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dreambigdreamz · 4 months

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On Our Own | Éomer Éadig (part two)

Summary : Lothíriel braves through her wedding ceremony, trying to suppress her fears.

Author's note : I was having a bit of trouble posting this until I realised I had written over the maximum word count for a text block in one paragraph, now it's solved and I'm so heavened that I don't have to chop this up into several little more parts! Hope you enjoy Lothíriel!

Part One if you have not read it.

"I am Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. I am not afraid of anything — I have never been afraid of anything. And if I, a princess of Dol Amroth, can be made to suffer through this much humiliation, and still survive the ordeal, so can you."

None of the ladies spoke a word.

"I am not afraid — I have never been afraid of anything. I know this must be done, and I will see it done. This is my destiny; this is my duty. This is my calling, to serve my father and my family, to change this nation, this world into a better place. And when they call my name, I will always step forward, ready to face anything. And I will face this martyrdom like a proper, dignified Princess."

A silent sniff escaped the girl, and she saw her own lips quiver in the mirror. She took a deep breath, gathering all her strength to keep her shaking shoulders back. She turned to her silent ladies standing behind.

"And I certainly don't want any complaints from any of you."

"We did not say anything, my lady." The calm voice came from the elderly lady whose head was lowered in a small bow. She raised it now for just a few seconds, her dark eyes sweeping over the frame of the younger lady. "It must only be the jitters, princess. Nothing to worry about. You had better get ready. This King obviously does not like waiting."

A hardly pretty scowl overcame the Princess's face. She did not like to be reminded of the first meeting she had with her husband-to-be. Only Lady Saelwen alone witnessed what had happened, when the King strode into her tent. And, the Valar knows, nobody would ever understand what Lothíriel was feeling then.

Despite her eagerness to fulfill her duty as best as she could, the process was not without any setbacks. There had been several, in fact. The need for getting hot water to her room being one of the dire requirements. "You're right. Tell them to fetch the bath, please, Lady Saelwen."

The older lady immediately set about ordering the others with their different duties. Lothíriel, watching her lady-in-waiting masterfully distributing orders to everybody, recalled what she had said about her to King Éomer. She couldn't suppress a smile at that: Lady Saelwen was anything but easily agitated. She was highly and miraculously stubborn, and that had been the actual case when she refused to let the King inside the Princess's tent. But Lothíriel knew she had to patch up what she could to gain the King's goodwill. A task she knew she had to carry out enduringly, and one she awfully hated. She never liked having to please others to save face.

Lady Saelwen had always been in charge of everything — except when they had to deal with the fuming King the first evening, and Lothíriel brushed her aside as someone who could not help her any more. Indeed she then knew nobody could; she was on her own.

"It is all right," the Princess now wondered aloud again as she sat down at the vanity desk, staring at her reflection that seemed like a stranger to her. "Father and Mother will pass away one day, though, the Valar be praised, it may not be for many long years. Elphir has his own family to take care of, and Erchirion and Amrothos will in time find their own families, tread their own paths, and live their own lives. Nobody would have been able to remain with me, anyway. The important thing is, I still have me. I will always have me, myself, and that is all that matters." She quickly took a swallow of her trembling voice, blinked away the silver beads of tears forming at the corner of her eyelashes. Yes, she still had Lothíriel even if she felt completely deserted by all others.

In this distant land, so strange, so foreign to her. And so entirely abnormal.

"If only we had a proper bath-house," Lothíriel mourned, "with steam and a tepidarium and a proper clean marble floor! Hot water on tap and somewhere for us to sit and be properly scrubbed. I should not mind anything at all if only there was a proper bath-house."

"Don't fuss," Lady Saelwen cooed. "When you are Queen, you can have a hundred bath-houses built, my sweet."

Lady Saelwen had commanded a great tureen from the flesh kitchen which was usually deployed to scald beast carcasses, had it scoured by three scullions, lined it with linen sheets and filled it to the brim with hot water scattered with rose petals and scented with oil of roses brought from Dol Amroth. She lovingly supervised the washing of Lothíriel's long white limbs, the manicuring of her toes, the filing of her fingernails, the brushing of her teeth, and finally the three-rinse washing of her hair. The lady-in-waiting had insisted that Lothíriel should bathe like a Princess of Dol Amroth though all the cooks in the kitchen have had to stop what they were doing to boil the water.

This was one thing Lothíriel had decided she must learn to endure. The servants of Meduseld had been amazed that she was going to wash on her wedding day and most of them probably thought that she was risking her life in this wintry weather. Lothíriel, brought up in the liveliest court in Middle-earth, Dol Amroth where the bath-houses were the most beautiful suite of rooms in the palace, centres of gossip, laughter, and scented water, was equally amazed to hear that the Rohirrim thought it perfectly adequate to bathe only occasionally during the winter and that the poor people would bathe only two or three times a year. She had seen it as part of her destiny, her duty, to endure as a Maia from Valinor endures the privations of this world. She had come from Swansong by the Sea — the paradise, the heaven — to the ordinary world. She had anticipated some disagreeable changes.

"Everything will be fine. I had to come to Dol Amroth from Minas Tirith to marry your brother. Life adjusts easily to Change as Time passes by. And better, if you can learn to love your husband." That was what her sister-in-law told her.

"Yes, but you had the luck to come to the best of places. I am not as fortunate — I have to leave the best place in Middle-earth to go to who-knows-where buried under the grass." Lothíriel had retorted. As for the part about loving her husband, she had omitted.

But truth be told, her husband-to-be had made a very different first impression. He was so handsome — she did not expect him to be so handsome! He was fair and broad, like a knight in shining armour from one of the old romances. She could imagine him waking all night in a vigil, or singing up to a castle window as was usual for a courtship in Dol Amroth. He had pale, almost silvery skin only roughened by the weather, he had fine golden hair, and yet it looked untidy and unkempt, so was his beard which Lothíriel had disliked in any man except now when it was him. He was much taller than her, and she could just feel herself melting away like butter whenever she dared to look up at his face.

He had a rare smile, one that would come reluctantly and then shine. And he was kind. That was a great thing in a husband. He was kind when he took the glass of wine from her: he saw that she was trembling, and he tried to reassure her. But at times he seemed so distant, and he would even sound angry, though naturally his voice was low and deep and that alone could make her heart skip a beat. But Lothíriel could not make out the character of this foreign King. She wondered what he thought of her — she did so wonder!

Time after time, the incredulous maids of Rohan toiled to the door to receive another ewer of hot water from exhausted page boys and tipped it into the tub to keep the temperature of the bath hot.

"Your parents would be so proud of you," Lady Saelwen said dreamily as they helped the Princess from the bath and patted her all over with scented towels. One maid took her dark mass of hair, squeezed out the water, and gently rubbed it with a cloth of silk soaked in oil to give it shine and lustre. They led her towards the wardrobe and started to dress her in the layer after layer of shifts and gowns. "Pull that lace tighter, girl, so that the skirt lies flat. This is all of Dol Amroth's day as well as yours, Lothíriel. This is your father's victory, and he said that you would marry the King of Rohan, whatever it costs him."

