A/N: I am very sorry that you get this only today, but I have had some trouble online and as a result I have felt more like crying than like writing.

Yours Juno.

84. Brydgifta

I have no idea how I managed to get through the long, slow days of the hot summer of 3020, the last year of the third age. It was the hottest summer in living memory. For weeks on end no breeze stirred the leaves of the White Tree up at the Citadel of Minas Tirith. The Anduin's water levels were so low that the river could almost be crossed on a horse.

Negotiations with Harondor, Harad, Umbar and Khand had come to a standstill at the end of June, Nárië. No one was inclined to give an inch. At least there had been no threats of war yet. The traitor had not been found. But short and balmy as the summer nights in Gondor were, they were long enough for bands of orcs to issue forth from their caves in the Ephel Dúath, raiding and killing as they attacked one after the other of the few settlements which had been re-established in Ithilien.

Éomer had returned to Edoras when the negotiations with the neighbouring realms had been called off for the remainder of the summer. Aragorn was kept busy in courts and councils day in day out, getting more edgy as summer went on and the temperatures climbed to ever new extremes. It did not really help that he was forced to watch Faramir getting out and about all the time. Faramir spent most of his time patrolling the borders of Ithilien with his troops.

Éowyn had taken over the training of the women in Osgiliath and Emyn Arnen. In times of war it would be up to the women to hold the city of Osgiliath until reinforcements from Minas Tirith would be able to arrive. Women are the last ditch defences of a country. That's where you get the term "shield-maiden" from. It's the title for young women with no children to look after who are trained to fight should the need arise.

Originally the task of training the women of Osgiliath and Emyn Arnen had been appointed to Captain Beregond. But that had not worked very well. Somehow most women were too timid around the good captain for effective weapons' training. When Éowyn had taken over, suddenly things had gone smoothly. She was a living legend. And she kicked serious ass.

But the amazing thing was that now, when she finally had a military responsibility, she found that she actually preferred the more peaceful activity of re-building Ithilien. She could go on for hours about the strategic positions of villages, castles and forts to keep safe the borders of Ithilien. For weeks her favourite topic was roads. Good roads accounted for flourishing trade, happy and healthy people in the villages of Ithilien and safety: good roads would take Faramir's soldiers quickly where they were needed.

Éowyn was busier than she had ever been in her life. And happier, too. Somehow the rule of Ithilien ended up almost equally divided between the Prince and his lady. It would not have worked in any other province of Gondor. It's not that women are not important or that they are without influence. But a woman who is very visibly in a position of power is looked upon askance. Ruling a fiefdom is a male prerogative. I guess the men of Gondor feel as threatened by women taking away their power as men on earth.

But Ithilien is a special case. When Faramir was made Prince of Ithilien, there was hardly anything left of Ithilien. Now there were many men and women willing to re-build the former "Garden of Gondor", but they were still so few in number that it was almost possible to know every inhabitant of Ithilien by name. That accounted for a certain informality of the power structure. And starting from scratch, from ruins, working together to make Osgiliath beautiful again, created quickly a spirit of community among the Ithilians. Having the elves under Legolas' command around all the time helped the people of Ithilien be more open-minded than perhaps the rather parochial people of the mountains of Morthond.

Éowyn was busy. Arwen was busy, too. She was gradually becoming more accepted by the people of Minas Tirith. They were not as much in awe of their elvish queen as they had been a year ago. They began feeling at ease in Arwen's presence. Adoration was quickly giving way to – there's simply no other word that comes to mind – love. The people of Minas Tirith were falling in love with their pregnant elvish queen. But that meant that the queen was kept busy, with meetings and audiences. She had also begun training in the human arts of healing, helping Ioreth and Elaine in the House of Healing. Apart from that Arwen floated through the days with a sunny smile on her face. She was pregnant, Aragorn doted on her, and the symptoms which had plagued her during her first months of pregnancy – dizzy spells and morning sickness – had disappeared. She was more beautiful than ever, and when she took a walk in the city, women stopped her every few feet asking to touch her belly – it was commonly believed that this had an effect on the fertility of the person touching the queen. People are so weird.

