Author's Note: I'm back! I have no real excuse for why this took so long to write, other than the fact that inspiration COMPLETELY deserted me, and that the holiday season is a very busy time both professionally and personally for me. Thank you for your patience!
Without further ado, the newest update! It's a little shorter than my average-I had intended in having the wedding in this chapter too, but when I hit 11 pages in the GDoc and hadn't written it, I realized I'd be cramming it in and not giving it the full description it deserves if I did so. So that'll be the next update.
In which wedding planning hits full swing, Andrethon and Eomer have a chat, and Lothiriel learns more about the Mark's wedding tattoos.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
February 12th, T.A. 3020, Edoras, Rohan
Dear Ada and Naneth,
I know you will receive Uncle Andrethon's letter as well as the formal agreement regarding Lisswyn and Erchirion's marriage along with this one, but it felt strange not to write you both myself. Uncle and the council have come to an agreeable solution for all involved, thank the Valar. Which is a relief, for I can tell you with confidence that they truly are a good match, in so many ways. Erchirion is happier than I have ever seen.
I hope this is something of a comfort to you. I know you must be more upset than your letter to the council let on, Ada. And Elbereth knows they could have gone about it in a more responsible way. But I cannot begrudge them-either of them-their happiness. I hope you will not either.
And dear Naneth, I will be sure to write again after the wedding, for I know you will want me to be as detailed as possible. How I wish you could both be here! And Elphir and Alycia and the children-even Amrothos, though I can only imagine the teasing he is going to heap upon Erchirion for being anything other than his "usual boringly responsible self". But I will do my best to give you an account of everything, from their clothes all the way down to the last petal showered on their heads in celebration.
I must hurry, for even now Uncle's poor messenger is giving me a pleading look, eager to be on the roads whilst the sun is still shining. I love you both and will see you soon, for Uncle Andrethon has told me that I am to return with him once Erchirion and Lisswyn are settled. I must admit, it will be strange to leave Rohan. For all of its differences to Dol Amroth, I have come to love it, love its people, love-
Lothiriel pauses, chewing on her lip. She can feel the eyes of her uncle's messenger boring into her-she has kept him waiting ten minutes already, though his horse is saddled and he is otherwise well ready to depart.
Should she finish the sentence with the truth? That she loves not only Rohan, but the man who rules it? Uncle has already told her he would not be saying such a thing in his own letter-"I am not a man who makes a habit of sharing delicate information via letters, little flower, especially when it is not something that pertains to my own heart,"-and unless Alycia has become loose-lipped in the time she's been away, it's very unlikely they would have heard of her and Eomer's not-quite-courtship.
But her parents have already received more than their fair share of shocking news via letters this year. It feels...wrong, to not tell them, but more wrong still to add to their worries by declaring such a thing when she is not present to explain the whole tale.
...love the lessons I have learned here. I must thank you again for allowing me to stay, Ada. It has been some of the best days of my life-even with Erchirion's "stunning impression of an utter buffoon", as Uncle puts it.
All my love,
Lothiriel
The messenger-Nodron, she thinks-plucks the letter from her fingers the instant she's sealed it. Lothiriel frowns at his rudeness, but is prevented from scolding him by the sudden appearance of a frazzled-looking Wilfled at her shoulder.
"Good, you're finished," she says, tucking her arm through Lothiriel's and all but dragging her towards Eowyn's rooms. "We need you."
"Wilfled, what-"
Wilfled pushes the doors open, revealing a flurry of activity. Dresses in an array of fabric, cut, and color are strewn across Eowyn's bed. Lisswyn, her face flushed bright pink, is surrounded by three of her friends and Mistress Theodburga, who are turning her to-and-fro in a gown that is a truly startling shade of purple. Eowyn is scowling at them, with a perplexed-looking Darwyn on her hip.
"What is happening here?" Lothiriel asks. Though she'd asked it in a low tone, the room abruptly goes silent, every eye turning to meet her gaze.
"Oh, thank Bema," groans Eowyn. "Perhaps these ninnies will hear sense from you, Lothiriel, if not from me."
Mistress Theodburga frowns. "You cannot fault us for fretting, Eowyn. Even I do not know what a proper Gondorian wedding dress is supposed to look like."
