A/N- I do not own anything associated with LOTR, it's books, movies, characters, etc. I only own my own original characters. This is a work of fanfiction, and takes place after the events in LOTR, so I do not have much to go on, and much of the storyline will be fictitious, as will some of the Rohirric culture, which seems to be a mixture of Viking/ Anglo-Saxon. I will be using a blend of both book and movie verse, depending on how the different events fit into my tale. I will be changing some of the known history of the end of the War and the new Fourth Age, because again, fanfiction! This is my first published story although I have been thinking up stories for years. I hope I give my ideas some justice and you folks like it.

And now with that out of the way... here goes nothin!

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Chapter One – A Dreary Day

Cold winds whipped across the White Mountains from the west, drawing whatever warmth it could from the forms of people lining the roadway as it wound from the gates of Edoras. The sun had risen a few moments before, bright and crisp in the winter air. Usually, such a beautiful dawn would have been welcomed with joy, a resplendent show of nature in the depths of a cold winter.

But not today. This day was one of grief and sadness as six warriors, clad in their green cloaks and horsetail helms, carried a litter down the hill from the gate. Upon it lay the beautiful Lothiriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, daugher of the Prince Imrahil, wife and queen of the King, Eomer Eadig.

She had passed from the world two days prior, but not before giving the king and people their hope for the future, Elfwine, the son and heir of Rohan, living proof of the continuation of the House of Eorl. She had been in labor for nearly three days, and once her son had been born, had succumbed to childbed fever two days later.

All in Edoras had heard their king's keening scream from Meduseld, the great mead-hall, as he had held his wife in her last moments. It was a strange mixture of emotion for everyone, for on one hand there was gladness, and joy that their king had an heir, a beautiful son to carry on the line, and on the other sadness and an irreparable grief that their queen had succumbed.

Tears ran freely from the faces of men and women alike as the six pallbearers brought her down from the city. A few children ran forward, placing bouquets of winter flowers upon the bier, some of the girls adding their dolls or other things that the queen had helped to make for the children of the Rohirric capital.

Next to the burial cairn stood seven people of regal bearing, clad in black with gold embellishments, all with tears staining their wind-reddened faces. First in the line was Eowyn, the White Lady of Rohan, standing next to her intended, Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, cousin of Lothiriel and nephew to Imrahil.

Standing closer to the grave were the Queens remaining family, her father, Prince Imrahil, and her brothers, the princes Elphir, Amrothos, and Erchirion. All bowed t heir heads as the procession passed by, ever slowly so as not to disturb the light burden.

Lastly, standing next to the open door of the simbelmyne covered funeral cairns, stood Eomer, dressed in black and gold, his face a rock, devoid of emotion as he held his infant son to his breast, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket against the cold. The only action betraying anything behind the mask were the few silent tears slowly falling from the corners of his eyes, quickly dried by the whipping winds.

As the pallbearers halted, to allow the family one last look, Eowyn stepped forward and began to sing, much as she had at Theodreds funeral two years before. Her voice wavered as she sang, in old Rohirric, nearly breaking until one of the ladies of the court came forth, adding her voice to the grim dirge.

"Du canne reotan se heo sy agaen

Me du canne ongrate be heo ae

Du canne dyttan ure heafodsien ond bensian heo edcierr

Me du canne aetynan heafodsien ond aeala a heo laf

Du heorte canne beon idlian be du aeala heo ne

Me du canne beo full sylfum eadlufu du dael

Du canne baec morgen ond aerendaeg

Me du canne beon eadwala for morgen be aerendaeg

Du canne hycgan hie ond heo sy agaen

Me du canne bedian heo gemynd ond ae on

Du canne cirm ond dyttan ure breost

Beon idlian ond baec

Me du canne nied heo behefau

Ongrate, aetynan heafodsien, eadlufu ond eorde

(you can shed tears that she is gone

Or you can smile because she has lived

You can close your eyes and pray that she returns

or you can open your eyes and see all that she left

your heart can be empty because you can't see her

or you can be full of the love that you shared

you can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday

or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday

you can remember her and only that she is gone

or you can cherish her memory and let it live on

you can cry and close your mind,

be empty and turn your back

or you can do what she would want,

smile, open your eyes, love and go on)

As the last line was sung, Eowyn slowly lowered herself to her knees, Faramir beside her, looking over the funeral bier, rearranging some of the gifts the children had left upon it, then leaned over and kissed her brother-wife's forehead before standing, and slowly staggered into the waiting arms of her betrothed.

