A/N: this is just a random blurb that i came up with while trying to break through the block in btsf. it's kinda weird, and i don't know if i'll be continuing it or anything, but i thought i'd put it up anyways.

::disclaimer:: all standard disclaimers apply.

Doe Eyes

She didn't want this. It was her father's plan, not hers. She hardly knew the man. But here Lothíriel stood, waiting to be given to the king of Rohan. A silent tear trickled down her face as the vows were said. She was glad for the custom of hiding the bride's face; it would not do for her new subjects to see their queen crying at her own wedding.

And then he lifted the veil from her face. He leaned closer, and she remembered they were supposed to kiss. She closed her eyes and tilted her face upward. The crowd applauded as their lips met, though they did so for only a brief moment.

"I hope you will be happy here," he whispered as he drew away. She did not respond.

The wedding feast was long. Lothíriel sat quietly as her new husband accepted gifts and blessings from well-wishers. He hardly spoke two words to her, and she made no effort to begin a conversation. At last, he decided it was late enough for them to escape the feast. To much cajoling, he rose and spoke. "As much as I have enjoyed this celebration, my friends, I fear that my lady—" he smiled encouragingly at Lothíriel "—and I must retire. But please, continue your feasting." He drained his tankard and beckoned for Lothíriel to follow him. Amid cheers, they exited the great hall and went to the bedchambers that had been prepared for them.

He closed the door to the chamber as Lothíriel looked around. It was a typical Rohirric bedroom: banners and tapestries decorated the walls, an animal skin lay on the cold stone floor, blankets were piled on the bed, a warm fire crackled in the hearth. "Please, make yourself comfortable," he said. She turned to him. He had removed the great cloak and crown he had worn during the ceremony, and while he was still a huge man, he seemed much more human. "Would you care to sit? To have some wine?" He paused. "To sleep?"

His last question reminded her of her duties as a bride, and her tears began afresh. She collapsed on the rug, uncaring that she was crumpling her wedding dress, and cried. Her husband stood, watching her as if she were a frightened colt. He knelt beside her, whispering soothing words. He carefully took hold of the golden circlet on her head and removed it. He moved behind her and began to unbind her hair. As he removed the last clasp, he combed his fingers though her dark curls, loosening the strands. This seemed to have a calming effect on her, and soon her sobs decreased to a faint sniffle.

"I did not want this," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"I have no wish to be here." She turned to him. "I do not love you. You do not love me. I will stay out of your way."

"We could learn to love one another."

She laughed bitterly. "I love only the sea. And I shall never be near it again." The king said nothing, but rose and left the room, leaving his new queen to mourn the loss of her beloved sea.

The weeks went by, and rumors began to grow among the people. Some whispered that the new queen was already with child—that she had been before the wedding. Others scoffed at that and said she was repulsed by the Rohirric customs. A few said that perhaps she had taken ill and had been unable to leave her bed. "Aye, only because our king has so weakened the Gondorian flower," the first group would say, and everyone laughed. But all knew that, whatever the truth, the queen had not made a public appearance since her wedding feast.

In truth, it was none of these. Lothíriel did as she had said she would: she stayed away from her husband. Instead, she occuppied her time writing letters to her brothers, reading the books she had brought from Dol Amroth, and sewing. She spent most of her time sewing tapestries in the royal chambers, alone, since she had no ladies-in-waiting that had come to Rohan with her. Yes, it was quiet, and often lonely, but it gave Lothíriel something to do as she whiled away the hours between dawn and dusk.

It was on one such occasion that, after the evening meal, her husband came to her in the bedroom. "My lady," he said, "the people gossip of you."

"I do not care." She continued her needlework.

He knealt beside her, taking the tapestry from her so that she could not ignore him. "I fear that you waste away in this prison you have invented for yourself," he said. "This was my sister's prison. It should not be yours as well."

"I did not ask for this," she replied.

"I did not say that you did. But please, do not become what my sister was—a shadow of herself. I could not bear to watch it."

She nearly faltered at the pleading in his eyes but quickly regained her composure. She said nothing, but took back her sewing and returned to her work.

"Am I so terrible that you would lock yourself away?" he asked. She did not answer. He sighed and began to rise, but then he stopped and on impulse, took hold of her chin. He kissed her gently and left.

Lothíriel watched him go, tears trailing down her face. She stood, letting her needlework fall to the floor. Quietly, she let herself into the sittingroom her husband had just entered. She shut the door silently. She did not dare to speak as she watched her husband change into his nightclothes. He shrugged off his shirt and replaced it with a lighter cotton one and then turned, blinking in surprise at the sight of his wife.

"What is it?" he asked.

"My lord, I-I—" her words stumbled, and he came closer to her.

"You what?" he said gently.

"My lord, I—never mind." She turned swiftly to leave, but he took hold of her arm.

"Please," he said, "call me Éomer." Her doe eyes met his dark hazel ones, and she slipped her arm from his grasp and ran into the bedroom, locking the door behind her.