Chapter 12

A few weeks after Éomer had returned to Edoras with the happy tidings of his betrothal, Elfhelm the Marshal of East-Mark came riding to the capital of horselords.

He had been a trusted lieutenant of Théoden's, and while the old king had withered under Wormtongue's influence, Elfhelm had effectively been in charge of defending Edoras. Somehow he had managed to send intelligence to both Théodred and Éomer during those final days without Wormtongue's notice, seemingly taking orders from the traitor while in fact keeping faith with the Prince and the Third Marshal. In the Ring War, he had served as Théoden and later Éomer's chief commander. It only made sense to name him a Marshal once the war was over.

Now his seat was in Aldburg, Éomer's own old command and home. He could not have trusted that place to anyone else.

It was evening at the time, the bustle in the hall had quieted down after supper, and the young king was enjoying a mug of ale with Éothain over a game of King's table. The board and the pieces were fine polished wood and bone, their surfaces beautifully carved, and though they were well kept, they were probably from Thengel King's time. Théoden had not much cared for the game, but Théodred had been nearly unbeatable at it, and he had taught a trick or two to his cousin as well.

Éomer was just plotting a strategy to drive his opponent to a corner when Elfhelm arrived, striding wind-blown through the hall. The young king straightened himself and smiled at his friend and lieutenant.

"Welcome, Elfhelm. What brings you to Edoras at this time?" he asked.

"Some business and reports from the East-Mark, but it can wait until tomorrow", said Elfhelm as he shrugged off his cloak.

"Well then, have a seat and I'll ask somebody to bring you a plate from the kitchens", said Éomer, and with a thankful smile, his Marshal settled down at the table.

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything important", Elfhelm said, nodding at the game-board.

"No, except Éothain's complete and utter humiliation in my hands", said Éomer pleasantly.

"He was doing nothing of the sort. He just likes to brag", Éothain sniffed and sipped his ale.

Elfhelm let out a barking laughter.

"Let the lad have it. Keeps him in a better mood", he said as though speaking wise words of counsel, but his eyes wrinkled at the corners and his mouth was twitching in amusement.

"Disrespected in my own hall. There's no decency left in this land", Éomer muttered in feigned offence.

"It's all gone to orcs", agreed Elfhelm and he grunted softly in satisfaction as a steaming plate of lamb-stew was placed before him. More ale was brought and Éomer filled their mugs again.

"How are things in the East-Mark? Anything I should be worried about?" he asked after a while, when Elfhelm was halfway through his meal.

"It's remarkably peaceful. I still wake up at night, expecting some kind of an orc-invasion that I must deal with immediately. For the time being, everybody is still talking about the royal wedding", said the Marshal and gulped down some ale. With a smile he asked, "Are your advisers still pissing honey over it?"

Éomer snorted in answer.

"More or less. It's been the talk of Edoras ever since I came home. Not only are they pleased I'm finally taking these steps, but they are also hopeful it will be good for trade. And they haven't forgotten about Imrahil's position as one of the leading men of Gondor", he replied, briefly recalling the stir it had caused when he had returned from Mundburg with news of betrothal. At least in the capital, the idea of his Amrothian bride was well received.

"Nor have they forgotten about Imrahil's great success in producing children. They have similar expectations for his daughter", Éothain put in, smiling wryly. Éomer glared at his friend, but the Captain ignored him.

"Some have doubts, of course", Éomer continued then, "Old Wigmund of my council asked me if I'm going to follow in Thengel's steps – and if Lothíriel will try to make this a Gondorian court, only on a smaller scale. I believe his questions only reflects what is talked of among some lords of the land, who hoped the new queen would come from among their daughters."

"Aye, I've heard such mutters as well. The common folk are behind you almost entirely, though, and your Marshals support you whatever you decide to do. No doubt a lady of some Eorling House would have made a fine queen, but truly rebuilding this land will be easier with Dol Amroth's aid. This is a new age and we can't ignore the world beyond our borders", Elfhelm replied as he dipped a piece of bread in the remains of his stew.

"I don't think anybody needs to worry about Lady Lothíriel trying to bring Gondor with her. She is... well, you'll see when you meet her. I think people like the fact she was helping at the Houses of Healing during the Battle of Pelennor fields", said Éothain for his part.

