See the eagle rise above the open plain,
Golden in the morning air,
Weaving and soaring,
Watchful and protecting.
I am your shelter,
I will enfold you.
Warm with a mystery,
I may reveal to you.
.
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April 1 FA
She was standing at the window opposite the door, facing out. Her arms were folded tightly in front of her, and Éomer could do nothing but stare at her back. He swallowed, forcing his dry throat to open. "Lothíriel…"
"No." Her voice was soft, but strong as steel, and Éomer welcomed the sound as he would welcome a branding iron to close a wound. "I cannot see you, my lord."
He did not believe her for a moment. She was hiding her agony, he was beginning to believe, but it burned in her nonetheless. He knew her well enough. "Lothíriel," he said again, stepping closer to her. Her back stiffened more. Frustration made him bold. He had been gentle to her for far too long, and so he spoke his whirling thoughts, forcing the words from between his gritted teeth with no regard to the consequence. "As which goddess do you see yourself, Lothíriel, that you might saunter high in the air without a care for ties to the earth? Why do you assume that you may have a crown of golden sun that pierces my very heart, and that I might let you pass me by?"
She was trembling now, the trembling of high walls built in years of solitude. Éomer was determined to see them fall. "Lothíriel," he said again, at last. To this single word, the name that brought misery and happiness to him at once, he poured his pleading, his love.
She broke. A great sob burst forth from her throat, a strangled noise that echoed in the room, bouncing back to Éomer that she felt the same as him. His heartache had not been shared by him alone, he knew. She was hiding her face in her hands, and Éomer stepped forward, gently pressing her hands to his chest with one hand, and lifting her chin with the other. Her cheeks were wet, and the redness that lined her eyes bespoke weeks of desolation. No, he was not alone.
"Éomer," she said, no more than a whisper, and refusing to meet his gaze. He started, to hear her use his given name at long last. It was an intimate gesture, and brought searing warmth to his every fiber. She clutched to his tunic, the fabric wrinkling in her fists. "Éomer," she said again. It was a caress to his soul, and a beam began to break out on his face. "Éomer," her voice caught. "Éomer, Éomer! How can I return such words of worship to you? You are a fixture in my life as expected as the sunrise, no less beautiful but more missed when it is absent. I pretended indifference because I feared to give myself to you, even as I thirsted for your very presence. I should not have denied you any more than I should curse the sun for its life-giving light. I can only beg you, now, to forgive a soul as wretched as mine, and to take me as your wife," She pulled his hand from her face and kissed his palm tenderly. "I wish you could assure me that such precious feelings are not gone forever, but I hardly dare to hope. I would swear to cling to you as my deliverance evermore, for that is what you are. If you would bestow your love and body to me…I shall not want anything else under the stars."
Éomer bent and touched his forehead to hers, her sweet breath ruffling the hair from his face. "You are the only woman to ever have a place in my heart, dear one. I am yours, if you command it."
A choking laugh escaped from her. "I command it, my lord, for now you will never be rid of me!"
He kissed her then, claiming her mouth with an intensity that bespoke their months apart in mutual longing. She responded in kind, pressing her body to his and clinging to him as if she were drowning. She would be his wife! He was becoming dizzy. He held her tightly, his hands straying downwards from her shoulders. His lady was as lithe as he remembered from that single, fateful Yule night. Once his grip was firmly on her hips, she pulled her face from him to catch her breath. The sky had begun to darken, and he could barely make out her face, but her clear emotions remained intense, only no longer in unhappiness.
"Éomer!" she murmured, lowering her head. "I…I cannot…"
He silenced her protestations with more kissing, savoring his own wild feelings that coursed up his body at the taste of her tongue, and the vibrations of her moans. She was trembling in his arms. A strangled gasp from his lady finally made him pull away, though he regretted relinquishing every inch between them.
