The King had said he didn't know how long he and the Queen would be staying as guests to the Lord Celeborn, and so the company of the riders at the edge of the wood were left waiting. The second day after the Lord and Lady of the Mark had passed into the wood, a group of Elves brought them supplies to last for a while, along with tents, so the riders would be well off during the absence of their king.

There wasn't much to do while waiting, except to look after the horses, occasional battle training and daily rides to the plains; the men did not wish to venture far into the woods as to not get lost in the unfamiliar forest. The horses were well off as well, grazing freely near the camp-site. The King's mearh stallion was the only one to occasionally leave, but Éomer had instructed to let him wander as he pleased – not that any man in the company would have hindered the animal in the first place. Every other morning they might find the stallion gone, and a couple of days might pass by without them seeing a glimpse of him, but he returned every time.

The edge of the wood was as any in the world, and it did not give a particularly Elvish impression to the riders who had stayed behind. But who knew what one would find, should he venture into the heart of the forest?

"What do you think it's like in that wood?" Alger asked one of the older riders named Folcred one morning as they sat by a camp fire eating some breakfast. His friend had been riding with the King ever since Kin-strife, just like Alger himself.

The other man shrugged as an answer.

"I can't even imagine. I suppose it's very Elvish", Folcred commented.

"They're strange people. Not at all like I thought they would be", Alger said pensively and took a bite of a loaf of bread. It had been provided by the Elves as well.

"Aye. I get the feeling they don't much care for us", said his friend. The words made the younger rider frown – it didn't seem to make much sense.

"Why do you think that is?" he asked curiously.

"They say Elves are leaving the mortal lands. If that's true, what could they possibly want with us?" Folcred asked back. Alger had no answer, and the conversation effectively ended there.

The time they spent at the edge of the wood went by quietly, but there was one incident to disturb the peace. One misty morning, after Alger had woken up and made it to check on the horses, he found the dead carcass of a single stray orc. One could but wonder where it had come from, though Alger wasn't surprised: many of these nasty creatures still lived in hiding. A flock of horses must have seemed like an irresistible prize for a famished orc.

Shouting for other riders brought several of them to the site, and all of them looked at the corpse in wonder.

"You think it was alone? Where did it come from?" Alger asked, though he knew no one had a better guess than himself.

"Who knows? Maybe it was driven out by its peers – they say orcs have gone to the mountains. I'm more interested as to why horses didn't make a sound", commented Folcred. His question was a very good one, for these were warhorses, taught to be suspicious towards strangers and especially orcs. By all means they should have alarmed their riders.

Upon closer inspection Alger noticed the bloody wounds on the orc's head. He couldn't say what had made the injuries, and chances were the matter would have remained a mystery. However, when after a while it was deemed nothing more could be said by the carcass, and Alger proceeded to care for the horses, he got his answer. For as he carefully checked on Silfren's legs, he noticed the bloodstains on the stallion's front hooves. Those were dried now, but he could very well imagine where they had come from. It didn't take him long to put together two and two, and realise why no one had been able to tell the origin of the wounds.

Feeling a little shaken he sought to speak with Folcred again. The man had been left in charge while the King and his Captain were absent, making Folcred the one to receive reports.

"I think I know what killed that orc", Alger said in a low voice. His words made the older man lift up his eyebrows in curiosity.

"What is it, then?" asked Folcred.

"I believe it was the King's stallion. I found some bloodstains on his hooves... I think the wound looked like it could have been left by those", said the younger rider. Folcred's eyes widened slightly – they both knew that warhorses could even kill when they perceived danger. But if a warhorse attacked, the animal was likely to trample his foe... but then, Silfren was no ordinary horse.

"It would explain why the other horses did not make a sound. He is their leader and he made sure the orc was not a problem", Folcred said in a faint voice.

They both looked at where the silver stallion was grazing, completely at ease now. But neither of the two men let it fool them. After all they had seen and heard, they knew better.

"I never thought I'd say something like this, but that is one terrifying horse."

There was song in the air, gentle and soft, when Lothíriel woke up. It held a kind of sweetness and sorrow, born of long ages and fading, that she could not imagine a mortal composing such music. But even though the colour of it was sadness, it did not dampen her mind. Rather, she felt deeply peaceful. Here she was, in the land of Lórien, resting beside her husband and about them were the sweet fragrances of the forest and voices of Elves singing...

For some time, she lay motionless, just listening to the sounds outside. It was difficult to say if the day was early or late, because in the shade of mellyrn light was different than the brightness on the plains of the Mark. Be that as it may, she knew it didn't really matter what time of the day it was. There were no every day labours and chores waiting for them, no council meetings, no one to demand their time. It was a strange thing to realise, because ordinary life did not usually provide her or Éomer with such leisure.

She heard him sighing deeply, and then he turned towards her. As his arms snaked their way about her, he sleepily sought her lips with his own. Happily she answered the kiss, melting against him. Warmth and light swelled in her heart; even now there were still moments when a kind of gratefulness would come to her, knowing how close it had been she'd have lost this.

