rest as well, he returns to the feasting hall.

Lothíriel takes a deep breath and tells her guard, who appears to be having difficulty keeping a straight face, that she will go outside to get some fresh air. He makes way for her in the throng of people, most of them flushed and merry and loud at the late hour, and Lothíriel is grateful for her father's insistence on a guard for her even in the house of an ally and friend.

Outside Meduseld the night is cool though the day that has passed was Midyears' day. Lothíriel enjoys the crisp freshness of the air that greets her as she walks away from the many torches and braziers in front of the Hall, down the stairs, and to the edge of the green terrace where Meduseld is situated. There is no one there but some of the king's guards, and she finds a spot some way away from them, and raises her gaze to the skies.

Despite the light and smoke from Edoras, she can see all the stars on the sky on this clear, cloudless night. The stars are as lovely above the valley where Rohan's royal city lies as is in daylight the greenness of the valley and the snow-capped, lonely peak that the Rohirrim call Starkhorn rising at the end of it, behind Edoras.

Lothíriel has enjoyed the wedding celebration of Faramir and Éowyn and she could not be happier for her favourite cousin and for Rohan's white lady who suffered much grief before finding a new happiness. But she has been surrounded by people and noise all day, and in a lesser degree for the whole week that her family has been here in Edoras.

It is good to breathe deep and look at the stars, and think. Duinhir's proposal and turning it down has left her sentimental too. She feels sorry for the lord of Morthond Vale, and for all like him who have to seek a new spouse though they would rather grieve with ample time the ones they lost in the war. She doesn't like it that Duinhir debased himself so many times during his proposal, for he is a noble man who has found himself in an unenviable position of having to find a wife half his age.

She had to turn him down, though. To have agreed to speak to her father on his behalf would have, if Imrahil had given her leave to marry Duinhir, not likely have resulted in anyone's happiness. And more likely her father would have turned Duinhir down on Lothíriel's behalf, injuring their good relations.

Imrahil has promised her that he will not make her wed a man twice her age or otherwise unsuitable, and Lothíriel trusts in his promise and his judgement.

There is a prospective match that she does find agreeable, based on all that she knows this far, one which Imrahil has been quietly making for her ever since the end of the War – or quite possibly before it, if she knows his forethought right. That match is only eight years older than her and a strong handsome man, though different from the strong handsome men she is accustomed to being around.

Lothíriel drops her gaze from the stars to Meduseld and the city around it. A city of wooden houses, surrounded by a wooden wall, with a hall of gilt and wood and golden thatches. There is no marble citadel here, no tall towers rising high above the sea; Edoras could not be more different from her home.

Yet she likes it, how the Hall rises proud and golden at the head of the valley, and the wooden city withstands the wind from the plains and the snow from the mountains, and before the city on the mounds of kings always blooms fair simbelmynë, evermind. Like a carpet of white lace on green grass, it blossoms heedless of cold seasons, she has been told.

The endurance of the city seems to her a perfect metaphor for the people of this country.

It is her second time here. Her father called Lothíriel and her mother to Minas Tirith when the shadow in the east had been vanquished, and despite Idhrenes' dislike of swift travel they made it up the river in time for King Elessar's coronation and after it came with King Théoden's funeral escort to Edoras together with many lords and knights of Rohan and Gondor.

Imrahil and his family stayed in Edoras for a time. Lothíriel had during that first stay come to know Éowyn, Faramir's bride-to-be, and the women of the court. But though her father and brothers deepened the friendship which they had forged with Éomer during the war, Lothíriel talked little with him then and got her impression of the kind of man he is from the way other people talk about him. Her father speaks of the young king highly and, Lothíriel has thought since the beginning, to her in particular.

She got to know Éomer a little better when he visited Dol Amroth the next spring. He was a gracious guest, speaking fairly of the city and its sights and appreciating the preparations that Lothíriel's mother had made for his visit. He hadn't seemed to mind that several times her parents contrived or outright encouraged him to be her escort to this place or that, or had them sit next to each other for a meal.