"My legs will not bear my weight any longer," Lothíriel whispered, lifting her hands to twine her fingers through his hair. "Nor can I bear this sensual torture without the liberty to act on it. Éomer, I am not ignorant. When…when my body and heart feel thus, they must be satisfied, else I might scream."
Triumphant, Éomer lifted her into his arms as he would a babe. She weighed considerably more, however, and even more than the other ladies he had carried. Still, the absence of cricks in his neck from looking down at his wife the rest of his life would be just compensation. He strode confidently out the door to her cottage after kicking it open, ignoring the questioning and surprised looks of his marshal, and the villagers that had crowded outside their mistress's house, no doubt to flay the king if he misbehaved himself. Lothíriel buried her face into his neck, and his skin prickled as she began to nibble his skin gently.
"It is fortunate I already planned to take you to the river for some privacy," he muttered when they were out of earshot of the others, escaping into the cool cover of the forest. "I am in great need of a cold dousing."
She whispered in his ear, "I might prefer activities that would negate the need for such, if you would consent." Her breath was hot, and did not help his constitution.
"Woman, I swear to you that I will not turn you into a whore!" he exclaimed, sharper than he intended. "When we come together we will be fully wed, for I have no desire to have feelings of guilt at facing your father hang over my head at such a time. You will be the only thought in my mind."
She was so very adept at distracting him! He did not notice the river until he stepped in it, cursing his wet boots. Lothíriel extracted herself from his embrace, and as he sat to remove his boots, found himself being pushed flat on his back by his lady. The cool damp of the earth brought relief to his raging need, but it was little remedy, for her hot body quickly covered his.
She was kissing him, urgently and forcefully, and Éomer could not stop himself from running his hands up and down the length of her body several times. His thoughts became less coherent as she pressed against him. Her skirt had risen high in such an inappropriate position, and his fingers fiddled with the hem, debating. Her movements slowed in time as the initial wave of passion faded, but Éomer still craved more.
"My lord, we simply must be married as soon as possible," Lothíriel said, gaining a remarkable amount of control over her features. She seemed almost casual! Éomer growled deep in his throat in frustration. "If you send riders tonight, accounting for the days it takes to get to Dol Amroth and how fast my family might pack and arrive at Edoras…perhaps we might wed within the month."
"Anything," Éomer said, trying to catch her lips again.
"Unfortunately, Ithilien is further, and your sister must come. Six weeks, at most."
"Six weeks it is, then."
"But Elessar cannot be forgotten, and arranging a royal company from Minas Tirith, even in haste…my love, I do not see us being wed before harvest! And with the snows…I do not think we can count on an opportunity to marry before next spring."
"Spring!" Éomer sat upright, upsetting his lady from her perch. She tumbled a bit, but pulled herself to a dignified sitting position, too close to him to think. But he had to think! An idea struck him, outrageous in all its glory. "Lothíriel, my love, do you trust me?"
"I trust you with my life, my lord."
"Then let us return to town."
.
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There would be no shortage of scandal. The King of Rohan demanding that his marshal marry him to the Princess of Dol Amroth within the hour! But the gossip would come later, for the villagers rushed to prepare some semblance of ceremony. Their little hamlet would not disappoint!
Flowers were pulled from their carefully cultivated beds without regret, and the young girls of the village quickly had a makeshift crown sitting on the lady's head. Every candle was brought out, and set around the doorway of Lothíriel's cottage, giving a golden glow to the proceedings. Wine was chilling, and children had been sent to pick as many blackberries as they could find in the forest in the middle of the night. Widow Halfa was baking honey bread as quick as she could. There was no time to roast any meat, but a wedding-feast made entirely of sweets was, in Rohirric culture, prophetical of a sweet marriage.