"Hush. You make me sound like a parcel." Truly, that was what she felt like sometimes. As if she had been shipped off because she was unwanted. Of course, Lothíriel understood her father wanted the best for her, and this match was the best for her. But still.

"Of course not! Your father did this all for your sake although, quite frankly, it amazes me how he happened to choose such a person — I mean, he is King and all, but what a coarse and unrefined—"

"Hush!" Lothíriel repeated, now raising her voice slightly, her brows furrowed in distress. "He is kind, almost sweet, if it weren't for that rude incident." She didn't know why, but she found herself wanting to defend this man, the King of Rohan, who would soon be her husband. But she hardly knew him, and was terrified to speak to him when they were face to face. So Lothíriel was often led to her imaginations of what he might really be like. She hoped he was kind like her father had assured her. She didn't know about that, she had yet to learn about him to form her own opinion. And of opinions, there were so many different ones thrown about Éomer that she hardly knew what to make of him.

But that would not even matter once they were married, nothing could be changed even if she found him not at all agreeable. Again, she wished their period of courtship hadn't been only a year of correspondence and a couple of days in person.

"That was most certainly rude of him," Lady Saelwen remarked, sniffing her nose in disdain as she began to rearrange Lothíriel's hair. She did not answer to that anymore, wishing to drop the subject.

There would be no persuading the lady to any other opinion. She did have a right to feel bitter against the King: he had demanded to meet the Princess of Dol Amroth in front of his travelling party, without ceremony, without dignity, like a scramble of peasants. Lothíriel herself had been so embarrassed, horrified, but she gritted her teeth, and stood up her ground like a fighting soldier meeting the battle head-on. But she couldn't smile like her Mother told her to.

There was a knock on the door. One of her maids, Mylaela, rushed inside with her round face flushed. "It is the King. And he says he wishes to see the Princess."

Lothíriel immediately locked eyes with Lady Saelwen, the older woman raising her eyebrow. It seems this was another one of the traditions of Rohan, unlike Dol Amroth where it was absolutely forbidden for the wedding couple to see each other before the ceremony. Of course, in the same case, the bride would have also been secluded from the sight of every other man as well, but Lothíriel was pretty sure all the people in Rohan, all the pigs, geese and, of course, horses must have seen her face already by now.

"I will see him," said she, silencing her lady-in-waiting with a significant look. She put on a cloak, a dark blue one with lighter hue interwoven like ripples of water, and walked slowly and steadily towards the door.

She was, once again, surprised to see just how tall he was, but hid any emotion well behind her mask of serenity. She curtseyed, but did not say anything, waiting for him to start.

"I am sorry for this inconvenience, my lady."

She nodded her head once, not knowing how else to respond. She couldn't possibly pretend to say it was no inconvenience at all, because it really was. Who would want to meet her husband-to-be, hair drenched in water and face so bare?

"But I came to give you these," he held out a red velvet purse, and almost shoving it to her, immediately withdrew his hands to his back after she received it. She took it politely, with an inclination of her head, but she did not open it. She waited for him to say something more, but they stood silently for a while longer until he cleared his throat and continued, "They are the jewellery of the Queens of Rohan, heirlooms of the family, and it would be kind of you to wear them to the wedding ceremony."

Kind? She was going to be, she was already all but, Queen of Rohan — it wouldn't be a matter of kindness, it was duty, appearance, tradition.

"My lord honours me," she said with a small curtsey, and he took it as a sign to leave, and bowed stiffly. She opened the door behind her, and slid in carefully, feeling quite nervous as she always did whenever in his presence.

Her ladies-in-waiting were eager to see what was inside the small purse, and they wasted no time in taking out the contents, displaying them carefully on the desk. There were golden bracelets, and a necklace strewn with little rubies, and brooches. But what stood out particularly was the coronet. It was wreathed like golden flowers, and the light glistened off its surface like golden rays of sunlight. Lothíriel held it up, examining it in detail.

"Then I cannot wear my tiara," said she, with a hint of despair in her voice.

"You need not wear the coronet today. Perhaps later. You can wear your tiara, for the last time. It is the tradition, he will not object, surely," Lady Saelwen suggested.

"For the last time," Lothíriel murmured. She put down the coronet, pushed the jewellery a little bit aside, and took out her tiara. It had two endearingly lovely swans, and Lothíriel loved it dearly. It was like her own personal badge, her worth, her rank as the eldest unmarried lady of the royal house of Dol Amroth. It had been hers since she was 10, when her cousin Ariellë had married.

She put it on now, looked into the mirror with a close look as she never looked before. She searched for the traces of that little girl who had first tried it on secretly, before Ariellë's wedding day, enthusiastically waiting for that day which would make this invaluable treasure all hers, solely hers.

Now, it was time to let it go.

"Well, take one last look, Lothíriel. Nothing's ever permanent, anyways, and you've had your share of joy these years past." She didn't know what was ahead of her now. She couldn't think of it.

"Oh! darling," Lady Saelwen cried, flinging her arms around her. "I tell you, you need not put it away just yet, not today."

"But I will have to do it sooner or later," she replied determinedly, trying to be strong and not weep. And I had better make the King happy, she did not add this silent thought. She truly wanted to see him smile, though she will most probably be too busy looking at the ground to see even if he did. "It must be this way."

Slowly, she put the tiara down, and beckoned them to continue what they were doing. When they had finished, she looked a most stunning picture — her black hair let down in a thick wave down in front of one shoulder, the golden coronet round her smooth forehead, her silver mantle gleaming with a faint glow of blue as she moved, and to perfect it all, a sure, steady smile that could win any heart. She knew this. She knew she must look something beautiful. King Éomer had even said she looked prettier than her portrait! Of course, Lothíriel knew flattery was to be expected from him, he could just have been doing it out of politeness, the way he said it grudgingly.

She had been raised to feel confident in her looks, she had learned to love the way she looked, everybody always said how lovely she looked. And though Lothíriel did not necessarily believe it much herself — it would be wrong and quite vain — she believed it must be a bit true, at least, because others said so. She had long, dark hair that was often compared to the nightsky, and her skin was perfectly unblemished, and she knew she carried herself gracefully enough, thanks to the years of supervision under her Mother, Aunt Ivriniel, and Lady Saelwen.

But what if Éomer's taste wasn't like all the 'others' who praised her beauty?

What if he liked his women lighter-haired?

That would be a misfortune, indeed, since nothing could be done about it. He would just have to put up with it, probably regretting his foreign dark-haired Queen. But that would be really unfortunate, Lothíriel couldn't help despairing over it.

What was it that her Aunt had told her?