At the end of the visit Lothíriel's parents came to her and asked whether she would be amenable to their beginning negotiations for a marriage with the king of Rohan, and she told them that she was.

Nothing was settled yet, then, though Éomer had indicated his willingness too and it appeared to everyone who knew of it a good match and a happy further strengthening of the union between Gondor and Rohan.

Lothíriel wishes her mother were here in Rohan for when the matter will be discussed again, but Idhrenes had taken ill shortly before the departure and stayed home.

Lothíriel sinks deep enough into thought of possible futures that she doesn't notice the cool air becoming uncomfortably so as minutes pass, or, when many have passed, the arrival of another person close to her.

Her guard's clearing of his throat startles her to awareness of a tall presence next to her, one whom she has no difficulty recognising but is more than surprised to see.

'Your majesty!' She curtsies hurriedly. 'Forgive me, I was lost in thought.'

King Éomer waves a dismissive hand. 'I did not announce myself. Besides, the children of Imrahil in their silver clothes are easy to recognise. In my dark cloak I must be more difficult to.'

A dark green cloak he wears, yes, but it is gold-trimmed and under it he wears bright mail, and a crown on his head whose gold gleams warm in the low light. He could not be mistaken for any other.

His light hair is a little mussed, no longer neatly braided down his back but some of it framing his face, and he too appears a little affected by the mead that has been flowing so freely. It is a version of him she hasn't seen before, and she thinks she likes it no less than all the other versions she has seen.

*

A/N: This conversation continues in the next chapter.

This is my first Lord of the Rings fic for about 15 years. Thank you for reading, and please let me know how you liked it.

#decided to post this right away #as always if you reblog or comment you will have my undying loyalty lol #tolkien fanfiction #lord of the rings fanfiction #lord of the rings #éomer #lothíriel #my fics #stars above the golden hall #eothiriel #éothíriel #elesianne's fics

[elesianne]

A Lord of the Rings fanfic, chapter one of two

Story summary: Lothíriel felt prepared for everything that happened at her and Éomer's wedding in the mead hall but at the end of the feast, in the privacy of their bedchamber, she knows less of what to expect and do. Fortunately her new husband is patient in this, if not in many other matters.

Chapter length: ~4,300 words; Rating: Mature audiences

Some keywords: arranged marriage, wedding night, virginity, mild sexual content, post-war of the rings

A/N: This is rated M just in case, but is very light on smut.

AO3 link

*

Midyear’s night: Chapter I – Night

Seated in front of the mirror, Lothíriel takes off with gentle fingers and for the last time her pearl and diamond diadem. Tomorrow – for a bride must be both wedded and bedded, the Rohirrim believe, before she can be declared his lord's lady – she will be crowned queen, and Éomer will give her a new crown.

She takes the diadem to a table next to the door. She will give it to her brother Elphir to give to his daughter, the next eldest unmarried daughter of Dol Amroth. Her niece is only three months old, so the diadem will wait unused for many years. Lothíriel will miss it: it has been the finest, most beautiful thing she owns, and she has been proud to wear it on feast-days and other important occasions.

From the door she looks around the bedchamber. During the day servants have brought all her things here from the room where she stayed before. The books and scrolls she brought from Dol Amroth lie in neat piles on a side table, the only such objects in this room; beside them, the chest of her writing things; in the corner her harp, which had survived the long journey better than she'd dared to expect; and piled on top of each other and next to each other, many trunks full of clothes and fine fabrics and silk thread. She brought a lot of fabric and thread for the works of future years.

The room is cluttered with her possessions, more of them here than there are Éomer's things. For a king, he appears to have little need to surround himself with many fine, expensive things, or else he keeps very few of them in his bedroom.

She can still hardly believe that he left her here alone. After he brought her to this room – his room – and closed the door behind them, he just gazed at her until the drunken cheers outside the door died out. He then pointed at her hair and mumbled something about having her maid undo it. Then he was gone, and Lothíriel was left in a man's bedchamber for the first time in her life.

