Chapter length: ~2,600 words

Chapter II – Morning

When Lothíriel wakes up in the morning, she is overheated.

It is strange. Usually she is more or less cold in the morning because the fire in the grate burns out during the night and though her maid builds it up again before waking her, the room hasn't warmed yet by then.

Now, though, she is so hot that it feels like she can hardly breathe. As she comes to true wakefulness, she realises that she is hot and finding it difficult to breathe because she is half-buried under a sleeping man. The man is naked and very heavy.

For a moment she freezes, until she remembers that she is now married and this is her husband and while he perhaps doesn't have the right to suffocate her in his sleep, he does have the right to be in bed with her. That is all right.

She tries to move a little to get him to move off of her, preferably without waking him because this is rather embarrassing and confusing – all the more so because she thinks she feels against her thigh something that she felt inside her last night. How can it be that hard when Éomer is asleep?

But even her small movement is enough to wake him. He wakes up faster than she did, without a moment of confusion.

He mumbles, 'Lothíriel', and kisses her shoulder and moves away from on top of her. He flops on his back next to her, apparently completely unashamed of his nakedness and hardness, and says, 'Good morning.'

'Good morning.' She curls up a little on herself, shy of being naked in his presence although before they fell asleep Éomer saw and explored every inch of her.

'Did you sleep well?' Éomer enquires, perfectly politely. It feels strange in the circumstances.

'I did. Very soundly', she replies.

'So did I. You tired me out.'

Half of her wants to protest at that, but she is also – flattered. Is that what a woman should be when a man says that?

She is left pondering that when Éomer gets up, says 'I'll light the fire', and goes to do so. As he kneels in front of the fireplace, still naked, Lothíriel peeks a glance at his muscled back and bottom, and then lays her head back on the pillow, startled.

There are scratches on his back, not deep but clear enough, and she is fairly certain that she is to blame for them.

But now he is saying something, and she missed it, and has to ask him to repeat it. He has put on some clothes meanwhile, too.

'I'll get some fresh water for us', he repeats. There is a soft smile on his lips. Alone with her, he is gentler than she has seen him otherwise

That is a very good thing, Lothíriel supposes.

While he is gone she tugs a blanket to her and wraps herself in it, and stares at the crumpled bedsheets around her.

What else could she think of but last night? There is a strange tiredness and a not very terrible soreness inside her reminding her of the night. It had been – rather confusing in many ways, but better than she expected. From Éomer's gentler manner with her, from his patience with her nervousness and inexperience, from his making sure that she too was pleasured instead of just taking his own pleasure in her body, she can surely conclude that he will likely to be a good husband for her.

Her mother told her, after Lothíriel became betrothed to Éomer, that what arranged marriages and love matches ultimately had in common is that one cannot know whether the marriage will be happy from beginning to end, or for a little while and then grow sour and cold.

'An arranged marriage that begins as a good partnership with shared ambitions often turns to good, enduring love sooner or later', Idhrenes told her daughter, and Lothíriel believed it because that was how her parents' marriage had begun and become.

She can only pray that her own will turn out the same way, and resolves to do her own part in making it so.

Perhaps, now that the wedding night is over and her virginity given to him, she will be regaining her equilibrium soon and stop being so nervous and silly. Now that she knows what to expect in private, too, things should be easier… although there are still some things that her aunt Ivriniel talked about that haven't happened yet.

Éomer comes back with a jug of water and a basket of bread.

'A truly poor breakfast for the king and queen', he says as he puts them down on the wash table in a corner of the room. 'I told them to bring a proper breakfast to the next room a little later. Before that there are some things to take care of.'

Wrapped in her blanket, Lothíriel shuffles over to have a drink of water. She almost trips on her shift and his undertunic that lie in a pile on the floor, shed and forgotten there last night.

She does not feel like much of a queen in this moment. She does feel like Éomer's wife, though. They are both messy-haired as they stand there at the wash table side by side, and she has an ache inside her and he has the marks of her fingernails on his back.

'What things are there for us to take care of?' she asks him.

