A/N: Here is the chapter everyone has waited for with more or less baited breath. I hope there were no casualties! And I hope this was worth waiting for!
But before you get right into the smut, I have NEWS:
A friend (Aranel Took) and I have founded yet another LOTR-Live Journal Community .
It's called "There and Back Again". You can findthe link to iton my profile page.
"There and Back Again" is meant to be a starting place for new and young writers (teenagers welcome!) and as a workshop for experienced writers (here you can post even fragments and get feedback!). We are planning on a writing exercise/experiment each month and some very basic resources. I would happy to see you there!
Cheers!
Juno
And now: enjoy!
88. Brydniht
I lay in the darkness of our bedchamber and listened to the rhythmic humming sound of Éomer's snoring as it filled the room for a long moment. I did not know how to react, or what to feel; I was torn between anger, frustration and amusement. But before I reached a decision what to do about my new husband, peacefully asleep on his wedding night, the fatigue of excitement and a long day caught up with me. I did not even notice when I fell asleep, too.
When I opened my eyes again, the room was filled with the indigo shadows of the small hours of the night. In the fire place the ambers glowed with an almost smothered fire. Dazed, lost in that soft realm between dreaming and waking, I blindly reached out – confused at the unfamiliar surroundings. My hand was caught in a firm grip. A gentle, dark voice whispered into my ear, sending shivers down my spine, "I fell asleep. Can you forgive me?"
"Hmmmm?" Somehow it was difficult for me to make sense of my surroundings. The scent of herbs and a hint of perfume floated around me, along with the smell of warm, male skin.
Suddenly I felt the touch of strong hands on my breasts. My breath caught in my throat…
…with a slow, inescapable pressure Éomer cups my breasts and holds them tightly for a moment. My heart starts to race and I feel my nipples harden against the rough, callused skin of his fingers. In unhurried, circular movements Éomer pushes my breasts upwards. Just a little, a firm, deliberate massage that makes me aware of my breasts the way I have never been aware of them before. As I gasp at the sensation flooding through my body, I find my mouth closed by Éomer's kiss. This is not the swift meeting of silky skin, nor the quick, desperate meeting of desire that I know from the days of our betrothal. This is a slow; deep drinking of my frantic heartbeat and the sweet, sweet longing I am feeling for him.
When his lips leave mine, I am dizzy and my limbs are heavy with the languid feeling of love.
Somehow my nightshirt has gotten tangled around my waist. Éomer's hands reach for my hips, for my waist. He places his hands at my waist and holds me tightly. His skin is slightly rough, and hot, so hot, as if he's on fire. I feel his strength, the strength of a warrior, born and bred. Even if I wanted to, I could not struggle against his grip. Suddenly he releases me. But before I can even utter a moan of complaint, he has taken hold of my nightshirt and draws it upwards, over my nipples – which makes me gasp, so aroused am I already – and over my head. With a soft swishing noise the white lace and linen meet the dark wooden boards of the floor. I am naked between white linen and the golden fur of a steppe-lion of Rohan. For Éomer is naked, too. He kneels above me, in a splendour of rippling muscles, pale scars and a slight fur of dun and golden body hair. His hair, still tousled from sleep, flows in a mane down to his shoulders, gleaming dully in the shadows of the night. A dark fire burns in his eyes. Flames that leap up to engulf me.
But inexorably my gaze is drawn downwards. Dark eyes, mouth, that sweet spot between his wide collarbones. Not enough. Downwards my eyes slide. Tight, coffee-brown, kissable nipples and a muscular stomach with that deliciously long and narrow indentation of the navel. Still not enough. My eyes feel hot in my skull; my breath comes in snatches, as I finally look at him. Straight he is, as his master, broad he is, and tall, tawny, as he rises from his field of amber curls.
Only when a finger lifts my chin in a gentle caress can I tear my gaze from him – and find myself helpless in the fire of Éomer's love. Dark eyes, ever so deep with love for me! They reach for my soul, even as his lips claim mine. Slow is his desire, self-assured. King is he and master of his fate, and master of my body he will be, as I arch myself against him, helplessly moaning.
Stretched out beside me, he is determined to take his time. I try to feebly reach for him, but there is a weakness in my limbs, a weakness of abandoning my soul, mind and body to desire that I have never experienced before. It is child's play for him, to hold me down and claim me as he will.
With the fingers of his left hand he strokes along the lines of my body, running the tips of his rough yet tender fingers in low fluttery movements from the lines of my jaw, down my throat, along my collar bones… as I moan in a deep, hoarse voice that is closer to his, than to my normal, higher register, he pauses. He places his lips against my collar bone. Soft they are, his lips, hot silk, and firm, as everything about him seems to be strong, and firm. Silk and fire on my skin, lightly, oh, ever so lightly his teeth graze the delicate bones. He traces the scar tissue across my collar bone and breast with his tongue and his tongue is soft, so soft, but hot, too. Liquid fire tracing that small area of skin that has lost its feeling to the blades of the orcs.
