Part 3: Gifts of Midwinter

As a boy in the Aldburg, Yuletide had been Éomer's favorite time of year. Even now, bittersweet memories of the holiday sometimes haunted him in his dreams. He supposed it was the time when he remembered feeling safest, utterly certain of his place in the world and with no other question in his heart than what present Father Winter might leave for him by the fireplace. His parents had always seemed at their happiest and most in love, his father boisterous and full of good cheer, his mother serenely radiant, her smile deepening as Éomund whispered something in her ear from their seats at the high table. They would always be crowned in wreaths of holly and berries, as was tradition for a Lord and his Lady, and the great hall of the Aldburg's keep had been filled with music and cast aglow with candlelight. There would always be dancing and feasting until well into the dawn, a celebration of both the darkness of winter and the light that was to come in the following year. The children, though they were without fail sent to bed early, would always creep out of their nursery and watch the festivities from a secret window until at last little Éowyn's eyes would dwindle shut and Éomer would have to carry her back to bed, under the pretense of annoyance but secretly glad to be able to sleep himself.

Éomer supposed now that his parents had known full well that their children were up and awake, and that their "secret" lookout had not been so discreet. There had also been times when they had both fallen asleep in their hideout and yet had woken up in their own beds.

It was not always easy to look back upon those memories, even now. Yuletide at Edoras had long been cast over by darkness, when Théoden's mind was taken by the enemy, and with so much death and trial beset upon the world. As children following the deaths of Éomund and Théodwyn, Éowyn and Éomer along with Théodred their cousin had tried their best to carry on their own little traditions and honor memories of years past, but it was a bit of a shell-like attempt at cheer. As they grew older, they did not bother, and most of the time, Éomer was away.

But tonight, it was Yuletide feast, and this was his first Yuletide as King. His first, also, as a husband, though there were no children yet who would beg to stay up just a little longer and sneak their way out of bed.

The Valar willing, there would one day be so.

But for now… he knew he had a duty to bring hope and light to the people of Edoras. He needs must try to bring as much of his father's cheer to the festivities as he could, though he feared that he could not muster as much of a festive spirit as Éomund had done.

"Happy midwinter, Éomer," said Lothíriel, startling him from his reverie. He started and turned from the window of his study, out of which he had been staring at nothing. He had not heard her enter. She was already dressed in a gown of deep green. The green of the house of Éorl. It suited her well, and it pleased him to see her adopt the colors of his house. Her hair was arranged like a lady of Rohan, long down the back and upon her head perched a traditional wreath of holly and ivy. The overall effect gave her a rather fae-like appearance, he thought. Well, it was said that she did have elven blood, tracing back to Numenor and before.

At her marvelous throat was the collared necklace he had gifted her, the one that had belonged to his mother.

"Happy midwinter," he said quickly after a pause, realizing that he had been staring at her with a lump in his throat. He smiled at her brightly, attempting to assure her of his good wishes, and hoping that slightly misty eyes did not betray him.

She furrowed her brow at him. "What is it?" she asked.

So they had. He shook his head, flustered. "I am sorry, Lothíriel. My mind was in a place that…"

"A place that others cannot follow," she finished knowingly, "Yes, I can see that."

Her smile faltered a bit as she studied him, and she blushed and turned to the window. "I did not mean to disturb you. I just wished to speak with you before the feast tonight, that we might — have some time alone together. If you would prefer that I leave — "

"Nay!" he interrupted quickly, distressed that she thought he did not desire her with him, "Stay, Lothíriel. I would be grateful for your company, and indeed I wish for it." He reached for her hand impulsively, and drew her closer to him, and kissed it. "I wish for it."

Her lips curled into a surprised smile. "Good."

He returned the smile, and led her to the armchairs by the fireplace. Outside, thick flakes of snow fell softly, silently coating Edoras in a mantle of white.

"Happy midwinter," Éomer said again, when they had settled in their seats. "You look …most becoming. It pleases me to see you in the colors of my house."

"It is our house," she said solemnly. "Éomer. It is my house too, for I am your wife."

Very much moved, Éomer drank in the sight of her. "And I note that you have worn holly for the occasion."

She grinned. "I have a crown prepared for you as well," she said, "For I have learned of your customs and wish very much to embrace them. We do not have the same traditions, of course, in Gondor, but I have always loved this feast. And this will be my first Yuletide with snow upon the ground." She smiled. "In Dol Amroth, it almost always rains."

"Snow is more fitting," Éomer said, "I am glad our climate saw fit to welcome you."

