First Night

"You are tired, my lady," the King of Rohan said to his new wife, who was doing her best to hide her fatigue as the people feasted in celebration of their wedding. It had been a long day of ceremony and celebration, and despite her valiant effort, he could tell that she was weary. Now the night was drawing to a close. Éomer stood and on his cue, so did Lothíriel. The great hall of Meduseld grew quiet as Éomer raised his goblet to them.

"Our vows have been said, our hands bound, and our union properly feasted and celebrated," he announced with a smile. "On behalf of my wife and I, I thank you all. And now your queen and I shall retire."

Laughter and applause rang out, as well as more than a few suggestive comments regarding the wedding night. Éomer laughed in return and waved them off, although he felt his wife's eyes upon him, strange, arresting grey eyes that he could not quite bring himself to meet. Her hand felt very small in his as he led her out of the hall.

Lothíriel hid her smile of anticipation as her new husband led her away. She had heard of the Rohirric tradition of "a bedding" in which both groom and bride were carried up to bed by the guests and undressed and practically thrown in bed together, and had wondered with strange apprehension if such a tradition would be carried out on her wedding night, but it appeared that her husband had chosen not to honor the tradition. Perhaps it was out of concern for her, a foreigner, and a princess. Lothíriel did not know whether she was disappointed or relieved. The concept, while perhaps a bit barbaric, did seem to set aside the awkwardness of proceeding as strangers, since it forced both bride and groom to simply get on with it. It sounded rather deliciously fun to Lothíriel, used to such staid Gondorian propriety, as much as it rather shocked her and would surely be embarrassing.

But no matter. Here she was, wed to the most handsome man she had ever met. She had seen King Éomer a handful of times, once at Elessar's coronation and then at her cousin Faramir's wedding to Lady Éowyn, Éomer's sister, but they had only exchanged a few words on those occasions. Until she had arrived in Rohan the day before, he had been little more than a stranger. He was still a stranger. Her father and the King Elessar of Gondor had chosen this match for her, and she knew that she was very lucky to find her husband attractive. Not all women in arranged matches were so fortunate. What was more, he was noble, brave, a valiant and renowned warrior, and, from what her father had told her, a good man determined to rebuild his house and country. And here she was, suddenly a queen.

Shyly, she stole a glance at her husband as he led her down a corridor trimmed in gold and green and lit by horse-head sconces. Though Éomer had treated her with attentiveness and respect throughout the day, from the moment she had arrived at his side to exchange vows to the moment they had left the feast, he had been rather quiet. She had hoped they would quickly find topics to discuss and get to know one another, that a true rapport would begin to grow immediately. However, so far, he was as much a stranger to her as when she had first curtsied before him.

"Is it far?" she asked, meaning his chambers. Their chambers, now, should they decide to share a bed. Couples in Rohan might choose keep separate rooms or not, but Lothíriel hoped she would find a bedmate in her husband. After all, despite it being early fall, the night air was cold and despite the many fires and torches that were lit, the Golden Hall was drafty. She smiled to herself at the thought of Éomer's body next to hers.

"Far? No," Éomer said. "It is just here."

A guard stationed opened the door for them, and Éomer led her inside. She smiled in appreciation at the sight of thick golden furs serving as a rug and covering the bed. The room was simple, but elegant. A fire glowed in the hearth, and near it was a long upholstered seat with carved wooden feet. A small table in the corner served as a washstand and pitcher. A mirrored dressing table held her hairbrush, and her trunk of clothing had been brought in, laying to rest next to what she assumed was Éomer's. There was a writing desk and - there. She stopped in astonishment. Her writing tools had already been brought there, and a few small artifacts that spoke to her of home and the sea.

Éomer stepped forward and cleared his throat. "I am not much for writing letters, but I thought that you would want to write home often," he said. "I had the desk brought here as well as your things."

She glanced at him, suddenly overcome. "Thank you, your grace." She put a hand out and laid it upon his arm. "I am touched by your thoughtfulness."

He bowed his head. "This is your home now."

She smiled softly. "I guess that it is."

They stood staring at one another awkwardly for a moment before Éomer cleared his throat. "It has been a long day and an even longer evening. I will let you retire."

Lothíriel could barely process his words in time. She glanced up at him, startled. Did he mean to leave her alone? Before she could react, he bent to kiss her brow solemnly. "Goodnight, Lothíriel. Sleep well."

Her name sounded foreign on his lips. She closed her eyes as the door swung shut, suddenly very confused. She had imagined that they would go to bed together, and that their marital rights would be fulfilled. It seemed that it was not to be the case.

Lothíriel sat down at the little dressing table, completely baffled. Ought she have given him more indication of her willingness to lie with him? Should she have asked him to stay? Did he not wish to consummate this match with her, or did he simply think she would prefer to wait? Perhaps it was out of respect for her feelings as they were strangers. Or perhaps he found her repulsive. She wished for an explanation.

Taking down her ebony hair from the elaborate braided crown she had worn for her wedding, hair which she had naïvely hoped her husband would unbraid for her and run through his fingers, Lothíriel bit back sudden tears of fatigue and disappointment. So she was a wife but not in all senses of the word. And her new husband was more an enigma to her than ever.

—

[A/N: Poor Lothíriel…

She just wants to get laid…Who can blame her? ~ GB]