Ah, Lothiriel thinks. Yes, this she can handle.
She drifts closer to the flustered group, reaching out to clasp one of Lisswyn's hands in her own. "Are you well?" She asks, because her soon-to-be sister looks more than a little overwhelmed.
"I do not like the color," she admits, in small voice, "but Ceolwen insists it is the color of royalty-"
"Well it is!" One of the women, blonde and thin as a reed, with a slightly pinched voice to match. "And that is what you are to be once you wed your prince, Lisswyn, so you might as well get used to it!"
Lisswyn's face shifts from red to white rapidly and Lothiriel shoots Ceolwen a dark look. Surely she knows of Lisswyn's shyness? Mentioning her forthcoming change in status is hardly a calming thought in an already stressful situation.
"The titles of Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth are not the same as those given to our High King and Queen. Especially for you and Erchirion, considering that Elphir will eventually take over as the ruling Prince," she soothes, rubbing Lisswyn's ice cold fingers reassuringly. "Think of them more as...highly ranking nobles. Like those on Eomer King's council."
Lisswyn relaxes, minutely, but the three women exchange looks that Lothiriel is sure she does not like.
"Eomer King, is it?" Another woman, a vaguely familiar ditch-water blonde-freckled and mischievous-looking-murmurs. "I am surprised you are still so formal about him, my lady!"
"Yes," Rosefled, so recently arrived from Aldburg, chimes in, though her expression is earnest in place of teasing. "We thought-well, we had heard-"
"Never mind what you heard," Eowyn snaps. "You three are here to help Lisswyn, not pester Lothiriel about some rumor."
Lothiriel offers her friend a grateful smile for her intervention. Though, they are not the first to have asked her about Eomer. And anyone close enough to Lisswyn to help her with her wedding clothes are likely cut from a good cloth. She is certain they are simply curious, as anyone would be.
"Ugh, you are no fun, Eowyn!" Says the freckled woman. "But fine. We are here to help and help we shall. Especially with aid from the princess."
Lothiriel smiles before turning her attention to the dresses spread across the bed. In truth, none of them match the traditions of Gondor, though the rich greens and reds and golds would all look lovely against Lisswyn's fair coloring. But Dol Amrothian brides tend to wear the colors of the sea-soft greens, bold blues, and even gentle greys, in order to call down the blessings of Ulmo.
Lisswyn's friends blink in surprise when she says as much, but Mistress Theodburga moves, shifting the pile aside to reveal a beautiful soft grey gown. It nearly sparkles when she lifts it to the light. All present sigh appropriately.
"I think this suits you much more than the purple," Lothiriel says. "And will go wonderfully with the veil."
"The veil?"
"Oh! I thought I had showed you!"
She pulls the item in question forth, laying the lace veil in Lisswyn's outstretched hands. She is not as fine at lacework as Alycia, but she is satisfied with what she has been able to cobble together. It is edged with flowers per Dol Amrothian tradition, but with Eowyn's help she'd been able to find a Rohirric sun to pattern after, which will sit like a crown atop Lisswyn's head. Both flowers and sun call for blessings of happiness and fidelity, from Vana and Bema alike. It is a blend of traditions, as the rest of the wedding will be. As the rest of Erchirion and Lisswyn's marriage will be.
Lisswyn has tears in her eyes as the other women coo over the veil. "Lothiriel, this is lovely."
"And the flowers match the ones that will be in your wedding mark!" Cries Rosefled. "Oh, Lothiriel, how did you know?"
"Erchirion showed me the designs you'd agreed on," she admits. "I hope that's alright."
"More than alright," Lisswyn assures her. "Will you all help me put them both on?"
Her friends set to work, keeping up a stream of cheerful chatter as they do so. The back of Lothiriel's neck prickles as she turns to meet Mistress Theodburga's sharp gaze.
"So you do approve of this, then," the seamstress says. "Else I doubt you would have spent so much time on the veil."
Lothiriel frowns. Mistress Theodburga has always been polite, if professional, towards her before now. But there is a stiffness in the way she's regarding her at the moment. A wariness. A mistrust.
"I do wish they had gone about it in a better way," she murmurs, low enough not to be heard over the cheerful chattering of the other women. "But they are happy, Mistress Theodburga. That is enough for me."