She smiled, and they fell silent. Éomer cleared his throat and gazed at the fire in the hearth, fretting at his incapacity to further the conversation. Though they had been married for now upon three months, with him away for a month of it, there were still moments upon which the tension of uncertainty still seemed to bloom. They would sometimes tiptoe about one another, as if neither were sure of the other's comfort or what to say. And how dearly he wished to change that. The early excitement of their marriage, that eager tension and even flirtation of those first few evenings… well, that tension had not exactly faded, but neither had it progressed, and Éomer was beginning to wonder if he had made a terrible mistake in prolonging the inevitable, which after all was the fulfillment of marital duty that still lay before them both.

"Éomer," Lothiriel said after a long pregnant moment. He looked at her and saw that she was blushing. "I have a present for you." She drew from a pocket somewhere within her skirts a small parcel, wrapped in velvet and tied with leather cord.

Surprised - although perhaps he should not have been, for midwinter gifts were customary throughout the realms of men - Éomer took it from her rather clumsily. "Thank you. Shall I open it now?"

She shrugged, a bit sheepish. "If you wish to. I know not your customs."

He grinned. "I believe in general, a present is to be opened whenever received," he said. "I will do so."

She looked pleased and slightly nervous. "I know not… I am still getting to know you," she stammered, as he untied the string. "Perhaps you will not like it."

Éomer unfolded the parcel and smiled. It was a cloak pin made of gold, the head of a horse framed by the wings of a swan.

She flushed, her hands trembling a bit as she watched for his reaction. "I had it made for you. It is to symbolize our union," she whispered.

"It is a thoughtful and symbolic gift, Lothíriel. I shall treasure it." He laid it carefully on the table beside him and leaned closer to her. He took her hands, and kissed each one. "I have a gift for you as well, but you shall have to wait." He looked up at her with a teasing grin. "If you think you can."

She giggled at his tone, and nodded. "Yes, Éomer, it will be difficult, but I think I can wait."

He was pleased at the laugh he had garnered, and held her hands a moment in his own, wanting to tell her how she had made him feel with the gift, and how it was to look upon her now. "Lothíriel," he began, then promptly forgot what he was abut to say, captured by the way her smile lingered and her eyes were sparkling at him.

"Yes?" she prodded, reminding him that he had trailed off. "Éomer, what is it?"

He shook his head, smiling sheepishly. "Nothing."

Her smile faded a bit. "Oh." She withdrew her hands and stood, walking to the window and gazing out, her manner suddenly rather subdued.

Éomer kicked himself inwardly. Stupid. He could have spoken what was in his heart. Instead he had let the moment pass.

"The feast is meant to begin now," she said after a moment. "It cannot start without its hosts."

"Nay," he said, brightly. "We must not keep our people waiting." He went to her and offered her his arm. "My lady."

She turned to him and took his arm.

He vowed to do better to speak to her. He would find a way to bridge this gap between them.


The feast was ready to begin, and upon their arrival in the Great Hall, the doors were flung open and the people of Edoras invited in as many as could fit, and those that could not would be well fed, and all in need would be sent on their way with a gift of grain to take with them. It would be a hard winter for all, Éomer knew, and it was his duty to share what could be spared.

Lothíriel made a fine hostess, he thought as he watched her, glowing in the candlelight, her cheeks high in color. She was quick to laugh at the jests of those around her, and it made him smile as well. He filled her wine more than once, amused at the change in her as her spirits heightened, although not in an unseemly way.

As the food dwindled and the festivities made way to dancing and merriment, it seemed to Éomer that Lothíriel's body seemed to pulse in its yearning to dance, and it was not long before a worthy partner made himself known, with Éomer's blessing. For his part, he was not one who was often given to dancing, but he enjoyed the sight of Lothíriel, her statuesque height placing her easily in his vision as she was swept up into the lively dances of his people. She had clearly learned the steps, which surprised him. He recalled that on their wedding, there had been only a few dances that she had known.

It was no sooner than one dance ended that another began, and many were eager to dance with their queen. Éomer settled into his seat, content to watch her. It was good to see her laughing, alive and indeed, to see that she was finding her place amidst his people. Scarcely two months before, she had felt lost and alone. He wondered if she still felt that way at times, but hoped that tonight, she had cast those fears aside.

"You seem quite taken with Her Majesty, my king," said a voice in his ear and he started. It was Gamling, his old friend, advisor and caretaker of Edoras, and the older man was grinning at him knowingly.

"Happy Midwinter, Gamling," Éomer said after a moment, feeling rather as if he had been caught with his hands in the butter. Though why he should feel so exposed he did not know; was it not natural to be taken with one's wife?

