A/N: For those of you reading as I post, sorry for the delay! I was out of the country but now I am BACK. Your patience is appreciated :-)

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Chapter IV: Hálette Lothíriel Cwén

Lothíriel sighed as she urged her horse the final few yards into Meduseld's courtyard. The golden glint of her husband's hall was a welcome sight as her destination, but the rustic wooden walls were a far cry from the marble towers of Minas Tirith. Still, she did her best to appreciate it. Meduseld had a rich history, and the carved columns were a testament to the Rohirrim's skill. And for all that she felt out of place here, this was her hall.

A small crowd stood on the terrace to welcome her. There was Sefa, one of Lothíriel's ladies—Éomer's newly betrothed cousin. Beside Sefa stood Eadburga, the housekeeper, with a welcome cup. Lothíriel blinked; she hadn't expected a welcome cup. She had often welcomed Éomer home with one, but she'd not expected one for herself.

Éomer stood before them all, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out across the courtyard. His yellow hair glinted in the sun, and his eyes and smile widened when she was close enough to met his gaze. For all she'd worried for his health after that last letter, he looked happy and hale. Perhaps that blotted line had just been an idle mistake after all.

The guards and standard-bearer ahead of her dismounted. A groom rushed forward to grab her horse's reins, and Lothíriel dismounted with a grunt. After a week in the saddle, she could only muster so much grace. But it was a relief to be back on solid ground for good. She patted her mare's neck, smoothed her skirts, and made her way up the terrace steps.

"Westú Lothíriel hal," Eadburga said. She passed Lothíriel the welcome cup, and Lothíriel drank deep. The ale was rich and fruity; how long had it been since she'd drunk from Meduseld's casks?

"Thank you, Eadburga," she said, handing back the cup. She swallowed. At last, she turned to her husband.

Éomer loomed over her with shining eyes and poorly concealed joy. His beard had grown longer, and there were new beads in his braids.

"Welcome home, Lothíriel." Éomer took her hands and kissed them, eyes closed briefly with something like relief. "You were much missed." He stepped back, still holding her hands, and looked her over. "You look well."

"Hail Éomer King," Lothíriel replied. She awkwardly squeezed her husband's hands. She'd never seen him so discomposed. Had he really missed her so much?

Éomer tucked her hands around his elbow and tugged her towards the door. Still unsteady from the journey, Lothíriel wobbled on her jellied legs. Éomer stopped short.

"Sorry," he said with a blush. "Only—there is a council meeting right now."

"Oh, you should go back!" Lothíriel exclaimed. "I am well. Sefa will have me sorted out by dinnertime, I'm sure." She disentangled herself from her husband and smiled at Sefa. "My congratulations on your betrothal, Sefa," she added. "I wish you all happiness."

Sefa, tall and long-faced, ducked her chin. "Thank you, my lady." She glanced behind Lothíriel—Éomer was still there, hovering in his looming way.

"Go to your council," Lothíriel urged. "I am fine."

"Truly?" Éomer said. His blue eyes bore into her.

"Yes," she said firmly. She took Éomer again by the elbow and steered him to the door. "There's no cause for delay, my lord."

"Is there not?" he murmured. Lothíriel glanced up with a frown, but Éomer's soft smile convinced her he wasn't actually concerned. And why should he be? The ride from Minas Tirith was long, but the road was well-maintained, and her escort befitted her status as queen. There was no cause for alarm, and certainly no cause for the king of Rohan to abandon his duties.

Lothíriel gestured for the doorward to open Meduseld. Sunlight spilled into the hall, and she pushed Éomer ahead of her. "To your council, Éomer King."

Éomer stumbled from the force of her shove. Ignoring Sefa's stifled giggles, he turned and bowed low to her. "My wife has come home, and I am the better for it," he said. He spun on his heel and headed to the council chamber, leaving Lothíriel quite bemused. Surely he was no better off now than before. He wouldn't have missed any of his council if he hadn't felt the need to greet her.

A touch on the elbow made Lothíriel jump. It was only Sefa, who had finally gotten over her laughter.

"Come, my queen," Sefa said. "Let's get you unpacked."

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Éomer raised a toast at dinner that evening, and the whole hall chanted hálette Lothíriel Cwén¹ after him. Lothíriel's cheeks warmed and she inclined her head with what dignity she could muster. The language of Rohan did not come easy to her—she doubted she would ever understand it completely. Though her husband was gracious enough to only use Rohirric in her presence when addressing a crowd, as now, she knew that many in the sea of smiling faces before her whispered behind her back of her refusal to adopt her new home's customs and speech.

At least she could ride well. No one could deny she was fit enough in the saddle to be the queen of the horse-lords, even if they called her a snobbish foreigner.