Elfhelm kept his dour countenance in the frenzied excitement, Éomer saw. But he withheld any counsel against his king, and for that, Éomer was grateful. He stood, with the hands of his lady love's in his own. Even in the dim light of the candles, she was so very elegant. Her lips were still extra pink from their earlier kissing, and Éomer decided that if they were not swollen in the morning, he would berate himself as a lacking husband indeed. She looked at him, her eyes grey and trusting, with an unfathomable amount of love pouring into his own. Sentimentality perhaps belonged in songs and legends, but a little on his spontaneous wedding day was not amiss. Not a single tremor of regret was present in his body. And none in either of their families could hardly be offended at missing the ceremony, since so few were present any way.
The villagers finally fell in to watch the proceedings, completely hushed. Even Chaser was standing quietly nearby with this intrusion into his living space. The surplus flowers that had been picked adorned his dark mane and were peeking from his nibbling lips. Elfhelm began to chant the songs of binding, his voice echoing easily in the small vale. Éomer barely listened, for the touch of his lady's skin on his own drew aught else from his mind.
The chanting stopped. There was an awkward cough.
"What is it, man!" Éomer barked to his marshal.
"We have no ribbons, sire," Elfhelm said.
A single gasp rose from the audience, and quick as a wink, Rowyn ran to the bridal couple, yanking her own ribbons from her hair. "Please," she said. "Let me offer my own." She kissed Lothíriel quickly on the cheek before returning to her place. Elfhelm held the ribbons, bemused, and then nodded at Éomer to begin. He took a deep breath, and asked his bride,
"Do you love yourself more than you love me?"
Lothíriel was smiling. "Nay, I have died of myself and I live for you. I have disappeared from myself and my attributes. I am present only for you. I have forgotten all my learning, but from knowing you I have become wise. I have lost all my strength, but from your power and love, I am able."
Elfhelm placed the center of the ribbon's loop and threaded it upwards from under their clasped hands.
"Do you love yourself more than you love me?" Lothíriel asked, her words a challenge, and one that would be frightening were it not for her sparking slate eyes.
Éomer cleared his throat, pulling his thoughts back to the present. "I have died of myself and I live for you. I have disappeared from myself and my attributes. I am present only for you. I have forgotten all my learning, but from knowing you I have become wise. I have lost all my strength, but from your power and love, I am able."
Elfhelm passed the ends of the ribbon through the loop and wrapped their wrists once more before tying a sturdy knot and reciting, "Feel no rain, for you will be shelter for each other. Feel no cold, for you will be warmth to each other. There should be no loneliness, for you will be companion to each other."
Éomer ended the ceremony then, tugging on their clasped hands to pull Lothíriel towards him for better kissing. Scandal indeed, for the bridegroom not waiting for the pronouncement of their new marital state.
It was a rushed celebration, and soon after the last of the honey bread disappeared, the younger children began to yawn. Éomer stood with his bride, still in the flickering light, and fed her berries and bread that had been forced on them by the venerable Widow. "You will need your strength," she chuckled, patting the king's cheek, and gave a small pouch to Lothíriel, leaning in close to whisper to the lady before walking away, still sniggering.
The noise had died down, and only a few men were left to fetch the candles and deconstruct the makeshift tables. Lothíriel watched them silently, leaning her head against Éomer's chest, before looking up at him. "I have waited long to request that we retire to my bed. Now I am impatient enough that I command it."
He laughed, sweeping her in his arms and hastening towards her cottage. "One may never accuse you of being else but plain-spoken, my darling."
.
.
She was gasping as his lips found a new place to kiss, and there were many. She was not as tanned as she had been that day in the desert long ago, no doubt from living in shady mountains, but he loved this new creamy shade. And at a such close quarters he found that she was positively freckled! He enjoyed searching for every single one and kissing each in turn. It was utterly sensual and profoundly intimate.
Her body was writhing against him, and the only words that came from her mouth that made any remote amount of sense all begged him to finish her torment. He had actually done so, a few times already, unwilling to shirk his husbandly duty so soon. But her pleasure was such a foreign and extremely satisfying feeling to him that he could not resist experimenting. He very much enjoyed the noises that she made when he touched her.
