The journey was finished in good time, and almost too soon Éomer was back in Meduseld, now deprived of the company of both his sister and his betrothed, and barraged daily with the normal problems of leading a nation which were neither small nor inconsequential. As he lay in bed each night, he began to count down the weeks until he was to leave for Dol Amroth. Twelve weeks seemed far too long, but soon slipped into eleven, and ten, and nine…
Herds of animals were butchered to be smoked, dried, and otherwise preserved for the winter. The last offerings of the mountain forests were gathered into cellars, and mead was set to brewing. Thick, grey clouds lay low over the bald fields for days before at last releasing the first snows of the season, and the excitement of dogsleds and horse-drawn sleighs filled Edoras with laughter and bells every day following.
Letters from Gondor were delayed, and Éomer waited impatiently for any correspondence from his soon-to-be-bride, who he knew had returned to Dol Amroth following the wedding. When it was eight weeks until he would depart, a thick bundle of parchment was delivered by an apple-cheeked messenger, whom he bade to stay in the hall until needed. Ignoring the need to assign a task of repairing leaky roofs in the stable to a carpenter, Éomer retreated to his private chambers at once, standing close to the window to eagerly read what Lothíriel had written.
After the ordinary concerns for his health and assurances of her own, it read thusly:
Though I am sure you have little interest in such matters, I do have a story to relay to you which I think you will find amusing. I certainly will, given time, but at the moment the angst is still too raw for me to laugh!
Of utmost importance to my mother is the subject of my wedding gown. We spent three days alone (three!), viewing silks which were brought to the palace by various merchants. Somehow Mother revived herself enough to receive all the visitors and silks in a drawing room. She was enlivened by all the fawning attention, but I was sure to die. I was able to hide a book beneath a cushion on a settee and gave the fabric little heed. (I have learned the outermost limits of my patience, which seem very near when another person is choosing my wardrobe.) Unfortunately, I paid dearly for ignoring the enterprise: Mother chose a pattern of pale blue with pink paisleys, which was most hideous. I tried to intervene, but it was too late! (The book was very engaging, in my defense.) Learning from my mistake, I gave more regard to the choosing of the dress pattern, but there was little compromise there. Mother wanted me to wear something grandiose, in the style of her youth, and I could not gainsay her. I told her that if I did not topple over with the sheer volume of petticoats and silk and ribbons, it would be a miracle. But she would not hear of it. "A woman only wears one dress to her wedding!", she said. "It must be nothing short of spectacular!" I argued that it would too much expense and hassle for a frock which would only be worn once, but she told me to hold my tongue, which I took to understand that she had no response for me.
But my savior arrived the following day: Queen Arwen herself! She and Elessar were in Dol Amroth for a short holiday. Mother was still overcome by her joy of my gown and did not hesitate to give the queen a lengthy explanation of the process of its choosing and designing. I noticed (though Mother did not) that the queen was quite taken aback by the sketches of the dress, and I imagined some nausea. Queen Arwen is, of course, too diplomatic to grimace (which I was guilty of doing during the entire tirade).
"Why, such love has been put into this!" she told Mother, who beamed. "Are you sure this is for Lothíriel, and not you? It would set off your complexion perfectly."
I had not realized the queen to be so honey-tongued!
Mother blushed and said that she was too weak to attend the wedding, but the queen only shook her head. "Nonsense," she said. "Your eyes are as bright as the healthiest youth. You must attend!" Mother sat, wringing her hands together for quite some time before she agreed that it would not tire her too much to see her only daughter wed. After that decision was reached, she quickly agreed that the gown was more suited to herself than me, as long as some of the more ostentatious ruffles were removed. While Mother was talking animatedly about how she might arrange her hair, the queen winked at me! Can you believe it? I thought I might keel over from shock. Then she told me that she had just the fabric in Minas Tirith that would befit a princess. I hesitated to agree, but with the stress of choosing one gown still fresh and knowing that Queen Arwen does have impeccable taste, I agreed. And further than that, she said she would make a few sketches so that I might choose a design!
What I did to deserve the queen's goodwill, I do not know. Nor dare I to question it.
I doubt I shall ever have the graciousness or patience of Queen Arwen. Consider yourself warned.
