It became their routine. After his morning councils, Éomer would eat lunch with his wife. Sometimes his Captains would be present, other times they would dine alone. In those next weeks, the young King found himself enjoying the company of his beautiful and quiet consort. He spent most of his time in her absence, riding through the villages and consulting with his men. He did not know what she did with her spare time but imagined she sewed with the other women of the court and performed womanly duties that were expected of the Queen.
Their evening meals were taken in the company of the court, with Éomer's men and their wives present in the Great Hall. Lothíriel preferred to converse with the men, Éomer noticed. She tried to avoid the women and spoke as little as possible when she had to talk to them. Why, he wasn't sure.
But the truth was that, behind her back, Lothíriel was slandered as the Gondorian queen who knew nothing of the Rohan people. The women gossiped that she ensnared the handsome King with her spell and now sought to weaken him. They hypothesized that she would steal his child and return to the sea, leaving him lovesick and wounded. Lothíriel knew of these rumors, but said nothing on the subject. All Éomer knew was that it was difficult for her to adjust to the Rohirric lifestyle. He imagined it would take a while for his people to become accustomed to their new Queen.
The rest of their schedule was monotonous. Éomer worked late into the night at his desk with only a solitary candle for light. By the time he lay in bed, Lothíriel was asleep on her side of the mattress. He knew she wanted to stay up to welcome her husband to bed, but he often he worked so late that she fell asleep. He felt a pang of guilt for this, but there was nothing he could do. The work had to be done.
The sunlight streamed through the high windows as the wind swept through the valley, whipping against the houses of Edoras. Éomer, Lothíriel, Elfhelm, Gamling and three other men of the King's council sat together enjoying their food. They ate in silence, each in their own realm of thought.
"My lord," all heads turned to the Queen as she spoke. "Does Edoras have a healer?"
"Does my lady think we are so barbaric not to?" Gamling snapped, but quickly shut his mouth. Éomer caught a glimmer in Lothíriel's grey eyes before it faded.
"No. Of course not," she murmured.
"We do, my lady," Elfhelm answered congenially, dispelling the tense air. Lothíriel turned to Éomer.
"My lord, if I have your permission, I would like to spend my time during the day there. I find the womanly arts a bit too tedious and I spent a large part of my life in Gondor's Houses of Healing." The King listened until she finished and nodded.
"I do not see why not." He said, taking a drink from his mug. "My sister tells me in her letters that you are well missed in Gondor. She writes that you were known for your healing gifts."
"Certainly your sister embellishes," Lothíriel replied with a small smile. "True, I have always enjoyed helping others, but that does not require gifts of any sort."
"My lady Eowyn does not embellish, Lothíriel Queen," Gamling said quietly in attempt to remedy his previous outburst.
"I thank her for saying such." The woman offered him a gentle smile, which he returned broadly. Éomer smiled as well. Perhaps things were looking better for them.
-o-
Lothíriel pulled the cloak closer to her body as she made her way down the steps of Methuseld. The sky was a pale blue, lazy clouds floating across the vast expanse. While she missed the ocean horizon, it was impressive to gaze at the White Mountains and endless plains. She could grow to be rather fond of Edoras.
She followed the line of houses until she reached the one indicated by Lady Berewyn an hour before. Lothíriel thankful for the woman's kindness toward her, but she could not imagine spending another day sewing in the company of the Rohirric women, most of whom never met Lothíriel's eye. She knew it seemed conceited to just remove herself from the group, but it didn't matter as much as those women pretended it did. But Lothíriel was glad Ivriel was welcomed there. She and Lady Berewyn had become quick friends, which pleased Lothíriel immensely. Ivriel had given up just as much as her charge had when leaving Dol Amroth. At least she'd found a friend here.
The door to Master Falas' home was a thick slab of wood that required several hard knocks to be heard. Lothíriel waited on the doorstep glancing at those who passed her. She was easily picked from a crowd with her height and dark hair. She smiled and acknowledged the people until the healer opened his door. He was aging man, bent over slightly from years of hunching above patients. His once blonde hair was white at the temple and sparse. His dark eyes met hers as he fell into a clumsy bow. "Oh, my lady Queen," he muttered hurriedly, bowing again.
"It's alright Master Falas," she said quickly, placing a hand on his arm. He looked up at her, white eyebrows rising. Blinking, he ushered inside the house, which seemed more appropriate with the title of hovel. The only light present filtered through two grimy windows and cast pearly rays here and there. The space was thick with the fragrance of herbs, spices and books. There were boxes, pots, herbs and other such clutter in the small space, making it difficult to find a place to stand.
"What is it I can do for you, my lady Queen," he queried, scurrying around the limited space, picking up a broom, setting it down, arranging a mess of papers, removing a stack of parchments from a chair and offering it to her. "Are you ill?"
"No Master Falas, I am not. But I was wondering, hoping really," she paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "Would it be possible if I could help you?"
