PROMPT: "My crown is heavy. It feels lighter when you're around."
Eomer's eyes are burning with fatigue. It is late, well past any decent hour. Even the ever-busy hall has gone silent and still.
But what sort of king would he be, to sleep after receiving such news? A fire in the much-damaged Westemnet, begun because of dry wood and a bolt of lightning, has ruined some of the few remaining workable fields. Many have been displaced, a score badly injured, and winter is fast approaching. Even now, with a fire crackling in the hearth of his study, there is a chill to the air.
How is he to help his people handle tragedy after tragedy? As a marshal, he had the freedom to join his men in rebuilding houses, in hunting down Orcs, in doing something tangible. Now, as king, he is instead holed up in the safety of Edoras, arguing with his council about what is to be done. His uncle had handled things like this with an effortless grace. Theodred likely would have been much the same, as king. What good is Eomer King's warrior heart and strong arm against a fire? Against the cold?
The door opens and he grits his teeth-he'd expressly told his door-wards that he was not to be disturbed and is certainly in no mood for the petty clucking of the council-
"I said I was to be left alone," Eomer growls, pressing his hand to his temple to alleviate his building headache. "Will no one in this blasted hall respect their King's wishes?"
"They would, when not challenged by their Queen," comes Lothiriel's voice.
Eomer turns sharply, meeting his wife's worried gaze. She is wrapped in her thickest robe, her feet poking out from beneath clearly enclosed in the wool-lined boots Eowyn had gotten for her as a wedding present. His Gondorian bride is averse to the cold and he feels a sharp spike of guilt at the thought of her crossing Meduseld's icy floors to find him.
He sighs, leaning back in his chair. "Lothiriel, it is very late."
She gives a soft hm of agreement, winding her way around the clutter of the room before gracefully settling herself in his lap. She is, as ever, a warm and welcome weight there, though he frowns anew at the coldness of her nose when she brushes it along his temple.
"I am aware of the hour," Lothiriel murmurs, "given that I was both surprised and disappointed to find myself without my usual source of heat in our bed."
Eomer cannot help but chuckle at that-he runs hot, always has, and has many times served as her own personal foot-warmer. He scarcely minds, for there are certainly worse jobs than keeping his Queen comfortable against the cold.
They sit in comfortable, familiar silence for a moment, the quiet pops of the wood in the fire the only noise in the room.
"What troubles you?" She finally asks, turning just enough to meet his eyes.
"What do you think?" He answers, scrubbing a hand across his face wearily. "This fire is a huge setback-"
"And we will take it in hand as best we can," Lothiriel interrupts. "It is not so late in the year that the people affected cannot be properly sheltered. The fields will thrive again, in time. The Westemnet's eored is well-trained and able-bodied. It is unfortunate that this has happened, of course, but it is not so disastrous a thing."
Eomer sighs. Lothiriel's pragmatism was one of the reasons he'd even considered Imrahil's initial offer of a betrothal, and he is grateful for it again now. "You are right."
"I know," she answers, smile somewhere between sweet and smug, "I often am."
She gives a slight squeak when he pinches her, but makes no move to give up her seat. She does shift, however, looking at him seriously and steadily. "And I wish you would share these things with me. I do not like to see you so troubled."
He groans. "Lothiriel, you have duties enough as it is. There is no need-"
Her eyes narrow. "No need? I am your Queen. Your wife. Your partner through all things in this life, both the good and the ill. What is my duty, if not to help you in any way I can?"
Eomer can only stare at her. They had been friends when they wed, often thrown together by circumstance and meddling relatives, but it has not dawned on him until now that he might love her. That he does love her.
Lothiriel's face has pinked at his continued silence and she moves as if to rise. He stops her, arms tight around her waist and face buried in her shoulder.
"You are right," he murmurs again, unable to look at her for fear that she will see his sudden realization, and an even greater fear that she will not return it, "I-my crown is often heavy. But I find that-" Bema help him, for he is no poet, no great wordsmith like his brother-in-law or kingly Aragorn, but for Lothiriel he must do this, he must make her understand. "It is lighter when you are around."
"Oh," she breathes, softly. Her arms slide around his neck, trembling with what he hopes-prays-is not discomfort. "I am glad," Lothiriel whispers, voice thick with something he daren't name. "I am so glad."
They sit in silence again, still wrapped tightly around each other, until Eomer's back begins to protest the awkward positioning. He gently releases her, waiting until she's leaned back far enough that he can comfortably cup her face in his hands. Lothiriel smiles, softly, and winds her fingers into his hair. Her nose is still ice cold when he kisses her, but Eomer cannot bring himself to mind.
Lothiriel makes a surprised noise against his mouth when he abruptly stands, taking her with him as he goes. "Eomer, what-"
"I have been remiss in my own duties, my lady," he says, "in leaving my Queen with cold feet."
She laughs, bright and true, and tightens her arm around his shoulders. "A grievous offense! How will you fix such an error?"
He kisses her again, with more passion this time, and hums with Lothiriel sighs. "Will warming her up entirely suffice?"
Lothiriel swallows heavily. "I suspect that is the only remedy."
His door-wards are badly hiding smiles when they pass them, but with Lothiriel in his arms, Eomer cannot bring himself to care.
He knows the problems of the night will still be present in the morning, but for now, the weight of being king of the Mark has never felt so light.