"They do indeed, at least judging by what I've heard in Aldburg. I'm sure at least a few young lads would agree it's nice to think of being tended to by the future queen of the Mark", Elfhelm commented and pushed back his now empty plate.

"Those mutters you mentioned... anything I should know of?" Éomer asked warily. He was thinking particularly of Eadwig. He had not heard complaints, but there had been a certain coldness about the man when he had heard his daughter was not to be a queen.

"Not at this point, I think. I would say it's petty enough to annoy you, but not serious enough to be troubling. And considering you get so difficult when you are annoyed, I think I shall spare us all and hold my peace", said Elfhelm with a faint smile, and Éothain grunted in agreement.

"I'm not difficult", Éomer said defensively, but both his friends gave him a pointed look. He frowned, and muttered in a low voice, "Well, maybe I'm sometimes difficult."

"He's learning", Éothain said, beaming as though a father who has just witnessed his son take his first steps.

"A hopeful sign", Elfhelm conceded brightly and downed the last of his ale.

The young king grumbled.

"... all gone to orcs."

Somehow, his friends merely found it amusing.


In Edoras, Dol Amroth was all the rage for a while, and the Riders who had accompanied Éomer on his trip to the city by the sea were relentlessly pursued by curious askers. There was interest in the family of Prince Imrahil, and those who had interacted with him and his sons at the time of Théoden King's funeral were in equally high demand. Half the young girls of the capital seemed to be in love with Erchirion and Amrothos simply by reputation – a likely cause for some grey hairs among the girls' fathers.

And then there was Leofrun. The woman had descended into an entirely new level of frenzy, and no resident of Meduseld was safe from her. Although it was still many months before spring, it appeared she already had a minute timetable prepared for the wedding. When Éomer tried to remind her it was all too early to be worrying about it, Leofrun would give him a sharp stare, and say, "Lad, one gets to prepare a royal wedding only once in a lifetime, if even that, and I'll be damned if yours is not talked of decades hence."

Eventually he rather gave up his attempts of curbing her, and just tried to keep from her way. Still, he did wonder how Lothíriel and Leofrun were going to get along; there was definitely potential for an interesting relationship right there.

Yet as exciting as the news of a royal wedding had been, eventually the first rush of curiosity and enthusiasm slowed down into patient waiting. The undercurrent remained, though: for the first time in decades, the Mark was to have a queen. Perhaps this too would ease Lothíriel's way. When people didn't know what to expect of their king's consort, she could more or less invent it herself.

Though the wedding itself was still months away, Riders travelled frequently between Edoras and Dol Amroth. As much as this union had its roots in mutual affection, it was still to be between two great Houses of Rohan and Gondor, and politics were an inevitable part no matter what Éomer told anybody. It appeared Lothíriel came with a major baggage of intricate contracts, agreements, trading negotiations, and a treaty to formally establish a diplomatic relationship between Dol Amroth and Rohan. Éomer did not think Lothíriel herself cared much for any of it, but Imrahil seemed set on making sure that not even the smallest detail was ignored in his daughter's marriage. Future scholars of Gondor would no doubt delight in the amount of information they could gather and study on this subject.

His own advisers were at least as keen on the negotiations as Imrahil, and at times Éomer felt like others were making a much greater fuss of this union than he and Lothíriel. Recalling the way she had reacted to hearing about Éothéod and their nomadic life, he suspected she too would have been happy with a simple handfasting ceremony as was the old way of the Mark. As for his bride, one concern close to his heart and mind was making sure that her morning gift was fit for a queen. So he sent his most trusted horse-breeders to pick studs and mares so that she might start her own herd, and chose lands and homesteads from his own inheritance that had come from Éomund. Knowing her love of woods, he even included a parcel of forest land south-east from Aldburg – a kingly gift in a land of grass-plains, but a queen deserves no less.