He has not touched my secret places yet, and I am almost undone.
But for once I am helpless in the arms of a man, my man. All control, all action on my part is suspended. I am floating, swaying, a boat set adrift on the ocean of desire; steered only by his hands, his mouth, his body and the hot length of his male strength.
With both hands he strokes downwards from my breasts, fluttering his fingertips against the faint outlines of my ribs. I am still too thin. My helpless squirming against his fingers makes him smile gently. That smile brings tears to my eyes. But before my mind can form any words, before my hands can reach for his, he bends and places a long kiss on my stomach, plays around my navel, and his tongue fills my body with that liquid fire that is our mutual desire, spreading from my navel, spreading, engulfing me…
…a tender smile tugs at his mouth swollen lips so close to mine dark eyes dark eyes and fingers rough tender gentle touches, touches on dark curls on dark curls downwards down and there, there just a finger tip but there can't stay still squirming wiggling trying, trying I don't know what but his weight the heavy hot weight of his body holds me he holds me, then he slips his finger down, down and in and back and out and in and over and out and down and across, stills my moans and screams with sweet lips suddenly floating in darkness all boundaries shed from afar moans of desire and muffled screams as his fire pierces me all screams are lost in a joined rhythm blood, body, soul a dance we are dancing on a volcano I see the fire coming I explosion I am in the heart of the fire but not alone.
Not alone.
In the heart of the fire he is there, he is there with me. And then we are gone.
A soft, warm darkness spreads her wings across bodies shivering against each other in the after throes of fulfilment.
When I woke, the soft light of the western horizon at mid-morning filled the room with gentle shades of yellow and white. I woke slowly, my thoughts and my body parts felt scattered and confused. For a time I lay very still, trying to make sense of me, inside and out. Scenes of the day before were dancing through my mind. Éomer as he lifted his new sword… Éomer as he lifted the bridal ale to me… Éomer, as he drew me against his chest in a dance… Éomer, as he fell asleep, curled up against my side… Éomer, as he…
Suddenly my eyes opened wide and in a hot shiver racing down my body from head to toes, I was wide awake. The firm weight of a warm hand placed on the lower part of my stomach made me realize that the memory of Éomer falling asleep had not been a dream. But… heat suffused me. The hand on my belly did not move. Next to me the rhythm of breathing seemed to hold the hint of a chuckle. There was a languid heaviness to my body. There was a hot slickness between my legs and a certain raw openness. Then this had not been a dream, either!
I sat up in bed, startling the hand. I drew my blankets over my naked body. Éomer, who had been lying on his stomach, his left hand firmly placed on my stomach, rolled around on his side and grinned up at me impishly.
He seemed smaller than in those dark, desire filled hours of the night. His cheeks were rosy, his mane of dun and golden dishevelled, his head pressed deeply into the white linen of the pillow. His expression was that of utter, male satisfaction. "I made it up to you, didn't I?" he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. Involuntarily my right hand reached down between my legs. Slick, wet, aching slightly.
"Yes," I said. "You did."
"Then come to me, my love, my Lothíriel," he said softly, as if my name was a spell, a magic spell. He drew me down against him, his warrior-strength softened by the dawn. He spooned me with his body, holding me close against him. I felt him against my rear, slick, hot, straight, but he only held me. Happy. Content. I closed my eyes and dozed off again.
When we finally made it out of our bed, noon was long gone.
I was glad that there were only Ini and Sorcha to help me bath and dress. I don't think I could have handled Éowyn's jokes or the Lady Elaine's dark, silent looks.
As it was Sorcha only favoured me with a very broad smile and handed me a small white pot with a lotion that smelled faintly of athelas. "That might be helpful," she said and turned away so that I could blush in peace.
But I did use the salve. It helped, too. Probably Elaine's.
My hair was braided and covered with a sheer green veil to show my new status as a married woman. My dress was a typical Rohirric dress, cream coloured underdress and a dark forest green overdress, long slit sleeves that showed the cream coloured fabric and the white lace of my shirt. Today I would have to wear that veil, but only today. The veil was more symbol than requirement, so in the future I would not have to wear it every day, but only at certain feast days or occasions of state. But the days when I could leave my hair open and free, flowing in the wind, were over as of today.
I was now a married woman.
Although it was not really morning any more, the first meal of the day was served as a breakfast out on the terrace in front of the Hall of Meduseld.
It was another beautiful day. The translucent, transient beauty of a golden autumn day that makes you hold your breath, because this autumn beauty is fragile – darkness, rain and winter are only a breath away.
Éomer was already seated when I arrived on the terrace. He was dressed in a loose white shirt with exquisite white on white embroidery at the throat and at the wide sleeves, and soft, tawny leather trousers, buck-skin, probably. High dark boots, soft from wear. His colours, gold and dun and tawny, and dark. Like Rohan and its plains in the perfect golden days of Yavannië and early Narquelië, the wind flowing through the dried grasses and above the plains the dark shadows of the Ered Nimrais to the east and the Misty Mountains to the west.