Valar, but she is sick of having to say that! That she must lead with the qualifier that this marriage is untraditional, rushed, and it being so must limit her happiness for them in some way. As if their happiness is so small a thing, after so much death and loss.
The seamstress, though, softens a little. "That will be enough for most people. Once they have seen it with their own eyes."
Lothiriel bites her lip, ire lessening. She knows-how could she not?-that it is not just Eothain that disapproves of Erchirion's conduct. Mistress Theodburga's words confirm that, and also bring another worry to the light: that people think she disapproves, in any way, of Lisswyn. The long-ingrained urge to fret, to turn this over in her mind until she's a ball of confusion and doubt, is there, bubbling just under the surface.
But no. She has moved passed that now, the fear and the worry about other people's judgement.
If you are to be a Queen, a voice that sounds like Duilin whispers, best start acting like it.
"I am glad of it," she says, glad her voice is even and controlled. "As I know Lisswyn will be glad of your help in altering this gown, especially on such short notice."
Tension abated, they turn their attention back to the much more pleasant matter at hand. Eowyn drifts closer, pressing Lothiriel's elbow in a silent show of concern, but she waves it off with a small smile.
It will be well, she thinks.
The cool, crisp quiet of Morwen Queen's gardens is a much needed respite from the bustle going on within Meduseld. It was not the first time the hall had been used for a wedding-and it certainly won't be the last-but the underlying scandal surrounding this particular wedding has garnered the attention of everyone in Edoras. His headache, begun in the council meeting, has only steadily worsened at the continued chatter coming from what seems like every room in the keep.
Eomer takes a deep breath. Bema, he will be glad when it is all over. When Erchirion and Lisswyn are good and truly settled in Aldburg, when the councilors unable to mutter about any lingering doubts, when Eothain will stop giving him dark looks when he thinks he cannot see them.
And what about what else this wedding will bring?
Ah, yes. That. The Gondorians have made plans to escort Erchirion and Lisswyn to their new home as soon after the wedding as possible before continuing back to Dol Amroth. And Lothiriel will be going with them. He knows very well why. For all the trust Imrahil has in him, in her, there is simply no way she can remain in Edoras without a chaperone. And Eowyn will not suffice, not when there is the potential of a betrothal and Bema knows what else, thanks to Eothain's big mouth, all around them.
A breeze pulls at his cloak and he tugs it back in place, taking a moment to finger the intricate embroidery. Protection and warmth, from his þyrnihtu cwen, to keep with him even when she is gone. Logically, he knows it will only be a short separation. Eowyn has already asked Lothiriel to serve as one of her witnesses at her wedding to Faramir in May. Imrahil and Lady Dejah would never force her to deny his sister that, even if they should take issue with his suit. And why should they? He is a king, lord of a fell people, and Imrahil's friend. Most of all, he has Lothiriel's love-
Eomer, son of Eomund. A lesser son of greater sires, a voice whispers, sounding horribly like Wormtongue, rough and course and hot-tempered. Who are you, to think to lay claim to a daughter of the blood of Numenor?
The sound of someone clearing their throat jerks him from his reverie. Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, he turns to see who has interrupted his solitude.
It is not who he expects.
Lord Andrethon, wrapped in what must be a borrowed bundle of furs, is eyeing his own cloak with an expression Eomer can only describe as amused.
"That is a very fine cloak, Eomer King," he says.
Bema spare me from the platitudes of Gondorian courtiers, Eomer thinks. He had thought Lothiriel's Pelargirian family to be different than the lords of Minas Tirith. More straightforward, like his own people.
"Very fine indeed," the other man continues on, "though I will say, I have always been incredibly biased when it comes to Lothiriel's needlework."
Eomer cannot help the surprised snort he gives and is relieved to see Lord Andrethon grin as well.
"Is it so obvious?"
"Well, it's certainly not in the Rohirric style. And Dol Amrothian patterns are known throughout Gondor for their intricacy. That and my niece tends to leave her mark on anything she's ever made."
He nods in the direction of Eomer's shoulder. No, not his shoulder, but the border of the cloak on his left side. There, amongst the squared, solid pattern that indicates protection, is a tiny flower, stitched so delicately he had failed to notice before now.