I was kept busy, too – with lessons and wedding preparations. But neither lessons nor wedding preparations made for a fulfilled life. I was slightly envious of Éowyn and Arwen – who had what amounted to the Middle-earth equivalent of demanding and prestigious job, whereas I was caught in limbo. Once again I was waiting. Waiting for Éomer. Waiting for September, Yavannië. Sometimes I had the feeling that I had already spent my whole life waiting for Éomer. And perhaps I had – even back on earth.

The ceremony at Edoras was set for the 30th of Yavannië, which was one of the new feast days according to the King's Reckoning: Cormarë, the Ringday. A good day for a royal wedding. The brydgifta would be held in the Hall of Kings in the Tower of Ecthelion on the 15th, giving us ample time to travel to Edoras at a leisurely pace.

My gowns were well on the way to perfection. I had never had any doubts about that. But Aragorn had reassured me that the same was true for the new sword for Éomer. I was praying that this was true. Míriël had reassured me that the jewellery would be ready, too. I was not allowed to take a look at either the sword or the jewellery myself, because that was supposed to be bad luck. I did not even try to have a look. Good luck and blessings, that's what I was praying for every night. And that the sword would be finished in time.

"I need something to do," I declared vehemently. It was a hot, hot day in the middle of July. Éowyn, for once in Minas Tirith, and Arwen were languishing in the shadow of sunshades made of white linen which had been doused with perfumed water. The hobbits, Elladan and Elrohir and Aragorn were engaged in a game of cards. Arwen smiled lazily. Éowyn opened her eyes for a moment. She looked at me with an expression of pity on her face, exchanged a glance with Arwen that said in no uncertain terms that she thought I was crazy, and then closed her eyes again.

"You could always practice your tengwar. And I think your last attempt at calculating the provisions necessary to get Meduseld over the winter was not yet quite perfect." Míriël suggested. She was sitting on a blanket with Meluir, Sorcha and Solas. They were engaged in building towers with colourful wooden blocks. I groaned. I had been told that the household would starve before the beginning of the new year according to my calculations. My next attempt had been ridiculed as a sure-fire way into debt and ruin of the treasury. If you go for a holiday in a foreign country, you always get those nifty tables to tell you just how many ₠equal how many $. There was no such table for Rohan or Gondor. Éowyn roused herself to a muted giggle. "I don't think that Mistress Gosvintha will let you starve or bankrupt the household, Lothy, so I wouldn't worry too much. Why don't you take a nap like any sensible person would at this time of day?"

I rolled my eyes at my friend. "I can't. This sitting around… This waiting is driving me crazy. I have to do something." I replied. "Anything!"

I rose to my feet and began pacing the length of the terrace. Finally the Lady Elaine took pity on me. "Why don't you go for a ride? At this time of the day everyone's asleep anyway. If she stays within the Rammas Echor she should be quite safe." The healer was sitting at a table with a book about the herbs of Ithilien. "That's not fair on her poor guards," Éowyn protested. "They will perish with the heat in their livery." Elaine shrugged. The healer was not known for her easy ways with servants. She demanded as much dedication from those who served her as she demanded of herself. I bit down on my lip and considered her suggestion. The thought of getting away from the palace, the thought of getting some exercise was a real temptation. But after a moment I heaved a sigh and sat back down. Forcing Mimi out in this sweltering heat with no good cause… only because I was feeling restless… no way.

"Ha!" Pippin exclaimed, throwing down his hand of cards in triumph. "Game over!" Elladan raised his head and looked at the hobbit with admiration. "This is amazing. That hobbit plays the meanest game of cards I have ever seen since Halbarad died." Aragorn nodded. "That's true. I feel I am on my way of losing my kingdom to him." He winked at the hobbit. Pippin grinned smugly. The hobbit had grown into a dashing young man; still three years shy of his coming of age, he cut through the society of Minas Tirith like a hot knife through butter. It was amazing to see how many young women were willing to overlook his lack in height and his woolly feet. Though taking in his lean, muscular form, his curly hair and sparkling eyes I reconsidered. Perhaps it was not so amazing after all. Merry, who was gathering up the cards and shuffling them for a new game with the ease of long practice, was not a failure either where girls were concerned. His dark, handsome looks won the hearts of the lasses in Minas Tirith as easily as in Hobbiton. But with his thirty-eight years Merry was a little more circumspect in the ways he handled his conquests.