"Indeed, Éomer king," said his friend, "It is happy, indeed. Happier still to see a newlywed king with such a look upon his face. "

"Have a seat, my friend," Éomer acknowledged the seat beside him, realizing he would be subject to such teasing and that he might as well get it over with, but not without his own tongue to deflect it. "I saw you dance a jig earlier, and would not have thought it possible for such an old man as you. I did not think you had it in you at your age. You must be tired."

"Aye, I am," said Gamling, acknowledging the jape. "But you, my liege, have no excuse to be still seated. A man as young as you, and not dancing?"

Éomer chuckled. "You know my feelings on the matter of dancing. The only dance I would do willingly is on the battlefield or in the training ring. I am more suited to watch."

"And yet, your wife dances, while you do not." Gamling studied the crowd, eyeing Éomer thoughtfully. "Forgive me but were I in your shoes, I would not let such an opportunity pass me by."

"You are welcome to dance with her, if she will have you," was Éomer's response. "And if you think your legs could handle it."

"You miss my meaning," Gamling countered with a more serious tone.

Éomer was silent a moment, watching Lothíriel amidst the swirl of dancers. Her holly crown was askew and a gleam of sweat shone upon her brow. The light in her eyes was as bright as the candlelight about her. Béma! She was a sight.

"Then explain, Gamling," Éomer invited, curious as to his friend's meaning and knowing that he was about to be given a lecture and likely one that he deserved. For all their jesting, this man was one he trusted with his life, and he would not lightly brush his advice aside.

"There was a time I had such a young and pretty wife," Gamling began, "I was blind with ambition and did not have much time or will for such things as dancing. But I would give it all away, my station and the peace I have found, just to have one dance with her now."

Éomer glanced at his friend, whose voice had grown thick with regret, just in time to see the old man wipe a tear from his cheek. Éomer swallowed in discomfort. Gamling's wife had died many years ago in childbed, and the infant along with her, leaving Gamling a widower and their three other children motherless. It was unusual for Gamling to speak of it.

"I understand your meaning," Éomer murmured. "Perhaps you have reason."

Considering the weight of Gamling's anecdote, the young king quickly made his decision. The music stopped and the dancing slowed to a halt as those engaging in the merriment realized their king had stood. He cleared his throat and stepped down from the high table, onto the floor and the crowd parted for him. He knew he was a commanding presence and his descent was enough to strike silence into the hall as the guests watched in anticipation, eager for what he might say.

"Play the Dance of the Sun and Moon," he said to the musicians in his own tongue.

He found Lothíriel's gaze in the crowd. "My lady Queen."

Her eyes fixed upon his face in clear astonishment as she understood his intention. Her cheeks were fetching high in color and she was slightly breathless from the dancing, and her hair was mussed. Under his gaze she reached up to straighten her winter crown, which had fallen askew. "My lord King."

He held out his hand to her and she stepped forward into the circle that had cleared for them, her gaze never breaking his.

It was a couple's dance, slow and dreamlike, and he knew much of it was very similar to a dance in Gondor, so he had suspected she might know the steps. She did. The steps were lilting, weaving the couple in and around one another, and for much of it, they never touched. The story told in the dance was of the moon's longing for the sun and the sun's longing in return. Only towards the end did their fingers brush, and then, they moved apart once more, ending opposite of where they had begun, but neither facing the other. There was thunderous applause in the hall as they stood for the last few notes, and then they turned back to one another, both smiling rather sheepishly.

To dance with her was like being held captive by her spirit and Éomer found himself utterly lost. If before he had held some control over his growing affection, now he knew that control was beyond him. His heart was hers and he allowed himself to hope that she felt the same for him. And for his part, he knew he would never again deny himself the opportunity to dance, if it was with her.


As the feast dwindled into the early hours of the morn, the music turning to ballads and the torches dwindling, Éomer finally took Lothíriel's hand and whispered in her ear, "I think it is time we retire, my wife."

She smiled at him with sleepy eyes. "I could not agree more."

They bade goodnight and found their way to their apartments.

Once inside, Éomer took her hands in his own and brought her to stand near the fire, for she had begun to shiver, perhaps with fatigue as much as with the cold.

"Happy Midwinter, Lothíriel" he murmured to her. "I cannot believe my good fortune. For all that has come to me. And for that you are my wife."

She searched his face, her lips pursing in consideration. "Éomer."

"What is it?" he murmured, somewhat impatiently.

She was blushing. "I am still not your wife in one way," she said rather pointedly.

"I am not impatient," he began, understanding her implication, "I will wait until you come to me."

She looked rather exasperated. "I am."

"You are what?" he asked, confused beyond all measure.