"Lothiriel is an expert needlewoman and a very poor liar," Andrethon says. "So she must truly care for you as much as it seems."
Eomer is grateful that the cold that has already likely put some color into his cheeks. It won't do to have Lothiriel's family-especially her clearly beloved uncle-think he is some wet-behind the ears boy, smitten beyond reason. Though, given the way Andrethon is eyeing him, with a sharp, shrewd glint in his eye not unlike Imrahil's, Eomer supposes there is no point in trying to hide it. He is smitten beyond reason, after all.
"And I for her," he admits. "I know it would not follow Gondorian tradition, but I would marry her tomorrow, if she would have me."
Andrethon snorts. "I do not think it's a question of if, Eomer King. But let us leave the dubiously respectable weddings to my nephew and the Lady Lisswyn. I do not think my sister would forgive me were I to permit two of her children to marry without her being there."
There is a slight tightness to his expression as he says it and Eomer finds himself reaching over to clasp his shoulder. "I am sorry that it is so. It is no secret that their family is a close one. I know that missing such an event will bring both her and Imrahil pain. If there was another way that would allow for them to be here, I would have asked for it."
The older man blinks. "Even without knowing if Imrahil and Dejah will approve your suit?"
"Even then," Eomer says.
Andrethon eyes him-again, Eomer has the sensation of being...not judged, necessarily, but weighed. Evaluated. When his mouth turns up in a smile not unlike those he remembers from Lady Dejah at Aragorn and Arwen's wedding feast, he supposes he has not been found wanting.
"Yes, I can see why she likes you," he declares at last. "Though how you managed to woo her after calling her a 'prickly princess' for weeks still eludes me."
Snorting and wondering who'd shared that particular detail with him, Eomer gives a helpless shrug. "It baffles me as well. Though I have learned, of late, it is best not to question one's good fortune. Especially when it comes to a woman's judgement."
"A wise man in many respects, then," says Andrethon. "Come now, Eomer King, lest your advisors think I have come to broker your marriage amongst the snow and frozen flowers."
Despite all of the tension and gossip surrounding the wedding, the day begins on a positive note. The sunrise is a beautiful thing, bathing all of Edoras in soft, golden light. Lothiriel is awake to see it herself, ensconced in Wilfled and Eothain's house to help Lisswyn prepare. All menfolk-even including a yawning Eofor-have been long since banished. She'd been unsurprised that they'd dragged poor Erchirion off to one of the alehouses the night before to mark his last night as a single man. And likely interrogated him, one last time, for good measure. It's an age-old tradition, one that is the same in Rohan and Gondor and many other places in Middle Earth.
Lisswyn, though, seems very unsettled by the idea. "Eothain still does not like him," she says, fretting even as she cards her fingers through Darwyn's soft hair. "What if he had him drink too much ale?"
"A thick head would not be enough to prevent Erchirion from marrying you," Lothiriel promises. "And I doubt Eothred would permit such a thing, anyways."
"He nor Eothain would pull such a stunt," adds Wilfled. "For they both know they would face my wrath if they had."
"A truly terrifying prospect," Eowyn says drolly, earning a grin from Wilfled.
Fears at least somewhat lessened, it doesn't take much for them and the other women present-Rosefled, Ceolwen, and freckly Trewred-to distract her. It is a happy day, in spite of it all, and none of them will let her begin her married life in any other state than content.
Lisswyn, as the bride, is the only one yet to be fitted in her wedding finery. The other ladies-Lothiriel included-are all in their finest gowns. Most have flower crowns in their hair, again calling the blessings of Vana. But Eowyn had insisted on something different for Lothiriel. She touches her braid carefully, cautious not to dislodge any of the flowers woven through it. It had caused a titter she didn't understand, when Eowyn had placed them there, but thus far, no one was being very forthcoming as to why.
She jumps at the sudden swat of Eowyn's fingers against hers. "Stop fiddling! You have more important tasks at hand."
Lothiriel and Wilfled, as her already sister-in-law and soon-to-be one, are responsible for lacing Lisswyn into her gown. It stretches a bit taut over the swell of her stomach, but that's to be expected. Lothiriel cannot help but blink in surprise to see that Lisswyn's right arm-while marked with her wedding mark from her marriage to Widfara-does not bear the new wedding mark as well. The entire room laughs when she comments on it, making her cheeks pink in embarrassment.
