A/N: For the purpose of this story, I have based Lothíriel's appearance on Eva Green (with grey eyes)
Chapter 1: Meeting
"She's lovely." That's all he ever heard about this enigmatic fiancée of his. Éomer scowled, his eyes on the plate before him. She may be prettier than all the stars in the sky, but the real question was – could she be a queen and a wife? Éomer needed an heir - a strong, wise, handsome heir. Well, the last bit wasn't necessarily a mandatory component, but rather, an unspoken one. Shaking his head, the young king stood, leaving his untouched breakfast on the table. His wife would arrive within the next few hours and everything would be alright. That is what he told himself, time and again.
"She seems fair enough," Gamling murmured between bites.
"She may be fair… and stupid," Éomer muttered, pacing the stone floor. They waited in Meduseld for the Gondorian party to arrive bringing the King's future wife.
"I do not think so, my lord. I have heard she has three brothers and grew up in the company of men. Her skills match those of a Gondorian soldier. I have also been told she bears Elven blood in her veins." Éomer turned to his captain, eyebrows raised. Imrahil must be mad. And yet, this was so politically advantageous, Éomer could not imagine a more perfect union. He stalked impatiently across the floor until his Captain stood, a knowing look on his face.
"Come, my lord. Let us go for a ride. It will calm your nerves. The lady and her attendants will not be here for hours, yet." Éomer followed the older man to the stables. Firefoot peeked his head out of the stall and nickered at the King. Moments later, Gamling, Éomer, and three other men had saddled their horses and were heading down the path away from Edoras. Gamling was, in fact, right. Éomer felt substantially calmer on his horse. He almost forgot his duties as they cantered across the open field. Firefoot seemed especially eager to be outdoors, tossing his head, mane catching the breeze. The five men enjoyed an hour long ride, free of political strategies, irritating councilors and talk of women. One of the men pulled his horse to a halt, gazing over the western boarder.
"My lord, horses arrive." Indeed, a line of eight horses bearing riders came trotting through the brush toward Edoras. Éomer frowned. Certainly it was not his betrothed. He'd expected a carriage and at least twelve Gondorian guards, being that she was a princess and all. Gamling shrugged.
"What Princess comes without an escort and attendants?" Éomer asked, voicing the other men's silent question.
"Perhaps this is not her company. This could be King Elessar's men, come to witness the wedding."
"Probably," another man agreed. They were too far away to tell the gender of these riders as they made a line straight for Edoras. But Éomer was confident that this company did not include his bride to be.
"But we should return to greet them. As it is, it looks as though they will arrive before us." Éomer nodded to Gamling as they guided their horses back to home. The five horses entered the city and rode toward the stable. The King could see the Gondorian helmets sparkle silver in the sunlight before they disappeared beyond the barn's roof. Éomer led his men to Meduseld, dismounting Firefoot with a somber expression. Facing away from the building, Éomer released the buckle on Firefoot's girth.
"My King," a Gondorian guard called out. Éomer turned around as the man continued. "May I present Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his daughter, the Princess Lothíriel."
Éomer's eyebrows rose in surprise and mild embarrassment as he faced his soon-to-be wife and her father. Imrahil bowed quickly, a grin on his rugged face. His dark hair was combed back, the ends resting on the fur collar of his riding jacket. Éomer returned the bow, feeling the blood rush to his neck and cheeks with humiliation. When he looked up, a matronly woman had come to flank Imrahil's left, eyes regarding the young King. This must've been his fiancée's chaperon, for her attire was simple.
Imrahil greeted the King of Rohan, but his words fell on deaf ears, for Éomer was looking at the young woman who'd come to stand on her father's right. For once, at least, the rumors had been true. She was lovely. Beautiful, even. She stood taller than most of the women of Rohan, with fair skin and a slender waist. Unlike the company of blond people of Edoras, this woman's hair was the deepest shade of night, loose about her. Her eyes were wide and a translucent grey, similar to her father's. There was a depth to their color that Éomer had seen in Legolas' eyes as well as in Aragorn's consort, Arwen's eyes. This woman was of Elvish decent. She bowed her head gracefully, her expression stoic. Éomer bowed as well in greeting.
"Éomer King?" Imrahil arched an eyebrow as Éomer turned to him.
"I'm sorry, my lord?"
"I asked if it was customary in Rohan to greet others without words," the Prince said. Éomer was taken-aback by this, but Imrahil smiled deeply.
"My lady Lothíriel and Imrahil Prince, welcome to Edoras," Lady Berewyn greeted them, flanking Éomer with a deep curtsy. "I am Berewyn, Lady Lothíriel's lady-in-waiting." The aging Mistress Berewyn had been Eowyn's chief attendant and now the Queen of Rohan was her new charge. The strikingly thin woman watched the Princess, as if to judge her immediate character.