Arranging her morning gift was not the only thing to be prepared. At Éomer's orders, one old storehouse was taken down near Meduseld and a group of masons and carpenters were tasked with building a workshop for her use. It would be half the size of the one she had in Dol Amroth, but space was in high demand at the royal grounds, and in any case, she would have plenty of room for storing needful things in kitchens or in the Queen's solar. He made sure the best craftsmen would provide supplies and furniture for the workshop, and even suggested they frequent the swan symbol in the wood-carvings; a memento of the first queen of a new dynasty for generations to come. Perhaps one day Lothíriel would teach her own daughters in the workshop, Éomer thought to himself as he watched the first bricks laid and the mead poured to earth to ensure good fortunes both for the task of building and for the workshop itself. Some members of the royal household, or folk going in and out of Meduseld on some business, stopped to watch the scene as well – perhaps wondering about the woman for whom all this was being prepared.

But not all communication between Edoras and Dol Amroth was politicking. For along with the negotiations, private letters were carried from Edoras to Dol Amroth and back. Much to his council's exasperation, those were the messages he most looked forward to, and read first before any formal statement from Imrahil. To add to their frustration, Lothíriel was a prolific writer; there was usually more than one sheet, and even the margins were at times filled with her tidy hand.

Somehow he sensed a greater freedom and confidence in the way she wrote to him. But he might have anticipated it, for now he knew of her sight and indeed, sometimes she did tell him of the things she had seen. It still humbled him from time to time, this wondrous knowledge that someone so special wanted to share her life with him. Yet as delightful as her letters were, and though he consumed each word like a starving man, the correspondence only made him hunger for her presence more, and sometimes missing her was like the phantom pain of a missing limb. He had never guessed how another person could become so important, so integral, in such a short while. And yet he suspected it was so with Lothíriel. She walked in your life, and however brief her touch and presence were, you would remember her all your days.

It was not long after his return home that Éomer set Leofrun with an important task: his bride was in need of some of the finest Rohirric wool. He had not forgotten the way she had lovingly touched his cloak and asked to have some of its like. As for Leofrun, she seemed pleased that the future queen already had interest in Rohirric products, and was happy to provide her king with a new green cloak and a soft, cream-coloured blanket. She also found some untended wool fabric for the lady to use as she saw fit.

He had these things neatly packed and covered in oilcloth so that the changeable weathers would not damage the fine wool. A messenger would deliver the gift, with orders to look after the package as though it contained jewels and other heirlooms. In earnest Éomer watched the Rider take his leave, and feeling rather disappointed he could not be there when she opened the bundle.

Her response a few weeks later excelled all his expectations. The first part of Lothíriel's letter was nearly incoherent with giddiness, a joy so pure and youthful as if coming from a maiden much younger and wholly ignorant of evils of the world. Perhaps it came with her gift: if time was not the same for her as it was for others, then wouldn't she also feel her age differently?

And her answer was not just words. With the letter, another bundle was delivered, similarly wrapped in an oilcloth. Inside another layer of coarse cloth he found a neatly folded shirt, made of the softest fabric he had ever touched in his life. Within the package there were some dried herbs and the innards smelled fresh and pleasant even after a long journey. The shirt was almost lighter than a feather to touch, and felt cool and soft against skin. He wasn't even sure it was cotton. At the neckline, she had used fine silver thread to embroider a silver horse at each side, and gold glowed in his mane like sun and fire. It was easily one of the finest pieces of clothing he had ever owned, and it certainly became at once his favourite.

His answer to her, and his thanks, were probably nearly as giddy as hers had been.

Eventually, summer began to fade into a golden autumn. Harvest time was busy in the Mark, as in all places where Men had farms. Grain, vegetables and fruit streamed out of fields and orchards, storages and smoking houses filled with freshly slaughtered animal carcasses, and Éomer did not complain when black pudding or blood sausages were served in Meduseld; it was well that all was made to use. After several thin years, harvest came as a time of plenty, even opulence. This winter, no help from Gondor would be needed. Even in Westfold, where he rode to see homesteads built anew, the burned ground had healed enough to yield a good harvest. Yet it would be years before the beautiful apple orchards would again bloom in that part of the kingdom.

He wrote to Lothíriel about these things, and seeing her usual interest in how things were done in Rohan, he asked Leofrun for details; the housekeeper looked pleased to hear the future queen was so willing to learn. However, Éomer was not able to relate his bride even half the things that Leofrun told him, and at any rate he believed letters between a man and his future wife should be filled with other things than household details.