"Consider your husband carefully. He will own all your property, your good name will be in his keeping, and the happiness of your life will be decided by him. If you cannot be a loving wife, then be at least a wife of whom he can make no complaint. That is the best advice I can give to you, Lothíriel: be a wife of whom he can make no complaint. You will be his wife, that is to be his servant, his possession. He will be your master. You had better please him."

The words still echoed in her mind like some sort of prophecy. She had put up a smile, thanked her Aunt archly that it gladdened her heart to be reminded of it, while secretly she scorned and said to herself sarcastically, "No wonder she is a spinster!"

But Lothíriel had held that advice close to her heart, subconsciously, trying to be pleasing to this stranger on whose goodwill her fate, the rest of her life, depended.

She wondered whether he would make a complaint against how she looked. She wouldn't be able to help that. She might be sent back, and the business of searching a husband for her would have to be done all over again — except she would then bear the shame of having been rejected by the King of Rohan.

At least she would get to spend a couple more years in Dol Amroth, before being sent away again.

These different thoughts made her eyes leak somehow, and suddenly she was crying full on.

"La! What is the matter, dear?"

A hiccup escaped before Lothíriel took a gulp of air. "I — I don't really know? It's just — it's just happening by itself and I can't stop it? May—maybe it's what you said, the jitters, the wibber-gibbers like Alphie would say — and, oh! my darling boy, I have forgotten my darling boy, how shall I live without him? And Elphir, and Andrídha, and Erchirion, I miss him already — I admit it! I know I swore I won't but I do! And, and I miss Gwyneth, that dairymaid who ruined my blue-ribboned shoes, Cael the stableboy, even though I always made a point to glare at him whenever he winked at me, and, and everybody!" Lady Saelwen was the only one whose face was still calm and composed, others already baffled by this outburst of the Princess. Lady Saelwen did not speak, and she continued to pat Lothíriel's heaving shoulders in a loving embrace, silently. The words now poured out of her mouth, and suddenly there was no stopping anymore. "I think he doesn't like me very much, this King Éomer, he doesn't talk to me, and he is probably disappointed with how I look. What if he sends me back? Or worse, what if I disappoint him even as Queen of Rohan? What if I am terrible at it? What if I bankrupt the country and ruin everything? — I always forget my numbers, you know that."

"Now, now," Lady Saelwen soothed her, gently rubbing her back, "you are getting too carried away. It's just not possible for you to bankrupt an entire country, and you probably won't be burdened with those crazy duties. You'll just have to keep the accounts in order, the household in order, like your dear Mother does. The rest—" At this, Lothíriel let out a wail, for she could not possibly strive to be anywhere near her Mother's efficiency. "Don't distress yourself like this, dear. It will happen by and by, and you won't even notice it — you'll be such a beloved queen. And as for the King not liking you, why, I never heard such an abominable thing! He would say something about it, wouldn't he, if he didn't like you? That is absurd. And anyways, the men of our court can teach him a thing or two, perhaps a black eye if you request, you see if he doesn't like you then. And today, when you go in with your long, dark hair falling over your white gown, looking like Elbereth herself, the Star-queen, you'll see if there's a soul in the whole of this country, wretched enough to not fall in love with you!

"Now, stop this silly nonsense. You are going to look a mess."

"Well," Lothíriel swallowed a hiccup, now feeling foolish when Lady Saelwen pointed out things that way, and wiping her runny nose feeling like a wayward child, "I suppose I am being silly. There's no point in worrying over things that I cannot change. I will do my best, and leave the rest in the hands of the Valar. But, wouldn't it be more natural to look the blushing bride?"

"Yes, but you are going to get a red nose and red eyes, not alluring, red cheeks." She pinched Lothíriel's cheek lovingly, and again they set to work.

When the bells started to toll, Lothíriel stood up from where she sat, ready and secretly nervous, and said,

"Well, ladies, we have got a wedding to attend."

"Only, you're the bride this time," one girl teased boldly.

Lothíriel mustered all her courage, and strength, and smiled graciously and gaily and giggled, "All the more reason for me to look dazzling!" But a sudden gloom seized her heart, remembering that the joys of childhood would be denied to her after this day onward. And she would not be a maiden any more . . . She shook herself out of that train of thoughts.

She found to her pleasant surprise that her brother Amrothos was waiting outside the door.

"Ready?" He asked with a lopsided grin that made her laugh despite her heavy heart.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, amazed.

"Why, to escort you, of course. We can't risk you being attacked by some ambushing savages, can we?"

She gave him a look of caution.

He chose to ignore it, and remarked with a comical look, "You are so beautiful, I fear I may go blind from your dazzling-ness."

"So do you, dear brother," she said generously.

"Ah, but all the rest of us are only stars and stars cannot be as dazzling as the Moon, no matter how bright they shine."

"I thought dazzling was used to describe the Sun?"

"Spare me the poetry lesson for this once, love." He then asked again light-heartedly, "So, is the beautiful bride ready to mesmerise these petty people?"

"I was born ready, brother."

"Oh I don't know about that — you had such a terrible cry when you were born, I wept for days, terrified of your cries. I remember Auntie soothing me, saying you must be very mad about being brought into the world so early."

Lothíriel couldn't help smiling, a little sadly, at the mention of them as children. It didn't seem that long ago, and yet at the same time it felt so very long ago. Amrothos noticed her half-hearted smile, and turned her round to face him fully, and pulled her into a tight embrace.

"You've come so far, Thiri. I still can't believe you survived that terrible drowning when you were four. To think, we could have lost you then! I am glad we did not, sincerely." He placed his hand upon his chest soberly.

"I will survive anything, beloved brother, you need not worry about me," she said coolly, her eyebrow raised.

"Of course, my sweet sister," Amrothos smirked back. "I believe all this is just a piece of cake for you as well?"

A whole bakery, Lothíriel thought, but she answered anyways, "It is."

Amrothos studied her face carefully, saying slowly, "You know we love you."

"I do."

"And this is probably for the best."

"It is."

"Then why looking hang-dog?" He slapped her arm playfully.

She rolled her eyes, scoffing unbelievingly. "Every bride needs to look a bit hang-dog before the wedding."

"Not Andrídha, she did not. She was beaming enough for the both of them."

"That's because she's a fool half-sodden in love." She was pretty sure she failed to keep out the bitterness in her voice.

"And you are not?" Amrothos was looking as if he was trying so hard not to laugh out loud. "Hmm, you probably are not."

She didn't answer, because she didn't know. She was drowning in a sea of worries.

When they reached the door, beyond which was the Hall where all the guests were assembled, a guard bowed at the siblings but told them that the Lady must walk in alone, as was the custom.