"A pleasure, Lady Berewyn," Lothíriel replied. Her voice was lower than Éomer expected. She really did bear a striking resemblance to Queen Arwen. The Princess of Dol Amroth gestured to the woman behind her. "This is Lady Ivriel, my attendant." Lady Ivriel bowed awkwardly, her long braid falling over one shoulder.
"Let us bear your belongings to the bedchamber. You have endured a lengthy ride, and have done so upon a horse rather than a carriage. Come, let me escort you, the Prince and your guards to the Golden Hall where you may eat and rest," Lady Berewyn said with a stiff smile. She ushered the Princess, her attendant and guards into Meduseld with barely a glance at the King. Imrahil placed a hand on Éomer's shoulder as the women left.
"She's a good woman, my daughter."
"Yes, my lord."
"I am here to witness the wedding, but must leave tomorrow," the Prince said. "The White City requires my attendance as she is being rebuilt and I have several council meetings, I'm afraid. I regret not having the chance to acquaint myself with you, but King Elessar assures me you are a decent and noble man." Imrahil offered a wink and followed his daughter's company into Meduseld. Gamling came to stand beside Éomer, scratching his beard, watching him depart.
"Well he seems nice enough."
"Indeed." The King gave Firefoot's reins to the stable boy and trailed the Prince into the Golden Hall. It was prepared for the nuptials, with white and gold garlands. Though not as lavish as Aragorn's wedding, or even Eowyn's, it was undeniably magnificent. Éomer felt a pang of regret, knowing his sister could not attend his marriage. She was in Minas Tirith with her husband helping to restore the damaged city. With a sigh, the King of Rohan turned from the sight. He had to prepare for the wedding.
Freshly washed and clothed, King Éomer of Rohan stood at the altar, waiting for his bride. The green tunic he wore was his fathers, embroidered with gold and red threads. He had to admit, it was a handsome piece of cloth with the symbol of Rohan stitched perfectly onto the back. Presiding over the wedding was Lord Elfhelm, Marshal of the East-Mark and a long time companion of the King. The man fidgeted in the seemingly uncomfortable long robes. Éomer smiled inwardly at his old friend's impatience. The entirety of the Rohirrim court was present, along with the riders of the Mark. Prince Imrahil and his Gondorian guards stood to Éomer's left, their helmets under their arms. Once the ceremony was over, they would return to Gondor, leaving Lothíriel and her lady.
All eyes were on the King as they waited. Éomer was only slightly nervous. But this was the best thing for his people. With Lothíriel's generous dowry, the winter would not be so difficult to bear for the farmers who had lost their crops to the war. Fewer households would perish under the harshness of the winters. And hopefully Éomer would have an heir sooner than later.
-o-
Lothíriel stood before the washbasin in dark the chamber, awaiting Lady Berewyn's word. Her heart thudded so loudly in her chest she was quite sure the gatherers beyond could hear its echo. It was almost impossible for her to imagine she was getting married, even less so that she would soon become a Queen. Before she left Gondor, she studied the histories of Rohan, hoping to gain some insight regarding its people and customs. She found herself asking the King of Gondor about the Riders of the Mark and his impression of Edoras. He should not have offered to answer her questions, she thought wryly. But here she was, far from her brothers and beloved Dol Amroth. She found a bit of solace in her father's presence, though she knew he'd have to leave the next day. Perhaps it would not be so horrible.
She straightened her back a little as Lady Ivriel smoothed the skirts, removing invisible fragments of lint from the fabric. The poor woman looked exhausted from her previous equestrian activities, but gave a reassuring smile to her charge. For Lothíriel, the ride to Rohan had not been as rough as she'd been told. In fact, it was rather delightful to spend long hours astride her favourite horse with her father and their guards as company.
She had been pleased when Imrahil allowed her to select her chaperon for her journey. While Lady Ivriel was not accustomed to sitting in a saddle for extended periods of time, Lothíriel knew the woman didn't object to the Princess riding a horse. Ivriel had been present at the Princess' birth and had been her attendant there forth, knowing Lothíriel's preferences and habits. Ivril smiled to herself as she arranged the cloak around the Princess' shoulders. Even as a girl, Lothíriel had always been partial to the equine species. But why on earth wouldn't she be, with her wildly rambunctious active brothers?
"It is time, my lady," the Lady Berewyn whispered, opening the door. Lothíriel glanced at Ivril, who offered the Princess an encouraging smile. With a resolute sigh and squaring of her shoulders, Lothíriel made her way to the altar.
