The Fourth Age, Year 1
The peaceful silence of his own chambers had never felt so deafening. Éomer closed his eyes and took a silent breath. Behind him, his new wife stood in these rooms for the first time. They had been whisked away from the wedding feast, and deposited at their door by the young men and women in attendance with a suggestive and raucous song of blessing, but thankfully, now they were alone. They had been spared the humiliation of a fully-realized bedding ceremony, which would have involved a significant amount of undressing. Éomer supposed that being King was in his favor, for there was a certain barrier of propriety that would not be crossed.
But now they were alone. Strangers yet, they had scarcely had opportunity to speak without others around them, and Éomer was not quite certain how to proceed. He cleared his throat and turned to face his wife. She was standing just inside the room, her back nearly against the door, as if she wished to escape.
"I am sorry," he said as kindly as possible, "I should perhaps have warned you about the rowdiness of a Rohirric wedding. You may not have such rituals back home."
She shook her head. "No, we do not - well, not like this. But I did know to expect it. Your sister told me." She blinked as if she'd caught herself. "Our sister."
"Our sister," he repeated approvingly, "So you have had occasion to speak to Éowyn, then. That is well."
She nodded "Yes. We are kin now twice, cousins first, since she and Faramir were wed, and now sisters."
He smiled to himself at the thought, and looked her up and down. "Are you afraid of me?" he asked, deciding that it was best to say what was on his mind. The question came to him because all through that day, she had barely touched him except when necessary, and seemed to always falter away from his touch when he reached for her hand to escort her somewhere, before always placing her hand gingerly in his. He had kissed her only once, just after the hand binding ceremony, and the kiss had been chaste and formal.
She looked up at him and shook her head seriously. "No."
Éomer. He gave her a look of incredulity, not quite believing her. But then he remembered himself. He went to the mahogany desk that stood in the corner of the room and retrieved from one of its drawers a small wooden box, intricately carved with the seal of his mother's house.
"I have something for you," he said, brandishing the box rather awkwardly towards Lothíriel, "A wedding gift."
"You already gave me a present," Lothíriel replied, surprise coloring her face. She took the box gingerly from him, as if she was afraid for their fingertips to brush.
"Aye, I did," he replied, pretending not to notice how her hands trembled slightly, or how quickly they withdrew from him. "The horses are a customary gift from a lord of Rohan to his lady. It would be expected. But this is… this is not a customary gift, but one I chose, one more…" he trailed off, uncertain of the words. He gestured to the box. "Open it, please."
She complied, keen curiosity in her eyes, though her face was a mask of composure. She placed the box on the little table before her. Her fingers found the latch and raised the lid to reveal a circlet, earbobs, bracelets, and collared necklace nested on a bed of old black velvet. She stared at the gift with an unreadable expression and Éomer felt his heart sink. Did she not like them?
"Of course, the jewels of the House of Eorl are yours now and were presented to you for you to wear as you will," he explained, clearing his throat. "But these belonged to my mother, and come from her own lineage, her own house. I would like for you to have them. It would mean —" he cleared his throat, "It would mean very much to me for you to wear them from time to time - that is, only if it pleases you."
She looked up at him with wide eyes, and he realized that the expression on her face was not one of distaste, but of one overcome with tender emotion. "It is a beautiful present, Éomer, thank you." She brushed her fingertips over the necklace, a true smile brimming at the corners of her mouth. "Of course I will wear them. Thank you."
Éomer realized with a lump in his throat that this was the first time his new wife had uttered his name.
"Will you help me try this on?" she asked shyly, holding the heavy necklace to her throat. "Just to see?"
He nodded, relieved, and she turned away from him, sweeping her raven hair away so that he might have access. He looked at the white of her neck beneath that mane of hair and swallowed, his fingers fumbling slightly as he fastened the clasp. His sense of touch seemed heightened, and the brush of his fingertips across that ivory skin sent a shiver up his arm. He wondered if she felt it too.
