PROMPT: "If you love it so much, why don't you marry it?"

Lothiriel well knows the importance of horses to the lives of the people of Rohan. She would not consider herself a good queen if she did not. And as this makes her third spring in the Mark, she also knows that the foaling season is amongst the most vital, the most sacred to the Eorlingas. Man, woman, and child, to a one, there was no time of the year that garnered more joy, more excitement.

Her husband is no exception.

The past two springs, she has not minded his absence, his tendency to abandon anything and everything to hurry down to the stables to help with the foaling-he is the King, the embodiment of what Rohan stands for, and his presence is considered a blessing for every colt and filly born.

But now...returning to their rooms after a long day to find them empty makes her...well, nearly angry. Sad. He is their king, yes, but her husband also! Happy as she is to share him, his continued absence from their rooms is vexing. On numerous levels.

On the rare instances she does manage to catch him, he is distracted, weary, but with an undeniable current of excitement lingering underneath.

"Four more strong colts today," he tells her, pressing an absent minded kiss to her forehead. "Ceola thinks another three mares will go into labor by nightfall."

If you love the horses so much, perhaps you would have been better off marrying one of them instead, she thinks, bitterly.

And then Lothiriel shakes herself-she is being ridiculous, petty and small over something that brings both Eomer and their people such happiness.

"Will I see you for dinner?" She asks.

Eomer frowns, the first unhappy expression she's seen since the first foal was birthed nigh two weeks ago. "I am afraid not, swete. They have need of me in the stables-"

Sighing, and forcing back her retort that she might be better served by his hands than the horses, she kisses him briefly. "Do try to remember to sleep sometime, husband."

Giving her a smile and nod, he is gone again, in a whirl of blonde hair and the soft smell of hay.

Shaking her head at his antics, Lothiriel lets her hands slide to rest on her stomach. The curve there is small, not noticeable at all through her clothes. But significant enough that he would not have failed to notice it if they had actually shared a bed for more than a few passing moments-or to do something more than sleep-in the past weeks.

Perhaps if I told him I was foaling, he would not be so eager to spend all his time in the stables, she thinks, wryly.

Still. The idea of telling him such a thing without his having his full attention makes her stomach twist. Only she and Master Duilin know of it now. It is better this way, she knows, and in a way she's grateful that there is a good reason behind her strange melancholy, her embarrassing envy of the horses of Edoras's stables.

It is another two weeks of this state, with her remarking to a laughing Wilfled one day that it is almost as if she does not have a husband, rather a ghost who must delight in leaving dirtied shirts all over the floor and tracking mud on her carpets. Finally, late one night, she's pulled from slumber by the sound of horns: the last foal has been born, the season officially ending in Edoras.

Eomer tries to creep in quietly, but she rolls over to face him anyways, smiling softly at his guilty expression.

"Did I wake you?"

"The horns beat you to it," Lothiriel answers. "How is the foal?"

"Healthy and beautiful," he says with a grin. "Another filly."

"She took her time," she says, watching with not a little pleasure as he peels off his shirt, then his breeches.

"As is the prerogative of a beautiful lady," he answers, eyes glinting in her direction.

Lothiriel laughs, shakes her head. "Flattery would usually get you everywhere, Eomer, but tonight I am tired."

"That is just as well," he says, sliding into the bed beside her. "For I am tired, too."

Regardless, she sighs happily when he curls himself behind her. She has missed this-missed him-very much, and the lingering smell of horse isn't detriment enough for her to move from where she's pressed herself into the curve of his much larger body. Eomer kisses her neck, moves his arm to wrap around her better, his hand coming to rest on-

Oh, Valar, she thinks as he suddenly goes stiff as a board behind her.

Her nightgown is thin and clings rather obviously to the slight swell of her stomach, where Eomer's hand currently sits.

"Lothiriel," he says, tone unreadable.

"Would you believe," she interrupts, trying to keep the laughter from her voice, "that Rohan's cuisine is simply more hearty than Gondor's?"

He tugs her to face him, dark eyes wide in his face, his hand still somehow pressed to the curve of her stomach and she takes pity, reaching up to cup his face in her hands.

"Are-are you-"

"It seems we will have a foal of our own, come winter," Lothiriel says. "Though I do not think Duilin will permit you to help with this one's birth."

Eomer gives a dazed laugh, his smile nearly blindingly bright. She can still feel his smile when he kisses her.

As it turns out, they are not that tired, after all.