A man and his country. My man and my country.
As if he had heard my thoughts, Éomer turned around. His eyes lit up as he saw me and he rose from his seat. "Lothíriel, my lovely!"
Behind Éomer, Aragorn, Celeborn, Faramir and the high lords of Rohan rose from their seats and bowed to me. Yesterday I had merited a certain respect as Éomer's bride. Today I was his wife and their queen. They bowed very deeply.
I expected Éomer to embrace me, kiss me perhaps even.
But he turned around before he touched me. I halted, confused. Éomer beckoned to someone who had been waiting in the warm shadows of the roof of the hall of Meduseld. Frohwein, his squire, Númendil, dressed as his page and Mistress Gosvintha, the chief of the royal household approached at his gesture. Frohwein held a bundle of parchments in his arms. Gosvintha carried a huge bunch of keys on a cushion made of green velvet. Little Númendil bore a wooden box that was intricately carved with the figures of horses and riders, their banners flying in the wind.
I closed my eyes for a moment and almost groaned. I had completely forgotten about the last ceremony of a wedding in Middle-earth. The morgengifu, the morning-gift!
I wondered what it would be that Éomer wanted to give to me.
The morning-gift was the recompense for giving up my "virginity" and for the risk I was taking in agreeing to bear Éomer's children. Bearing Éomer's children. The thought made my heart beat faster.
"As a morgengifu for the joys of your love and the hope of our children I gift you with the estate of Snowbourne Valley. All the tithes and proceeds of that estate will from now on come to you. Sir Eskil of Snowbourne will answer your orders in all decisions pertaining the estate. May you have the joy in that valley that I always found there," Éomer told me.
Frohwein stepped in front of me and handed me the parchments he held. The bundle was quite voluminous and heavy. The parchment was adorned with a number of green seals that showed the royal stamp of horse-head and runes of the Cirth.
A shiver ran down my spine. Now I was the owner of a village, fields, meadows, horses, bond-servants… and more than that. From now on I would be responsible for every decision that Sir Eskil could not make on his own. The life and death of the inhabitants of that village rested in my hands. It was a heavy weight.
I was glad to hand the parchment over to Frohwein again.
I would have to study the contracts assiduously as soon as I had the time. And I knew that I wanted to go there and talk to the people there myself as soon as I could. But I felt my heart melt for Éomer even as Frohwein walked back to stand behind his king. I remembered the romantic afternoon I had shared with Éomer on the banks of Snowbourne River very well. He could have given me any estate of the crown-lands of the kings of Rohan. But he had given me this. Something that held a very special meaning to both of us.
"The household of Meduseld and the keys of the gates of Edoras I give in your keeping, my queen and my lady," Éomer said. And softly, very softly, he added, "Queen of my heart."
At that Gosvintha approached me and gave me one of her small, serious smiles. "My lady," she said, and curtsied deeply, all the while extending the cushion to me. I knew what I had to do. I felt even more awkward about it than I had felt about the parchment. But I picked up the key and held them out high, for all to see. I knew it was only symbolic, but I felt strange about it nevertheless. Cheers rang out and I heard people clap their hands enthusiastically.
I started and almost let keys drop to the floor. Almost. With shaking hands I put them back on the cushion and Gosvintha walked back to stand next to Frohwein.
I looked around to see where the cheers and the applause had come from.
I felt my heart jump into my mouth. At the foot of the stairs in front of the terrace a crowd of onlookers had gathered to witness the morgengifu and to catch a glimpse of their new queen.
Me. My stomach did an appropriate flip.
But Éomer's voice claimed my attention and I forgot all about the spectators. "And here…," his voice was husky. "And here is what I inherited of my mother's jewellery. May it bring you joy when you grace the golden hall with your loveliness!"
Númendil walked up to me and offered me the wooden box. I had to bend down to pick up the box, but as I did so I realized that the boy had grown. The childish cast of his features was already giving way to the awkward angles of youth. He smiled at me, a sweet smile that reminded me of his mother. I pressed my lips together as I accepted the box. The wood was warm and smooth as silk. Close up I could see that some of the figures were almost smoothed back into the wood with the wear of many years. For a moment I could imagine how the bright golden head of a little girl touched the darker dun golden mane of a small boy, as they stroked the wood of this treasure box, searching for miracles and comfort.
"Thank you," I whispered. Then I straightened up. I held the box tight against my chest. I felt my heart beat heavily against the smooth wood. I looked at Éomer. His dark, deep gaze was almost a tangible caress on my skin. "Thank you," I repeated. "Thank you very much."
Then I had to give the little wooden box back to Númendil and sit back down with our friends and guests for my first breakfast as a married woman.
A/N: Thank you for your many, wonderful reviews. You really keep me going! Hugs!