Well, she'd thought, it was her bedchamber as well now, and she had better become accustomed to it.

She had looked around the tidy room for the first time then, taking notice of the large fireplace with a fire crackling merrily in it. The next thing she noticed was that the blankets and furs on the large bed were already turned aside neatly by servants. And though that should not have been surprising or startling, startled she was, and she went and sat down quickly before the mirror that someone had also brought here. It is hers too.

At least there she only has to look at her reflection and not this… man's room around her, devoid of the man.

It does not seem like an auspicious beginning for a wedding night.

A feeling of dread in her stomach after her second time looking around the room, Lothíriel sits back down at the mirror and starts undoing her complicated hairstyle herself. She doesn't know what is taking her maid so long, if Éomer indeed did go to fetch her and not do something else.

Does he regret marrying you? an insidious voice in her head asks. Already?

She looks into her own eyes in the mirror and tells herself sternly to not think such foolish thoughts. Éomer appeared to be in a good mood all day, showing no sign of reluctance or regret when he said his vow to her, and many times she thought she caught him looking at her with something more intense in his eyes than respect or friendly interest.

She must be patient. Picking hairpins out of her hair helps her not to think too much, so she does that. A hairstyle like this, with braids and curls and pins and pearls, isn't meant for a woman to disassemble herself, and trying to do it takes concentration and rather more dexterity than she possesses.

She'd been expecting Éomer to take it all out of her hair.

Perhaps she had been looking forward to it: feeling his fingers running through her hair, on the back of her neck, his body close behind hers –

Lothíriel startles as the door opens, and turns at once towards it.

'The king said you needed help', says her new Rohirrim maid Guthild in her heavily accented Westron.

Guthild has rather too much of an expression on her face and as Lothíriel turns back to the mirror again she says briskly, 'Yes, with my hair. Come help me with these twisted braids.'

Guthild chatters the entire time she works Lothíriel's hair free of adornments, undeterred by the meagre responses she receives.

She talks about how splendid the wedding was, how good the food – even the stranger, Gondorian-style dishes – and how handsome the king looked, and the visiting lords of Rohan and Gondor, and how beautiful and finely dressed was the queen Arwen Evenstar of Gondor! What times they lived in, having elves visit every year…

Lothíriel hardly hears it. She looks at herself in the mirror. She looks pale and young. The day has been long which explains the paleness, and she is young. She has often told her family that she is not as young as they seem to think she is, but right now, she feels young and alone. Guthild is little consolation; Lothíriel met her six days ago.

She wishes her own maid from Dol Amroth was here, but Hemmoril didn't want to come to Rohan. She has a sweetheart, a vintner in the city, who she is going to marry soon. Lothíriel gifted her a diamond brooch for her to have as a dowry.

Lothíriel sits up straighter. Hemmoril would tell her, gently but firmly, to not be silly.

It is just that – for everything else that she has done here in Rohan so far, she has felt prepared for and capable of. Meeting scores of new people, learning their titles and their families and their relevant peculiarities, and already giving her opinion on a great many things concerning the household, and the ceremonies of a Rohirrim marriage: she has felt equal to all these tasks.

For this, for waiting for her husband to come to her and take her virginity, she feels utterly unprepared for in a way that she hadn't anticipated. What exactly is expected of her in this matter?

And Guthild finishes brushing out her hair, and Éomer is still not here.

'I wear my hair in a braid at night', Lothíriel reminds Guthild when the maid puts down the brush and steps away. She might as well get as ready for bed as she can, Lothíriel supposes.

Guthild purses her mouth. 'It is not my place to say, I think, but I will say it, my lady: the king will like it better unbound.'

'Indeed it is not your place to tell me how to wear my hair', Lothíriel snaps and instantly regrets it. She turns to her maid. 'Do you believe so?' she asks her. Guthild is about ten years older than her.

Guthild nods. 'Men like touching women's hair. And your hair especially, my lady…' she takes a lock of it and lets it go, looking at it as it falls, as if to demonstrate something. 'It is like black silk.'