Éomer laughed long at this retelling, as Lothíriel had obviously intended, but sobered soon afterwards. There was an underlying unhappiness and perhaps resentment that he noticed, which only made him wish the days by faster. He wrote a response hastily, assuring her that he would be too pleased to be her husband to care what she wore on the day they wed, and that if she was at all generous she would care as little about his own costume. After all, he pointed out, Éowyn was not there to assist him in choosing something appropriate.
Seven weeks...six weeks…
The next letter he received was several days late and contained, according to Lothíriel, only a brief recount (though to Éomer it did not seem brief at all), of the social functions her mother had arranged to celebrate the upcoming wedding.
I have never before been so popular nor in demand in my life, she wrote. Even when I was betrothed to Lord Silius, I was little noticed, even by Mother. I am beginning to believe that she sees my ascension to queenship as the jewel in her figurative crown (she is too frail to wear headgear daily). That I will be living in another nation escapes her, and I am lauded around court as her 'precious daughter'. Odd, considering that for many years she told me I was too plain-spoken, laughed too loudly, and carried myself as a clumsy kitchen maid.
I am quite finished with balls and dancing. There has been a celebration every night this week, and I fear the blisters from my dancing slippers will never fade. Will it bother you very much if I limp around the remainder of my life?
This, of course, hardly mattered to Éomer, but his increasing concern for her health (as well as some of his own feelings) caused him to write a strong response:
I do not relish the thought of my intended dancing about with strange men night after night! If I hear so much as a whiff of rumor that even one stuffed shirts has the gall to get cheeky with you—I will be there, horsewhip in hand, in no more than four days.
Lothíriel's reply to this brought him much needed laughter, with only three weeks until he was to leave (his belongings were already packed and sitting by the door of his bedchamber).
Then—an excellent excuse not to dance! I hereby swear to stand with my back to the wall every evening until our wedding. If any man dares to ask for my hand, I will sniff disdainfully and tell him that if he so much as looks at me again, my husband-to-be will thrash him in view of the court.
I did suggest to Mother that the dancing be disposed of entirely at the wedding, but she would not hear of it. I will supplicate Father next; it would be a relief to have the assistance of even one sensible soul.
Amrothos argued long and hard with Mother to procure an invitation for his betrothed. Evidently Mother thinks little of the lady, but likely that is only because Amrothos is her favorite son and she would waste away if he left her. Father intervened, and since that argument discussion Mother has not had the energies to leave her chamber. A relief for me, to be sure.
When Éomer counted the half-dozen letters he had received in the last three months from Lothíriel, it seemed as though only a short time had passed. If he consulted his heart, however, the time could be measured as a veritable lifeage. All the same, when he and those accompanying him (guard and guests), departed on the first of December, a terrible burden was already lifting from his shoulders.
The journey was long but uneventful. Taking the safer roads which skirted the mountains into Gondor made for a longer mileage, but less risk of avalanche. The weather appeared to be adjusting itself to Éomer's impatience, and the sun lit the way into the southern lands, even if the thick snow and air remained bitterly cold, at least until they entered Imrahil's lands.
Indeed, the day they rode into Dor-en-Ernil, Éomer removed first his cloak, followed soon by his surcoat, fur cap and gloves. The unusual warmth was at once comforting and unnerving, especially when he considered what he had ahead of him in Dol Amroth.
Two and a half weeks since leaving Edoras, the party passed through the open gates of Dol Amroth. They were welcomed by a significant crowd; many scarves were waved in the air in greeting (and to attract the handsome northmen, Éomer suspected, noticing the numbers of young maidens). There was music, and shouting and laughing and instead of exciting him for the prospect of his own wedding, it began to wrack his nerves.
If the mere entering of the city was so heralded, how lavish would the wedding be?
Still, it was with enormous relief that Éomer finally saw Lothíriel as he entered the courtyard of the prince's palace, Firefoot's hooves clattering loudly on the stone. Two huge, marble swans flanked the steps to the oaken front doors, looking vicious and not at all as the swans he had seen in books as a child. But he ignored the interesting sight, and after dismounting and handing the reins to his squire, faced his betrothed's family, standing formally on the steps.