The necklace fastened, he guided her gently to the small mirror at the corner of the room and placed the circlet on her brow. She gazed at her reflection, and he looked over her shoulder with appreciation, for the necklace suited her long neck and regal bearing as he had suspected it would, and the circlet, which sat low on her brow, set off her features well. It warmed his heart, to remember his mother as she had been before grief had consumed her, to see Lothíriel - his wife - adorned in her jewels.
Lothíriel let out a breath. "It is unlike anything I have ever seen. I… I am overcome. It is a thoughtful gesture, and it is not lost on me the significance of such a gift. I am honored to wear them." She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled at him, a bit less shyly than she had before.
"You are my wife," he said, tentatively, and more boldly, placed his hands gently on her shoulders. He took a deep breath. "I am not… I am not good with words, Lothíriel. This is all new to me, as well. But you - you mean very much to me, though we are strangers yet. I mean to say, that I am grateful for you to be by my side, and I care for your happiness, and I will always protect you and defend you as long as I live. You are a part of the House of Eorl, you are already my flesh and blood, from here until death parts us."
She let out a tremulous sigh. "You are - you say you are not good with words, but that was more than good, Éomer." She turned to face him, and her countenance was serious. "I feel fortunate to be so honored and cared for, truly. I would like to be a good wife to you, and a good Queen."
"You already are," he said gently, surprised and heartened by her words. He gazed down upon her face. She was very close, and he felt the sudden urge to seize her and kiss her, long and deep, but held back. He did not wish to startle her or break the fragile buds of trust that had just begun to blossom between them.
She smiled and laughed a bit at him, shaking her head. "Do not tease, Éomer. I have not been married to you long enough for you say such things."
He chuckled in return. "Fine," he acknowledged, "Well, then, it is my intention also to be a good husband to you."
"Then perhaps we might help one another," she said softly, "For it may not always come easily, especially at first."
"Yes," he agreed, "We must help one another."
She lowered her eyes. "Éomer, are we to go to bed together tonight? To…?" she blushed, "You know."
He smiled at her awkwardness, but forced himself not to laugh. "We are strangers yet… What is expected of us must happen eventually, but it does not have to be tonight. Despite our escort here this evening, there will be no one inspecting the sheets in the morning. The outward proceeding is mostly for show. It is understood that sometimes these things take time between a couple, when strangers they might be. It would be better to wait, I think, until when you decide, or when we we both decide we are ready. "
She breathed a sigh of audible relief. "Thank you, Éomer." She laughed a bit and looked up at him. "You are kinder than I feared you would be."
"Am I so gruff and fearsome?" he asked, furrowing his brow.
"You are quite so, when you do not say more than a few words to your wife-to-be." The murmur of amusement in her voice softened the barb.
Éomer chuckled. "Would it help you to know that I was silent because I could not find the words to say what I wished to say in your presence? You - you - my wife, you are not exactly without certain intimidating qualities yourself," he conceded, looking at her sidelong.
"… And what are those?" she asked in clear surprise.
Éomer swallowed, wondering if he was about to be reprimanded for saying what was in his mind. "You have quite the haughty countenance, when you are not smiling. Everything is measured, and you walk with such purpose, and with a head held high and proud. You kept me at a distance and shied away from my touch - that barest hesitation in each movement. And you do not speak that much either! I thought… I feared you hated me, that is, until you smiled at me at the ceremony in the way you did - for the first time, you met my eyes. I had reason to hope."
"I — " her cheeks had turned bright red, then, "It is because I am awkward, Éomer! I have always been awkward. I never know what to say to people, or how I should act, or what to do with my hands, and you did not help matters."
"I see," he said, laughing. "Well then. We are both surprising one another."
Her lips pursed at him, and then she laughed too, and a true lightness descended upon them both.
