Lothíriel felt as if she had been pinned to be bed by a pile of rocks. Perhaps it was her exhaustion that kept her from making the effort of waking, or that her sore muscles from the night of running and lifting buckets of water were now incredibly, ferociously sore.

She did not even have the will to open her eyes.

That may have been in part because she was in Éomer's bed, in his bedchamber, and she was not quite sure how she felt about that. Her preconceptions of the morning after her wedding were that she would wake, snuggled up with her husband, having spent the evening before getting over her shyness around him and comfortable with the idea of intimacy. That certainly had not been the case.

If she opened her eyes, the room would be bright; somehow she could not carry out the activates she had been anticipating the previous night in full daylight. Is that what would Éomer expect of her, since their wedding night had passed unconsummated?

Lothíriel rolled over, grimacing as a muscle in her leg cramped. She lay spread out on the bed, and she realized that it was empty. Her eyes flew open at last, and she took in the mussed covers next to her. Éomer had joined her there after the fire was quenched, no? Where could he be now?

A soft knock sounded at the door, and before she could compose herself, it opened—and a troupe of servants tromped through, lugging a massive bathtub, jugs of steaming water, and a pair of trays filled with food.

"Good morning, ma'am," Hamwyn said, her cheery face appeared amongst the ranks. "Hope we didn't wake ye. The king ordered all this—" she gestured to the chaos, "For ye this morn. I hope ye passed a restful night, after all the excitement."

Lothíriel suppressed a blush, and smiled at the older woman. "Restful enough," she said. "Where is Éomer now?"

"I saw him speaking with yer father, ma'am. He said he would be right along."

She sat up in the bed, yawning and waving to Hamwyn as the servants filed out once more. Perhaps her father would keep Éomer long enough for her to enjoy a bath. She rubbed her bare arms, smearing the dirt and soot over her skin, and black spots appeared on the fresh white linens on the bed. Lothíriel grimaced once more, and tried to brush it away.

The door swung open again, this time without a knock, and Lothíriel startled. Éomer stepped through, casting her a quick smile before examining the new additions to the room. "Good, good," he said, his voice louder than normal. She noticed his face was as dirty as he had last night, though he was wearing fresh clothing. "Hamwyn was quick. What do you say—breakfast first, or a bath? Or should I say, would you prefer a hot breakfast or a hot bath? You may not be fortunate enough to indulge in both today."

His behavior was perfectly normal, at least, and Lothíriel relaxed at his familiar, friendly grin. "I believe I would prefer a bath first today," she said. "I am far too filthy to enjoy a meal."

He studied her from across the room, having not come any closer to her, which brought back her discomfort. "You slept in your clothes," he said, looking her up and down.

"Yes. Did—didn't you?"

Éomer's grin widened, and at this insinuation Lothíriel flushed bright red. "Well," she said, lifting her chin to appear unbothered. "I cannot wear my clothing during my bath, and so if you could, er—leave, or—"

"Leave? No, ma'am. Someone needs to ensure that you do not drown."

She regarded him crossly, and he continued, "I am afraid I am rather in need of a bath as well, Lothie. I was hoping to appeal to your good nature and beg to join you."

Nothing Hamwyn had told her about the intimacy between a husband and wife prepared her for this notion, and Lothíriel's mind reeled. Then she shook herself—she trusted Éomer in all things, and this as well. She had to be brave; there was no point in delaying any longer, and she nodded at him.

"Excellent!" Éomer strode forward, taking her hands in his before pulling her upward, kissing her thoroughly on the lips. Lothíriel felt dazed when he finally pulled away, and he grinned down at her. "I know our wedding night was—well, it was not precisely what you—or I—had imagined. Ahem. I am sorry, Lothie."

"No matter," she managed to say. He still held her awfully close.

"Look here," he said, his tone low as he stared intently into her eyes. "I know it would have been better—less uncomfortable I mean—in darkness, but Lothie! Tonight is your coronation and at the moment I detest even the very thought of sharing you with guests; both tonight and for the remainder of the celebrations. I cannot sit through another feast pretending to enjoy it, when all I truly wish is to be alone with you!"