Lothiriel's brothers came forth next, each knealing to the ground, pressing their lips on her hands and face. They stood, and Imrahil came forward, face red and wet, placing his hand upon his beloved only daughters cheek, before rising to go back to his place, putting a hand on his son-in-laws shoulder.

Lastly, Eomer came forward, his movements stiff and his bearing sunken, as he kneeled by his wifes side. Elfwine stirred in his arms, letting out a small cry as he was jarred by his fathers movements. Eomer rocked him, murmering something under his breath, and the infant quieted. Eomer leaned forward.

"This is your mother, little one. I wish you were old enough to remember her, her grace, her beauty, her kindness to all the world. Fate plays such cruel games to take her away from us so soon."

His voice broke then, and he could say no more. He dipped his head, placing a feather light kiss on his wifes cold lips, knowing it would be the last time. He stood, going back to stand beside Imrahil. Eowyn walked over, taking Elfwine from his father.

The six bier bearers lifted up their precious cargo, slowly placing her inside the barrow on a slab of rock that would forever be the queens resting place. They shut the stone door, the thunk of it latching was an echo of finality.

Lothiriel was gone.

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An hour later, the citizens had dispersed, going back to their homes and warm fires. Everyone but Eomer. He did not want to go home.

He did not want to go back to the hall where every room, every corner brought back a memory of before. He did not want to go to the place where he had met her, had laughed with her, the council room where they had begun rebuilding the realm, the warm bedchamber where they had made love on their wedding night and nearly every night after...

Eomer slumped forward, his chest heaving, touching his forhead to the stone door that would remain forever shut. He was alone now. He did not need to be the strong, imposing king that all expected him to be.

Tears came, unbidden, to his face, and he wept. He wept for her loss, he wept for the pain she had endured to give birth, but most of all, he wept for his son, who would never know his mothers gentle voice, her soft touch, how she had lifted the hearts of all who encountered her.

A wail rose in his throat, begging to be let free, but he bit his cheek, keeping his sounds low and mild. He wanted to be alone, he did not need his sounds of grief bringing anyone closer. Small cries fell from his lips, his shoulders shook and he fell against the cairn door, no longer able to hold himself upright. He stayed that way for a long time, quietly letting loose his unbearable grief.

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The sun was heading towards the western horizon when Eowyn walked into the main hall. She had changed into a more simple woolen gown to ward off the cold, her hair was a bit tangled from lying in her bed and staring at the ceiling.

A few other were in the hall, Faramir, Imrahil and his sons, and four other members of the court. Gamling was on guard duty by the door. He noticed her enter the room, gave her a small smile and a nod of the head, before standing at attention once more.

Eowyn was walking towards her in-laws when she noticed that Eomer was not among them.

"Faramir?" she questioned. Her betrothed looked up from the quiet conversation he had been having with his uncle.

"Have you seen my brother?" Faramir shook his head.

"Nay. He did not return with the townsfolk. He seemed to want to be alone, so we did not try to get him to leave." Eowyns eyes opened in shock.

"He is still out there? He will catch his death! It is the middle of winter!"

She ran towards the massive front doors of the hall, Gamling barely having time to open the door for her before she flew through the entryway, followed by Faramir and Imrahil.

"I should have thought of this." Imrahil stated as they hurried down the main road to the gate. "I don't remember half of what happened after your aunt left this earth." Faramir stopped walking and put a hand on the princes shoulder.

"You just lost your daughter, Uncle. No one is expecting you to be a prince right now. No one is in their right minds at the moment."

Imrahil nodded, his face passive. They turned and continued down the road. Eowyn was already far ahead of them, all but running out of the main gate towards the burial cairns.

By the time they had caught up to her, she had already found Eomer, slumped against the door of the tomb, his eyes glassy, staring ahead as if he saw nothing of the world around him. He was shaking from the cold, his teeth chattering. Small bits of windblown snow had fallen on his hair. Some had melted and then refrozen in the biting wind; small icicles hung from his damp locks, and his lips were blue, exhaling white puffs of steam into the winter air.

"Brother!" Eowyn was shouting, shaking his shoulders. He did not respond. "Eomer, please! Please get up! Faramir, help me! He does not hear me!"

Faramir knelt down, putting an arm around his betrothed, reaching with his other for the kings shoulder. "Eomer." he said gently, squeezing lightly with his fingers. The son of Eomund did not respond. "EOMER!" he shouted, fully into the mans face. Eomer jumped slightly, his eyes refocused and then came to rest on the pair in front of him. His face crumbled.

"Go away!" he said closing his eyes and turning his head to the side.

Imrahil had knelt down now too. "My son, it is too cold for you to remain here. The sun is setting. You must get warm."

"I do not want to!" was the petulant response.