"What! This is strange indeed, and if I weren't so nice as I am, I would call this exceedingly stu—"

Lothíriel tugged at her brother's elbow, hissing, "Mind what you say, Amrothos." Already she could feel the terseness of the lords since her arrival, and while Amrothos may not need to care about them, she was to remain here for the rest of her life and she knew she wouldn't survive long if she didn't make herself liked. Another inward sigh. "And really, you couldn't have stuck with me all the way through this marriage anyways, it's all on me." On my own. She tried to smile brightly, and hoped it was convincing enough. "So off you go now, my little star. Go twinkle somewhere else."

"It'll be all right. I know you'll be all right," and with a warm kiss on both cheeks, and one last concerned look, her brother left ahead.

She turned to the guard again, and ordered coolly, "Announce me."

He nodded, knowing this particular about the new Lady, as did many of Rohan by now.

"The Lady Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, and Queen of Rohan!"

The heavy, wooden doors creaked open. Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, armoured only with steely determination, stepped forward, her head held high and her footsteps unfalteringly in-beat.

Only she could hear her heart hammering in her eardrums.

Nobody must ever find a Princess of Dol Amroth falling back for fear.

No one will ever know what it cost her to smile, what it cost her to stand before all these people and not tremble.

She was not yet twenty-two, she was far from her Mother, she was in a strange country, she cannot speak the language, and she knew nobody here. She had no friends but the party of companions and servants that she had brought with her, and they looked to her to protect them. They did not think to help her. They could not help her.

Nobody could help her.

No one would ever know that she had to pretend to ease, pretend to confidence, pretend to grace. Of course she was afraid. But she will never, never show it. And, when they called her name, she would always step forward.

Amidst her own heartbeats, she could faintly hear the whisper of voices around her. She could not understand them, nor did she want to. Her eyes, fixated straightforward, fell onto the tall figure of the King. He stood proud and regal, like a pillar of strength. He wore the great woven cloak of gold and green, with the sigil of the horse, and on his head was the heavy crown wrought majestically in gold and white jewels. His face, Lothíriel stole a quick glance as she reached up to him and he took her hand in his, was solemn, almost even stern she would imagine.

She listened attentively, and repeated the vows in her best manner, but heard little. Her thoughts were busy elsewhere. She only registered dimly the voice of the King beside her, standing close by. In fact, she realised, they were so close she could almost discern the faint smell of musk and ambergris wafting around with the underlying notes of sweat, leather, and horses. She remembered it from the first evening when he barged into her tent.

Other than the thud-thud of her heart, she could not acknowledge his presence beside her. Neither did he seem to.

She knew what she had to do. She had to be a princess of Dol Amroth for Rohan and a queen of Rohan for Dol Amroth. She had to seem at ease where she was not and assume confidence when she was afraid.

Éomer may be her husband, but she could hardly see him, she had no sense of him yet. She had no time to consider him. She was absorbed in being the princess that he had bought, the princess that her father had delivered, the princess that will fulfill the bargain and secure the friendship between Rohan and Dol Amroth.

Every now and again, she glanced very briefly at his face, but he stood as still as a statue to reveal any answers to her incessant, whirling, silent questions of what he was like. He stood so still, she could not even tell whether he was breathing or not. Both his hands held her right hand between them, as if ensuring safety and comfort. But Lothíriel was uneasy, wondering if this was one of Rohan's different traditions as well; in Dol Amroth, the bride only held on to the man's arm.

The only thing that disconcerted her throughout the process happened when it was time for them to exchange the rings.

The ring-bearer was a man whom Lothíriel remembered to be one of Éomer's near-kin, but all these lords and Riders had the same bearded faces, the same fair hair, the same silence. If she hadn't mentally prepared herself for it months before she came to Rohan, Lothíriel was pretty sure she'd have gone insane by this unfamiliarity in the strange, foreign land. She wished she could see somebody from home, somebody who hadn't followed hither — she would even be glad to see Wat the groom who sang bawdy songs with his obnoxious voice.

The rings were brought on a small pillow-cushion while she was meditating these worrisome thoughts. When she saw Éomer taking the smaller one, she dutifully held out her hand for him to put it on her finger.

But he didn't.

Éomer took her hand, and turned it so her palm was held upward, and placed the small golden band on it. Confused, Lothíriel looked up at him, and her cheeks flushed warmly when she saw him smiling gently.

"In Rohan, we exchange the rings and wear it ourselves, my lady."

He explained kindly, but suddenly the former warmth in her cheeks grew hotter and she looked down at her palm, possibly looking furiously crimson.

"Oh," was all that she could say, blinking nervously as she reached for the other one and placed it in his upturned hand. Embarrassed, and wishing the wooden floorboards would open up to swallow her, she hastily put her ring onto her finger. Only after that was she able to recollect herself, braced herself, and looked up with a positively bright smile to say, "I wish I had thought to learn of it beforehand. But no matter. It is done."

He smiled again, and Lothíriel noticed, for the first time, the little crinkles near his eyes when he did so. For some reason, the discovery made her feel somehow light-hearted, and she found that she could return his smile with equal sincerity, without at all feeling the tiresome stretch in her cheeks when she had to remind herself to properly regulate even the degree of her smile. "It is done," he echoed, and in her natural maidenly reserve, she lowered her eyes. She felt him leaning down, felt his rough hand under her chin, felt her head being raised up to look at him. Only, she didn't want to look yet, and closed her eyes tightly. Then she felt his lips on hers, the warm kiss making her head spin around in circles, and she felt his hand brushing against her cheek, all in a daze. She only felt, and knew nothing of what was going on. It was done. When Éomer stepped back, she saw the timid smile on his face, as if he wasn't sure how much he should be smiling as well. When she looked around, she saw the smiling faces stretching from her feet to the doors of the Hall. And when they went down the aisle together, past the rows of benches and guests, to the bright wintry sunlight outside and heard the roar of the crowd for Éomer and his bride, the King and Queen of Rohan, Lothíriel started to realise that she had done her duty finally and completely. She had been promised to Éomer for more than two years, and now, at last, they were married. She had been named Queen of Rohan since she was twenty years old, and now, at last, she had taken her name and taken her place in the world. It had felt impossible until it was finally done. She looked up and smiled, not as shy as one might expect of a blushing bride on her wedding day, but a real confident smile of a queen that promised strength and courage to the people she was now to call hers, her own; and the crowd, delighted with the free wine and ale, with the prettiness of the young princess, with the promise of safety from threats both internal and external that could only come with a settled royal succession, roared their approval. They were husband and wife; but they did not speak more than a few words to each other for the rest of the long day. There was a formal banquet, and though they were seated side by side, there were healths to be drunk and speeches to be attended to and the musicians playing. No one had ever seen so much money flung at a single occasion. It was a greater celebration even than the King's own coronation — it was a redefinition of the Rohan kingly state. Lothíriel was perfectly at ease with everything, having expected this all her life since she learned her duty and destiny as a princess, a woman in a largely male-dominated world, where she could only ever amount to be a bridge to the next generation of great men.

