Chapter 2: Patience and Understanding
She sat on the bed, uncoiling her hair from atop her head. Her movements were slow and deliberate, taking time to un-plait the thick strands. Éomer stood before the full-length mirror, watching her in the reflection. Truly, their children would be handsome. It did, however, bother him that his wife seemed so detached. He wished there was some way to connect with her to make this easier.
Turning around, he crossed the floor to sit at the desk. Removing his ceremonial wedding attire, he chanced another glance at her. With her hair unbound, Lothíriel looked as ethereal as Arwen. But her face was narrower than the Queen of Gondor's, with high cheekbones and a defined jaw-line. She met his gaze, her grey eyes guarding her thoughts well as she tucked a lock of midnight hair behind her ear.
He ran his fingers through dark blonde hair, watching her as she pulled the pins from her tresses. Previously captured locks tumbled from their restraints, falling with buoyancy. Éomer stood and walked to the other side of the large bed. The only light in the chamber was given by a candle on either side of the bed. The soft flame illuminated his wife's serene face. Éomer dropped his eyes to the ground.
"If you do not wish to do this tonight, we do not have to," he murmured, turning to look at her. "I have been taught never to take a woman against her will and would not wish to hurt you." He caught the edges of her lips pulling into a small smile.
"Thank you, my lord." Her expression softened slightly in the dim light. "But I am prepared to do my duty as wife and queen." She paused for a moment, gauging his visage. "Besides, if we do not, there will be talk of barrenness…" Lothíriel trailed off, leaving an unspoken thought in the negative space between them. She was right, he realized. The servants would know tomorrow if their union had not been consummated and Éomer could not fathom having to deal with gossip about sterility.
Lothíriel pulled her legs into the bed and blew the candle on her side out. If she was nervous, she hid it well. He somewhat admired her courage. Drawing a quick sigh, the King followed his wife's example, snuffing the final candle and stretching into bed. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to get aroused like this, so they lay in the darkness for several moments. He listened to her steady breathing and found it soothing. He tried to imagine her without clothes and felt a slight stirring in his groin. He reached for her, his hand resting on her hip.
"May I?" he asked stupidly. He could almost imagine her smiling in the dark. She took his hand, bringing it to her breast and he felt her heart beat beneath the thin fabric of the nightdress. He closed his eyes and repositioned himself on top of her. He lay braced upon his forearms, one on either side of her head and he opened his eyes. Her grey eyes watched him as she pulled the dress slowly past her knees, thighs and waist. He settled between her legs, praying he would not hurt her. She gave a single nod to him.
He slipped into her, feeling her warmth envelope him. Her hand grasped his forearm tightly as her eyes closed quickly, a pained moan repressed in her throat. He held himself there, terrified that he'd somehow injured her. He watched her, bathed in the faint moonlight, a tear glistening in the corner of one eye. Her body lay taut beneath him, her fingers pressing against his skin.
After a moment, he felt her body relax slightly. Éomer released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as his wife became more comfortable with him. He wanted to wipe away the tear, which made its way down the side of her face as she opened her eyes. They masked her thoughts from him, but he knew she had been in pain. She turned her face to the side, grey eyes staring out the window, gazing beyond the White Mountains, seeing what Éomer could not.
After he was certain the tenseness was gone, he began to move slowly. His hips thrust rhythmically, feeling the desire build within him. She felt pure and welcoming to him, though he knew she didn't feel the same way. He found himself wishing he could give Lothíriel some pleasure. He felt her smooth thighs on either side of him, holding him to her gently. Her breasts pressed against his chest as she breathed deeply. Her back arched instinctively as his release came. He buried his face in the crook of her neck as the waves calmed. Inhaling her scent of lavender and sage, Éomer felt at peace. Her silky hair brushed his cheek and he smiled against her skin, losing himself to the moment. Everything was forgotten to him except this feeling.
-o-
She hadn't expected him to be so gentle. And yet, when she felt the pain, it was so indescribable that she couldn't help but grasp his arm and shut her eyes. She had heard her fair tales of the first night in the marriage bed. She'd been told stories of men who threw their wives against the bed and forced themselves into the women. She grew up with a fearful curiosity of the marriage bed. And when that moment finally came, she was shocked that he'd been so patient. Was not the lust of a man untamable? Even the most placid of husband could find himself uncontainable while in the throes of passion. At least, that's what she'd heard.
But her husband had waited for her. He waited until she found her breath and her muscles eased. It still hurt. It was not something she would have done on her own will, but she was aware of her responsibility to her husband, her new country and to her family. It was her duty to produce an heir that would unite Gondor and Rohan in a tangible alliance.
Although she felt only a slight twinge of pleasure, his release caused her to arch and gasp. He lay against her, breathing heavily, his fingers entwined her hair. It seemed that he was completely oblivious to everything as he pressed his lips to her neck. His touch sent sparks down her spine and she knew she would regret the moment he left.
-o-
Éomer fell back into reality, recognizing his selfishness. Here he was with his beautiful wife who'd found, at best, minimal pleasure and he was soaring above the clouds having completely forgotten about her. With a sigh, Éomer realized he was still inside and on top of her. He withdrew gently and rolled to the side, her hair sliding like water from between her fingers.
"Good night, my lady," he whispered. She lay still for a moment before turning quietly from him and pulling the covers to her shoulders. Éomer drifted into a dreamless sleep.
The sunrise fell upon the young King's eyes as he stood by the window. He was naked, save for a pair of britches. Éomer rested an arm on the window arch and glanced back at his sleeping wife. She looked like a statuesque goddess, her face flushed in the morning light. Her dark hair fanned out upon the white pillow in lovely waves. The rise and fall of her chest was peacefully slow in slumber. He admitted to himself that Lothíriel was a beautiful woman and he was blessed to sire her children.
Éomer's day was consumed with meetings, the festivities of last night forgotten. After sending Prince Imrahil off with his guards, the young King was bombarded with various tasks and duties. Things had to be done, arrangements made. Éomer King stared at the maps before him, each one more detailed than the previous.
"The farmers of East Emnet lost a year's worth of crop and much of the soil," Elfhelm murmured. Éomer stared at the ink and paper, hoping it would give him some idea as to what to do.
"Our own supply dwindles, my lord. I cannot imagine we would have enough to feed our farmers as well."
The King pushed away from the table, the legs of his chair grating against the floor. He cursed under his breath, wishing for an easy solution to this. He dismissed his men, as the meeting had lasted a good two and a half hours. Staring at the maps, Éomer slumped into his seat, alone in the Golden Hall. It would not sit well with him to ask Aragorn for the extra food. As it was, Minas Tirith suffered its own depression with more the half the city being decimated. No, he could not do such a thing. His pride would not allow him to ask the King of Men for help. Éomer conceded that he was King and he would have to discover a way to save his people. It was his responsibility.
"My lord?" Shaken from his reverie, Éomer turned to see Lothíriel behind him, holding a plate of food. "They said you were not to be disturbed, but you haven't eaten in many hours." She did not appear timid or nervous, but rather strode into the hall and moved the maps to the side, placing the plate before him. He glanced up at her, eyebrows raised. Her hair was braided and pinned in a chignon at the nape of her neck. Her dress was a lovely dark green with silver trim. Her expression was unreadable, but pleasant. He began to eat the food and she turned. He leaned to the side and caught her wrist gently. She paused to look down at him.
"Will you join me, my lady?"
"As you wish, my lord."