Another whimper broke the night, and his wife collapsed further into the single pillow. Her eyes were closed, and she breathed deeply for a moment, before fixing him with a piercing stare. "How can you stand it?" she demanded.
Éomer smiled at her. "I am simply savoring the journey. Do not forget, I am not as experienced as you, and I wish not to hurry my wedding night. It is my first, after all."
His lady propped herself on her elbows to kiss him. Even though the majority of the last hours had been spent in similar pursuit, Éomer doubted that he would ever tire of it. He groaned, unexpectedly, as he felt Lothíriel's hot hands begin to stroke him.
"I will not see the dawn a maiden of your touch," she whispered, biting his ear.
He finally set his body on hers, the erotic sensation chasing away the discomfort of the heat between them. "A maiden would not make such coy comments in her marriage bed," Éomer said, trying so very hard to form complete sentences. "Virtuous you may be. Or were."
Lothíriel wrapped her legs around his hips before continuing the kissing. He could not refuse the invitation, and the shocking sensation of her warmth enveloping him nearly had his muscles give out. No words now, and their bodies began to move together in rhythmic motions. Her back arched. His toes curled. Perhaps not the most romantic love-making, especially for a wedding-night - more frantic than sentimental - but his lady had never been conventional.
.
.
She rested against him with her eyes closed as the sky lightened, clutching to him tightly. Éomer stayed alert, running his fingers down her bare arm. He feared to sleep for the possibility that he was walking in a dream, and he would wake alone, his lady turning to shadow and smoke beside him as the ghost of his frenzied mind. But the sun began to break through the window in her bedroom, and in the new light, he was surprised to see the beginnings of bruising love-bites along her arms and neck. He pulled back the top sheet. More marks across her belly and thighs. Ah. A wedding without her father was probably best, then. Any parent would not want to see a daughter so used the day after her wedding. Éomer doubted his bride would mind, though.
She had said he was her sunrise, but Éomer thought that she was the light of the noon-day to him. Casting his thoughts back, he always associated her presence with heat. The heat of the desert, the heat of desire and anger, each in their own turn, and now…the heat of lovemaking. His blood seemed to be at a permanent boil, at least so far. His need rose, already wanting her again. Lothíriel shifted, and blinked as the sun hit her face.
"It is morning," he said.
"Indeed it is," she said, yawning. She lay quietly for a moment before lifting her face to meet his gaze. "It is probably very improper to make love more than once in a day, but in all technicalities, it is a new day. I must have you again."
He had her on her back in an instant, and was beginning his loving stroking of her body when he heard the door to the great room opened with a clang, and the Widow, whistling cheerily, began making the noises of breakfast. Éomer groaned.
"It is well enough," his lady said, removing herself from his embrace and the bed. "I am famished, and will need a large meal if we are to continue."
He watched her with greedy eyes as she pranced suggestively in front of him. The view he was given as she bent over the washstand to rinse her face was especially gratifying, but he regretted losing sight of her bare skin under her clothing as she dressed herself. Éomer remained prone in his position until Lothíriel picked his clothes from the floor and threw them on him.
"Quickly now," she said. "I want my breakfast and morning walk before we can return."
He groaned, covering his face in his hands as the bedroom door shut behind her, but accepted the inevitable. For a woman so inflamed by passion, she seemed to recover quickly. He remained at the pivot of desire as he dressed, and it was not until he pulled on his second boot that he felt as if he could face the world appropriately. He sighed, and left the bedchamber.
Lothíriel was already sitting at the small table, and the Widow was pouring her a cup of tea. Éomer picked up on their conversation as he sat across from his lady, completely ignored by both women. "I still maintain that this is completely unnecessary," his wife was saying. "You have never served me before."
"You were never my queen before, silly girl. Drink up!" The teapot was set on the table with a bang, and Halfa swept off to tend whatever was cooking on the stove.
