He stared unhappily at the watery grey skies, taking note of the birds which speckled the sky. Already flying south, for winter was approaching—the birds were smart. The wind carried a note of frost with them, and they needed to hasten before snow fell.

Oh, how he wished he was a bird. Able to fly where he pleased, go where he wished. Especially now.

Beneath him, Firefoot whickered impatiently. His horse was restless, eager to run and have free rein where he pleased. In that regard, he shared his steed's agitation; there was nothing better than riding a horse hard across open plains, or cutting down a foe in battle, or tasting open air. There had been precious little freedom as of late.

That's what this little exploration was supposed to be about, being able to run free and ignore his duties for a few hours. But it rang too sour. It felt more like a funeral march, the last ride of the King of Rohan. So he sat, watching the birds in the sky and listening to the frosted wind rustle the plains of grass.

Responsibilities had grown heavier on his ever-weary shoulders, and there had been little respite from the endless tedium of running a kingdom. Rohan, still burnt and scarred from the War, was regaining fragile peace—they had larger issues than the frustration of its king.

"My lord!"

The King of Rohan nudged Firefoot, and the pair turned to see Aldin, his shield-bearer. The fair-haired lad was riding his bay gelding, and both seemed to be grinning, somehow. "A splendid day to take the air, my lord, but it was poor taste to leave without notice," the boy said breathlessly.

"Aye," Éomer answered resignedly. "I wished to have a ride."

Aldin's eyebrows rose. "And much riding you seem to be doing," he replied cheekily. "What troubles you, my lord?" Éomer shook his head. Undeterred, the boy pressed on. "Did you perhaps come to savor your final few days as a bachelor?"

There was a long silence, and then: "It will be an honor to wed her."

The words were resoundingly flat. Aldin let the silence grow thick before saying quietly, "She is quite beautiful. You needn't worry, she will bear you many sons." There was no reaction from his master, so Aldin added brightly, "I doubt you will need to be drunk at the wedding feast at all."

Éomer's expression grew stonier. "Careful."

Knowing the breadth and ferocity of the horselord's temper, the uppity shieldbearer took a new tack. "She was received by your sister this morning. By the time we return, she will likely be bathed and freshened from her journey." Aldin tried again. "Even covered with mud, she was quite a—"

"Enough," the king snapped. "I am sure the princess is a beautiful woman, I am certain she will bear me many sons. Your chatter neither soothes my temper nor lifts my spirits, and your attempt at humor makes me reconsider sending you to the Second Marshal patrol."

Curtly, he nudged Firefoot, and the horse took off like an arrow from a bow. At full rein, the dappled grey horse would make quick time back to Meduseld, where his betrothed was likely bathing and resting. With the wind in his face and the sound of thundering hooves in his ears, only then was Éomer able to admit why he resisted the match.

Being the King of Rohan came with many responsibilities and burdens, and one of them was the knowledge that a sacred pact between Gondor and Rohan must be upheld. Political marriages for profit and strengthened ties was a custom between the two great nations, and Éomer had known this since he was a child. Yet there had always been little doubt in his mind that he would be able to marry who he wished, since Théodred had always been the heir.

And now, with Théodred gone, the burden was upon him.

He wanted to run. He wanted to be free, to gallop across the plains with his men at his heels and the wind in his teeth, to fight for his country and protect his borders. But now he sat in a hall, his arse upon a throne, and would be married off to some painted and spoiled Gondorian woman who would likely take to their wedding bed with shut eyes and gritted teeth. The throne was too large, and the crown poorly made—he was not the rightful heir.

But there was nothing to be done. He was the King of Rohan, and this was his duty: to marry Lothíriel, the Princess of Dol Amroth.

"He's…tall?" the girl asked, slipping deeper down into the tub. The warm water pooled around her knees and shoulders as she pondered this. Her handmaiden, Salabil, was a matronly woman with a soft, lined face; she poured more water into the copper tub, and began massaging scented oils into her charge's raven-colored hair.

"Aye, milady, they say he's tall an' very broad. Well-known for fightin' and ridin' and all sorts of carryin' on," Salabil said decisively. Lothíriel closed her eyes and leaned back into the warm water, relaxing at the scent of lavender.