"No one wants to have a sore arm on their wedding night, Lothiriel," Wilfled explains with a grin.
"Why would-" She snaps her mouth shut before she can make herself sound anything more like a silly little goose. Of course no one would want to be freshly tattooed the night of their wedding-it would make even the most gentle of bedding very uncomfortable. Though, wasn't it already supposed to be uncomfortable, for women? That's what the ladies of Minas Tirith had always implied from behind their fans. A wife's unfortunate duty, they had sighed. But having born witness to Naneth and Ada's happy marriage her whole life, and then later Elphir and Alycia's own loving union, that had never seemed right. And thinking of the now-visible swell of Lisswyn's stomach, the obvious affection-and lust, it must be said-between Eothain and Wilfled, and the way Eomer had made her feel that day in this very room-
"Don't be so embarrassed, my lady!" Trewred laughs, mercifully misreading Lothiriel's still red face. "It's an easy enough reason to overlook for a maiden."
"Wedding marks are done the day after the wedding," Eowyn explains. "Well, or the day after that. It depends on when the newly-wedded couple decides to finally reemerge from their rooms."
"I think Wilfled and Eothain hold the record for the longest time between their actual wedding and getting their marks," Ceolwen says, smirking. "How long was it, Wilfled?"
"Five days," she answers, smiling dreamily. "All wonderfully spent."
"It was mortifying," Lisswyn says to Lothiriel in a loud tone. "Every man in Aldburg whistled at Eothain every time he went anywhere for weeks."
Lothiriel cannot help but laugh; the image of Eothain strutting around Aldburg like a particularly large and proud rooster is all too easy to picture.
"Perhaps you and your prince should outdo us," Wilfled says, voice sly. "Give Eothain a reason to cringe, for once."
It is Lisswyn's turn to blush as the rest of the room dissolves into laughter. They manage to compose themselves long enough to help Lothiriel pin the veil to Lisswyn's hair. She truly is a beautiful bride, the shine of her copper hair standing out against the soft silver of her gown and the bright white of the veil. Darwyn declares she looks like moonlight and receives a kiss for her compliment.
The sudden knock on the door makes them all jump.
"I hope it is merely dressing that is taking so long," comes Eothain''s voice, "and not cold feet!"
Wilfled rolls her eyes at her husband's antics. "As if you have ever been on time for anything in your life," she says, crossing the room to open the door. "And this is no time for teasing! Be a good brother and tell your sister how lovely she looks."
A remarkably well-groomed Eothain grumbles as he enters. It's clear someone-Lothiriel suspects Merthwyn-has managed to get him to comb his hair and trim his beard. His clothes are likely the finest he owns and any trace of dirt has been very thoroughly removed from him. But that is not the most striking thing about him, now. No, it is the look on his face when he catches sight of Lisswyn.
"Lissy," he murmurs, something soft and achingly sweet in his voice that makes Lothiriel miss Elphir and Amrothos with a sudden pang, "you look-you are-Bema, you are happy, aren't you?"
Lisswyn gives a happy-if slightly watery-laugh. "Yes. Very much so, dysig brōþor."
Lothiriel busies herself with helping arrange the tiny flower crown on Darwyn's head. It feels as if they are intruding on a very private moment between brother and sister; she knows if it were her and one of her brothers, she would not want an audience for such a thing. The other women seem to pick up on it as well, flitting around the room as Eothain steps closer to Lisswyn to take her hands in his. Their voices grow quiet enough that anyone else would have to strain to hear them.
Lothiriel looks up to see Eowyn watching the pair of them with a bittersweet expression on her face. It isn't hard to guess what she's thinking of: the similar conversation she and Eomer will likely have on her own wedding day. But Aldburg is less than a day's ride from Edoras-Lisswyn and Eothain will be able to see each other as often as they'd like.
It is not such an easy journey between Edoras and Ithilien. Eowyn will be preoccupied in her new role of wife and Princess of Gondor and Eomer will be equally consumed by his role as king. It is likely that they will not see each other again for months, if not years. No doubt the war kept them separate for months at a time, but it will not be the same. Home will cease to be the same place for them.