But as it was, he knew he would probably see her before his letter concerning these matters reached her; at the end of September, he was to travel to Mundburg once more. Usually, Éomer made that journey only with his own guard, but this time he would be travelling with an extended company. Not only Marshal Elfhelm would join him, but also a couple of his advisers and some of the leading nobles of the land, along with their wives. It was to be their final meeting with Imrahil before the wedding and the royal council was eager to talk about the marriage contracts face to face with the Prince. Most likely, they guessed Éomer himself would be too preoccupied with his bride to give the matter what they deemed appropriate degree of attention. Doubtlessly they were also curious to see Rohan's future queen with their own eyes.

Taking such a company with him meant more formality and delays on the road, but his own royal advisers and members of Eorling nobility rarely visited Mundburg, which might even serve as a kind of diversion; perhaps for once, Aragorn's court would rather be interested in these rare guests, and allow the King of Rohan some much-needed time alone with his bride. The sneaky little thing, if she wanted some privacy, would probably find the opportunity. The thought made him shiver in anticipation.

A letter from Dol Amroth arrived just days before he and his company were set to leave for Gondor. Her timing was perfect, but one would expect nothing less of one with foresight; most likely, she had known the hour her message was put in his hand. He recalled her words: no veil between what is and what may be. For Lothíriel, writing her letters probably often felt like she was talking straight to him.

Either way, the mood of her letter was glad and eager, and she ended it with some advice that was probably going to be dearly appreciated: Dress warmly for your journey! It will rain heavily on the day you arrive.

Éomer smiled to himself as he read the line and thought of her back in Dol Amroth writing these words. Some other man, keen to grow his own power, would indeed be gleeful to have a wife who could see things that had not yet happened.

Himself, he was perfectly satisfied if she simply used her gift to warn him of rainstorms on his way.


This time, Lothíriel was not waiting for him by the side of the road when Éomer and his company finally reached the Pelennor fields. He half expected to see her there, sitting on that same great stone as before, even though it was raining cats and dogs by the time he finally saw the looming shape of the city in grey twilight. She had spoken true when she had written of rain on the day of his arrival.

He pulled his cloak better around himself. Rohirric wool kept water very well, but after a whole day's downpour, he seriously looked forward to a hot bath and a change of clothes. A damp chill was starting to settle into his bones.

Éomer glanced back to see the rest of his company, all of them weary from the long road and eager for some warmth and dry clothes. So he gestured to move forward again. Mundburg was not far off now.

The eyes of the White City did not rest even in a storm: as ever, the King of Rohan was welcomed with the great silver trumpets, though the sound was dull in the heavy gloom of the weather. Streets of the city were remarkably empty as they passed through. Most of the city-folk were safely tucked away in their homes, but here and there window shutters opened to reveal a few curious faces as the company of Rohirrim passed by.

Their horses were left at the royal stables close to the Citadel, and Éomer patted Firefoot fondly. The stallion surely had earned a good rubbing and a warm blanket after carrying his Rider through such conditions. Firefoot snorted softly before he allowed himself to be led away.

The young king was a little bit disappointed when he and his company arrived at the Citadel and Lothíriel was not there to meet the party. On the other hand, he did not want her to stand waiting for him in the rain, or to introduce her to his company as such. She might have guessed it and so stayed away. And yet he hungered even for a glimpse of her face, a briefest word from her mouth. It felt like years, not months, had passed since they had last seen one another.

He was taken to the same rooms as usually when he visited Mundburg. The space was softly lit and a small fire was burning in the fireplace. It looked very cosy and he felt momentarily regretful for dripping rainwater all over the floors. But all such thoughts vanished when a servant announced his bath was ready, and Éomer had a hard time not hurrying his squire working over his armour; poor lad's fingers seemed to be quite stiff from riding in chilly rain for hours.

The bathwater was on the verge of being a little too hot, but he welcomed the heat and sunk into it with a low, satisfied groan. The chill and the tension in his bones began to ease and for a while, he rested there limply, eyes half closed. Now the anxious urge to see her became more of a pleasant expectation. She was here and her quiet, calm presence seemed to fill these stone halls. For the time being, that knowledge in itself was enough. Although he wouldn't have minded her company, perhaps even in this very tub...