Lothíriel smiled tremulously up at him, and his features softened. "I want you to be the best loved woman in the Mark, sweet girl," Éomer said. "And I want everyone to know that their king loves his queen above all else."

"Above even your country?" she teased.

"Yes," he said at once. "I love you more than the Riddermark. I could very well live anywhere else—but I could never love another."

"Oh, Éomer!" Lothíriel sighed, and a hungry glint grew in his eyes before he kissed her again, and again, and— "Bath now," he said, his voice hoarse. "Or by the time we get to it, both the water and the meal will be cold."

Lothíriel turned away to undress herself with trembling fingers, and she could hear Éomer removing his clothing nearby. Her wedding dress was completely ruined; it was covered in black soot and the hem looked as if it had been dipped in mud—which, of course, it had. Her underclothes were not much better, and she unlaced her ruined corset and threw it onto the pile of discarded clothes. Sleeping fully dressed had wrinkled everything—Lothíriel made a mental note to apologize to the laundry staff.

"You are terribly slow today," Éomer said, and she felt him embrace her from behind, his body warming her as he kissed the top of her head. "Surely you are not nervous."

"No," she said, and turned to snuggle into his arms. "Perhaps a trifle apprehensive, but not nervous."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, and Lothíriel smiled to herself. Her shift, the only clothing separating her breasts from his bare chest, was seeming awfully thin. "Come on then," he said. "I will undress you myself if you continue to drag your feet! Though you would be deserving of a tepid bath, if it came to that."

"If anyone deserves a tepid bath, it is you," she said, fixing him with a severe stare. "Infringing upon my bath in such a way."

Éomer did not respond, and without warning he bent over to haul her upon his shoulder, and she gasped. "Put me down!" she said, not daring to pound her fists against his bare back, though she wanted to. She was walked over to the tub before he obliged, and Lothíriel scowled at the smug grin on his face.

"Join me," he said. She barely had time to cover her eyes before he left her side, and likely exposing his entire body to her view.

"A warning, next time," she said, and turned away at the sound of water sloshing around as he entered the tub, spraying her with stray droplets. "Now, close your eyes."

"No, ma'am."

"Éomer—"

"Fine. Hurry along."

Lothíriel shrugged the shift over her head, taking a deep breath as she felt the cool air brush against her skin as the shift fell to the floor. She turned back to the bathtub, keeping her eyes away from her husband as she put one trembling foot in, and then the other, before sitting down with her knees at her chest. The water was warm, but the sensation of Éomer's limbs so close to hers was disconcerting. She wished again that the awkwardness had been dealt with the night before!

"May I open my eyes now?" Éomer asked.

Lothíriel looked up, confirming that he had been obedient to her wishes by keeping his eyes shut, and her throat went dry at the sight of his nakedness. She had never seen an entirely nude man before, and she swallowed. His shoulders were burnished by the sun, the muscles glistening from the water. How different that the sooty, grimy torso she had seen last night! Her knees began to shake. "Yes," she choked, and lowered her eyes.

"Béma, Lothie! You look scared to death."

She felt his hands grip her arms, which had been clenched around her knees, and was drawn forward with a splash into his embrace. "Lothie," he said gently. "I am not your executioner. I am your husband!"

"I know," she said in a small voice. "I am sorry, Éomer—I think I have made this worse for myself—at least in part. I was a little nervous when I woke; I was unprepared to have to face this for the first time in daylight."

"Consider yourself forgiven." He nuzzled her neck, and Lothíriel shivered. "Now it is my turn for a confession," he said, and pulled back to smile warmly at her. "I peeked."

His unrepentant tone brought on gales of laughter, and Lothíriel satisfied herself with giving him a pinch on the arm for retaliation. "You are intolerable!" she said, trying to admonish him but only making him laugh harder.

"I will take that as a compliment," Éomer said. "Now, forget your embarrassment and let me wash you."

…

The sunset cast slants of light across the bed, and the breeze that wafted through the open window ruffled the curtains. Lothíriel could hear the king's dogs barking from the other side of Meduseld, but it was far enough away to not disturb their peace. Having just woken from a short doze, she yawned and turned on her side, snuggling up close to her husband.