Lothíriel opened and closed her mouth several times. Éomer did not hold back his smile, for he had seen his lady wife bested few enough times. It was a shame enough he could not do it himself. But then he worried, for the look of dismay that accompanied her lost expression. "Queen," she murmured under her breath. She did not meet his eyes.
He cleared his throat awkwardly, and picked up the teapot. He was beginning to pour it himself when a spoon cracked across his knuckles. "None for you!" the Widow said, having reappeared. "I have fresh milk, or a spot of ale if you like. This tea is specially prepared for the queen." He raised his eyebrows as this, but complied. Lothíriel looked up at him, and to his immense surprise, flushed red. After a plate of scones had been set down, as well as butter and jam, she leaned across to whisper to him, "It is meant to increase fertility."
Ah. "You know, my dear," he said, casually buttering a scone for himself. "I have never seen you so discomposed. One might think you are a blushing bride."
"I am not timid in my affairs," she said, gritting her teeth. "I am simply feeling vulnerable this morning, that is all. Things always seem different in the light of day."
They did not speak again until Widow Halfa left, taking the dirty dishes with her. She had clearly done what she viewed as a good job in seeing they were sated, for there was little table space left under the full platters. Éomer set down his mug of milk, and caught his lady's wary gaze. "You are not regretting this," he said.
"Certainly not!" Her chin jutted forward. "I simply forgot the notion of being queen. Of course," she seemed to relax a bit, and took a sip of tea. "I have pondered the idea in the past months. What I would do, how I would act, what changes I would make. It is a matter of oversight, that is all," she paused for a moment. "I suppose since Edoras has been jilted of a royal wedding, they might insist on a proper coronation."
"Indeed."
She sighed. "I do dread the circumstance of it all. But do not misunderstand me," at this her eyes twinkled. "I find you perfect recompense for court life. I never considered that I would be so passionately in love with the man I married. I have been content living in Yuldburg, but I completely anticipate being more than joyful as mistress of your home."
"That is reassuring," Éomer said. "For I swore to Éothain I would return in two days."
Lothíriel choked on her tea. "Two days? We would have to leave tomorrow!"
He leaned back in his chair, still smiling. "I doubt Éothain imagines that I will return with a bride. Though if I send Elfhelm back with a message…he may not begrudge us an extra day or two."
Her responding grin was predatory. "If that is the case, husband, then we should make the most of our time, do you not agree, hmm?"
.
.
It was a proper holiday. Pleasant walks in the mountain paths, a single and particularly cold swim in the river, and rides through seas of ripening wild grass. Every night Éomer held his wife in his arms, and she held him in return. He found that he came apart at her touch, for though this intimacy was only beginning to blossom, it held promises that would multiply the strengths of their love.
It was soon decided that Éomer needed to return to Edoras, and Lothíriel would need to step into her new roles. Her belongings were packed quickly, and a second and far more proper feast was held for them in the village - this one with many tears from Rowyn and several poorly disguised throat-clearings from Widow Halfa. His wife would make an exceptional queen, he knew, as he witnessed the obvious affection she held for the members of her little hamlet and the adoration they had for her in return. She had saved them from ruin, while ensuring their fruitful future. She had given them hope, and he as well.
She rode with him on Firefoot for the short journey with Chaser trailing behind, having been demoted to carrying his mistress's possessions. Lothíriel leaned forward slightly to enjoy the wind in her hair at high speed. Or, to tempt him with a certain part of her anatomy pressing against a certain part of his own. She certainly was the type of woman to do so, he was learning. He could smell her special scent, and with the Golden Hall in sight, he closed his eyes briefly and thought, This is it. This is what I have waited for.
.
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Verse at the beginning of the chapter written by Bill Whelen.
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Hooray! They're together! This is my favorite chapter - it is also the very first one that I wrote for this story :) There is still a bit left, to tie up loose ends.