"Well," he said, after the laughter had faded and they were both standing there in tense silence, "Perhaps you would like to rest now. I can make my bed on the floor, if you would be more comfortable — "
"The floor!" she exclaimed, incredulity in her tone. "You are being chivalrous, but what of your comfort? And would we continue that way for as many nights as it took for us to —" she broke off as if she still could not say it. Her cheeks had gone quite red again. " Nay, Éomer, I shall not cast you out of your own bed. Unless you wish to sleep on the floor, in which case, you are a grown man and can make your own decisions."
He felt the corners of his mouth deepen in amusement. "Then - it is alright for me to sleep beside you? I would not touch you — we need only sleep."
"You are my husband and you may sleep beside me," she said then, "And you gave your word already, Éomer, that we might wait to go further, and I need no further reassurance from you. I trust you."
He nodded in acceptance. It was enough that she was comfortable. "Well then. Shall we to bed?"
She nodded, her cheeks turning a bit pink. "I - I may require your assistance," she murmured lightly, then, turning from him. "To get out of my gown."
"Of course," he said, swallowing at the thought of being near to her again, of undressing her — it caused a stirring deep within him that he fought to quell. "First, the necklace, I think," he said softly, and went to aid her, gently unclasping the necklace, the reverse of what he had done before, and laying it back into its box. She did the same with the circlet and place it tenderly within the box, brushing her fingers over the earbobs with curiosity. He looked at her ears - she did not have holes in her lobes for earbobs - and kicked himself for not noticing. Well, perhaps she would adopt the custom, or not. The necklace and circlet would be enough.
She unfastened the long cape that attached to her gown and set it aside. She looked over her shoulder at him. "Could you unlace the back of of my bodice, please, Éomer?" she asked.
Tentatively, he brushed her hair aside once more and set to work on the lacings that fitted her overdress to her figure, resisting the urge to run his palm down the rich blue velvet of the bodice and feel her figure beneath his hand. He could sense her holding her breath, and wondered what the light brush of his hands felt like to her.
"And the sleeves?" she asked, when he had finished. The long sleeves, fitted to the elbow and then flaring wide and sweeping to the floor, were secured with brocade ties at the shoulders and at the elbows, and she had managed to undo only one of the elbows. "My hands are shaking," she said apologetically.
'No matter," he said, and - though his hands seemed to tremble a bit himself - he set to work on the task.
"I can do the rest myself now," she said when he had finished. He nodded, and turned respectfully away, setting to work on his own tunic and boots. He normally slept in very little clothing, if any, but for her modesty he kept on his shirt and braies.
He heard the thick rustle of velvet as she stepped out of the outergown. He glanced sidelong, as she laid the heavy gown and petticoat across her trunk of clothes that had been brought to the room, and stepped forward in her sleeveless knee-length undergown and hose. She sat on one of the the carved wooden armchairs by the hearth, and bent to remove the grey leather shoes, then the white hose, untying the blue ribbons that held it above her knee, and peeling it off her leg, revealing a shapely lower leg and foot, illuminated quite fetchingly from the firelight behind her. She glanced up at him, and Éomer realized he had been caught staring. He cleared his throat and he thought he caught a slight smile creasing her lips as he looked away.
He blew out the candle on the table, and went to the bed, and pulled back the covers, getting in as nonchalantly as he could muster, though for some reason his heart was pounding. He felt a bit like a nervous boy, like he had the first time he had lain with a woman. He watched his new wife out of the corner of his eye. Lothíriel glanced at him over her shoulder and, walking back to her trunk, laid out her hose and shoes carefully. Then, she came rather quickly to the other side of the bed and got in beside him. She was shivering somewhat, and he fought the impulse to reach for her and warm her arms with his hands.
She lay down and looked at him, propping her head up on her hand, looking at him with the light from the fire playing across her face. "Are you tired?" she asked him.
He shrugged. "My body is tired, perhaps," he granted, "But I confess I am not quite ready to sleep myself. My mind is wide awake."