"Good morning", he murmured when he had pulled back (though only just slightly). She smiled at him, entangling her fingers in his long mane.

"Good morning", she replied and reached to kiss his lower lip. The hold of his arms about her became tighter.

"Do you want to get up yet?" asked her husband, so close that their breaths mingled. The rough texture of his voice and the heat of his skin against hers instantly gave her several better ideas than leaving the bed. So, as an answer she just kissed him... and he needed no other response.

It was over an hour later that they joined the Riders for a very late breakfast. Like last night, the meal was served outside, and even the pickier members of the Guard heartily helped themselves with Elven food. If she and Éomer were on a light mood, so were they, laughing and jesting like there was no care in the world.

Lothíriel had just finished her breakfast when on her side appeared an Elven woman. She was fair and lithe, as one would expect of the Immortal, clad in silver-grey and her long shadowy hair flowing freely on her shoulders. Her arrival earned curious glances from the Riders, even some starry-eyed looks. When she spoke, it was in Sindarin.

"My lady of Rohan. Lord Celeborn bids you and your lord husband good day and hopes you have rested well after your long journey. He also asked me to bring you this", she said, offering Lothíriel a delicately made goblet. It held a drink of pale liquid with slight golden tint.

"Thank you, but may I ask what is it?" Lothíriel asked as she received the vessel. A strange little smile touched the face of the Elven woman.

"My lord Celeborn hopes it will help with the matter that has troubled you, if you drink it every day as long as you stay as his guest", she merely said and bowed her head. Then, before the young queen had time to react from her surprised stupor, the woman had already curtsied and turned away.

Éomer looked at his queen and the unspoken question was in his eyes. She touched his arm and spoke softly, "I will explain later."

Then she lifted the cup to her lips and drank. She couldn't really describe the taste, but it wasn't bad – if anything, it was very fresh and light, and there was something flowery about the after-taste. She had no idea if it would help... only time would show, really.

In the land of Lórien time did not seem to have meaning. It was almost as though the Elven atmosphere somehow affected its passage, creating a world entirely different and separate from that of mortal Men. For the first time since their return to Rohan – and before that, even – Lothíriel felt like there was nothing really concerning her mind. The matters of the realm, duties of the Queen, battles and traitors and the very survival itself... as Lord Celeborn had promised, there was indeed rest and healing in this Elven realm.

Looking at Éomer, she saw him like he had not been ever since he had ridden south. She wouldn't notice anything tense about his posture or his expression, and no shadow in his gaze would speak of troubled thoughts. He was smiling and laughing and jesting with his Riders, often challenging her into light and loving banter, and not on a single night did she wake up to see him in the middle of a nightmare. Often she would find him humming to himself a Rohirric tune or even trying one of Elven songs they heard in Lórien. In his eyes and face she saw the young king she had fallen in love with.

Hand in hand they would wander the city of Caras Galadhon, exploring its paths and glades and shadowy ponds. She would walk bare-footed, with elanor and niphredil in her hair, as though a carefree Elf-child. Often they would stay up late listening to the songs of the Elves as they lifted up their voices in reverence of Elbereth Queen of Stars, and watch heaven's lights in those night hours. Each evening their host would meet them over supper and they would talk of great many things; but best of all were the times Lord Celeborn would share tales of distant years. When he spoke of the shadows in early days of Doriath, the first sunrise, the devastating wars, and of Elven kingdoms long gone, Lothíriel felt like she had been there with him to see those wondrous things. There was so much wonder and beauty in this land even now, she couldn't even imagine how it must have been like in the high days of glory. Even so, she could not wait to tell Ceolwen and Scýne all about this place of enchantment. She felt like she was only starting to understand the words "more fair than mortal tongues can tell".

One day Lord Celeborn himself asked Éomer to join him for a sparring session, which invitation he gladly accepted. As though enchanted Lothíriel watched them, thinking to herself she had never seen such sophisticated fighting before. Afterwards, her husband seemed a bit like a man who has long wandered in darkness, and suddenly found light amid shadows – once he returned to the training grounds of Edoras, his sparring partners would be in for quite a lesson. As for herself, she got to practise her archery with some of the Elves of the Wood. Lothíriel was fairly sure her own expression was similar to Éomer's once the session was ended.

On some idle moments, she would teach him Sindarin. It was useful at any rate, because not all the Elves of Lórien knew any Westron. He appeared to adapt it very quickly, and she wondered if the atmosphere of the Elven land somehow boosted learning the language.

Once, he commented on her command of the tongue: "How come you speak Sindarin like one of the Elves? Is that another proof you are an Elven changeling after all?"

She laughed at that, especially because Éomer managed to make it sound like he genuinely believed it.

"It was used in my family just as much as Westron, if not more. My late grandfather believed that being able to speak Sindarin is a requirement for any civilised person. It remained our family's language even after he was gone", she explained. Her husband scoffed softly.