She mentally ticked through all the books she had read about Rohan. Since she was a child, she had known she would be wed to a Rohirric man, and most likely Théodred—as teens, the two had exchanged polite letters, and she deemed him a suitable man. Since he was kind and well-read, she had slowly adjusted to the idea of marrying a virtual stranger. Her study of Rohan and its culture was fairly in-depth, but she had never once visited the strange, vast lands. After weeks of travel, she was sick of the empty skies and bland plains, but made no sign of this to others. This was to be her new home, after all.

But now she was marrying a complete stranger. Théodred had died, and news of his death had rippled through Middle Earth with small waves. She hadn't cried at his death, but had been seized with a deep and unwavering panic—what was she to do now? Her future, so carefully planned and followed, had now been thrown into deep chaos.

It was time to restructure.

"When will he be arriving?" she asked aloud. It secretly irked her that her soon-to-be-betrothed had not met her arrival at the gates, and yet she was glad, too. After weeks of traveling, she was grateful for the opportunity to make a good first impression.

"Around sunset, milady. They sent his shieldbearer to go find him. He oft'n takes rides to clear his head, or so they say." Salabil stepped back and fetched a cloth for the princess to dry herself with, turning her head to one side demurely so as to protect the girl's modesty.

Lothíriel nodded once, wrapping the cloth around her. "Then we have some time. Braid my hair, if you please, and twist it up—I would like it to be away from my face. And then I'll find a suitable dress, hopefully they haven't been too crushed by the travel. No jewelry. I don't want to…"

She paused in her plans, searching for a suitable word.

"…overwhelm him."

With her dark hair drawn away from her face, she hoped to highlight her cheekbones and jaw, which were in her opinion, her best features. The dress she had in mind was a dark green with white trim, the colors of Rohan, and the dress suited her complexion (and figure) quite well. Although she seldom went anywhere without her pendent and rings, tonight would be a simple affair. Dinner, music, and conversation, while her brothers made themselves comfortable and she got to know her future husband. She didn't need to be wearing all her stones and jewels for that.

Years of plans had been dashed, and hasty new ones built in their place. Tonight, however, she hoped it would all come to fruition: she and the King of Rohan would meet, marry, and have children together. Love was an unnecessary but appreciated benefit of such an arrangement.

And yet, for all her plans, it worried her that the only thing she knew about Éomer was that he was tall.

He had known that the princess was lovely, and knew that she most likely would be dark-haired and dark-eyed. What he hadn't expected was her size.

She was tiny and slender, with skin the color of new cream and very dark hair. Even sitting, he could tell that she would barely come up to his chest; she was delicate. Petite. Frail, almost. Across the room, he could sense when her attention swung in his direction, and then he saw her eyes—large, dark brown eyes with heavy lashes, in this light they seemed nearly black. She was lovely, but he felt as though if he touched her, she would shatter.

How typical of Gondorian women.

Across the room, Lothíriel did her best to keep her expression hidden behind a careful mask. He was old. Perhaps ten years older than she. He was standing in the doorway, framed by it, and although the ceilings were high, he had to stoop to enter. Broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, his thick frame draped in a crimson tunic, he frightened her. His hair was shoulder length and wild, curled and snarled but the color of spring sunlight. Although his beard was neat and trimmed close to his jaw, it was very easy to imagine him with a braided beard like a Dwarf.

She felt as though he touched nothing carefully. His hands, huge and most likely calloused, fluttered somewhat anxiously for a moment, before hooking around his belt. Destroyer. Barbarian. All the ugly stereotypes about Rohan came flooding back to her mind. Did he know how to read?

How typical of Rohirric men.

Lothíriel stood, fumblingly, and licked her lips quickly. "My lord," she said awkwardly. She could feel every eye on the hall upon them.

His eyes (bright and brilliant, blue as open skies and somehow twice as empty) swept her from head to foot. Éomer was not as learned as she in masking his expressions: there was open surprise and vague unhappiness in his face. And then, he bowed.

"My lady," he replied, just as uneasily. He kissed her hand and she resisted the urge to wrench it away from him.

Their eyes met again, and at that moment, the same thought went through both of their minds:

This is not a good match.

This story idea popped into my head not too long ago, and I thought I would share. Any kind of comment or feedback is appreciated! xoxo, Sassy Bigfoot