After the bath, he pulled on a robe and made his way to the bedchamber, where a change of clothes was waiting for him. A pleasant scent greeted him as he stepped inside and it did not take long for him to locate the source. On the table by his bed, a freshly made bunch of herbs sat in a glass vase. He recognised at least salvia and rosemary, though there were others too. He smiled to himself as he breathed in the smell. She had come to greet him after all.

When he had dressed and enjoyed a light meal of cold meats, cheese and fruits, it was the time to make his way to Merethrond. There he was to present his bride to his own company. Aragorn had promised not to make it into a full-blown court occasion, but no doubt at least a few of the great lords and ladies would be present. The coming few days would probably see several balls and banquets and such, but he was glad this first night was to be more discreet.

At Merethrond, his advisers and the lords with their wives clustered around Elfhelm as though waiting to take their cues from him. No wonder: excluding Éomer himself, Elfhelm had visited Mundburg most often. Some of the party had never seen the White City before, or even left the borders of the Mark. Yet they did not look intimidated by the grand environment, but rather regarded it with good-natured curiosity, and met the eyes of their Gondorian counterparts boldly. But those curious looks shifted to Éomer when he came to join his party.

"Is she here already, Sire?" asked Lord Wigmund, an old trusted adviser of Théoden's, now serving under the new king. He was scanning the great hall with his eyes, and occasionally regarding one lady or the other. But Lothíriel was not yet to be seen, and neither was her father.

"Trust me, you will know when you see her", Éomer replied, which roused a few whispered conservations around him.

"Is she very fair?" asked one of the lords, standing right behind Éomer's elbow.

"To me, absolutely. But I doubt I'm the best person to ask", he replied with a faint smile.

"I suspect she will be hailed as a beauty in Rohan either way. Few of our people have seen noble ladies of Gondor", Elfhelm said close by. "Yet I do not think our king chose her because of her looks."

"I would have things to say if he had", muttered Lord Ormar, another respected member of the council. "Many things."

"The fear of you alone steered me clear of choosing a bride merely because she pleased my eye", Éomer commented wryly, and not a few of his companions chuckled at this statement.

The conversation died when the atmosphere seemed to tense. Éomer stood straighter and scanned the crowd, and soon enough the herald announced the arrival of Prince Imrahil and his daughter, Lady Lothíriel, bride of King Éomer. He wasn't sure which of them was most eager to see her, he or his companions. The silence around Éomer was so thick one might have cut it with a knife.

Then she arrived, walking by the arm of her father, and looking so radiant that he felt himself go just a little bit weak in the knees. The chill and the damp had no effect on her beaming appearance. She was arrayed in her usual blue and silver and her hair was neatly braided and fastened with silver pins. Quickly her eyes found his own, like she had known where to look for him, and her smile took a slightly more private glow. It took considerable effort to stand where he was, and not stride forward to meet her – put his arms around her and forget about the crowds around them.

However, as she and her father began to approach the party of Rohirrim, Éomer felt sudden dread and doubt. He should have talked beforehand with her, prepare her for meeting his advisers and the nobles with him. It would be better if she knew more of them before meeting the lot. Of course, he had told her about these people in their letters, but only in passing, and now he realised he should have said plenty more.

As he sought her eyes for any sign of nervousness, he found none. She was as calm and steadfast as ever, and only raised a quizzical eyebrow at his searching look. But now she was too close, and it was too late to worry about things he should have said before. He stepped forward to meet her and Imrahil. The King and the Prince exchanged the warrior's greeting, grasping each other's arms. All the while, he was aware of her, and of her eyes on him.

"My lady", he greeted her as he picked up her hand; it was all so unpleasantly formal, but here in the eyes of the court one could not avoid the required dance and song.

"My lord", she replied sweetly, curtsying in deference, although her eyes sparkled with unbridled joy and some mischief known only to her. He swallowed hard, banished the urge to sweep her off of her feet, and said, "Come meet my trusted advisers and chief lords of the land of the Mark."