Lothíriel takes a deep breath, trying to cling on to the shreds of her dignity, and decides not to ask how her unmarried maid knows what men like. 'Very well. The rest of the jewellery, then.'

Guthild takes off Lothíriel's pearl and diamond necklace and brooch (which she will get to keep, happily) while Lothíriel removes her bracelets and her rings other than the golden band Éomer gave her. She feels fairly certain that that she should wear to bed.

It is nice to be certain of one thing at least.

'Such fine jewellery', Guthild says, admiring, as she locks them all in Lothíriel jewellery chest. 'Similar to what queen Arwen wears, but she wears no pearls.'

'I am from the sea-shore', Lothíriel says, thoughts elsewhere, as she stands up from the stool. 'Pearls, the treasure of the sea, are traditional for the ladies of Belfalas.'

She takes off her belt. There is a heavy set of keys on it, pulling the slender silver girdle slightly askew. As part of the wedding ceremony, Éomer gave her all the keys of the household.

She sets the girdle on the dressing table, and the ring of keys on top of the chest of jewellery, and takes off her own overdress without waiting for Guthild's help or her opinions on whether she should wait for Éomer to undress her.

Lothíriel knows that she is being prickly but she's feeling too vulnerable to be anything else.

She turns her back to her maid and says, 'Petticoats next, would you help me with them.'

Lothíriel is very grateful when Guthild unties the three petticoats without commenting. Together they take off her stockings, and Lothíriel is left in only her stays and her shift. The wooden floor isn't cold under her feet like the marble in her room in the citadel of Dol Amroth.

'The stays, please, Guthild.' Lothíriel turns her back to her maid again.

The women of Rohan don't wear stays. Guthild has been learning how to lace and unlace Lothíriel's back-lacing stays for six days now, and has become quite adept at it. She has quick fingers and wit and tongue, and Lothíriel is on the whole rather satisfied with her. That is a relief for it would not be a good beginning to have to dismiss a servant chosen for her by the stern woman who has been keeping the king's household.

It is enough that there are dozens of traditions and customs that Lothíriel has to decide to embrace or to reject in favour of the way she is used to doing things. Wearing or not wearing stays is one such thing.

Guthild has only unlaced her halfway when the door opens and Éomer enters, and closes the door but stays there at the door.

He looks at Lothíriel and she looks at him. His hair gleams golden in the light of candles and the fire, and the plate and mail of his armour catch the light too, and she is in her underwear.

Guthild's hands have stilled as she waits to be told what to do.

After a few heartbeats Lothíriel gathers her courage, clears her throat, and says, 'Thank you, Guthild, you are dismissed for the night.'

Guthild doesn't move. 'My lady, the laces –'

'I can do it.' Éomer comes closer. There is something glinting in his eyes.

Guthild curtsies, leaves and closes the door behind her.

Éomer locks it, and then comes to Lothíriel. She looks at his face, her heart in her throat for several reasons.

The first thing he does is touch her hair that is all hanging beside her face to be out of the way, and then he moves behind her.

It is a relief not to have him right in front of her barely-covered breasts. How is she supposed to hold on to her dignity and pride when he can see her nipples through the sheer silk?

'Hmm', Éomer says. 'I may have overestimated my ability to undress you. I am not familiar with… this.'

'I'll guide you.' Lothíriel reaches behind her back to show him. 'Pull here, and hold on here.'

But instead of doing as she says, he puts her hands around her waist where the stays are still rather tight and says, 'You have a wonderful figure.'

Her voice wavering, she tells him, 'The stays flatter my figure. Wait till you see me without them to give compliments, my lord.'

She thinks she hears him muttering, 'Oh, I can't wait', and clearer he says, 'Don't call me your lord when we're alone. I am Éomer now.'

He begins unlacing her and in no time at all, the stays fall free. Lothíriel catches them and the cord that Éomer hands her and puts them on top of a chest, and then she turns back to him clad only in her low-cut, nearly see-through shift. He is still wearing all his clothes and armour.