Lothíriel took a too-large sip of wine and coughed as Éomer sat back beside her. He turned quickly and place a large hand on her back.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes," she said, blinking away the stinging in her eyes. She dabbed at her lips with her napkin and took up her knife. "I'm well, Éomer. You should eat."

He slowly removed his hand from her back. Despite the layers of her dress, heat from his touch lingered on her skin, and her eyes followed his hand as he gripped the hilt of his knife. Éomer's hands were large, with the veins under his skin evidence of his strength. Her own hands stilled as she watched him cut his meat. His careless, bold slices were different from her precise ones—a fair representation of their personalities, she supposed. Lothíriel glanced at her husband's face to find him watching her. His intense gaze brought heat to her face.

"So, Lothíriel Cwén," Marshal Elfhelm said from beside her, and Lothíriel flinched and turned to him with a smile. "How fares Lady Éowyn and her son?"

"Very well," she answered. "Elboron is still small for his age, but he is a bright boy. He learns to walk. And Éowyn is in good spirits."

Elfhelm sighed and took a swig of ale. "Aye, 'tis a pity she left us. Gondor's lucky to have her."

"Indeed." Lothíriel took a deliberate bite, silencing any further conversation.

Inwardly, she bristled. She'd heard many such comments, yet they still needled her. Their grief at Éowyn's departure could never be eased by her, or so they seemed to say. It did not matter how well she managed the hall, or how solicitous she was of her king's needs. Her accomplishments in Rohan meant nothing next to the love her husband's people bore for their absent White Lady. None here would ever love her half so well. She must content herself with her duty, and nothing more.

Lothíriel straightened her posture and listened as Éomer spoke with the councilor to his other side. Apparently Lord Aldor's proposal for improving the Great West Road was already being discussed. Lothíriel wished she'd had a chance to share her thoughts with Éomer, but he'd been ensconced in council matters all afternoon.

"I have not fully formed an opinion," Éomer was saying. "I support any notion that gives advantage to our merchants, but the increased tolls may not be looked upon favorably."

"When are they ever?" his councilor remarked. "But those who wear the road ought to pay for its upkeep."

"So Lord Aldor says," Éomer said. "I'm anxious to hear more." He sat back and glanced at Lothíriel, who gave him a slight smile. Hedging bets was a trick she'd taught him, back during their betrothal. Perhaps it wasn't quite the Rohirric thing to do, what with their famous forthrightness, but there were all sorts of ways to speak the truth without insulting anyone. And Éomer had insulted more than a few proud lords with his bluntness in the first year of his reign.

Of course, all of them ate out of his hand now. He'd grown more adept, more confident in the past two years since their troth plighting. Éomer had always had strength and assurance as a military man—helpful indeed in the recent campaigns to clear the hills around Isengard of the enemy—but for all his smooth words, diplomacy among his own people had been a cause of some concern. But time had worked its magic. Time, and Éomer's own skills. Whatever his anxieties, he had risen high above them.

Not so Lothíriel.

Even now, seated on the dais with her husband at her side and a golden circlet on her brow, she still felt out of place. A year ago, she would have longed to be back in Gondor, but ever since she'd received Éomer's letter summoning her back to Rohan, her old country lent her only cold comfort. Éomer's letter and Faramir's words had been in essence the same: no matter how much she wished it, Gondor was not her home anymore. No, her mind was full of Rohan, Rohan, where she was the stranger still.

With a grimace, Lothíriel set down her knife and leaned back in her chair. Her legs were sore. What with all of the unpacking and being brought up-to-date in regards to the household, she'd had no rest this afternoon. And twisting her ankles under the table was doing nothing to relieve the pain. Lothíriel sighed and pushed her plate back.

"You're tired," Éomer murmured. His voice was nearly lost within the noise of the assembled crowd.

"Hm? I suppose so." Lothíriel smiled tightly, still staring at her plate.

"Lothíriel."

Éomer put his hand on her wrist; Lothíriel turned to look at him. He did not smile, but there was a question in his eyes. She shook her head minutely.

Not here.

Éomer looked at her a moment longer, and then he leaned across the arm of her chair to kiss her cheek. "Go rest if you need it. I won't be long."

Lothíriel lifted her hand to her cheek, surprised, but she took her leave of Elfhelm beside her and rose to leave. Sefa followed her out of the hall.

Though she was bone-weary, one thought would not leave her be. Éomer had never before been in the habit of showing her such affection in public. Their relationship was cordial. His cousins and friends received more public endearments than she ever had. Éomer's tenderness towards her was confined to their chamber.

Or at least, it had been.

What had changed?

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A/N: Thank you for reading!

¹ "hálette Lothíriel Cwén" hail Lothíriel Queen (Old English approximate translation)