"Eomer." he did not answer. "Eomer! Look at me! I know more than anyone here what you are going through. I held my own wife as she slipped away. I rule one of the richest cities in the west, but I could do nothing to stop it. Nothing!"

Eomers face crumbled again. He bent his head down and more tears fell, freezing on his face. Imrahil put a hand on the back of Eomers neck, making him look at him.

"There is nothing worse than feeling powerless to stop the decline of one whom you love. But you must, my son, you must."

"I do not wish to!"

"You may not wish to, but that does not stop the fact that you must. You have a kingdom to rule, people who need you, a son who needs his father."

"I care not."

"That I know is grief talking. Do you truly wish to leave your son? To take away his father as well as his mother? To never know the love of those that bore him?"

That struck a chord. Eomer looked one last time at the door of Lothiriels tomb, then reluctantly tried to stand. He had been sitting in the cold too long. His joints locked up and he fell to the side. Faramir caught him, lifting him up and supporting him over his shoulder. They slowly and painfully made their way back to Meduseld. Eowyn ran ahead.

She burst through the doors, looking for someone to help her. Most of the serving staff would be home by now, only a couple of maids and the cooks would still be here. She sighed, and began heading towards the kitchen to draw the hot water herself.

"Lady Eowyn?" a womans voice called from the side. Eowyn stopped and looked in the direction the voice had come from. It was Lady Maerdwyn, one of Lothiriels handmaidens and now governess for the infant prince. She and Eowyn had grown up together when Eowyns father and mother had died.

"Maerdwyn! Oh thank the gods! I need some help..." Maerdwyn held up a hand.

"I know, my lady. I have already taken care of it. There is a bath drawn, as well as fresh clothes and new linens on his bed." she gestured down the hallway, which was opposite the corridor with the royal bedchamber.

"His bed?" Eowyn questioned. Maerdwyn lowered her head.

"I thought he would prefer to be in a more familiar room, my lady. Away from the memories and some of the pain. At least for a little while."

"That was so thoughtful of you! I would never have thought of that..."

Maerdwyn smiled softly, "I would not expect any of you to have all of your heads on your shoulders right now. I know I did not after Beaor died. I was close to the queen, but not anywhere near as close as you and your brother. Let me help, my lady."

"Maerdwyn, I remember telling you not to use that 'my lady' nonsense with me when we are not in public."

"Tis a bit of habit then. I used it often with the que-" she stopped talking as the door opened. Imrahil and Faramir were supporting Eomer almost fully now. The kings feet were dragging on the floor.

"He needs to get warm now! He is barely breathing!" Imrahil puffed, almost wheezing from exertion.

Maerdwyn stepped forward. "Please bring him this way, my lords. I have a room prepared." and she nodded to Eowyn and swept off down the left-hand hall.

Faramir and his uncle half carried, half dragged their kinsman into the room Maerdwyn had opened. She indicated a chair sitting next to a steaming basin set in front of a roaring fire. They put him down and she immediately removed a blanket that had been hanging by the fire and wrapped him in it. She turned to them.

"Thank you, my lords. I'd not have been able to bring him in here myself. I can take it from here." The two lords looked at her skeptically. She scoffed.

"I have been serving this family since I was old enough to tie my shoes. I am the daughter of the Fourth Marshall and widow of the Fifth. You have grieving to do yourselves my lords. You need rest, so does the Lady Eowyn." she said, pointedly looking at Faramir to make sure he knew to get his beloved into her bed. He nodded his head. "Worry not. I will not be doing anything inappropriate." she shooed them out of the door and closed it.

Turning round, she found her king unmoved, still sitting exactly as he had been placed. Maerdwyn sighed quietly to herself, and set to work.

She started on his boots, which had a small coating of ice and hardened snow. Untying the laces, she removed them to reveal cold feet, wrinkled from being encased in the wet leather all day. His feet were pale and had a bluish tinge. She saw no blackened areas, however, and she sighed, relieved that frostbite hadn't yet taken hold. She took a smaller tub, placed his feet in it, and dipped hot water from the tub and slowly poured it into the basin.

Eomer hissed in pain, his first sound since being brought into the room, as the numbness from the cold was suddenly replaced with stinging needles. His eyes refocused for a moment and he looked down at the woman at his feet. She had looked up at him when he had moved, and she smiled slightly at him.

"It will only be for a few moments, Your Grace. The heat should help. You are lucky your toes are all sound."

She bent back to her task, using a cloth to soak up the hot water, and began to wash further up his calves. He hissed again as more heat returned to his extremities. Maerdwyn stopped, looking up at him again.

"Apologies, Your Grace, but it must be done."

