1 July 3020 T.A., Minas Tirith

Almost to Éomer's surprise, spring passed.

Minas Tirith was nearly identical than when he had departed it in the spring; the marked differences being gardens in full bloom and the hot sun on the back of his neck as he rode up through the sunny streets. And the keen, piercing anxiety he felt, knowing that when next he left the city Lothíriel would be with him as his wife.

They were married the following afternoon in the family dining chamber in Merethrond, done up nicely with garlands of flowers for the occasion. It was extraordinarily tasteful, and so Éomer surmised that it must have been Queen Arwen's doing. Elessar himself performed the ceremony—to the evident relief of Lothíriel beside him, it is was relatively short.

The wedding supper followed, with tables brought back into the room by servants. Éomer, feeling odd from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, had the sensation of being detached from his surroundings as he and his bride, standing awkwardly near the center of the chamber, were quickly congratulated by her family and their friends. He recalled agreeing with Lothíriel that a small wedding without delay would be preferred—but it had been done so quickly that he had not the chance to understand the mighty change his life had just taken. He had not even seen his bride until the ceremony!

As they sat together in the places of honor, Éomer felt Lothíriel's warm hand cover his, and he was surprised to see her smiling.

"I am sorry I could not greet you upon your arrival last night," she said, in a quiet voice just for him. The clamor of dishes being served and their guests engaging in conversation provided privacy for them. She added with her smile turning wry, "I was delayed at Lord Bregon's house, where I have been staying—there was a, ah—dispute between the servants regarding what was mine to be packed for travel and what is supposed to stay."

Éomer had covered her hand with his as she spoke; the intimate touch was setting his heart to pound. How he had missed her! The sparkle in her grey eyes was as familiar as ever, and as beautiful. And now she was his wife!

"It is quite alright," he replied, just as quietly with a smile of his own. "I was disappointed, to be sure, but I was also hardly fit to see you. A two-week ride generally leaves one smelling a tad ripe."

She laughed. "A bad omen for our own journey back to Rohan, I am sure!"

"Hardly! If you are on the journey yourself, you shall already be accustomed to any, er, smells." Éomer's teasing, which started strong, ended on a reluctant note—he did not intend to turn her opinion against their coming journey! But he had underestimated her spirit, for Lothíriel merely smiled and said,

"I think I shall be enjoying my first sights of Rohan too much to notice any smells."

He could not help leaning nearer to her, drawn by the comfort and exhilaration of her presence with his heart and mind filled with so many things he wished to say—but before he could speak, servants approached and began to fill their plates with steaming food.

Lothíriel was presently engaged in a conversation with Queen Arwen on her far side, and so Éomer glanced around the chamber for a few moments—he had barely had a chance to greet Éowyn before the ceremony, and she now was laughing with Amrothos. His head tilted slightly as he studied his sister; she was glowing in a peculiar way, and if he was not mistaken, there was a roundness to her face he had not seen before. Surely—surely not—but he caught sight next of Faramir, and there was no mistaking the glint of pride in the steward's eyes; nay, smugness.

Well! Éomer had hardly expected to become an uncle so soon.

Imrahil, on his left, leaned over to speak. "Was your journey smooth, Éomer? You did not take the Dimholt Pass, I presume."

"We did not; the evacuations are not scheduled to be finished for two more months."

"Hmm. Well, I had hoped, that when we travel to Rohan for Lothíriel's coronation, that we might at least return by the Dimholt Pass."

Éomer wondered if this was a polite way of asking for hospitality in Meduseld until the shorter road was safe to travel. But it was an unkind thought towards his—oh Béma, Imrahil was now his father by marriage! He swallowed, and already regretting the loss of a relatively empty Meduseld for himself and his newly-wedded wife, said stiffly,

"If you have a desire to be the maiden company to travel through the Dimholt—you are welcome to stay in Rohan as long as you like."

Imrahil laughed at this—and Éomer wondered why until the prince spoke. "You are too generous! I am sure that none of my sons, nor I, wish to intrude upon your hospitality longer than needful. There will be many opportunities to see one another in the years to come, especially when the Pass opens for travellers. But Lothíriel must adjust to her new home this once— I daresay she will fare better without us. We shall only stay for the celebrations."

The sun was sinking through the western windows as the final course was served the chamber was awash in orange light. Candles were presently lit, and Éomer continued to hold Lothíriel's hand though their attentions were otherwise diverted. It strengthened him somehow, and the distraction of Imrahil's conversation kept him from becoming nervous. For now that the ceremony and supper were over…

Éomer felt a hand clap on his shoulder, and he started guiltily.

"We must leave," said Elphir, who was carrying his son in his arms. Little Alphros was rubbing his eyes sleepily. Elphir's wife, Naimith, was kissing Lothíriel farewell. Evidently the party was ending—Éomer saw that servants were bearing away empty plates and platters.

"Thank you for coming," he told Elphir, shaking the prince's hand.

"We are glad that we could at last attend a wedding of my sister's—ouch!" Elphir winced—his wife had dug a finger into his ribs, and she looked daggers at her husband. Éomer saw Lothíriel suppressing a smile, and he too, felt laughter threaten.

"It was a lovely wedding," Naimith said. "My best wishes to you and your queen, my lord."

"I—thank you."

And the little family was the first to leave. But before Éomer had a moment to even wonder what protocol demanded of him next, Amrothos was there, grinning as he bent down to kiss the top of his sister's head.

"I am sorry I have not had a chance to speak to the two of you yet," he told them. "I suggested to Father that every fifteen minutes or so the guests move one place over so that everyone can have a conversation with the bridal couple. Oddly enough, he did not like the idea."

"It sounds a hassle!" Lothíriel laughed. "Think of having to carry your plate with you! But a fine idea, in theory."

Amrothos preened at this compliment before continuing. "The weather is going to be fine, tomorrow. Perhaps we could all go on a ride—I need to adjust myself to the saddle again before we leave for Rohan. It has been too long since my last journey. I can ask others to join us, too."

An awkward silence. Éomer sensed that Lothíriel's shining eyes were on him, but did not know the emotion in them.

"Very well," she said, and if he was not mistaken—there was a measure of reluctance in her voice. But Amrothos did not hear it.

"Excellent! Now, I have been tasked with taking Éomer away now. I hope you will forgive me, sister, but Éowyn will be coming for you—ah, as soon as she is done speaking to Queen Arwen."

Take him away? Éomer felt a flash of confusion, but decided that it must be custom in Gondor. Perhaps he should have striven to know more of the Gondorian wedding traditions Imrahil had warned him of, but it was too late now. Still holding Lothíriel's hand, he gave it a brief squeeze and a smile. Her answering smile was beaming, and there was a flush in her cheeks.

"Amrothos is not allowed to hurt you. Do not fear!" she said to him.

"I do not fear," Éomer murmured, and barely had a chance to press a kiss to her hand before his new brother hauled him up and led him from the dining chamber.