Lothíriel was biting her lip, suppressing what he suspected was a huge smile (he was feeling similarly himself); flanked by her brothers, who mostly appeared bored. Imrahil was looking proud and stern and dressed in rich furs, matching his children below him. After taking in the whole of the sight, Éomer nodded to everyone in turn and then headed straight for his bride.
She gasped as he swept her into a sudden embrace, and then giggled in his ear as he groaned, "Too long!"
Imrahil cleared his throat, interrupting what was promising to be a very warm welcome indeed, and when Éomer lifted his head he saw the prince gesture towards the courtyard.
"You are watched," he said. "The people of the city would appreciate some acknowledgement."
"As would I." Éomer heard Amrothos mutter beside his sister, but ignored him, and as duty demanded, faced the crowd with only one arm around Lothíriel's waist, lifted an arm into the air as a salute. The enormity of marrying the princess of Gondor's richest lands hit him just them; Dol Amroth had more citizens than the entirety of the Westemnet, and it seemed they had all flocked to catch sight of him and his people. The courtyard was filled to bursting point, and the noise of excitement made it hard for him to hear Lothíriel's next comment.
"Everyone is interested in you," she said towards his ear, with a knowing look. "The golden-haired King of Rohan, who, according to the gossips, has the handsomest guard ever assembled."
Éomer laughed loudly, and at Imrahil's signal they turned to enter the palace. Inside, it was almost eerily silent following the chaos outside, with huge, veined marble pillars holding the vaulted ceiling aloft. It was almost as interesting to look at as his bride. There was a distracting curl coming loose from Lothíriel's braids, and Éomer struggled to pay attention to aught else.
Imrahil was running his hand through his windswept hair. "You seem to have arrived in good health, my friend; did the journey pass smoothly?"
"Indeed, we were most fortunate."
"Good, good!" Imrahil said, waving his sons away, who departed without complaint. "Your things will be delivered your guest chambers likely before we will arrive there, and after you have washed, my wife wishes you to attend her. A simple, early supper will follow, as the real feast is being prepared for the wedding."
"I will show Éomer to his rooms," Lothíriel said.
Imrahil looked at his daughter, his eyes narrowing at her innocent expression. "No nonsense," he said firmly, and then nodded. "Go quickly. And do not step a single foot into his chamber, girl!" Imrahil called after them, for Lothíriel had seized Éomer's hand and already begun hauling him down towards the east wing.
Her giggles were echoing in corridors, and exhilaration made Éomer grin. In an empty alcove she pulled him to her, and in their excitement they bumped together awkwardly, laughing all the more, and at last Éomer seized the chance to kiss her. She was somewhat more of an armful than he was used to, with her sumptuous blue cloak trimmed with silver fur, but he did not mind one bit. Of course, the extra clothing was not at all enjoyable, but he had to pull himself back to the present sternly. Only two days until they were wed…
"I think this qualifies as 'nonsense,'" he said huskily, nipping at her earlobe. "I had not realized I was marrying such a disobedient woman!"
"Oh, posh! You are an utter tease…if it bothers you so much, let us continue to your chambers!"
"No, no, that was not my intention; it was a mere observation, not a slur of your character. I find no fault with disobedience, for if I did, I would be the worst hypocrite to live!"
Lothíriel was touching his face, which surprised him considered he had not bathed since the icy Ringló, and a smile played about her lips. His arms were wrapped tightly around her waist, and she showed no discomfort in their proximity. In fact, as he watched, she gave a contented sigh and then positively burrowed herself deeper into his embrace, resting her head on his grimy leather jerkin.
"I cannot express my relief that you have come at last," she murmured with another sigh. "I began to think that my unkindly letters would drive you away."
"Never!" Éomer declared, kissing the top of her sweet-smelling head. "Nothing short of a shift in your affections can do so. I am afraid you are, er—stuck with me."
She laughed, lifting her head to gaze at him. "I want nothing more to be stuck with you, and as soon as possible! We had better muddle through your meeting my mother as soon as possible, then at least I can stop dreading that."