Oh, how she hates feeling so vulnerable and unprepared. Her mother talked to her about the wedding night, of course, and then a day later her aunt Ivriniel came to her and said she wanted to have that talk too because, as she said, 'Your mother is a good woman but she is a prude'.

Lothíriel knows the… basics, and thanks to Ivriniel some other things that might happen, but she doesn't know what exactly Éomer wants of her, or how she will feel. And here before her tall, strong, eight-years-older, foreign husband, she feels young and stupidly inexperienced. He must have lain with many women, as handsome as he is, and a lord since birth.

She lifts her eyes back to his face to find him studying her; and not her chest, but her face.

'Are you well, Lothíriel?' he asks.

'I am – nervous', she says.

'That is natural, I think.' His hands wind about her waist again. 'You are quite unexperienced with men, are you not?'

There is no pity or anything like that in his voice, and that helps. Lothíriel replies, 'I have – I once kissed a boy. That is all.'

She surprises herself by putting her own hands on his upper arms, as if to steady herself perhaps, and then by starting babbling. 'It was my cousin Amdirgan years ago. I was fourteen, I think. He's three years older.' Horrified by her loss of control of her tongue, she keeps explaining nonetheless. 'He always called me pretty and didn't tease me like my other cousins so I thought it might be nice, but it was only strange and awkward for both of us. I suppose that he was too much like my brothers after all.'

Éomer grimaces. 'I met your cousin Amdirgan today. I would have preferred not to know that about him.'

'I… I am sorry?'

'No matter. We'll forget about him now. It will be all right, Lothíriel, this wedding night of ours. I don't mind your virginity. I expected it.'

'I never thought much about it before now', Lothíriel says. 'I never fell in love with anyone or anything like that that would have made it – difficult. Virginity was just one duty of my station among others.'

'And you are a dutiful sort of girl.' One of his hands rubs circles on her back. Even through her a layer of fabric, it makes her shiver. 'But would you prefer to wait a little, drink some mead perhaps, or sit and talk?' he asks.

Her pride could not bear making him wait. 'I don't want to wait, my l– Éomer', she says, lifting her chin, and then blushes at her own words. She said it because waiting would not make it any easier. But perhaps she also wants to see if his shoulders really are as broad as they look under his clothes, and she wants to find out what he wants to do to her – if it includes any of the things that aunt Ivriniel talked about that made Lothíriel blush scarlet.

'Just – please don't laugh at me if I do something wrong', she finds herself begging of him, ashamed of doing so even as she speaks the words.

Éomer frowns. 'I am not going to laugh at you.'

She can't look him in the eye. 'I do not know how I should do things, and you must know, you must have so much more experience –'

'I do', Éomer interrupts her rambling, and his words hardly make her feel better. Then he adds, 'But this is new to me too. I've never lain with my wife before.'

She buries her face in his chest, her need to hide greater than her reluctance to take such intimacies. He wears a chest plate of steel, and it is cold. But he puts his armoured arms tight around her and says, 'Lothíriel, I promise you that I will do my utmost to not hurt you, and to give you as much pleasure as I can. More pleasure than pain, though it is your first time.'

If he is a good husband, her aunt Ivriniel had said, he will give you pleasure of a kind you've never known before.

She draws back and he lets her, though he keeps his hands splayed on her back still.

'Thank you', she says. 'Thank you. I will stop – being stupidly nervous now.'

'That is hardly something you can decide, is it? Though you have determination enough to try, I know.' A small smile plays on his lips and in his sky-blue eyes. One of his hands comes to cup her cheek and then, his fingers following the arch of her cheekbone and the curve of her jaw and the line of her neck, he says, 'The people of your country say that there is elven-blood in the lords and ladies of Dol Amroth, much more than in others of Westernesse blood.'

His fingers are on her collarbone now. 'According to the tradition of our house the mother of the first prince of Dol Amroth was Mithrellas, an elf-maiden from Lothlórien', Lothíriel says, half-breathless.