I sighed, fidgeting in my chair. I was so damn restless these days. And the days were so long, so long and so slow, drenched in sunshine and the scent of lemon flowers. I heaved another sigh.

Patience, Lothy. Patience!

I sighed again.

I don't know how it happened. But suddenly the day was there. The day.

I was sitting in my bed after giving up on sleeping. It was the night from the 14th of Yavannië to the 15th. I was simply too excited. My stomach seemed to consist only of wildly fluttering butterflies. I had tossed and turned and sighed for a few hours, trying to fall asleep. Then I stopped even trying to get some sleep. I sat huddled in my covers and stared into the darkness, listening to my frantic heartbeat and the nightly sounds of the Citadel around me.

I had to rise early in the next morning. The brydgifta would be held in the morning. My marriage would be held according to Rohirric traditions, because my betrothed was Rohirrim. First my mund would be given to Éomer, and then he could take me to Edoras, where we would exchange the holy vows of brydealu. We would set out for Edoras before noon.

Everything was ready to go. Even a splendid carriage for the queen. Arwen had been very angry at being treated like royalty. She had been not amused at all when Éowyn had pointed out that she was, in fact, royalty – twice royal, even, from her father's side, as well as by her marriage. Éowyn was awfully chipper since her wedding. I hugged my knees against my breast. It was only a matter of time until Éowyn would be pregnant, too. If she wasn't already… I hid a smile in the blankets. Éomer and I would have to put in some real work to catch up with the others. Even as I thought it, my stomach erupted in another flurry of butterflies. Éomer. I. A bed. I closed my eyes and put my icy palms against my hot cheeks. Only two more weeks until…

I gulped – and predictably my heart almost jumped into my mouth. Only two more weeks until. Until…

I blinked my eyes rapidly. Somewhere between my last thought of how long it would be until I felt Éomer's body pressed against mine, I must have dozed off. Now the darkness of the night was giving way to the blue shadows of early morning. The Citadel was fairly quiet. A blackbird was greeting the dawn from somewhere close to my window. And from farther away the sound of a horse neighing drifted up to me. I felt my stomach do a somersault. No. Not my stomach. It felt as if my complete innards were tossing and twisting.

I leapt from the bed. I had to get ready. I had to get ready!

At that moment, the door opened and Míri rushed in. She swept me into a tight embrace. "Good morning, Lothíriel." Then she stepped back and looked at me for a long moment, as if she was unsure what to say. Then she added, hesitantly. "Good morning, iëll-nîn, my daughter."

I did not even stop to think. I simply hugged her again. My voice quivered, as I replied. "Morning, naneth-nîn. Mama." And I thought about my other Mama, so very far away and broke into tears. Not terrible, sobbing tears, but emotional tears from being so very excited and nervous. Míriël held me close until I had calmed down. Then she smiled at me, that happy smile that told me how much she enjoyed it that she had found a daughter in me. A daughter who had to be prepared for the first stage in her journey to married life.

A few moments later there was a soft knock on the door. Ini entered, curtsied deeply to us and then turned imperiously to the maid-servants of the Citadel who were following her. They carried a huge tub and many steaming ewers. I would be bathed in as much hot water as I could want today.

Half an hour later I was immersed in hot water with rose blossoms floating around me. It was not a bubble bath, but it was laced with rose oil and smelling like paradise. Slowly the warmth of the water soothed my nerves and dispersed the cold of anxiety from my hands and my feet. I sighed deeply.

Míriël smiled at me and offered me a glass of white sparkly wine from a tray. I drank deeply and found a huge smile spreading across my face. This was the day. My day. Éomer's day. Finally.