So they continued down the corridor, Éomer not yielding his hold on her waist, and impressed that she kept step with him. "Yes, we do not want to dreading that any longer," he said thoughtfully. "What else have you to dread? We had best knock those out as soon as possible." Then a terrible thought occurred to him, and before Lothíriel could answer, he nearly shouted, "You—you are not dreading—that—are you? My darling, please do not tell me you fear—" Her eyes had widened at his volume, and Éomer hastened lower his voice. "That is, if you truly are frightened, then I will not force you, but I thought—considering your enjoyment of kissing and your stout character, you would not—"
She began to positively howl with laughter, and rather than be offended Éomer was greatly pleased to know that she was not taking his concerns the least bit seriously. "Oh—oh dear!" Lothíriel said, wiping her eyes as she guided them down yet another corridor. "If you are truly worrying about that, I daresay you know nothing of me at all." She smiled upwards at him, and he noted a more feral tilt to her grin than normal. A sudden jolt of excitement cause him to squeeze her waist, and then she stopped walking. They had reached a dead end, with only a slit of a window allowing light.
"Here are your rooms," Lothíriel said, unlatching the single oaken door. "They are the furthest possible from my own. I had no say in the matter, if you can so believe!"
Only two more days, two days… Éomer reminded himself once more. The chamber was elegantly furnished, with rich wood tones and blue accents. Naturally. He would have appreciated exploring the room more, would Lothíriel enter, but she stayed stubbornly at the door.
"I will wait outside," she said, nodding towards his saddlebags, which were already placed on a trunk. Very efficient servants they had here. Or more time had been spent kissing than he realized.
After a quick wash and a swift change into clean, formal clothing, Éomer rejoined his bride and hand-in-hand, they retraced their steps to enter the east wing where the family apartments were located. Lothíriel's expression had hardened somewhat, and knowing how uncharacteristic it was for her to be serious about anything, Éomer felt unease blossom in his gut, and squeezed her hand all the tighter as they were admitted into her mother's rooms.
Stuffy heat! An overwhelming, perfumed and muggy air seemed to take extra effort to push through, and eyes watering from the sheer scent, Éomer coughed slightly, trying to see in the dim room. All the windows had been covered by dark, thick curtains, and only the roaring fire in the hearth gave off any light. Imrahil was there, standing stiffly behind a plush chair, positively laden with mauve silks and ribbons. Amrothos crouched beside the chair, holding a hand which seemed to protrude from the mass of fabrics.
"Daughter…" A frail voice spoke, and the trembling hand which Amrothos held was lifted slightly into the air. Lothíriel led Éomer forward, and he knew she could feel his sweaty palms, and he hoped she would realize it was from the heat and not from nervousness. To his surprise, as they drew near, he saw a woman's sunken face peeking out of the silks, which a lace cap atop her wispy, greying hair.
"Good afternoon, Mother," Lothíriel said tonelessly, and kissed her mother's hand. "Are you well?"
A pause, and then, "As well as can be expected, my darling jewel."
Éomer might have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, now that the shock had worn off, were everyone else around him not so serious. Imrahil's brows were drawn together, and Amrothos's face was set with deep lines of concern. Lothíriel's usual smile was absent as she glanced back at him.
"Mother, this is Éomer."
The woman's black eyes turned to him, and Éomer did notice that despite her appearence of wasting away, her expression was nothing short of shrewd. He was presented with her hand next, and following his bride's example, Éomer bowed low and kissed the clammy, waxy skin.
"I apologize for not rising to greet you," she said, her tone wavering. "But I find strength for so little of late…"
"No matter, ma'am," Éomer told her, dropping her hand as soon as it would not be considered rude. "To be in your presence is honor enough, I assure you."
A silence followed this, and a benign smile grew on her face. "You must call me Mother, for my husband has informed me your own has passed."
"Indeed, ma'am—er...Mother. She died when I was but nine years of age."
'Mother' nodded knowingly, clasping her fragile hands together atop her lap of silk. She took a deep breath before speaking again. "The guidance of a motherly figure is essential when navigating life's cumberances. Although my health is not as it was, I would wish to provide you that guidance as I may."
"I—thank you, Mother."
The pealing ring of a bell sounded as if from far away. Éomer imagined that the room quite dampened it, though Lothíriel's mother still put a hand to her head and winced.
"We must away, my dear," Imrahil said, and stooped to place a kiss on her lace cap. His lips barely touched it.
"Do return tonight that we may finalize any issues regarding the wedding," Mother said, her tone now brisk. "Amrothos, be a darling and fetch me lavender water before you depart…there is my good boy."