"With pleasure", she replied, placing her hand on his arm. Éomer took a deep breath and brought her forward, already keenly aware that his whole company was now studying his future wife. The next few moments were likely to set the tone for the start of his marriage.

"Here are Lord Wigmund and Lord Ormar. They counselled my uncle in his time, and are now doing the same for me", he introduced the two men. Their long service to Rohan surely earned precedence in the introductions. Ormar was a tall man with flaxen hair and lined face, and though his appearance betrayed he had never been a professional Rider, he was still reckoned as a masterful horseman. He was indomitably loyal to the throne and had spent most of his life in the service of the crown, much of it as a scribe before earning the seat in Théoden's council. It was said no living man knew the laws of Eorlingas as well as he did. As for Wigmund, he was shorter and broader in build, with steel-grey hair and an immaculately styled beard that was probably better looked-after than some women's hair. His hazel eyes peered from under bushy eyebrows – often suspiciously, as Éomer had noticed very quickly when he had become the King of Rohan. He had been a Rider in his day, serving with Théoden himself, and his courage and cunning on the battlefield had made him a trusted man of the late king. It was no secret he tolerated all things Gondorian with certain prejudice, for which reason Éomer had been surprised when Wigmund had offered to come along.

"Westu hal, hláford Wigmund. Westu hal, hláford Ormar", she greeted them, smiling brightly. Lothíriel must have spent time practising the greeting, as her accent was only barely noticeable. Both lords regarded her in surprise, as did others yet waiting to be introduced.

"You know Rohirric, my lady", Ormar observed, not even attempting to hide his pleasure at this fact.

"Only a few words I've picked up from the King and his Riders. I do wish to learn more, though. What queen does not know how to speak to her people in their own tongue?" said Lothíriel, soft and charming; he looked at her in growing pride and wondered why he had ever worried whether she'd manage with his lords or not.

But not everyone was going to let her charm them just so.

"There was one such queen, and she came from Gondor as well", said Wigmund, visibly less delighted with her attempt to win him over.

Éomer looked swiftly at the man, ready to rebuke him right away, but the hand on his arm squeezed him briefly. When he glanced at his side, he saw Lothíriel meeting Wigmund's probing look calmly and evenly, and the piercing light of her eyes remained as bright as ever.

"But I'm not her", she said simply. And somehow the simplicity and the determination in her voice made her response all the more impactful than any explanation or clarification could. Wigmund raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He could not mask the look of interest that ignited in his eyes, though.

"My lord, my lady – if it pleases the King, might he not send one of his older Riders to stay with the Lady Lothíriel for the coming winter? That way, she could start learning our language before the wedding", Elfhelm put in, looming next to Wigmund and seemingly enthused to get a closer look at the King's bride.

"Marshal Elfhelm. You will forgive him for speaking before I've had a chance to introduce him", said Éomer, casting a look of feigned severity at the man. Then turning his eyes back to her, he went on, "But no matter what is said of his lack of manners, his suggestion finds no opposition in me. Would you be willing to take such a teacher, my lady?"

She smiled first at him and then at the Marshal.

"It would be my pleasure. It feels right to learn Rohirric from the King's own man – a Rider and a warrior like himself", she said emphatically. Elfhelm, Ormar and even Wigmund all nodded in approval.

It was a marvellous thing to see: Lothíriel standing next to him straight and proud, refusing to be cowed, and yet showing respect for the ways of her new people. Éomer felt like he might burst with sheer pride he felt for his wife to be.

Like a tree that has not yet bloomed or borne fruit. So Aragorn had said, but maybe that time had now come.

"I shall speak with my captain, then, and find the right man for the job", Éomer said, keeping his expression and tone as even as he could. It wouldn't do to gloat to Wigmund's face when the man was chief among those who had doubted his choice of bride. It was never a good idea to make a man feel like his pride was disputed.

Some more small talk was then exchanged before the betrothed couple moved along the line to meet the other members of the King's company. Generally, it went very nicely. She spoke well and pleasantly with the Rohirrim, greeting all of them in their own tongue, and taking interest in all that was said to her. Only once did Éomer spy the tell-tale sign of her seeing something with her other sight; the blank look in her eyes and her gentle sway against him were now known to him. But he covered that moment with his own talk, and when she came to, she cast a bright smile at the lord and lady they were currently speaking with and apologised for feeling a little light-headed for a moment. Éomer studied their company keenly for a minute, but it did not seem like anyone had taken notice of Lothíriel's momentary distraction.