As little sleep as she had gotten the night before, she knew Éomer had gotten less. He had informed her at some point of the day (she could not remember precisely when), that he had awakened at dawn to make sure that the clean-up was proceeding well in hand, and to ensure that her father was comfortable as a guest in the hall. And so when he had fallen asleep an hour or so earlier, Lothíriel had not disturbed him, revelling alone with her private thoughts and feelings before drifting off herself.

Goose pimples broke out across her skin as she felt Éomer's fingers drift lazily upwards on her bare back, though his face remained impassive. "Surely you are not faking your slumber," Lothíriel said, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Never," he mumbled. "I am merely delaying reality a little. Lothie...you have made me so happy."

She could not hold back her smile, and she propped herself on her elbows to kiss his bearded cheek. "Yet I feel that it is nothing compared to what you have given me," she said. "I do love you, Éomer."

His lips turned upwards. "You have informed me of that several times today already, my sweet girl."

"I simply wish you to know it."

Éomer finally opened his eyes, adjusting himself so that he looked down at her, and Lothíriel found her back pressed against the pillows once more, her heart thumping fast at the expression in his eyes. Lothíriel wove her fingers into his thick mane of hair and pulled him down for a kiss. A very long kiss, in fact—despite her lips feeling chapped and dry from the amount of kissing which had already been accomplished that day. She marvelled that her nervousness had disappeared hours earlier, and in its place a very cozy feeling that she could touch Éomer as often as she wanted. It was unexpected, considering what sort of marriage she might have had, married to a Gondorian. How thankful she was for her Rohirric husband and all the love he gave her!

Éomer's hands were just brushing along her legs when a knock sounded at the door. He pulled himself away from her, looking put out. "Who is it?" he barked.

"It is Hamwyn, sire," came the older woman's voice. "I am sorry to interrupt, but the ceremony is to begin in an hour, and I must see that yer wife is properly attired for it."

He groaned, and Lothíriel smiled at his annoyance. "I would rather you stay un-attired," he muttered to her.

"And I would prefer to be dressed, if I am to be seen in public," she said, feeling the muscles in his arm flex under her hands before calling, "Hamwyn, do return in five minutes or so. I need some time to remove my husband from the chamber."

"But it is my chamber," Éomer protested, though he rolled off of her at her gentle push.

"Not any longer; it is ours. And if you stay, I shall be driven to distraction. More than I am already," she added, and stood to fetch a dressing gown, covering herself despite Éomer shaking his head at her. "You ought to dress yourself!" Lothíriel said as he continued to lie prone. "I should hate to be coronated by Elfhelm."

Éomer growled, and as she'd hoped—left the bed, scrounged around for his state-occasion clothing in a wardrobe, and dressed himself, shooting her reproachful glances as he tied the laces on his tunic. He was finished rather quickly, but lingered to give Lothíriel a long and passionate kiss before leaving the room, bowing to Hamwyn, who entered in a panic.

"What little time we have, lass! We must hurry!"

But of course, with Hamwyn's expert skills, Lothíriel was ready in plenty of time. Éomer had not returned to escort her, and unwilling to wait upon him, she left alone, feeling oddly exposed but not uncomfortable as she made her way to the hall, the deep red trail of her ceremonial gown trailing behind her. To her astonishment, her father was waiting by the entrance to the hall, and held out his hand to her as she approached.

"Lothíriel," he said gravely, and bent to kiss her, once on each cheek. "You look the perfect queen."

"Thank you, Father."

"And—" he paused, looking odd. "You have acted the perfect queen as well, Lothíriel. I am proud of you; for your actions during the fire, and for having heart enough to fight for the man you love. I am...sorry."

A warm rush of gratitude made Lothíriel's heart squeeze. "I love you, Father," she said. "And I am sorry that I have never said it until now." Dearly she wished to embrace him, but decided not to press it. "Will you take me in?" she asked. "This last time."

He smiled, the lines on his face relaxing. "One last time."