But perhaps it wasn't exactly as she had always thought it should be. Given that she was not marrying a lord or knight of Gondor. The people of Rohan obviously did not like talking much, and after the formal ordeals were done, everybody sat down to eating and drinking by themselves. Truth be told, Lothíriel was looking forward to poems composed for her and recited in her honour, like they did for the brides in Dol Amroth; she would have been disappointed about the lack of attention, if it were not for the dreadful prospect of the night's end looming over her head for almost the entire time. That was the chief occupying thought of her mind, and since nobody paid much heed to her except now and then to drink her health, and the members of her own party being a bit distantly placed, and her own lord husband scarcely turning his head towards her, Lothíriel was left to ponder her own dread and dismay. She was brought back to reality by a voice addressing her from below the board. "It would be a great pleasure for us all if the queen would give us a dance. Or is that not allowed in Dol Amroth either?" The boldness of the question startled her. She noticed that it was one of the highl lords of the King's council, an elderly man who particularly was frosty in his manners to her since her arrival. Lothíriel turned her head to Éomer, and asked cautiously, "Since I am now Queen of Rohan, I must learn your customs. Would a Queen of Rohan get up during her wedding and dance for everyone like she is at a village fair?" She saw that Éomer's face was broody, and uneasy. He shifted in his seat before answering her shortly in that deep, gruff voice of his, "If she would like." This was enough for Lothíriel, who had grown up in the court of Dol Amroth where conspiracies and gossips went around like bees buzzing from flower to flower, and she immediately understood his answer as an hesitant yes. She did not yet know the ongoings of this court and the country, but she knew it was her duty to please the King first and foremost, and she had to learn later on of his affiliations and animosities alike. So, for the present, she decided to oblige the possibly harmless request. She threw a small, demure smile to the other lord, and said, "Then I will dance," and rose from her seat at the high table. She was expecting the King to follow suit, but he did not; she realised they meant dancing as in all by herself, like some performer, and not a proper courtly dance with her new husband. She stood still for a second there, feeling very much embarrassed and whacking her mind wondering what to do next, before she finally added with some recovered grace, "With my ladies."

She beckoned towards where they were grouped nicely, a little apart from the men, called out to them by their names. Four young women, dark-haired girls of youth and beauty, pretending shyness but eager to show themselves off, came forwards. The Princess Consort of Dol Amroth, Lady Anarïen, herself had personally selected the ladies, not very willingly acceding to her lord husband's blunt but well-founded request that all his daughter's companions should be pretty. The party of Dol Amroth could not appear in any less honourable manner or fashionable style — except King Éomer had jeopardized the whole plan by forcing his way rudely into the Princess's tent. But nonetheless, all the girls were good-looking, well-mannered, and perfectly suited to be considered close companions of a royal princess of Dol Amroth, but none of them outshone the Princess, who stood composed and confident and then raised her hands and clapped, to order the musicians to play. The dance was a pavane, a slow ceremonial dance, and Lothíriel moved with her hips swaying and her eyes heavy-lidded, a little smile on her face. She had been well schooled. Any princess would be taught how to dance in the courtly world where dancing, singing, music and poetry mattered more than anything else; but she danced like a young woman who let the music move her naturally. She was doing all her best to prove everybody watching that she would be the greatest ornament to this court where they only discussed war-strategies and the meal-times were, simply, for eating meals and not for civilised conversation. She stopped as the music came to its last note, and swept a curtsey at the King, and came up smiling. "Do I please you?" She demanded, flushed and a little breathless. "Immensely," a faint smile was lingering on his lips as he said so, and Lothíriel found herself smiling back with gratitude at his praise and wonder, wonder at what kind of a man he was. When, later on, she was sitting in front of the mirror in her new room, the Queen's room — which, Lothíriel sniffed inwardly, should have been hers since her arrival — she was still left wondering about the mystery of his smile that had stayed in her mind for the rest of that evening.

Sincerely Snow,

19th April — 8th June 2023

#lord of the rings #lotr movies #eomer x lothiriel #eomer eadig #lothiriel #the lord of the rings #arranged marriage #oneshot #light angst #hope you enjoy #lothiriel being an internal mess #dreambigdreamz

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dreambigdreamz · 11 months

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On Our Own | Éomer Éadig (part one)

Summary : Éomer demands to meet his foreign bride for the first time.

Word count : 5,023

Rating : Umm, I don’t know, maybe an M? Just, mild hints so . . .

Author’s note : Well, one of my first proper one-shots. I am enjoying the various takes on this favourite couple of mine. Hope you enjoy as well!

Part Two is out for you to read!

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“I am honestly going to tell you one last time: you can either tell her to come out right now or I damned well will come in.”

“I say, you cannot come in! Even if you were the King of Rohan himself — you cannot come in!”

“I am the King of Rohan,” said the tall, broad man in his armour, without a flicker of amusement but a tone in his voice of rather getting tired and irritated at what was supposed to be a simple matter settled quietly. He had ridden forth from Edoras as soon as news had reached him of the party’s entering the lands of the Mark. And he was not in the best of moods right now to be dealing with nervous chaperones who insisted on keeping him away from the business which he meant to carry out no matter what.

“We have already sent word to the King that no man is to see the Princess until her wedding day,” the lady said witheringly. “The noblemen of her court rode out to explain to him that she is in seclusion, as a proper lady of Dol Amroth. Do you think the King of Rohan would come riding down the road when the Lady Lothíriel has refused to receive him? What sort of a man do you think he is?”

“Exactly like this one, and he will see the bride he is to marry, now,” said Éomer King, tapping himself on his chest and took a step forward to show that he meant to do exactly what he said.

“The king!” someone cried out from behind, and he turned around to see the dark-haired young man, Amrothos son of Imrahil, whose stunned expression showed that he at least recognised the king. He immediately strode forward, kneeling down in front of Éomer, purposefully blocking his way however, and hissing at the lady-in-waiting, “It is the king!”

The poor lady let out a gasp of horror, and attempted a low curtsey.

“Get up,” Éomer said shortly, “and fetch her.”

“But she is a princess of Dol Amroth, my lord,” the woman said, rising but with her head still bowed low. “She is to stay in seclusion. She cannot be seen by you, or any other man, before her wedding day. This is the tradition. The gentlemen went out to explain to you—”

Yes, and it was exactly what set him off into this fey mood, Éomer thought as she recited the same sentences again as if he were a creature too stupid to understand the words. The way the men had repeatedly told him that she was to remain secluded from sight, that had set Éomer into thinking perhaps they were playing false with him. Already, the men of his council were wary towards this foreign band, and Éomer couldn’t help the doubts crawling into his mind as well.

“It’s your tradition. It’s not my tradition. And here, since she is to be my queen in my country, under my laws, she will obey my tradition.” He secretly swallowed a nervous gulp, feeling the beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead by now and wondering how long he would have to keep up with this intimidating charade. Why did he even think this was a good idea, again? Oh right, because the high lords of his council said so.

