22 December 3021 T.A., Edoras
Idly Lothíriel tied the ribbon binding her braids together, gazing into the gilded silver mirror but unseeing. Her thoughts were slow and leisurely, despite that she could already hear the noise from the feasting hall. Yuletide was the favorite holiday of Rohan, as Éomer had explained, and by that time she believed him completely. She had been immersed in preparations for the last several days—so busy, in fact, that she felt simply too tired to enjoy it fully.
There was a kiss on the top of her head, and she lifted her chin to smile up at Éomer, who was already smiling down at her.
"I thank you for the skillful work you did mending my breeches," he said. "Your stiches look nicer than the original seam. I shouldn't wonder if I would hire you on as a seamstress, were you not already my queen."
Lothíriel pursed her lips together. "I will try not to be offended," she said severely. "Really, Éomer, what a thing to say!"
But his smile remained as unconcerned as ever. "You are lovely tonight, my wife."
She accepted the compliment, feeling warm all over as she took his hand to rise to her feet. A brief wave of dizziness nearly made her stumble, but she held tight to Éomer's hand.
"Let us go and enjoy the revels," she said. "I am already yearning for sleep."
The hall was hot—hotter than she expected. Lothíriel sent for a fan to be brought to her, but it brought little relief to her flushed cheeks. A fire blazed in the center of the hall with a full boar roasting over it. The scent of grease dripping onto the coals made her stomach turn, but still she smiled and greeted their guests. She remembered everyone's name, and felt quite satisfied.
Supper was a feast: roast boar, breads of rye and barley, pies of meat and fruit and vegetables, all sorts of puddings, cakes, and sweets. With the smell of meat overpowering her senses so, Lothíriel thought it wisest to eat simply, but she found even the bread lodged in her throat uncomfortably. So she simply sat, gazing out at the hall, feeling gratified for the clear enjoyment everyone was having. Éomer was speaking to Lord Erkenbrand on his other side, and Lord Elfhelm was upon Lothíriel's right hand—but he was busy with his meal and she was feeling too shy and too tired to engage him.
If possible, the heat rose. Could it truly be so bitingly cold outside? She had been so cold even that morning; staying beneath the fur covers of the bed half-asleep until Éomer built up the fire to drive a measure of the chill away.
At last, everyone was fed and watered to their pleasing, and servants hastened to clean the tables, and to move them aside for dancing. Lothíriel was slow to rise from her chair, and only did so with her husband's firm hand upon her own. Again she felt a flash of dizziness when she stood, and a brief throbbing behind her eyes as the light from the torches suddenly pierced them. She must have winced, for Éomer's hands clasped upon her shoulders, and she heard his earnest, quiet voice,
"Are you well?"
He sounded rather far away, and she wondered how that could be? Indeed, why was the dizziness not fading? She squeezed her eyes shut at a roaring and a rushing in her ears, and blackness overtook her.
A sharp scent made her nose itch. Lothíriel moaned, wishing it would go away—but it did not.
"Ah, she is coming 'round. A simple swoon, sire, just as I said; likely the heat or the excitement of the festivities."
A hand was cradling her face, drawing her back from slipping back into the welcoming oblivion. It was Éomer's hand, of course; she could recognize his touch even as woozy as she was. Despite the throbbing in her head, she forced her eyes open, squinting at the bright light around her. She was in a chamber she did not recognize, on an unfamiliar bed, but Éomer's face, pinched with concern, was next to her—Lothíriel smiled at him, and the set of his mouth relaxed.
"Good evening, my lady!" came a cheery voice. "How are you feeling?"
Another face came into view—a man she knew to be the apothecary. He was an older, kindly man, and she did not feel the least bit shy with him; he reminded her of her Uncle Pargorn, who was dear to her.
"Not entirely well," Lothíriel admitted. "My head is aching something awful."
"Rest and wholesome foods will help that along," the apothecary said. "You were fortunate not to strike your head and injure yourself—my lord king caught you straight up as soon as you went limp and brought you here at once. A very good man to have in distressing times, I am sure of it."
Lothíriel was sure of it, too. While the apothecary prepared a medicine to ease the pain in her head and to help her sleep, Éomer gently assisted her in sitting up on the edge of the cot, slowly enough that she did not faint again. He steadied her with his large hands, and she rested her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes from the bright candles all 'round. He stroked her knuckles with his thumb wordlessly.
She drank the bitter brew, and immediately her limbs felt heavy. The apothecary declared her fit enough to be put to bed, and Éomer lifted her into his arms.
Should she be embarrassed to be carried through Meduseld in her husband's arms? Because in her drowsy, woozy state, she certainly did not feel the least bit embarrassed. Still the festivities continued, but they did not pass through the hall, and thankfully the noise faded.
Éomer tucked her into bed, which welcomed her with ease and softness. Her last conscious thoughts were that the medicine was very effective, and why in Arda was she so ill?
The Eighty-Third Night
23 December 3021 T.A., Edoras
Lothíriel woke the following morning with a heavy head and a sour stomach. She assured herself that it was merely from not eating the night before, and when a maid brought a breakfast tray, she forced herself to swallow a few bites of bread.
Éomer was not there; though he had done the courtesy of leaving for her a handwritten note.
I did not wish to wake you, he wrote, for you need your rest. I would not face the wrath of our apothecary for bothering you. If you do not feel well enough, do not bestir yourself from bed. I will see you when I can, likely 'round noon.