When I had finished my bath, I was presented with rose scented body oil and powder. Míriël took over brushing my hair. By the time she had combed out the tangles, the hair was almost dry. It had grown a little bit lighter in the hot summer sun of Gondor, so it was brown with subtle golden highlights now. I had even acquired just a hint of a tan. When my hair was brushed, Elaine presented me with her latest experiment on toothpaste. It was no longer the white powder of chalk and ground oyster shells that it had been. She had added cinnamon and coriander and this and that. It was still more or less a white sandy powder, but it had lost the terrible taste of dead fish and dust. My old blue plastic toothbrush was way beyond anything I would have used back on earth, but somehow it was poignant and important that I used this bit of blue and white plastic and bristles on this day. It had come such a long way with me. From Erlangen to Bree. From Bree to Rivendell. All the way through Moria. It had remained behind at Amon Hen. But when I had woken at Edoras, it had been there, waiting for me, along with the other small things of my past that had been in my pack and which Aragorn had taken with him when they had chased the orcs from Amon Hen to the borders of Fangorn Forest – hoping against hope that he would be able to return my pack to me. My pack and my tooth brush.

I had kept it. In Tarnost, in Dol Amroth. During the golden days at Cormallen. At Edoras…

My dress for today was blue. Dark blue leggings. A pale blue shirt. And a dress-like, soft, almost translucent tunic in periwinkle-blue that seemed to float around me like a cloud. Without my bit of a tan I would have been too pale for the dress, but as it was, I felt at least that I looked lovely.

I daubed a little perfume oil – roses again – behind my ears, at my throat and on my wrists. Then I had to sit very still while Sorcha applied my make-up. Nothing fancy, since we would ride as soon as the brydgifta was over and I did not want to end up with a smeared face. But she had a little kohl for my eyelids and lashes, and a little silvery powder. And a rosy paste that went on my lips and – only a tiny little bit of it – on my cheekbones.

Then she suddenly stepped away from me. I looked up and found Sorcha and Míriël smiling at me, their eyes glittering with emotion. Little Solas, who had been sitting on the floor in front of the dressing table, watching intently, stared at me with round blue eyes and an open mouth. "You is pretty," she said. "Almost like se queen." Solas had learned to talk very well during the last months. She had turned three years in June. She was beyond cute. And smart. And she said exactly what she thought.

"You are very sweet, little one," I said and my face almost hurt with the happy smile that reached from ear to ear. "Thank you!" Solas nodded solemnly. Then she thought hard. "You welcome." She said finally. Sorcha laughed out loud and made Ini take her daughter away. Sorcha would accompany me to the ceremony. Solas we would meet only later, when we would leave Minas Tirith. Sorcha and Solas would share the carriage with the queen.

I inhaled deeply. It was strange, but the nervousness and the anxiety of the night had passed. Now that I was dressed, and as pretty as I could be, I felt at ease. A little breathless and giddy, light-headed. But calm. Floating – like my dress.

A soft knock sounded.

The door opened to admit Arwen and Éowyn.

I turned to them, this almost painful smile of happiness stretching my facial muscles. "Is it time?" I asked. My voice was the way I felt, light, and a little breathless.

My friends looked at me, the Queen of Gondor, and the White Lady of Ithilien, and both of them smiled, Arwen's smile soft, Éowyn's a little angular, but just as brilliant. "Yes," Arwen said. "It is time. We have come to escort you to the Hall of Kings."

They embraced me, careful of my dress and my hair. Then they walked ahead of me, out of the apartments of the Prince and the Lady of Dol Amroth, down the broad marble staircase of the House of the Kings and out into the clear golden sunlight of an early morning in Yavannië.

Míriël followed me, and behind her were Sorcha and Elaine.

I did not notice much of my surroundings as I walked from the House of Kings to the Tower of Ecthelion. I knew that the sun was shining in that perfect golden way I love so much about September, and that the sky was a deep, perfect, morning glory blue. I heard people calling my name, and I seem to remember that there were flowers being thrown to the ground in front of me.