"I am 'coming' to you," she said with a laugh. "Éomer, I did not take you for such a slow wit. I am telling you that I wish for you to take me to bed. Now, please. Let us not tally any longer in what is something we both have wanted, I think, for some time."

"Are you… you are certain?" he asked, his heart skipping a beat.

She nodded shyly. "More than certain."

It was the assurance he needed. He moved to her slowly, though every fiber in his being told him to sweep her into his arms and crush her to him. Though the invitation was there, and after all this time, suddenly he found himself hesitant, fearing that she would flee from him. But she did not. His hands found hers. Her gaze did not break his all the while.

He drew her closer, his hands slipping past her hands to her arms and then her waist. Softly, he kissed her brow, then her eyelids, one by one, and at last he tipped her chin up so that her lips might meet his searching mouth.

When their lips did collide, he kissed her thoroughly, crushing her to his chest. He had waited so long for this closeness, for assurance, for… for her. She met his kiss with fervor, and wrapped her arms about him as if to bind him to her forever. The kisses turned from thirsty to exploratory, and from this longing began a sort of dance as ties were loosened and clothing was stripped away, and more parts of the body became new territory to be discovered and conquered.

"Come," she said, once they were both breathless and significantly freer of their outer attire. She drew away from him and led him into the bedchamber and nearer to the bed, her fingers barely hooking around his. As they stood at the foot of it, her fingers reached up to her hair, which was still crowned in its wreath of holly. She cast it aside and shook her hair to loose any remaining pieces of foliage.. He had managed to undo her bodice and the ties of her gown and she wriggled out of it, stepping over it. All that remained was her shift. He had seen her so attired, but for the first time allowed himself to look her over - imagining with anticipation the curves of her body, the sight of her skin, once that last garment that covered her was removed. He reached to her, allowing his fingers to trail down her throat, to her collarbone, watching the way her chest rose and fell. The cleft of her breasts, above the delicate lace trim of her shift. His fingertips met the fabric and slowly let his hand come rest over her heart, near her breast, and felt it pounding. Or was it his own?

He raised his eyes to hers.

She was watching him with a look he did not immediately recognize in her eyes. But then he realized it was power. Power over him. A few short months past, he would never have thought any other person could undo him. And yet here he was, content to be under her command.

"You first," she said simply.

He grinned, and complied with the order, stripping his linen shirt from his head. He had to sit to remove his boots and chausses, and then stood to remove his braies. Well, he could be shy, but he was too eager to care. He unlaced them, meeting her gaze all the while, and tossed the garment away.

He straightened and stood before her naked, and held out his hands. "Well?"

She was smiling as her eyes traveled over him, and they lingered below his waist with a gleam.

"I am at your service, my lady," he said after a moment, not knowing what to make of her gaze.

"I can see that," was her frank response.

He laughed at her boldness, for so bawdy was her implication he had to blink. "Lothiriel of Dol Amroth!"

She flushed red and looked back up at his eyes. Her grin did not waver, though. "Éomer of Rohan."

"Does the sight of your husband please you?"

She did not need to reply.

"Now, you," he said, for the air was becoming thick with longing.

Slowly, she lifted her shift over her head. He took it from her and tossed it aside, and gazed down at her, drinking in her body with long repressed hunger.

"And you, husband? Do you like what you see?" she queried.

"Aye," he said. "Aye, Lothíriel." He came to kiss her, sweeping her hair back from her face. Now there were no barriers between them. He lifted her and set her around his waist, wrapping those shapely legs abut him and carrying her the few steps to the bed, after which there was little need to speak except in encouragement and in utterances of pleasure.


Some time later, Eomer lay awake and thoughtful as Lothíriel drifted into a thoroughly earned sleep in the crook of his arm.

So this was what it was to feel completely content at the hands of another, he wondered with a slight trepidation. He had not expected to fall in love with her so quickly. And no, it was not their newfound intimacy that had sparked this revelation. If it had, he would have written it off as the foolish whims of a new lover, carried away on lust alone. He had realized it much earlier that night, watching her from across the room, and then again dancing with her. And what was more, it was if he had given a name to a feeling he had felt for weeks now.

He would do anything for her. Not only out of duty, but because he was hers, body and soul.

He pulled her close, and closed his eyes. Now, he knew he could sleep as peacefully as he had as a boy on those Midwinter nights, safe in his father's house and with a child's gleeful anticipation of the gifts the next morning would bring, and now also with something deeper to carry: hope.

Fin.


[Author's Note: What began as a one-shot turned into this lovely little story at your urging. I hope that you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it over the last...year? As ever, thank you for your kind words and support. xo, GB]