Her smile was quick and true, "I am the same way," she said, "Might we talk for a time before we blow out the candles?"
He nodded. "Yes," he said with sincerity, "I would like that."
"I have not had a bedmate since I was child," she said, giggling then, "When my cousin Tinnoril and I would share a bed, we would talk the whole night. I had a house full of brothers and always longed for sisters, so when Tinnoril - she was my cousin on my mother's side - my father's side was only boys - would come to stay, we would pretend we were sisters."
Éomer smiled at the thought. "What were you like as a girl?" he asked.
Lothíriel let out a pained sigh. "Painfully gawky, a little bit shy - very tall. I was always so tall and ungainly. I towered over other girls my age - and boys. It took me a while to grow into my height, I suppose." She flushed, and looked away, "Well, such as it is. Perhaps I have not."
"You are tall," Éomer said, amused, "But you are not ungainly in the least. Nor are you so very tall - I am still taller."
She met his eyes then with a glint in her eye. "You do not mind my height, then?" she asked, a bit of a challenge in her eyes that surprised him.
Éomer grinned. "I like your height," he said honestly. "I come from a family of tall women, mind, but it is more than that. You are near enough to my height that I need not bend in half to kiss you —" he stopped, and it was his turn to look away, thinking of the only kiss they had shared, at the ceremony, brief and perfunctory. "At least, so I found today."
She was silent for a moment, her eyes rather distant, a dimple creasing her cheek as she reflected, perhaps, on their kiss. "That is true."
He looked back at her. "I believe any children we will have will be quite intimidating," he said, to break the tension.
Lothíriel laughed again. "Well, they will likely be giants."
They both fell silent, glancing at one another quickly, then away. His attempt at levity had perhaps made matters worse, and he kicked himself inwardly. The thought of children was sobering, especially when it came to the act of making such children, Éomer thought, and he knew instinctively that Lothíriel was thinking the same, for she was picking at the bedclothes with her hand, her lashes casting a shadow on her cheek.
"Éomer," she said then, a catch in her throat, "When I said I had not had a bedfellow since I was a girl, I meant it. I am still a maid, in that way. But I have been in love before, and I would warrant that for you, it is the same."
"That I am a maid?" he asked lightly, and she swatted at him with her hand. He grinned at her, pleased at her lack of restraint int he gesture, and she returned the smile grudgingly.
"Nay, that you have known love, and - well, somehow I doubt that you are a virgin," she continued. "That in itself calms me, for I think I would rather that my husband knew what he was doing when we consummated the marriage, as I would be little help in the matter. But more than that — I would understand if your heart was not entirely free to give me. I confess that my own heart is still tender from a love some time ago I knew I could not have."
Éomer took in her words, now very sobered indeed. "Aye, Lothíriel," he said softly after a time, "I understand that neither of us chose one another, that we did not exactly choose this marriage, anymore than I chose to be king. I do not expect - I cannot expect - for you to love me as you might have loved another. Perhaps you never will."
She looked down, tracing the brocade of the coverlet with her slender fingers - he was starting to realize that her hands were always busy - and was silent for so long that he was worried he had said the wrong thing. "I did not mean that," she said finally, a furrow between her brows. "I did not mean that I am opposed to growing to love you, or disappointed in this match. I like you, Éomer, I like you very much already. I just wished to be honest, so that you might know where I stand, and also - to know of your past, that I might understand you better."
"There have been women, from time to time," was his careful response. How to explain it to her? "You are right, I am no virgin. But have I loved any of them? Perhaps, in a way, a kind of tender affection, or infatuation. But…" he cleared his throat, looking down in thought. "For so long, even since I was a child, all I ever knew was the hand of war, Lothíriel. I was only a boy when my father returned home on his shield and my mother went mad with grief. My sister Éowyn and I were taken into my uncle's house and he raised us as his own - until his own mind was overthrown by the hand of darkness." He sighed. He did not speak often of that part of his life, and he glanced at her to assess her reaction. She was watching him with those strange sea-colored eyes, no judgement or pity on her face.