Then we were suddenly on the stairs in front of the White Tower and I remembered how Éomer and I had met here, months ago, to get away from the celebrations, to talk…

But before I could think about that night for another second, the doors of the Hall of Kings were thrust open by guards dressed in the sombre black livery of the Citadel.

Clarions sounded.

For a moment my stomach did a sickening somersault. But I had no choice. I could only follow Arwen and Éowyn into the Hall of Kings and up to the two thrones. Aragorn, arrayed as the King of Gondor, with silver crown and blue mantle sat on the white throne. Faramir, dressed in the white and black of the Steward of Gondor was on the black throne, his posture stiff as it always was when he had to sit there, but his expression full of warmth, his eyes more blue than grey.

But I only glanced at them for a moment.

Then I stopped dead in my tracks. My breath caught hard in my throat. My heart echoed the drums which were rolling to the rhythm of the trumpets and clarions announcing my entrance. On a level with the black throne of the Stewards, Prince Imrahil and Éomer King were standing.

Both were dressed in their uniforms as high commanders of their countries. Imrahil wore the blue and silver of Dol Amroth, his silvery fair hair falling down across his shoulders almost like a second mantle. His eyes shone like silver and he looked at me with a proud smile on his face. Ada, I thought. Ada

But before I could get any more emotional at seeing my second adoptive father smiling at me as if I was the dearest treasure of his heart, I was caught in Éomer's dark gaze.

Éomer King stood in front of the throne of Gondor. He was clad in the deep red armour he had worn on the Fields of the Pelennor and in front of the Morannon more than a year before. He wore trousers of rich brown leather and a shirt of an almost golden hue. At his neck a kingly red cloak had been fastened with a brooch in the form of an eagle. His golden and dun curls tumbled to his shoulders, for once tamed by comb and hair tonic. His beard, a touch darker than his hair, was well trimmed, accentuating the shape of his face more than hiding it. His dark eyes blazed at me, sparkling with those amazing flecks of amber.

I stared at Éomer and found it almost impossible to breathe, much less move.

The sound of choked laughter – Éowyn – finally roused me from my reverie. Between them, Arwen and Éowyn, made sure that I got up the stairs without mishap. I was glad of their assistance. I felt as if I was walking on clouds. Without them at my left and my right, I would have stumbled over my own feet and gone sprawling on my face in front of my betrothed and the king.

But then I was there, and Arwen and Éowyn drifted back down the stairs after squeezing my arms briefly.

The drums and the trumpets fell silent. My heart did not. Elladan and Elrohir who were standing with their sister at the sides of the stairs down below the thrones probably could discern every single frantic, excited beat of my heart.

Éomer was about three feet away from me. But I felt the warmth of his body radiate across my body, from my head, over my cleavage right down to my toes. I tasted his fragrance on the air, spicy, male, today without the pungent aftertaste of horse and hay, and I gasped.

He smiled at me and tears rose to my eyes.

Aragorn rose from his throne. He looked at us in turn, at Imrahil whom he knew so long and so well, at Éomer who was like a brother for him – and at me. His grey eyes sparkled, and for a moment it seemed to me that I saw the reflection of a memory in their clear depths, almost like the scene of a movie.

A gate of solid wood, and a rugged gate keeper standing in front of it, a pike in his hand, looking at a young woman… A young woman with tangled brown hair and confused expression on her face… a young woman in blue jeans and a man's shirt, with a backpack in camouflage pattern on her back…

Her shaking voice as she said: "He knows me…"

Then the moment was over.

Aragorn smiled at me. A warm, knowing smile. He did know me today.

"Éomer King of Rohan has come to claim mund and guardianship over the Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, his betrothed of a year and a day. Therefore I ask him now and here: do you have the handgeld you have oathed to have?"

The handgeld was the bride price and would be paid in a symbolical coinage of a bag of gold.

Éomer stepped forward and held out a brown leather bag tied with red yarn. It seemed heavy and well filled. But until this day I have no idea what was really in it. Precious coins or stones.