The bread promptly reappeared as she retched over the chamber pot.
Ill as she felt, Lothíriel was fully aware of Éomer's distress as he made good upon his promise and came to her during the noon hour. She was lying in bed once more, having drifted off to sleep once or twice in the morning, and vomited thrice despite having nothing in her stomach.
"I have asked around, and no others are ill from the feast last night," Éomer told her, sitting upon the edge of the bed as he tenderly clasped her clammy hand. "I had thought perhaps some of the food might have been bad—but evidently not. Shall I send for the apothecary?"
Lothíriel agreed to this, hoping with all her heart this illness would pass quickly.
But it was not the apothecary who came to her later in the afternoon; it was a tall, stately woman, with iron-grey hair in two braids down her back. She introduced herself as Gifu with a curtsey, and began to ask rapid questions as Lothíriel nervously wound her fingers together.
At last Gifu asked if she might examine her. This was agreed to after only a moment's hesitation. But the woman's hands were gentle, and she only touched Lothíriel's belly briefly before giving a satisfied nod.
"The apothecary was right to send me in his stead," Gifu said. "He can do nothing for this. You are with child, my lady."
Oh—oh.
Gifu, admitting herself now to be a midwife, gave Lothíriel a tea to ease her nausea. It helped enormously; within a half-hour, Lothíriel was sitting upright in bed, all smiles and nerves as she ate slices of apple, which thankfully stayed in her stomach. This satisfied the midwife, who advised the tea every morning before eating. She would tell the kitchens to have it prepared for her.
"I will send for my lord king to attend you," Gifu said, and she departed.
Lothíriel was left with her giddy anxieties. She did not know what to say. She hardly knew what to think! Considering the previous conversation she'd had with Éomer all those weeks ago regarding conceiving a child, it seemed most odd that it should happen so suddenly! But she did not regret it. Smiling to herself, she placed a hand on her belly—it felt no different, but everything was different.
The midwife had evidently told Éomer nothing, for his face was grim when he at last came to her, when the sun was setting through the parted curtains of the window. Lothíriel could see the worry in his face too well, and she was quick to smile at him. His brow softened, just a whit.
"You are feeling better," he stated, taking her hands and sitting beside her upon the bed. "Your color has returned."
"Indeed, I am feeling marvelous," Lothíriel said. "The midwife gave to me a tea, and I have been able to eat."
Éomer blinked. She suppressed a giggle; had he not known Gifu was a midwife? But why would he? Certainly Meduseld had had little need for a midwife in decades. She supposed she could forgive him that ignorance. Gently easing her hands from his, she took one of his large ones and placed it on her belly, where hers had just been—and smiling up at him, Lothíriel said,
"It did not take us three years."
He appeared too startled to speak. His eyes flitted downwards, and she felt his fingers tense, their heat warm even through her shift. Then he smiled—a broad, beaming smile just for her as he lifted his gaze to meet hers.
"Lothíriel—" he said, his voice breaking, and he lifted his hands to cradle her face, kissing her lips. Her heart fluttered within her breast, but he released her a moment later, lowering his head to press a kiss upon her belly, as well. She bit back a smile; he was utterly endearing! He spanned her belly with his hands, resting his forehead there—and after a moment he lifted his head. He still smiled, and his eyes were shining.
"I am very happy," he said. How characteristic of him to speak so plainly! Lothíriel laughed aloud.
"I am happy, too," she told him. "I thank you for—for this. For—everything."
"It was my pleasure, wife, I assure you."
She flushed at the expression in his eyes. And before he could speak again, Lothíriel hastily voiced a worry of long ago, her only worry now being delayed understanding between them. "Éomer," she said briskly. "Now that I am pregnant…I need you to know that I still wish you to sleep beside me, and I see no reason for us to cease—cease making love. Whatever it meant to you, it is more than proliferation to me."
Éomer blinked at this sudden speech, but his lips curled into a smile. "My sentiments align with yours," he said softly. "I will not leave you."
"Good," Lothíriel said, and she was satisfied.
The following days were a haze of intermittent illness and incomparable joy—her emotions felt so tenuous: despairing when the tea did not prevent her vomiting, and the pure peace she had with Éomer in the evenings. Some days she could rise from bed, doing her duties 'round Meduseld with reasonable presence of mind, and other days she lay beside the chamber pot, wrapped in blankets and shivering.
On those days Éomer somehow managed to be with her more often, wiping her sweating brow with a damp cloth or bringing her water and tea to moisten her stinging throat. Lothíriel wondered, if she were ill and he by her side, who was managing Meduseld? But usually she was too fatigued to worry overmuch.
Then one morning she woke with a clearer head, more awake than usual, and rose smiling and began to dress herself. This abrupt change startled Éomer, but he appeared pleased, and did not hesitate to put an inquiry to her.
"We ought to announce your being with child before the gossip does so," he said, pulling on his boots. "Are you well enough to attend supper tonight?"
"I am well enough now," Lothíriel chirped. "Perhaps we ought to announce it at breakfast."
Éomer laughed. "It would be prudent to invite some who do not usually partake of breakfast in Meduseld. If you agree, I can inform the housekeeper, and you may go about without worrying about it."
"Very well," she relented, and he stood to loop an arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She sighed in bliss, smiling up at him. "Anyway, it never feels quite right to plan a feast to celebrate oneself."
Her husband was laughing, and her heart was full.