"For goodness sake, Maerdwyn, we've known each other since we were children. Please stop with the formality."

"I am sorry. It has become habit for me."

He raised one brow, " Since when?" Maerdwyn smiled, dipping more hot water onto his legs.

"Since my marriage. Beaor was kind, but his family was very old fashioned."

Eomer scoffed. "I never liked Beaor. His entire lot was so stuffy I am surprised they didn't walk around with their heads embedded in their backsides."

Meardwyn giggled. "True. But nevertheless, he was kind. It was not much trouble on my part to start showing proper manners." Meardwyn hiked his trouser legs a little further, now washing as high as his knees. Eomer let out another hiss.

"Good gods, woman! That stings!"

"You did it to yourself, Eomer." she said, "You stayed out in the cold letting snow melt into every crevice you had."

"Now you sound like my mother. She would scold me for hours if I went outside improperly dressed for the weather."

Maerdwyn smiled. "I remember her. She was a kind woman, Lady Theodwyn. I still have a pair of mittens that she made me for the Midwinter feast. They no longer fit, obviously, but her craftsmanship was truly wonderful."

He nodded, then grew silent again, this time closing his eyes. She continued her ministrations, until every shiver had left his limbs. She gently lifted his feet from the basin, and dried them with a cloth. "Do you feel like you could stand?"

He nodded, then stood a bit stiffly, groaning as he did.

"Gods, that hurts." Maerdwyn nodded, then gestured at the tub.

"Do you think you are nimble enough to get in?"

"Not in front of you."

"No need to get indecent. Keep your under-breeches on."

"I am not going to bathe in front of you."

"This is not for bathing. You have been out in freezing weather from dawn to dusk. You will need more than a blanket and hot water on your feet to mend that." she pointed at the tub "Get in!"

He raised an eyebrow at the command. Her face went serious, "You told me to stop with the formalities, Eomer." she wagged the already pointing finger, "Now!"

"Yes, ma'am." he said mockingly. Her serious face did not move an inch. He sighed and let the blanket fall from his shoulders. At least talking with someone was keeping his mind off other, more melancholic thoughts.

He gasped as the blanket hit the floor and his damp clothes were exposed to the air. He started shivering almost instantly. He tried to get his tunic off, but his jittery fingers would have nothing to do with the many laces going up the front.

"Oh, come here!" came Maerdwyns voice from behind him. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders and she pivoted him around, making quick work of the laces and pulling the tunic over his head. She carefully folded it and placed it on a side table, turning back to him with her hands on her hips. "You do know that it is perfectly fine to ask for help when you need it?"

The corners of his mouth went up, not by much, but enough. "I am sorry, Maerdwyn. I am stubborn. You should know this by now."

"And yet I still try. Now, I am going to go to the kitchens and get you something to eat. You have not eaten a thing all day. When I get back, I want those damp outer trousers gone and you up to your neck in hot water. No arguing!" she said, poking a finger on his chest to emphasize her point.

She turned and walked out of the door, leaving Eomer alone. He did as he had been bid, removing his under tunic and trousers and stepping into the steaming bathwater in only his short under-trousers. The hot water felt good. He felt the warmth of it slowly begin to seep into his bones.

I have not felt this good in days. He thought, Not since... he caught himself, remembering everything that had happened, his slightly improved mood plummeting again as he recalled everything that had happened, and what had begun it all...

The day dawned bright, golden sunlight filtering in through the small eastward facing window. He was already awake, dressing in warm woolen clothes and thick leather boots. He would be going out today to meet with one of his advisers.

The man had a cold but was absolutely insistent on doing his duties. Eomer had tried to make him stay home, with his family, nursing hot soup and warm blankets with plenty of sleep. It was the middle of winter. No one would be going anywhere. But the evening before one of his children had come up to the Great Hall with a message from his father, saying he had worked out an idea for the rebuilding of the farming villages and towns that had been burned in the Westfold during the war.

Eomer had laughed out loud when he had received the note. Trust Hereweald to not listen to reason. He passed the note to his wife, who had laughed also. She had looked at him with such tenderness, such love. He had never felt happier in his life, and the feeling only intensified when she reached a hand down to gently rub her ever-growing belly, wherein a son or daughter of Rohan would soon make their appearance.

She had told him to go. That Hereweald would not stop his pestering until Eomer had answered. He had written a return note saying that he would be there the following morning after daybreak.

He finished tying his heavy boots, and grabbed a thick wool cloak with the white steed of Rohan sewn into the thick green cloth. He turned to look at his still sleeping wife. He smiled at the sight. She was dressed in a thin nightgown, sewn bigger than usual to accommodate her growing stomach. She was on her side, one arm under her cheek, breathing peacefully. The sun was just starting to shine on her.