Éomer hand drops lower, caressing her arm and side before dropping down to her waist again. His hands are warm and large and somehow reassuring though he touches her like no man ever has.

'It is easy to believe', he says. 'You have an elven-fairness about you.'

Flattery is only to be expected on a wedding night, Lothíriel decides, so that she will not fluster too much.

Yet fluster she does when Éomer bends his head the little that is needed and kisses her. His lips are softer than she expected and he tastes of the honey-mead beloved by his people, and it is easier than she thought it would be to lean into the kiss and to learn how to kiss him back.

It feels nothing like she remembers the kiss with cousin Amdirgan feeling even though she doesn't love this man either.

He is her husband, though, and Lothíriel is determined to do her best with him in all things and all ways. She raises her hands to his shoulders, touching his fair hair at last. Unlike his lips it is less soft than it looks.

But she forgets all about comparing textures when his tongue coaxes her to part her lips, and they kiss in a new way. It is still soft and sweet but much deeper, and for all its strangeness it makes her lose much of her self-awareness and to cling to him tighter.

He tangles a hand in her hair and bends her back a little, supporting much of her weight on his hands.

The only thing she can think of as they keep kissing for a long moment is that she wishes that he wasn't wearing so much armour and clothes. Her own thin shift doesn't protect her from the coldness of metal against her. How much nicer it would surely be to feel his bare skin close to hers.

It turns out that Éomer's thoughts have been on the same thing for when they part to breathe, he says, 'I am wearing far too much.'

He touches her cheek and then starts on the clasps of his cloak, taking two steps away from her to get some space to undress. As he steps back, he bumps into one her clothes trunks.

He looks around. 'There are too many things in this room', he says, as if noticing it only now. Sounding a little out of breath, he decides, 'We'll have much of it moved elsewhere. There's an empty room next to this one. It has been used by the queens of Mark, and most recently by Éowyn. It is yours now.'

'Your housekeeper showed it to me yesterday', Lothíriel says, a little dazed herself. She raises a hand to her lips and finds them sensitive.

Éomer's lips are red, too. 'I should have asked my squire to help with this', he says, irritated, as he tosses his cloak aside and starts on his armour.

'I can do it.' Relieved that there is something she does know how to do, Lothíriel explains, 'I have helped my brothers and father sometimes. Just the armour, though, of course. Not the – clothes.'

'But I will gladly accept your help with both.' His eyes sparkling again, Éomer stands still without her having to ask when Lothíriel comes to him and works out how to take off all of his armour that has been polished to a high sheen for his wedding day. It is a little different from what she is used to but not too much, and she is confident she does it faster than he would have himself.

Piece by piece Lothíriel takes it all off and puts it to where Éomer tells her to, and the clothes under the armour too until eventually he is left in only his undertunic, and something on his lower body that Lothíriel doesn't dare to look closely at.

'You make a good squire', Éomer says as he steps close to her again. 'And you're much prettier than Garwine.'

She smiles at him. 'Yet I'll let your squire have his work, and I will be content to be your queen.'

Éomer's light smile fades as he cups her cheek, a more intense and intent look taking its place. 'I am glad', he says, and then he is kissing her again, rougher this time, with a little less care.

Lothíriel doesn't mind. She likes the strength in him: she can feel it in his arms, and the muscles of his back that she can now touch through his tunic. She explores them, and his arms, and finds that she likes the corded muscles of his forearms in particular. She raises her hands to his face and is fascinated by his beard, the conflicting roughness-softness of it. It scratches her face a little as they kiss, making her skin tingle.

His hands are, as he keeps kissing her, no longer soft and sweet but rather hurried and… passionate. Less careful, too. They explore her back lower, below where her hair ends at her hips; he caresses her bottom and she jumps in his arms a little, making their teeth clack together very uncomfortably. But he soothes her by kissing her cheek and asks, 'Did you find that unpleasant?'

'No', Lothíriel says, no doubt blushing again, if she has stopped at all. 'I was only surprised.'