"I have, my lord," Éomer said and the sound of his dark voice sent a shiver down my spine.

Then he turned towards Imrahil. His expression was solemn as he offered the leather purse to the Prince of Dol Amroth. "I give you this handgeld as I oathed to do, in recompense for the loss of a daughter. I know well that there are no golden coins and nor jewels in all of this Middle-earth to ever balance the loss of a daughter so kind and full of virtue as the Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth is. But this is all that I have. And gladly I give it to you, my lord, if you allow me to lead your daughter home and make her my wife."

Imrahil accepted the leather purse. Both men bowed to each other. Then it was Aragorn's turn as the weofodthegn, the patron of this brydgifta, to ask the father of the bride for the brydgifu, the dowry.

He looked at Imrahil, and said: "Do you have the brydgifu as you have given oath to have?"

Now it was Imrahil who proffered a leather purse, this one tied with blue yarn. And this time I knew that it was indeed filled with riches. It was, in mithril coins and jewels, my inheritance of the wealth of Dol Amroth according to the laws of Gondor.

Imrahil moved towards me, his silvery eyes piercingly bright. He looked at me and smiled; a smile that was surprising in its warmth and easiness, in such an imposing man as my Ada. He held out the heavy leather purse to me. His voice was clear and held a hint of gentle teasing at my state of confusion. "I give you this brydgifu, my beloved daughter, iëll-melda-nîn. It is yours to have and to hold all of your days."

The leather was soft and heavy in my hands. I curtsied and had to blink rapidly. My eyes burned with tears of love and happiness which would ruin my make-up. I inhaled deeply. Now it was my turn.

I turned around to Éomer and extended the leather purse to him. "I give you this brydgifu, my lord, to keep safe for me and mine all of your days." Éomer bowed to me and took the bag from my hands. A short moment his fingers touched my hands in a soft, warm caress. Then he stepped back again and both of us looked at the king standing above us, a tender expression on his face.

After a moment's silence Aragorn spoke again. "The brydgifu and the handgeld have been gifted and given. The holy oaths have been held. Now it is time for the father of the bride to place his mund and guardianship in the hands of the brydguma. Now it is time for the brydguma to lead his betrothed home to exchange the holy oaths of marriage."

Imrahil stepped forward and held out his right hand to me. I raised my left hand. I saw that my hand was trembling and my heartbeat was like the wings of a small bird in my throat. But my Ada's grip was firm and comforting. He turned me around towards Éomer, and when I looked at Éomer, everything around me disappeared as if swallowed up by soft mists. I felt my hand placed into Éomer's. I felt Éomer grip my fingers tightly.

Together we turned around to face the Hall of Kings.

As the Hall of Kings erupted in cheers, tears of happiness were streaming down my cheeks and ruining the carefully applied make-up. But I did not care. My dream had come true. I had found a home. I had found love. And now I was on my way to my future with the man whom I loved more than life itself.

A/N: I am very happy that you liked chapter 83 and I hope even more that you liked this one. But, my friends, the customs I mentioned are not "hilarious". They are (more or less) historical facts. That's the way getting married worked in the Middle Ages in Europe. For anyone interested in the historical background, here are some references (in no particular order):

Thomas, Kirsti S.: Medieval and Renaissance Marriage: Theory and Customs
Hallakarva, Gunnora: Courtship, Love and Marriage in Viking Scandinavia
(both online at: www .drizzle .com /celyn /mrwp /mrwp .html – take out the spaces)
Erkens, Franz-Reiner: Fecit nuptias regio, ut decuit, apparatu – Hochzeitsfeste als Akte monarchischer Repräsentation in salischer Zeit
Fischer, Andreas: Engagement, Wedding and Marriage in Old English
Borst, Arno: Lebensformen im Mittelalter
Fößel, Amalie: Die Königin im mittelalterlichen Reich
Schubert, Ernst: Alltag im Mittelalter
Wodening, Swain: An Anglo-Saxon Heathen Wedding
…and of course various sites of the SCA.