Most of the evening passed in this manner. Small talk could be wearisome, but Rohirrim generally had fewer rules as far as propriety and etiquette went, and he thought Lothíriel was in fact enjoying herself as she interrogated his company about life in Rohan, its people and its history. As far as he could tell, they were pleased with her apparent interest in her future homeland. It was good that Lothíriel would have allies in Rohan even before she became the queen. Altogether he was satisfied to call the night a success.

Tonight Imrahil was in a generous mood, and so he allowed his daughter to be escorted home by her bridegroom. He even went as far as staying behind for a bit to talk with Aragorn to let the couple make their way alone, although provided that a few guards came as escorts. The rain had finally ceased and while the air was a bit chilly, it was the first chance of actually speaking in moderate privacy. Éomer was quietly pleased to see she was wearing the new green cloak.

"You did well tonight. I think they liked you – at the very least, they are sure to reconsider whatever doubts they may have had", said Éomer to the woman walking by his side, her hand again on his forearm and her shoulder lightly brushing against him as they slowly made way towards the sixth level of the city.

She glanced up at him with a slight smile.

"I'm glad to hear it. I felt so nervous when you introduced me to them", she replied softly.

"Truly? You didn't seem nervous at all", he wondered out loud.

She cast him a wry look.

"My aunt Ivriniel has been instructing me. Nobody manages small talk and court etiquette like her. She and Finduilas were always famous for their dignity and sophistication", she replied, as though admitting some sinister plan. "But to be honest, it helped because it was easy to talk to your people. They are more straightforward in their manner and plain in speech. I was not thinking so much of whether I was being strange or not."

Something about her words made him feel immensely fond and tender for her. The way she tried so hard for him, even though he had never asked it of her... how had he deserved this?

"Then I shall hope you will always feel that way among Rohirrim", he said, hoping that his voice was not too choked with emotion. She flashed him a smile and squeezed his arm, most likely aware of what he was feeling. Dear woman.

"I liked Marshal Elfhelm. He seems nice", she said then. They had now walked through the gates of the Citadel at remarkably slow pace, but already they were much closer to her father's town house than Éomer would have liked.

"Aye, he is that. He's a good, reliable man. He doesn't care much for politics, which is probably why we get along so well", he said with a faint smile.

"He loves you dearly – would give his life for you, if you ever asked it of him. And even if you didn't", Lothíriel said quietly. A strange shiver ran down his spine.

"Is that your sight talking?" he wanted to know.

"I don't know. Maybe. Sometimes even I can't tell", she replied at length.

"Isn't it confusing?"

She shrugged.

"I suppose it can be. But I try not to think of it too much. I don't know if it makes any sense to you, but with a gift like this, it's often easier to just let it lead you."

Éomer wasn't sure he understood, and perhaps she even couldn't explain it in a way that would satisfy all his curiosity. He surely had more questions, but this was the first night in many months they were together, and interrogations could wait.

"In any case, I must apologise for not preparing you better for meeting my company. I should have told you more about them", he said in low tones, lowering his head.

"Don't worry about it, dear heart. It's not like we have time to talk beforehand. And you have told me enough in your letters so that I knew what to expect", she said nonchalantly, patting his arm.

"Obviously. They loved that you greeted them in our own tongue and they will think well of you for it", he said, smiling again at the memory.

"Then I shall try very hard to learn your language as soon as I can. Your voice is different when you speak it... somehow softer and richer. And a wife can't let her husband have a secret language of his own", she said lightly, making him snort.

"We can't have that."

She hemmed softly and leaned against him for a moment. They were almost to the town house now and soon he would have to tell her good night. How abysmal.

"Do you think everyone will be comparing me to Morwen Steelsheen?" she asked suddenly, only moments before they reached the gates of the town house.

"Maybe some will, at first. But I would not worry about it. They will soon realise you're nothing like her", he reassured her firmly.

"But they will still wish you had chosen a bride in Rohan", she said, speaking so quietly he had to strain to hear her.