Seeing that it was safe to continue, he spoke again, this time more fluently. "I was little more than a lad myself when I rode to battle for the first time. And then I became the Third Marshal, taking on my father's seat. Scarcely ready for such a post, and yet who else was to do it? And from then on, I had no thought for anything but my people, my King, and the enemy. I think I could not allow myself love, even if some of those women might have deserved my love. I was not free to love them, not in my station, and not in my own heart. I had room for one sort of tender love only - my sister, who fared far worse than I in all of this."
Éomer raised his eyes to meet Lothíriel's, feeling rather pained, but also slightly lightened by his admission.
"I understand," she said softly, and now her eyes were fiercely tender. "You have carried a heavy burden your whole life. It makes sense that you might have guarded your heart, or had little reason to imagine a life in which there was a future at all, let alone love."
He nodded, and tentatively took her hand, the hand that fidgeted with the covers, in his own. "So, Lothíriel, my heart as it stands now is entirely free. Free to give itself to you, my wife, if you would have it. At the very least, I am devoted to you, because you are my wife, and I hold that very dearly. I want to get to know you, and for you to trust me. Yes, there is duty involved, and the requirements of our station, but it is my hope that in time —" he sighed and broke off, for he realized he was rambling, and her amused expression told him so. "Forgive me. I am speaking of things in the future that are beyond my control."
"There is nothing to forgive," she whispered, squeezing his hand, "I am grateful for your candor… and yes, it is my hope as well."
He looked back at her, and found that she was smiling at him, her eyes glinting in the firelight from where her head lay on the pillow. "I wish most of all for you to be happy," he said, and impulsively reached out to touch her face, cupping her cheek with his hand. "You are my wife and I would do all in my power to make it so. Whatever it takes."
She looked at him with astonishment, perhaps at his candor, perhaps at his touch, and covered his hand with her own. "Éomer," was her breathless reply. "Oh, Éomer."
He paused, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Touching her skin, and looking at her before him, hearing his ame repeated on her lips, and feeling all that was in his heart, he was very much moved. "Is it… would it be alright for me to —" he met her eyes with a question.
"For you to what?" she asked, and there was a sudden rather impish sparkle in her eyes that thrilled and encouraged him.
"I would like very much to kiss you… just goodnight. I promise I will go no further." Every word he spoke was true, and hopeful.
"Yes, Éomer, you may kiss me," she replied without hesitation.
He inched closer to her, tentatively, not wanting to break the spell or send her fleeing to the edge of the bed. He trailed his thumb across her lips, and swept her hair back from her ear. "Lothíriel," he whispered, her name sweet across his lips, and breathed in the scent of her as he lowered his mouth to claim hers.
Oh, warmth, and the taste of eternal summer. Her lips parted at the urging his tongue, and he deepened the kiss, just slightly, willing himself to coax, not overwhelm. Her hands came up to cup his head, and a soft moan escaped her mouth.
Well, now, he had to stop, or he knew it would become harder to. With a groan of regret, he broke the kiss, and looked down at her. Her lips were parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and she was looking at him as if she had completely lost all words.
Good. He felt much the same way. He grinned, rather pleased with himself, and kissed her brow quickly. "Goodnight," he managed. "Sleep well."
He turned away from her to blow out the candle, and lay down, drawing the covers over them both. He kept his distance, though every part of him wanted to bring her body next to his. How he was supposed to sleep now, he did not know. However, a sleepless night would be worth it, just to have shared such a kiss. He felt calm in her presence, and even happy, he reflected, and he could sense that she was warming to him as well. There was understanding. There was hope. And in the end, there was a promise.
[A/N: Just a little one shot idea that came out of me sometime this past year while procrastinating on my other stories. Thanks for reading and reviewing! 3 GB]
