Autumn was a blessed relief that year. Éomer was sure he had never before suffered through so hot a summer, and that he had worn his armor nearly the entire time had not helped one bit. Had the weather cooperated, he might have enjoyed fighting alongside Aragorn and their friends a bit more, but as it were—he had missed the cool shade of Meduseld, and his wife.
Four months he had been away, fighting in the southern regions of Gondor. He nearly felt a foreigner trudging up Edoras's blowsy street, leading Firefoot by the reins; he must have become accustomed to the arid desert with its merciless sun. The welcome breezes from the northeast had greeted his company as soon as they entered the Mark over the Mering Stream, and though the relief was immediate, Éomer would not rest until he saw Lothíriel again.
He had missed her terribly; on the loneliest nights he thought his heart might burst from his chest for wanting to be with her so badly. Éomer had not worried about leaving Rohan in her hands—he knew she was capable, and the people of the Mark loved their charming, capable queen. No, that was not his concern at all.
Meduseld was a marvelous sight; shining gold with unusual activity pouring around it as soldiers were reunited with their families, much laughter and tears echoing on the wind. And best of all—standing in front of the oaken doors, was Lothíriel.
It almost made the months apart disappear in an instant. Almost.
Éomer gave Firefoot to an eager stablehand, and without waiting he took the steps two at a time, drinking in the sight of his wife. When he was near enough to see, she was smiling broadly, her eyes not moving from his face as he ascended the terrace.
He would have swept her into his arms straightaway, but she held the welcome cup in her hands, and he was forced to stand back. Though he could admire her perfectly well from the short distance—her dark hair was loose, blown about by the persistent wind, and she wore a dark red woollen frock. Apart from the color of her hair, she looked a perfect Rohirric queen—but Éomer thought she was perfect, anyway, and his eyes continued to rove over her appreciatively. There was a slight swell of her belly which disturbed the folds of her dress, and he stared, taken aback by this change.
"Westú Éomer hál!"
Astonished, his gaze returned to her face, and if he were not mistaken, her cheeks had pinked. But she was smiling, all the same. Éomer took the cup, drinking deeply the familiar taste of mead before passing it to a servant. Now that her hands were empty, Lothíriel clasped them below her belly, accentuating the swell all the more.
"I must surmise that you did not receive any of my letters," she said, observing his surprise.
"No." Éomer's voice was hoarse.
"Ah, well—I thought they might go astray. Messages are terribly unreliable, when one is off fighting battles." There was a sparkle in her eyes, and from the tilt of her smile he suspected she was feeling rather smug. "Well?" Lothíriel asked, her brows arching. "Are you going to greet us properly, or stand there gaping like a fish?"
Us.
Oh, Béma!
Disregarding that they were likely being watched by many interested parties, Éomer wrapped his arms about his wife and swung her around in the air, his heart fit to burst. She clung to him, her laughter joining his. When at last he put her back on her feet, her hair was mussed and she was flushed with pleasure. Lothíriel gazed up at him with her usual, knowing smile, and he leaned down to kiss her properly.
Breathlessly they broke apart a moment later. Éomer nuzzled his nose to hers, smelling in her sweet scent. "I missed you," he murmured.
"And I you. Now cease dawdling and come inside—I have much to tell you."
FIN