Éomer halted and put his hand on her shoulder, turning her gently towards himself.

"And they will wish Théoden had had more sons, or that Théodred hadn't died, or the world was never broken, and a hundred other things. Someone will always think you're not good enough no matter what you do. Remember it, but also remember it's not the whole truth. You have your supporters, too", he told her. Slowly her expression, troubled and withdrawn, relaxed once more and a slight smile returned.

"A wise fool you are, King Éomer", she said tenderly.

"I try my best", he said and leaned down to kiss her brow. She let out a soft sigh and pressed herself against him, as though at the end of a very long day. He was glad to wrap his arms around her, and when she lay her cheek against his chest, he felt like all the frustration and tension of the last few weeks melted away.

"I'm glad you're here", she whispered at length, standing still in his arms.

"So am I", he uttered back. He knew he was going to have let go of her and tell her good night, but he desperately wanted to lengthen this moment at least a little bit more.

Imrahil, however, was not having it. He had finally caught up with them and interrupted the sweet moment by clearing his throat.

"Lothíriel, why don't we get inside? It is getting late", said the Prince as he arrived at the scene. Éomer turned to face Imrahil and was relieved to see that the man did not seem too dismayed to find his daughter embracing her future husband, even though he couldn't have missed the intimacy of the moment.

"Very well, Father", said Lothíriel and she stepped back from Éomer's arms. He suppressed a sigh of frustration and impatience and reminded himself she was not yet his wife. What a completely frustrating thing.

"Good night, then. I shall see you tomorrow?" he asked her, and briefly she held his hand in her own. Her smile, at least, made it a little bit better.

"Indeed you shall. Good night."

When Éomer made his way back to the Citadel, followed by his grinning guards, he was thinking of spring.

To be continued.


A/N: Here is the new chapter! I hope you like it. :) Originally, this chapter was mean to tackle several other things, but at around 14000 words I realised I had to split it.

I rather enjoyed writing Éomer interacting with his friends and advisers, and I expect at least Ormar shall make other appearances later on in the story. :) I think Lothíriel has made a fairly good first impression on them (which she would be trying to do, based on how her initial meetings with Éothain and Éowyn went). And it's endearing to think of Éomer basically vibrating with how proud of her he is.

The game Éomer and Éothain are playing at the beginning is based on a real game of the same name, which belongs in a family of strategy games known as "tafl". These were played by Vikings and were introduced by them to many of the lands where they travelled.

As ever, I'm most thankful for all your comments, favourites and follows! If you got time, let me know what you think. :)


pzacharatos - No problem, and thanks for leaving a comment! :)

EStrunk - Was it coincidence or fate that he knew to use that exact phrase - I leave that for you to imagine. ;) I think indeed things can be confusing for her sometimes, but after a lifetime she probably knows how to navigate with her sight fairly well. As for her vision of being used as a tool of power, it's more of a case of this would happen to her unless a very specific man was her husband.

Anyway, you're quite right, and as Éomer himself says to Lothíriel in this chapter, there will always be people who criticise you no matter what you do.

Catspector - Glad to hear it! I know her behaviour has at times been odd, but there has always been a reason behind it. I would say she felt increasingly tormented as her feelings for him grew while believing she could not have him. Having that burden removed, she's eager and willing to fit in his world. But how that turns out remains to be seen!

LH Wordsmith - Thank you!

Interesting words on Guthild! I can't say much on your thoughts for the time being, but we'll see how that relationship works out. :)

Also thanks for pointing out the mistake!

Jo - We'll see! ;)

Simplegurl4u - Thank you, both for this chapter and all of your lovely comments on other stories of mine!

I would think Éomer has seen enough hints about what her deal is, and would figure it out by himself. I think Lothíriel herself didn't really know how to tell him about it. On one hand, it may seem a simple thing to do, but she would probably not feel like it's in any way simple.

Glad to hear if the garden scene had such an impact! ;)

It was indeed a fairly big disappointment for Guthild and for her father.

fantasticferret - Thank you!

xXMizz Alec VolturiXx - Thanks! :)

Wondereye - Glad to hear it!

Leilal - I'm rather impatient to get there too, but the story is unfortunately taking its time with me!