'Good.' He puts his lips back to hers and his hand to her bottom, cupping it and kneading a little, and isn't it strange how nice that feels, Lothíriel thinks in some distant part of her brain where she is still analysing everything.

She finds her own hands at his waist, bunching up his tunic to find bare skin.

Éomer breaks their kiss to tell her, 'Pull it up. My shirt.'

Lothíriel does. Pale skin and light brown hair and several scars cover the muscled expanses of his chest and stomach, and his shoulders are as delightfully broad and strong as she has imagined. She puts her hands on them and, encouraged by Éomer, explores downwards. By now she has gained some instinct for what would be good to do: for what she would like, and he too.

And he does seem to like her touch. Though when her fingers flutter on his stomach, close to the fabric that covers him below that, he grasps her wrist and pulls her close and says, low, 'Not yet', and he kisses her so hard that she cannot keep up.

He nibbles on her lips and then kisses her jaw, and her neck, and at the same time his hand, more gentle than his lips, caresses her side and stomach. She doesn't startle at it anymore, and she doesn't startle when his gentle hand moves up and cups her breast through thin silk.

It feels even better than when he did it to her bottom. She inhales sharply, and Éomer's lips return to hers, and as they kiss again, that exploring hand caresses and kneads and altogether begins driving Lothíriel crazy. She can't concentrate on the kissing so she pulls her lips from his and lays her head on his shoulder and gasps while in the small space between their bodies he continues lighting her body on fire.

After a moment – half a minute, a minute, or half an hour, Lothíriel could not tell – Éomer drops his hands, and drops quick kisses on the part of her chest that her shift leaves bare, and then she feels his hand on her thigh, drawing the hem of her shift upwards.

She raises her arms and lets him pull it up. He drops it on the floor and she doesn't even mind, even though it is silk and very expensive and she made it especially for today.

She doesn't mind it because he didn't take his eyes off of her for even a second as he undressed her, and she likes that, prefers it to careful handling of her clothes.

'Elven-beautiful but not otherworldly or unattainable – you're all mine to keep', he says after a moment of looking at her. His voice is low and sends delightful little shivers down Lothíriel's spine. Pinned by his gaze, she does believe that he finds her beautiful.

He is beautiful, too, in a masculine, dangerous way, his body built to perfection by years of practising the skills of war and then scarred by war.

'I want you to touch me again', she tells him, finally bold.

He laughs, delighted, and his golden hair catches the light again. 'I am glad, and will gladly do it', he says, and he grabs her and carries her to the big bed, pinning her down with his body as well as his gaze.

It is a good thing that thoughtful servants had set the covers aside earlier because Éomer wastes no time in exploring her body anew, now without even the shift in the way of his hands and lips.

He keeps both halves of his promise, making sure that she is so ready that he causes her very little pain that passes soon in the onslaught of sweet, overwhelming pleasure, making Lothíriel lose control of herself in the best way ever.

*

A/N: I would like to note that Lothíriel's stays are not the same as what we usually think of when we think of a corset. Stays predate tight-lacing corsets, which were a Victorian thing. Lothíriel's stays have shoulder straps and they are not laced tight and aren't very restrictive. Something like this. Her shift is like this but made of sheer silk.

It was probably clear in the previous fic already that I don't employ modern gender roles in my fics about Éomer and Lothíriel so I hope that you will not judge them by those. I try to write them close to how I imagine Tolkien intended their attitudes, experiences and expectations to be.

Housekeeper feels too modern a word for Rohan but I couldn't think of another one for a female head servant.

On our wedding night my husband had to take 49 hairpins out of my hair and he hated it. It wasn't a sexy activity like Lothíriel imagines, lol.

There'll be a shorter second chapter about the morning after.

#tolkien fanfiction #lord of the rings fanfiction #lotr fanfiction #eomer #lothiriel #éomer #lothíriel #eothiriel #éothíriel #midyears' night #my éomer/lothíriel fics #<--- my series tag #my fics #elesianne's fics