"I imagine he would be delighted to know his granddaughter married a man who can barely introduce himself in Sindarin", he commented wryly.

"Your Sindarin isn't that bad", she informed him. "But to be honest, I think he would have expected me to marry someone of Númenórean descent. He would have been shocked to witness my choice."

She saw his expression and patted his arm, "Don't worry. I would have told him to mind his own business."

"I do not doubt that one bit", Éomer said and smiled.

Time did seem irrelevant indeed and the thought of leaving and going home was somehow faraway, but even then Lothíriel could quickly say for sure it had been a good decision to travel to Lórien. It offered them some sorely needed time away from the burdens of ruling, and especially of the ever-present matter of how the realm still had no heir. For though she was brought that same drink of pale gold every day, and whether it worked would not be revealed right away, Lothíriel did not feel so troubled anymore. Rather, the gnawing fear and doubt were replaced with a hopeful feeling.

"It is curious, I have to say – I used to believe this an evil dark place, full of witchcraft", Éomer commented on a morrow week after their arrival. They had yet to find it in themselves to leave the bed: he rested against some pillows and she lay on her stomach watching him.

He went on speaking, "Now each day seems to prove a little more how wrong I was."

Lothíriel scratched her chin absent-mindedly. She asked: "Why were Rohirrim so suspicious of this place?"

Éomer shrugged.

"I doubt there was any logical reason to it... just old stories and superstitions. And you have seen the Elves yourself... how overwhelming they can be sometimes."

"Hmm. That is true", she agreed and her brow furrowed slightly as she thought back to the days in Minas Tirith... the wedding of Aragorn and Arwen and all the great Elven guests. She looked at her husband then, "Did you ever speak with the Lady Galadriel?"

"Not in depth, really", he answered and leant back his head. "Those were some busy days, I didn't have much time for socialising. And what can one say to someone like her? I do not know why that is, but Lord Celeborn always seemed, and still does, more approachable."

"Hmm. You are right", she said and rolled on her side. Thoughtfully she spoke again, "She always had this smile on her face when she looked at me. It felt like she knew every little thing about me. Maybe she even knew what would happen... Elves have foresight, don't they?"

"The Lady did at least make one feel like she does", he said wryly. Then his expression became thoughtful, "Still... sometimes I wonder how he could bear to let her go alone, and how he could stay behind when she left. It seems like... it makes me think of how it felt like in the captivity and I didn't know if I'd ever see you again."

She rolled over next to him and his arm closed about her as she sought a place for her head against his shoulder.

"He knows how to find her. They are Immortal – they know they will see each other again... even if an Age passes before they do", she said at length, running her fingers across his skin. She glanced up at him, "But I know what you mean. I haven't... I don't know if I'll ever forget how it felt like when Amrothos came to Pelargir and said you were presumed dead. I couldn't believe it... and yet it still seemed that in a single moment, you were removed from me to the very end of the world."

He brushed the back of his fingers across her cheek and lay his hand against her neck.

"I am glad you didn't let that stop you", Éomer murmured and pulled her into a kiss.

Lord Celeborn was the one inhabitant of the Wood they met most often, and wandering the paths of Lórien one would indeed notice that the population of the realm was not what it must have been in days gone by. It was a fading kingdom like Haldir had said, and the sorrow of that fading was on many faces. This had been a home to these Elves for longer than she could imagine and it was bitter for them to let go of it. Perhaps the knowledge of letting go was also why most of the Elves did not often approach the mortal guests, but among the younger of their kind there were some who were more curious and interested. These would provide the King's Riders with many sparring sessions, or seek them to exchange war stories, or even try and teach some Sindarin to the bearded mortals. Edelric seemed quite apt in learning it and he was soon having short conversations with those who would seek the company of the Riders.

The fair-faced Elven males also roused a banter between the royal couple at one occasion.

"Should I be worried you are considering running off with some Elven lord?" Éomer asked, trying to hide his smile but not quite succeeding. "Your father does call you a fay's child."

Lothíriel chuckled at his words.

"No, I'm not planning to run off. Mostly because there is this certain fellow, and I'm very fond of him – I wouldn't bear to leave him. Not to mention I couldn't possibly elope with anyone who doesn't have a beard", she told him. Her words made him laugh, and then he gave her a long, bearded kiss.

A/N: Here's a little more of Lórien! I hope you are enjoying this interlude as much as I am. :) I think Éomer and Lothíriel really needed this little vacation and they both are certainly enjoying it to the fullest.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Thalia - Thank you! I'm glad you liked it. :)

Jo - Thanks! And it was entertaining to write about Lórien - still is, in fact!

Miss Pixie M - Even so, I'm happy to see you're still following the story. :) I love to hear from my readers. And yes, Lothíriel is definitely feeling much better now. :)

brandibuckeye - I thought so too. Lórien is not an environment you usually see them in.

Wondereye - As am I! :)