She was such a vision to him in the early morning light, he could not help himself. He walked over to their bed, leaning down to kiss her softly on her forehead. She stirred, opening up her sapphire eyes sleepily, and smiled when she saw him.

"Hwaes sy hit, min easlufu?" she asked (what is it, my love?)

He smiled down at her. Lothiriel had studied Rohirric diligently since their betrothal. What subject would want a queen who could not speak their tongue, after all? She had worked so hard, and indeed had become so fluent that she sounded as one born in the Fold and not on the faraway coast of the Bay of Belfalas. He leaned in and kissed her lips.

"Hit sy nanuht, min faeger cwen." he said (it is nothing, my beautiful wife)

She giggled. "Leasere!" (liar)

"Ic beon angilde poht gerad faeger du beon innan se aering scimrian."(I was only thinking how beautiful you are in the dawn sunlight)

"Ic easlufu du."(I love you) he smiled and kissed her again.

"Ic easfulu du swa eade." (I love you as well)

She smiled again, sleepily, yawning and stretching under the fur blankets.

"Ic beon framweard aet bisaec Herweald. Ic scolde beon carseld aer midnedaeg" (I am departing to visit Hereweald. I should be home before midday)

"Abeodan min easfulu. Ic bocriht aeala du scortlic." (Farewell my love. I will see you soon.)

He smiled again and quietly left the room. As he was closing the door, he looked inside one last time. Lothiriel was stretched out on the bed, sleepily gazing at him. He would never forget the sight of her, on the bed, surrounded by a halo of sunlight, bidding him farewell.

Little did he know it would be the last time he saw her in such a peaceful state.

Eomer gasped as his head slipped under the water. He had been so engrossed in his memories that he had begun sliding further in. He jerked upright, splashing a good deal of water on the floor. He gulped for air, and then his throat closed tight once more. He buried his face in his hands, reliving the final days of his wife's life in seconds, over and over again in his head.

He did not even notice when Maerdwyn crept back quietly into the room, bearing a small wooden tray with a bowl of thin soup, a hunk of bread and a mug of mead. She saw him, hunched over, his shoulders quaking as he silently vented his grief.

She set the tray down, walking over to the tub. She sat in the chair, and reached out her hand. She touched his arm and he jerked upright, looking at her but not seeing her.

When his eyes refocused, he looked at her, his face falling again into despair. He grabbed at her arm, and she got up, kneeling beside him, wrapping her arms around him. He gripped her fiercely, as if he had fallen down a cliff and she was the rope tossed down to save him.

He cried, as he had never done before, everything he had been feeling for days coming out in a single torrent of sorrow. He squeezed his eyes shut but tears came anyways, and he felt rather than heard the wailing scream that tore itself from his throat. Every emotion he had felt, sadness, anger, rage, betrayal, all burst forth like they had wills of their own.

And through it all, Maerdwyn simply held him, as his heart broke in a world that had already come tumbling down.

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A/N: I hope my first chapter was good. I am going to try and post a new chapter once a week, but I work full time plus have a household to run... so it may be every two weeks once in a while if I am busy or have a case of writers block.

Reviews are always welcome! I am trying my best, and have always wanted to write an Eomer fic (he's one of my favorite characters from LOTR). Though I must ask, please no flaming on changing the story from canon. I try to stick with it as much as possible, but this is fanfiction after all.

I am using an online translator for Rohirric. I have not been able to find an actual translator for Rohirric itself but I do know it was almost solely based on Old English, so I am using an Old English translator. I can only translate one word at a time, so if Old English had a different grammatical order for its phrasing and word placement I cannot do that. I am literally translating word for word.

Also, sometimes there are multiple words that come up as a single translation for a word I use (example, the modern English word 'well' ends up having about ten different translations, depending on whether it means "I am feeling well"/"I am getting water from the well"/ "Well, what do we do now?"/ etc.)

Sometimes there is no exact translation and I have to find a word that is similar but not exactly the same. Also, there are some words that have male/female versions (example, the love of a husband/wife, the love of a mother/father, the love of soldier comraderie, etc). I do the best as I can with the hopes that it makes the story more interesting.

And worry not, I won't be using Rohirric all the time, only when it adds a little something. I thought having Eomer and Lothiriel using it for a few lines was sweet, showing how hard she had worked to learn the language of her new people.

The funeral song sung by Eowyn is the song sung in 1959 for the passing of the Queen Mother in the UK. I thought it was appropriate for the death of a queen of Rohan, especially when they speak Old English!