Éomer empties his mug and gives her one from a hook on the wall. 'I will tell you once we are back in bed.'

That makes her raise her brows, as does Éomer taking half a loaf of bread with him as he returns to bed. Lothíriel drinks her water and follows him.

She doesn't take bread with her. Éomer munches on his piece as they settle to sit side by side against the headboard.

After a moment he breaks into laughter and says, 'You are looking at me like you think that I am a northern barbarian, like I once heard a countryman of yours call one of my men when they were both drunk and quarrelling in a tavern in Minas Tirith. Do you regret our union already, lady?'

Lothíriel laughs too, won over by his easy manner. 'I do not, my lord.' Since he used her title teasingly, she uses his. 'In truth, everything that has happened since we left the feast last night has been so new and strange to me that I should not wonder at a king eating the breakfast of a peasant in his bed.'

'A peasant would more likely break his fast on gruel', Éomer argues with a grin. 'And this bread is very good, fresh-baked and warm.' He breaks off a corner for her. 'Try it.'

He holds it in front of her mouth so she has little option but to bite into it. She chews and swallows and says, 'Yes, very good. Éomer, what are the things we need to take care of, and what is the time?'

'Many hours to midday yet', he tells her, and makes her wait for the rest of his answer while he finishes the bread. 'No one expects to see the newlyweds before then, I am sure', he continues. 'I want to spend the morning here with you. I only need to meet with my council for a moment before your coronation in the afternoon.'

Something warm spreads in her chest at his mention of wanting to spend the morning with her, though she doesn't know what he wants to do.

'Now, your morning gift', Éomer says. He moves to sit opposite her, and looks at her.

'I had forgotten about that', Lothíriel says. 'But now I remember. You insisted on it during your negotiations with my father.'

Smiling that crooked half-smile that she has come to know is not malicious at all, Éomer says, 'He said that his daughter needs no payment for her virginity. But it is a custom of my people, a security for your possible widowhood. Not that you would be left destitute anyway, but the gift is traditional.'

He takes her hand in his. Speaking more formally, he says, 'Lothíriel, I give to you a house a little way outside the town of Aldburg, and the fields that belong to it. They are good fields, bearing a decent crop every year whether it is rainy or dry. There is a very competent family farming the land, and they lease the house too. It is now yours to do with as you wish, and to leave to whoever you want. It was my father's mother's house. Her morning gift, in fact.'

Before she can react to that, he adds, 'And I give you a horse.'

Lothíriel says the first thing that comes to her mind at that, inane though it is. 'I have a horse.'

And she smiles. Of course the king of the Rohirrim, the horse-folk, would give her a horse on their first day as husband and wife.

Éomer grins, and it is a grin of true joy and pride. 'Not a horse like this. She is one the Mearas, the race of the greatest horses in Middle-Earth, a nobler creature than any horse of Gondor. She is tall and strong, not tame like an ordinary horse but willing to carry the royalty of the Mark like all her kin. She will be yours if she accepts you.'

Lothíriel frowns in worry. 'Do you think she might not?'

She is elated at the thought of getting to ride one of the Mearas. She has admired them from afar, Éomer's grey stallion and other equally wondrous horses on a pasture near Edoras. She remembers Shadowfax, the greatest of all the Mearas, whom Mithrandir the wizard rode and took with him to the West.

'I think she will.' Éomer stretches as he continues, 'You are my queen and easy to recognise as queen by your posture alone, and you are a decent horsewoman. Hrímfax – that is her name – is not as wild as some of the Mearas, not like Shadowfax, though she is his kin. She will be a faithful companion to you for decades – for they are more like companions than servants, the Mearas.

'You will have to give her up every now and then, though', he hurries to add, 'because we need her to foal if she will. There are not so many Mearas: we need all of them to breed to make sure that their race doesn't fade from Middle-earth.'

'Of course', Lothíriel says. She tries the name. 'Hrímfax. What does it mean?'

'Hrímfax', Éomer corrects her pronunciation. 'It means Frost-mane. She is a dapple grey, though she will most likely lighten to white in time. She is young still.'