“She has been brought up most carefully, most modestly, most properly—”

“Then she will be very shocked to find an angry man in her tent. Madam, I suggest that you get her up at once.”

“She is the daughter of Prince Imrahil, and my sister, and a princess of Dol Amroth. We are under the orders of my lord father to make sure that every respect is shown to the Lady Lothíriel and that her behaviour is in every way—”

It was Amrothos who joined in, and he had now risen to his full stature again, standing face to face with the king, and his face a concerned mask of courtesy.

Oh, that awful phrase again. Éomer secretly glanced around, hoping none of his lords were nearby to hear that or they would be outraged. “Lord, you can take your working orders from anybody you wish, I do not care. But you are now in the Land of the Mark, and I am the King. And if I am to marry your sister, and if she is to be Queen of Rohan as part of the marriage, it is the least I can request to see her, or I may refuse to have her at all. That alone would make all the difference in the world, and then it would not matter whether she is seen before her wedding day or not.” He didn’t know if his sentences had more of authority or pleading. But wouldn’t that be an idea, if the marriage tract was broken off because of this little folly. Certainly, the lords of Rohan would not object much. Some might even rejoice in the prospect.

Amrothos clenched his jaw tight, before speaking coldly to the lady sideways, “Fetch my sister.”

The lady went quite white at the sudden order from Amrothos himself, and seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Then at last, she announced stubbornly, “I cannot fetch the Princess. She is to remain in seclusion.”

“Dear Béma! That’s it. Tell her I am coming in at once.”

She scuttled backwards like an angry cow, her face blanched with shock. Éomer gave her a few moments to prepare and then called her bluff off by striding in behind her. Amrothos cried from behind, “My lord!” The younger man held Éomer’s arm, all the strength and sternness passing in his grip, and his eyes blazing. The king met his glare with the same fiery expression, and the two men stood staring at each other coldly. Then, Amrothos’s eyes went towards some thing behind Éomer, and he let go, without a word, letting the tent flap close.

The small tent was lit only by candles. The covers of the bed, at the corner, were turned back as if the girl had hastily jumped up. Éomer registered the intimacy of being in her small tent, with her sheets still warm, the scent of her lingering in the enclosed space, before he looked at her. She was standing by the bed, one small white hand on the carved wooden post. She had a cloak of dark blue thrown over her shoulders, and her white nightgown trimmed with priceless lace peeped through the opening at the front. Her thick dark hair, plaited for sleep, hung down her back, but her face was completely shrouded in a hastily thrown mantilla of dark lace.

The lady-in-waiting darted between the princess and the king. “This is the Lady Lothíriel,” she said grouchily. “Veiled until her wedding day.”

“Not on my word,” Éomer King of Rohan said bitterly. “I’ll see who I am to marry, thank you.”

He stepped forward, and the desperate chaperone threw herself to her knees, “Her modesty—”

“Has she got some awful mark?” he demanded, driven to voice his deepest fear. “Some blemish? Is she scarred by the pox and they did not tell me?”

“No! I swear.”

Silently, the young lady put out her white hand and took the ornate lace hem of her veil. Her chaperone gasped a protest but could do nothing to stop the princess as she raised the veil and flung it back. Her cool, grey eyes stared into the angry face of the king without a sense of wavering. Éomer drank her in and then gave a little sigh of relief at the sight of her.

She was an utter beauty: a smooth, rounded face, a straight long nose, a full, sulky, sexy mouth. Her chin was up, he saw: her gaze challenging. This was no shrinking maiden fearing ravishment. This was a fighting princess standing on her dignity even in this most appalling moment of embarrassment.

He bowed. “I am Éomer King of Rohan,” he said.

She curtseyed, without a word.

He stepped forward, and he noticed her curb her instinct to flinch away. He took her one smooth hand firmly and kissed it. The perfume of her hair and the warm female smell of her body came to him, and he felt desire pulse at his temples. Quickly he stepped back.

“You are welcome to Rohan,” he said. Why had his voice turned suddenly husky? He cleared his throat, wrinkling his nose in disdain of what the atmosphere was doing to his brain. “You will forgive my impatience to see you, I hope.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said icily, speaking in a low and lilting voice. “I did not know until a few moments ago that my lord was insisting on the honour of this unexpected visit.”

Éomer fell back a little from the whip of her temper. He certainly did not see that coming, and now he did not know what else to reply. “I have a right . . .”

She shrugged nonchalantly, an absolutely Southern gesture, as if she had not a care in the world and could shrug anything away. “Of course. You have every right over me.”

At the ambiguous, provocative words, he was again aware of his closeness to her: of the intimacy of the small tent, the sheets invitingly turned back, the pillow still impressed with the shape of her head. It was a scene of ravishment, not for a royal greeting. Again he felt the secret thud-thud of lust.

“I’ll see you outside,” he said abruptly, as if it were her fault that he could not rid himself of the flashes in his mind.

“I shall be honoured,” he heard her reply coldly from behind, and got himself out of the tent briskly enough and nearly collided with Amrothos, hovering anxiously outside. The latter’s face wore a cool, austere expression that seemed to ask him how well he liked his sister now that he had seen that she wasn’t one to cower easily like the chickens that surrounded him at his court.

“Forgive me, lord. I was only anxious.” Much as he hated sounding apologetic, that was one thing Éomer couldn’t help being, especially when he knew it rightly to be so. But, ah, a King must put up with the appearance, or he’d be considered an ineffectual angel. That was mostly what his counsellors kept counselling him these days, preparing him to meet with this Dol Amroth party. It was nerve-wrecking, he wished he didn’t have to think about these things; he accepted to marry Imrahil’s daughter because he thought he needn’t think about these things if it was only the Prince Imrahil, in whose opinion and character Éomer held high esteem.

“That my sister’s face should not be scarred by the pox? Of course,” Amrothos replied courteously, but as cool and crisp as his sister had been. He smirked dourly, adding, “I hope my lord is satisfied now.”

Éomer could only attempt a nervous laugh.

Then, he was led to a pavilion and Amrothos left him with a word of sending the Princess when she was ready. Looking around the large campsite, with people scurrying to and fro, Éomer started to ponder. There would be at least fifty of them, this entourage escorting his foreign bride, not counting the knights scouting round the lands. It was almost a little court, and he was reminded of what the lords of his own court said, especially Déorbrand’s words. We cannot let them make a little Dol Amroth in Rohan, my lord. The country wouldn’t stand for it, his high lords wouldn’t stand for it, and Éomer damned well won’t stand for it. Many had not been very warm to the idea of the royal household using the speech of Gondor in the days of Thengel, and in the later years they had grown wary of outsiders. He’d send that lady-in-waiting home at the first moment he could. Stubborn, old cow. If only she had quietly acceded . . .