Faced toward the doors of Meduseld, Éomer watched his bride traverse the aisle. She was, in fact, a sight to behold. Her dress was a greyer shade of white, not as bright or brilliant as Eowyn's dress had been. A cape was draped upon Lothíriel's shoulders; the hem embroidered with the same golden thread as the King's, the emblem of Rohan sewed into the back of the cape as well. Her dark hair was plaited and wrapped in a coronet around her head, a few tendrils framing her pale face.
Éomer held his hand to her as she approached and she took it, barely offering him a glance. Her skin was cool to the touch, soft and smooth. She faced Elfhelm, who gave the couple a quick smile before speaking their vows. Éomer took the golden grown from the pillow as Lothíriel declined her head. He placed it behind the coronet and she raised her head. He had to admit, she looked every inch the Queen she was. She took the second crown and lifted it above his head, this movement causing her breasts to swell under the dress. Éomer smirked inwardly at his masculine interest. She placed the crown upon his head, her fingers brushing his forehead. Together, they turned to face the people of Rohan, who applauded. Éomer glanced at Imrahil, who was smiling broadly. Perhaps this was a wise decision on all accounts.
The wedding celebration commenced and the ale flowed freely. Lothíriel walked beside her husband as he introduced her to his people. She greeted each person politely, a shadow of a smile on her full lips.
"My lady," Gamling bowed, kissing the back of her hand. "You shall make Rohan proud, there is no doubt."
"That is my wish," she replied calmly. She stood just an inch shorter than Éomer and they made an impressive couple.
"A drink for my Queen?" Lothíriel turned to see a man offering her a mug of warm liquid. She accepted with an appreciative nod. Her throat was parched with all the salutations she'd done. Before she left Gondor, Eowyn had given her a brief description of the most important people she would meet. But there were so many faces, all of them blonde and smiling with the effects of ale it was difficult to keep track.
Her husband placed his hand on her waist, steering her toward another man of Rohan, who smiled widely. Lothíriel followed the same pattern of introduction and expressed her interest when the man proceeded to explain the state of his business as a blacksmith. Her thoughts, however, strayed beyond the noisy hall, across the grassy plains of Rohan, over the White Mountains and resided in Gondor. Dol Amroth, to be exact. She wondered what her brothers were doing at that moment. She figured they were making a bit of mischief and wished dearly she could join them. She longed to sit beside her father, the both of them reading peacefully in the large library. Lothíriel already missed the scent of the sea and the touch of sand.
She was jarred back to reality as her husband gripped her hand, tugging gently so she might follow. She couldn't decide much about him, as he spoke very little. But his demeanor was amiable enough and he was certainly handsome. Eowyn made sure Lothíriel was well versed in her betrothed's various moods, ranging from the occasional facetious comments to the raging storm of his anger. The Queen of Rohan hoped she would not have to experience that first hand for a long time.
Éomer found his palms sweaty as the evening waxed and waned. His wife's skin remained cool to the touch as he escorted her through the crowd. He wondered privately if she was as nervous as he. For he knew that soon he would have to take her to bed. Glancing to the side, he caught sight of Prince Imrahil, talking with his guards. Guiding Lothíriel to him, he left her in her father's company, assuming they had much to speak of. Éomer made his way to where the tankard of ale stood and was unsurprised to find his captains, Gamling and Elfhelm, there.
"Your thoughts?" the Marshal asked, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
"She is fair, Elfhelm," the King replied with a shrug.
"Quiet, though."
"Better than a chatty maid," Gamling answered with a shudder. "Some of those women have mouths like fish." Éomer and Elfhelm chuckled as Gamling demonstrated the women's mouths, opening and closing his comically. "I say, my lord, better to have a quiet, complacent woman than a yapping one."
Éomer found himself in agreement. His friends picked up two mugs of ale, to which the young King declined. He spent another hour with his captains, trying to appear as much of a King as he felt he lacked. But all too soon he felt the air in Meduseld become stale and thick. He excused himself of their company to outdoors. The night sky was endless, filled with stars. Éomer stood on the stone terrace that led into the Golden Hall, listening to the sounds of merriment within.
"Such a serene night, my lord." Éomer turned to his left to see Lothíriel several feet away. He hadn't even noticed her presence.
"Yes, it is." He answered, watching her. Grey eyes gazed at the scenery, her expression placid. A gentle breeze stirred her skirts and lifted her hair from her shoulders. She was a lovelier bride than he could have imagined for himself. Perhaps he would grow to love her.
"I am told the winters here are terribly cold." Her voice carried with the wind, pleasant to his ears.
"They take time to get accustomed to," he agreed. Turning to her, he glanced at the doors leading into the Golden Hall. "Shall we retire, my lady? The festivities will continue long into the night." She looked at him for the first time, and he caught a spark in her grey eyes. But it disappeared as she closed her eyes and when she opened them, it was gone.
"Of course, my lord."