Éomer was dragged (willingly) from the humid room by his bride, and when they were safe in the corridor, he breathed a huge breath of cool, fresh air.
"I am sorry," Lothíriel said. Her head was bowed, and though she held his hand as tightly as ever, her eyes did not lift to meet his.
"Do not be." Éomer drew her close, and she gave the barest of whimpers as she hid her face in his tunic.
"It is a terrible thing," she continued in a murmur. "I almost hate her, I surely do! Her mere proximity is poison to me. I cannot believe she spoke to you so impudently!"
Imrahil, who had departed just before them, turned a corner and they were left alone. Éomer stopped, and turned to hold Lothíriel at arm's length. To both his worry and his surprise, tears were glittering on her long lashes. "If you will not joke about the ridiculousness we have just experienced, then I will be forced to!" he said. "And I am not nearly as good at it as you are. Where is my minx? Lothíriel, my love…I promise we will not stay here longer than necessary, if it discourages you so."
At last a shadow of a smile appeared on her pink lips. "Thank you, Éomer. I…am ashamed of how I feel towards my mother, but…"
"It will be easier to think kindly of her from afar," he suggested, and she gave a hollow laugh.
"Too true! And besides, with the amount of guests she has invited, we will be too busy greeting courtiers to have time to spend with her." This idea emboldened Lothíriel, and with the atmosphere considerably lighter, they continued towards the dining hall.
A 'simple supper', as Imrahil had termed it, involved nearly one hundred guests sitting at wooden tables, and perhaps two dozen servants running up and down them, carrying dishes and pitchers of drink. Lothíriel explained to him, as they found places at the nearly-empty high table, that dinner normally involved four courses on an ordinary day, and up to twelve for special occasions.
"I suspect that it will be twelve for the wedding," Éomer said dully. "I wonder every day if we oughtn't've eloped months ago…"
"I did suggest just that," Lothíriel took a sip of wine, regarding him with smugness. He knew her well enough that she was teasing him, and so went along with it.
"Alas! I am laid low and humble by my woman." He groaned, shaking his head woefully. "I will rue the day I brought such a wise creature into my life, for I suspect my free will is gone forever…"
She scoffed, and the lively discussion that followed regarding whether he would likely ignore all of her counsel, for good or ill (Lothíriel's opinion), or that he was, ever and always, her most humble and obedient slave (which Éomer continued to claim), carried them through the entirety of the meal. This banter, ordinary for them and broken up with quite a bit of shared laughter, lightened Éomer's heart considerably as he forgot his new mother, the guests, and everything else dreadful they would have to face before they were wed.
It was fortunate that they had that evening to bolster their spirits, for to Éomer's great disappointment, the following day they did not see each other at all. He was with Imrahil, viewing troops of soldiers and touring various types of warships. Lothíriel, he learned, was in a reception room, receiving guests and their various offerings and gifts. Even with his newfound seasickness, Éomer knew that she had the worse task, and felt guilty about it all day.
The following afternoon would be the wedding, and as with Éowyn's celebrations, supper that night was served privately in the rooms of the guests as the hall was in the process of being decorated. So Éomer spent his evening in his rooms, joined by Erkenbrand, who had captained his guard for the journey. It was well-thought on his marshal's part, for after such an overwhelming experience in Dol Amroth, a friendly face and conversation was more than appreciated.
Somehow, through his overwhelming thoughts of his bride as he lay in bed that night, he remembered his sister. She ought to have arrived that evening, but he had yet to see her. He had other things to worry over, however…
First off, I know Mrs. Imrahil is ridiculous. She's meant to be a humorous component, which is probably unkind of me, and to explain Lothiriel's character a bit. I don't really think Wise Ol' Imrahil would marry anyone like that. She was based off of Mrs. Bennet, teehee.
Secondly, this is my plea for feedback. While I love and appreciate every one of my readers, lately I've been feeling like I'm sharing to the empty void of . I have so much more to share, but I want to know that that stories are wanted - if they're wanted. And I want ya'll to enjoy. I want you to leave feeling warm and cozy and happy! (maybe not every chapter as there are inevitable plot pitfalls, but every story, at least :P) Even bringing a smile to one person's face is worth the struggle of lonesome writing.