But even he could not deny one thing: the people actually didn’t object — the country people particularly seemed to adore the princess. But then again, it might only be because she wore a stupid, fancy headdress; because she was different — foreign, rare; because she was young; and pretty. No, Éomer recollected, the people might not have even seen her at all. He only heard news that they had been giving out alms in the name of the Lady Lothíriel, so no wonder the people might love her for being kind — even if it might be little more than a strategy on her side.

But then she was pretty, no one could possibly help falling in love with her once they saw her. Perhaps ‘pretty’ did not justify her at all . . .

The King’s musings were interrupted, not unwillingly, by a herald announcing loudly and emphatically, “The Lady Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, and Queen of Rohan!” It was at least interesting, that she was already using that title.

The Princess — with her face naked to every man’s gaze — stepped out of her tent with her head held high, dignified, and walked into the pavilion calmly, only a little flame of colour in both cheeks betraying her composure. Éomer swallowed nervously. She was far more beautiful than he had imagined, and a hundred times more haughty. She was dressed in a gown of rich dark velvet, slashed to show an undergown of carnation silk, the neck cut square and low over her plump breasts, hung with ropes of pearls. Her dark hair, freed from the plait, tumbled down her back in a great wave of dark shadow. On her head was a pearl tiara, in the shape of two swans together. She swept a deep curtsey, and determinedly came back up with her chin slightly up, graceful as a dancer, looking at him straight in the eyes defiantly.

He faltered in his bow in return, amazed at the serenity that she could muster in this most embarrassing of moments. For Béma’s sake, he must be gaping like a fool in contrast.

She started speaking in a ceremonious manner, “I beg your pardon for not being ready to greet you, my lord. If I had known you were coming, I would have been prepared.”

The lack of former coolness in her tone, and the absence of the snides, provoked him to be sarcastic this time. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear all the racket,” he said, almost a scoff. “I was arguing at your door for a good ten minutes.”

“I thought it was a pair of porters brawling,” she said coolly.

The servants waiting nearby suppressed gasps of horror at her impertinence, but the King was eyeing her with a smile as if a new filly were showing promising spirit. “No, it was me, threatening your lady-in-waiting. I am sorry that I had to march in on you.”

She inclined her head slightly. “That was Lady Saelwen. I am sorry if she displeased you. She gets agitated easily. She cannot have understood what you wanted.”

He did not know what to reply to that. Her calm composure was making him feel agitated. He was having a difficult time, trying to rack his brain for some sensible answer.

She did not make him struggle for long. She continued, “Have you dined, my lord? Shall I order dinner?”

“As you wish.” He hoped it came out naturally enough.

“Can I offer you a drink first? Or somewhere to wash and change your clothes before you dine?” She examined consideringly the tall length of his height, from the mud spattering his golden hair to his dusty boots.

“I’ve washed,” he said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he could have bitten off his own tongue. He sounded like a child being scolded by a nurse, he thought. ‘I’ve washed,’ indeed. What was he going to do next? Hold out his palms so that she could see he was a good boy?

“Then will you take a glass of wine? Or ale?”

She moved towards the table where the servants were hastily laying cups and flagons.

“Wine.”

She raised a glass and a flagon and the two chinked together, and then chink-chink-chinked again. In amazement, he saw that her hands were trembling. Pouring the wine quickly, she held it out to him. His gaze went from her hand and the slightly rippled surface of the wine to her pale face.

She was not laughing or smirking at him, he saw. She was not at all at ease with him. His initial rudeness had brought out her pride in her, but now, alone, she was just a girl. He recalled that she was almost eight years younger than he, still just a girl. The daughter of a formidable ruler of a principality in Gondor, but still just a girl with shaking hands.

“You need not be frightened,” he said very quietly. “I am sorry about all this.”

He meant — your failed attempt to avoid this meeting, my own brusque informality, my inability to stop this happening for you as well as myself, and, more than anything else, the misery that this business must be for you: coming far from your home among strangers and meeting your new husband, almost dragged from your bed under protest. Oh, how Éomer felt he had not been pressed by the general agreements of his lords to ride out and meet her. And analyse her, they particularly instructed. How he wished he could have done things on his own.

She stared at him, the look in her eyes bordering on incredulity, until she lowered her eyes down. He stared at the flawless pallor of her skin, at the long eyelashes and the dark eyebrows. After a while, she looked up at him. “It is all right,” she said, only the faintest of quivers audible in her voice. “I have seen far worse than this, I have been in far worse situations than this, and I have known worse men —” She stopped, biting her rose-red lips hesitatingly, and stealing a quick glance his way while he tried to check his wince. “You need not fear for me. I am not afraid of anything.”

The dinner was brought in. Éomer, determined to overlook their introduction, tried to be as affable to the Princess as he could be without seeming like a doormat for everybody to walk over him. Once or twice he glanced at her sideways, as if to get the measure of her. Finally, she turned to look at him, full on, one eyebrow slightly raised as if to interrogate him.

“Yes?” he demanded, flustered that he had been caught, and instantly donning the mask of King.

“I beg your pardon,” she replied equably. “I thought my lord needed something. You glanced at me.”

“I . . . was thinking you’re not much like your portrait,” he admitted nervously.

She flushed a little, and replied uneasily but slowly as if choosing her words with care, “I’m afraid portraits are usually designed to flatter the sitter — especially when the sitter is a princess of Dol Amroth, on the royal marriage market.”

Oh, the way she phrased that hurt him just a little too much. “You consider this, er, as a selling-buying business? You consider yourself bought?” He tried not to wince, not to show the discomfort on his face.

She shrugged. “That is one way to view these marriage transactions.”

Éomer could only gaze at her, this cold, seemingly heartless beauty.

“When I said you weren’t much like your portrait . . . I meant, better-looking,” Éomer said begrudgingly, to reassure her. “Younger. Softer. Prettier.” He could swear his face was probably steaming, but somehow he just needed to get that out.

She did not warm to the praise as he expected her to do. She merely nodded as if it were an interesting observation. She remained cold and rigid as an iceberg, and Éomer was falling deeper into the pit of despair with every passing minute.

“You had a long voyage, I hope it was not much difficult,” the King remarked, trying not to let the silence take over and make things more awkward than they were already.

“A bit,” she said. They were then in danger of falling into silence, but she miraculously took up the topic and continued, “We set out from Swansong in August, so the heat was terrible. When we reached the Drúadan Forest, we had to send scouts ahead to ask leave to enter it from the Wild Men to whom the King Elessar gave the Forest as their own. It was not very pleasant, and we were all quite sure we would get lost for a year or two. I think the trees were quite interesting, very different from what we are used to seeing back at home, though Amrothos was particularly adamant in his despair; he is scared of the dark trees — he always has been.”