'I look forward to meeting her.' Lothíriel smiles at him. 'Thank you, Éomer, for the gifts.'

Gathering her courage, she scoots closer to him on the bed and sets her hand on his arm and kisses him. She likes his kisses.

Éomer seems surprised at her advance but kisses her back at once, his hands going around her and into her hair that is truly a frightful mess, unbraided as it is.

He doesn't seem to mind it. As she licks into his mouth and holds onto his upper arms where they bulge delightfully with muscle, Lothíriel thinks that Guthild was certainly right about men liking to touch women's hair.

After a while Éomer takes his lips from hers to say, 'Kissing is better laying down', and pushes her gently to her back. He settles above her on all fours, looming over her and staring at her, and oh, isn't that a thing that makes warmth bloom between her legs.

He asks, 'How sore are you?' There is that certain glint in his eyes. 'We have hours still until we have any duties.'

Hours? That is a little intimidating, if he is implying what she thinks he is. 'A little sore', she admits. 'Not unbearably.'

Éomer's brows rise. 'If you were, I would have been a brute. But we must not make you any more sore. You have to manage the coronation ceremony and feast. It will be a long evening and night of celebration again.'

Somewhat to her surprise, Lothíriel feels a twinge of disappointment. It is silly, because Éomer is right. She will have to be in the centre of attention, the whole city of Edoras and all their wedding guests looking at her when Éomer crowns her his queen. It would not do to be wincing from pain when she kneels before him.

'But', Éomer says with a grin and a caress of her blanket-covered breast, 'there are still things we can do that will not make you markedly more sore which will be a very pleasant way to spend the morning.'

She suspects that these things may be some of the ones that aunt Ivriniel spoke to her about. They had sounded rather strange and intimidating and even shameful then, but here in the warm, crumpled bed and the heat of her husband's gaze, she wants to find out how exactly they work.

'Will you allow me to unwrap you?' Éomer's fingers are creeping beneath the blanket that covers her body, making her breath hitch.

She allows it.

She lets him bare her body to him again, and to kiss her breasts, and to spread her legs and touch her softly and then firmly between them until she makes desperate noises and closes her eyes under the weight of his gaze on her.

She lets him teach her how to touch him and after a while of her touching he, too, loses control of his voice and his pleasure. There is something… wonderful in managing to make him come undone with just strokes of her fingers around him. She kisses him on his shoulder and arms and chest while his breathing evens.

And then he wants to touch her again. He settles between her legs, kissing his way up her thighs, ticking her with his beard.

'One thing I must remember to say', Éomer says from between her thighs, as casually as if they were conversing at a dinner table. Lothíriel can barely bear to look at him there. 'Don't often make your hair as complicated as it was yesterday. I don't want your maid to undress you every night – it should be my pleasure – and I don't want to spend half the night untangling all those things from your hair either.'

Wondering if it is possible to die from blushing, or to ever stop blushing, Lothíriel nods. She wouldn't wear anything that complicated on ordinary days anyway.

Grinning and looking very satisfied with himself, Éomer puts his face between her legs and proceeds to make her gasp with embarrassment and whimper with desire and sob with pleasure.

He urges her to get a little more rest afterwards, reminding her – as if she didn't know – that this is the only day they can tarry in bed.

He lies down and pulls her to his side. She lays her head on his shoulder and he puts his arm around her, his finger splayed on her waist, and before she falls to sleep Lothíriel thinks that she could be very happy in this marriage.

Even her mother told her that mutual respect paired with mutual desire makes for a good partnership of spouses.

A/N: Tolkien wrote that the Mearas will carry only the king of the Mark and his sons, but I changed that to include queens and princesses as well. I try to be as canon-compliant as possible for the most part, but this is one detail I wanted to change.

The morning gift is an Anglo-Saxon custom: morgen-gifu. It is/was a custom of many other cultures, too.

There will be sequels but I'm not sure when as I am still working on the next one. Please note that like this fic, some of the sequels might be rated M so you'll only see them in the fandom listing if you have filtered to show also M rated fics.