So she drifts closer and tucks her arm around Eowyn's, causing her to blink out of her reverie. "Lothiriel?"
"Elphir told me in his last letter that there is a combined team of Gondorians and eorlingas working to unblock the Dimholt pass," she says. "That will make the passage of mail between our countries a much swifter thing."
Eowyn gives a small chuckle. "You must be rubbing off on me, if my face has become so readable."
"Perhaps," Lothiriel concedes. "Or perhaps I simply know you very well."
And understand better than most what it is you feel, she thinks. For the distance between Aldburg and Dol Amroth was no small thing either. And given her pregnancy, it would be unlikely that Lisswyn would be able to make the journey to Minas Tirith for Eowyn's wedding in the spring, and even less likely that Erchirion would come without her. It would be months or years before they are all reunited, too.
But this is not the time for such somber thoughts. It is her brother's wedding day, after all. As it is, neither she nor Eowyn have much time to linger in their melancholy, for Eofor is abruptly bursting through the door, looking considerably less tidy than his father.
"Eofor!' Groans Wilfled. "You're a mess!"
"But Modor, I had to hurry! Master Duilin said it is an ill omen for a bride to be late!" He explains, wincing as Wilfled wipes at his sweaty face brusquely.
"That old meddler knows full well we are not running late," Eothain chuckles. "He is likely waiting for me to cause a scene."
"Will you?" Rosefled asks, eyeing her cousin with hands on her hips. She has made it clear since her hurried arrival in Edoras not a week before which of her cousins' side she stands on.
Eothain looks to Lisswyn again, bumping his shoulder with hers. "I will not."
"Thank Bema for that-"
"Besides," he says, face shifting to fit its familiar mischievous lines, "that shiner I gave him last night will cause enough of a scene-"
"Eothain!" The whole house cries in unison, aghast. Oh, Valar, there is not nearly enough time for her to make a poultice to lessen the swelling-
Eothain gives an oof of surprise as Lisswyn elbows him neatly in the stomach. "You are not nearly as funny as you think you are," she informs him.
"It was worth it," he gasps, grinning even as he rubs what will soon be a bruise, "just for the look on Lothiriel's face!"
They all groan, Wilfled loudest of all. "I must have been hit on the head very hard the day I agreed to marry you."
Eothain's grin morphs into a smirk. He lopes towards his wife, pulling her into his arms with an ease born of both practice and intimacy. "Yes, with a very, very heavy dose of desire-"
"And that's enough of that," Eowyn interrupts. "We will be late if you two get started."
"Get started with what?" asks Eofor.
Avoiding answering Eofor's innocent question is what finally spurs everyone into action. Last checks of flowers and dresses are quickly done. Wilfled, sighing, having shoo'd her husband back to his proper position as Lisswyn's escort, wipes Eofor's face one last time before deeming him 'mostly acceptable'.
Lothiriel reaches to fiddle with the flowers in her hair again only to be stopped by Lisswyn's gentle touch.
"Leave them. They are there for a reason," she assures her, in her usual gentle, sincere way.
Lisswyn, of all people, would not let Lothiriel be made a fool of on such an important day. So she lets her hand drop and offers her a smile. "If you say so, muinthel."
She blinks at the unfamiliar word. Lothiriel winces-for all the work she has put towards learning about Rohan, she had forgotten that most eorlingas know little of the Elvish language so commonly used in Gondor.
"It is Sindarin for 'sister'," she explains.
"Oh," Lisswyn murmurs. "That is-that is very kind, Lothiriel."
"Kind? It is the truth! Or soon will be, if we ever get you to the ceremony."
"We are not the ones lingering inside," comes Eothain's voice-oh, when had they all walked out?
Wincing in apology, she loops her arm through Lisswyn's. They step out into the now bright, midday sunshine arm in arm. Eothain retakes his sister's other arm, shooting Lothiriel a cheeky wink as he does so.
"Ready, sweostor?"
Lisswyn smiles. She looks every inch the bride, and with her shoulders steady and head high, every inch the princess.
"Ready," she agrees.
And Lothiriel is very, very sure she is.
Author's Note: Wedding bells are (almost) ringing! I can absolutely promise the next update won't take as long as this one did.