A laugh escaped Éomer — a real, genuine sound that came unchecked, something rare since they brought back Theodred’s body from the Fords. But, when he saw her looking at him alarmingly, he cleared his throat. “Forgive me, my lady. No disrespect was meant.” He swallowed, not knowing what else to say. “The Wild Men of Drúadan Forest helped us when we were coming to the aid of Mundburg — forgive me, I meant Gondor — for the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Their help was sorely needed, for without them we would never have been able to come in time.”

He shifted slightly, noticing her grey eyes on him, unwavering. “You were there,” she remarked with some awe. “At the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. And . . . the Black Land.” Her face went through a change of expression, softened into something like sympathy. “It must have been terrible.” The tone came a little bit fatuous to his ears, but all thoughts of that vanished when he saw her round eyes covered with a thin film of silver, and he saw the earnestness in them.

Éomer made himself smile with some effort, reassuring her and bringing her to lighter subjects, “Well, it is all over now. And perhaps in the future you will be glad to visit the Entwood near our borders, though certainly your brother might not.”

“Can I?” She asked, amazed. “And is it true, there are talking trees there?”

He noticed that her manner of speech had mellowed. She was speaking faster and her words fell more freely, and unguardedly, though that proud, elegant lilt in her voice remained. “Yes, I have seen some myself. I could have written more to you about them, if you were interested.” He wanted her to be pleased, and more than that, he wanted her to be at ease with him. He felt like he wanted to do anything for her that could please her, like a little pet to indulge in.

She inclined her head a little bit to the side, as if hiding her flushing face purposefully. “It was kind of you to write to me so often. It made me feel that we were not complete strangers.”

It was Éomer’s turn to flush. “I was ordered to write to you,” he said awkwardly. “As part of my duties.” He didn’t even know why he said that. He just wanted to get that out honestly. “But I liked getting your replies,” he added hastily. Oh Béma, he didn’t exactly excel at this, Éomer despaired again, and flushed scarlet to his ears. He saw her staring down at the ground. Perhaps there was no need to tell her that he was ordered to write — yes, he was still being ordered around, more or less — perhaps it would have been better to let her think that he was writing of his own choice, that he was master of himself. He took her silence as offended, and apologised again, “I am sorry.” At least he was good at this one thing, apologies.

“I don’t mind,” she said quietly. “I was ordered to reply as well. My letters went through my father, and family, and my tutor before they were sent. And, as it happens, I should like us to always speak the truth to each other.”

“You would?” He looked astonished.

“Yes, I would,” she said, looking at him now. “I would like us to be honest with each other, unreserved, with our opinions and wishes and concerns in all the matters of the marriage. In fact, I would like to tell you now of all that I believe should be known and settled between the two of us before the wedding takes place.”

Éomer leaned an inch forward, his attention caught and curiosity roused, wondering what she would have to say. But a part of him felt dissatisfied at this change of mood, the way she was now speaking formally like an envoy rather than a blushing bride. There was no doubt that the stateliness became her immensely, but Éomer was already missing that twinkle in her eyes when she talked of her journey and the forests.

She didn’t continue, instead looking at him with studious observation. He realised that she was waiting for his approval, encouragement, anything. He replied, “I’m listening, my lady.”

Nodding her head slightly once, she began, “I understand that this marriage is intended to form friendship and allliance between Dol Amroth and Rohan and, as such, it is expected to bring about prosperity for both nations. I will not pretend to say that my ties with my homeland, my family, and my people, are severed by my marrying you and becoming Queen of Rohan. My loyalty must always lie there where my life was started. However, I hope you will be happy to know that you, your country, and its well-being, will now be my first priority — as a dutiful wife’s priorities must be. And as a personal request for my side of the marriage, I only ask you to be honest with what you require of me, so that I may be able to fulfill them. And, if there is anything I should be made aware of regarding your personal life, you need not hold it back. Nor would I meddle in your, er, affairs, you can be assured of that.” She sealed her lips in a pause, eyed him for a moment. “My lord?”

She is nothing if not dutiful, this bride of mine, was what Éomer was thinking as he listened to her reciting, for he believed she must have learned it by heart. He wondered if it was all to her credit. “Um,” was all he could manage to get out, under her soul-staring gaze. “It is all right. I — I appreciate it, thank you.” He didn’t know what else to say anymore. The only thing he wanted to know, he couldn’t possibly ask her. He had deduced from her letters that she was reserved, and even aloof. But he didn’t think she would be this forward. And cold. And distant. Éomer was beginning to consider throwing away all thoughts of passion in their marriage, it didn’t seem likely that passion was in her list of agenda.

They fell silent. But to his amazement, he saw that she was struggling to speak as well — she was biting her lower lip uncertainly, her eyes cast down but blinking, and her fingers were tracing the goblet absent-mindedly.

“My father said he found you amiable. That no doubt you would be kind and understanding.”

This caught him by surprise so much, Éomer couldn’t help raising both his eyebrows. He was disconcerted at least, by this somewhat outburst. He didn’t know whether to have this as a compliment, or an expectation strategically laid down for him to live up to. He let out a chuckle, nervously. “And, what do you say to that?”

She raised her eyes to his — cool and grey and stormy — and yet his eyes went to the lips that were parted slightly, looking like a red rose in full bloom in the morning mist. After a few seconds, she lowered her eyes to the floor and said quietly, “I do not know yet. But I should like to learn better in the future.”

Éomer felt his breathing grow shallow, faster. There was something provocative in her words he felt his heart almost pounding in his ears in the silence with the two of them. He rose up, unable to sit any longer, lest he might be overcome by the desire to pull her across his lap.

“I thank you. It is late, and I will leave now. My company shall ride ahead of you tomorrow morning. Good-night, my lady.”

He bowed. She stood up, looked surprised, a little alarmed and almost disappointed at his leaving so soon. But she seemed to think better of it, and dropped into a curtsey, “My lord.”

He started to leave, satisfied knowing that he did the correct thing to do before he made an awkward situation out of it. But before exiting, he turned around and said, “Lady Lothíriel, I have one thing to ask of you as well.” She did not respond to it, standing and waiting patiently, as if she wouldn’t accede to it until he had named what he would ask. He thought hesitantly as well, taking his time, trying to moisten his dry lips. He couldn’t possibly be honest with her about everything yet. He couldn’t possibly admit to the throbbing pulse at his temples and in his groin. These Gondorians were real prudes — Éomer even wondered if his bride even knew anything about what goes on behind the bedroom door. Surely they must have told her something about it. They couldn’t have always walled her up; but he remembered her being veiled and sequestered and he smiled grimly. “I only ask that you will be honest about everything in the future as well.”

A small smile crept onto her serene face, and she curtseyed again, saying, “As you wish, my lord.”

Sincerely Snow,

7th April — 18th April

#lord of the rings #lotr movies #eomer x lothiriel #eomer eadig #lothiriel #the lord of the rings #arranged marriage #oneshot #light angst #i am terrible at tags #so forgive me #pls share #and like #and also comment #have a great day #idk what im doing #dreambigdreamz

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