"Help me with what, my lady?" the old man appeared incredulous, having stopped mid-tidy to look at the young Queen.
"Oh, anything you might need assistance with," she replied, waving her hand lightly. "I spent most of my childhood with the healer of Dol Amroth. I know something about the art of healing and I have found a passion for it. Perhaps I could be of some help to you, with the ill…" She watched him in the dim light, trying to judge his reaction. At first, she thought she might've said something incorrectly in Rohirric, because the old man looked confused.
"Help me?" He repeated. The Queen nodded. Falas rubbed the grey stubble on his chin thoughtfully. Truthfully, he had never had an offer for assistance, especially from a woman. A queen, even. "I suppose that would be quite welcomed. The winter is drawing closer and I could use an extra pair of hands. That is, my lady, if you don't mind cleaning wounds and making teas." "Not at all," she answered with a smile. Finally, she thought. A place I feel somewhat at home.
-o-
That night, Éomer sat at his desk, reading through the archive of past kings. He hoped to garner some sense of what to do to help his people. Winter would come soon and with the state his country was in, many of the farmers and their families would not survive to see the spring. Frustrated, Éomer closed his eyes, surrendering his head to the palm of his hand supported by his elbow, which rested on the table's surface. Finding only a moment's solace in the cradle of his hand, the King looked up and rubbed his tired eyes.
He heard the bed behind him stir. He listened as Lothíriel vacated the bed, her quiet footfalls echoed by the sheet that was draped around her and dragging behind. She knelt beside his chair, one hand on his shoulder as she surveyed the mess of papers.
"Is it possible to bring the farmers to Edoras for the winter?" she asked, her voice soft in the night air. Éomer looked at her as she stared intently at the desk.
"I do not think Edoras could hold so many, my lady. But it seems terrible that they should perish…"
"They won't," she said quickly. Éomer's eyebrows rose with surprise. Lothíriel was usually placid in her manner, but the spark of passion she displayed made the King of Rohan smile slightly. She glanced at him and frowned. "That will not happen, my lord. There must be a way to either help them sustain through the winter or relocate them temporarily until winter's end."
"I welcome any suggestions," he murmured, his dark eyes watching her keenly. She sighed quietly and stood.
"It is hardly possible to think, let alone make decisions at this hour of night. Come to bed," she said, retreating into the darkness. Éomer blew the candle out and followed her.
The next week progressed with little change. Éomer found himself without any solution to his problem. But he was pleased to see his wife with the healer. She spent most of her days with the old fellow, helping him. Lady Berewyn took it upon herself to watch over the young woman, should the gossipers say anything vicious. Lothíriel's own attendant, Lady Ivriel, kept with Berewyn and was slowly learning the language of Rohan. Berewyn had always been a compassionate soul. Éomer was grateful for the aging attendant who had been so kind to Eowyn and now Lothíriel.
The King wrote to his sister as often as he could. She was pregnant and extremely active in the rebuilding of Minas Tirith. She congratulated him on his marriage and told him that she knew for a fact that Lothíriel was a good match for him, for she'd met the princess before her departure to marry him. It gave him a bit of relief that his sister thought they were well matched. Because as much as he liked her company, he wasn't entirely sure he loved Lothíriel. He envied the love between his sister and her husband, Aragorn and Arwen, even his own parents. In her letter, Eowyn advised his brother to get to know his wife...
"I know from certain experience that it is very difficult to acclimate to a new home with new people. Ask her what her life was like at home. Inquire into her past and I'm sure your bond will be strengthened."
Éomer sighed and put the letter down. He knew she was right. He felt a surge of guilt for not taking the time to get to know his wife. But he'd been so busy and he was sure she did not want to tell him her life's story. Perhaps that could wait.
The King made his way back to his chambers. It was a little past midday after lunch and he wanted to collect his pile of letters from the desk. He was slightly embarrassed that Lothíriel had to see the place in such disarray, though she never said anything. He tidied the area up and was passing the privy when he heard the sound of someone gagging. Éomer paused at the door, listening to the agonizing sounds of a person vomiting. He set the papers down and tapped his knuckles against the door gently, causing the door to open.
Inside was Lothíriel, kneeling on the floor, her face bearing a sickly tint. Éomer rushed to kneel beside her, his eyes searching her face for an answer to an unspoken question. Before she could say anything, she turned and wretched into the toilet, coughing after. Éomer stood and stepped out to their room. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher beside the bed and returned to his wife, who had struggled to her feet. She accepted the water gratefully, draining the glass quickly.
"I'm sorry, my lord," she rasped, her voice hoarse.
"There is no need to apologize. But, is everything alright?" it seemed like a stupid question to ask, but he wasn't sure what else to say.
"Yes," she replied quietly. Then, a thought occurred to him.
"Are you with a child?"
"Yes," she confirmed. Éomer was at a loss at what to do. He was thrilled at the possibility of an heir, but it seemed inappropriate to touch her. So he smiled slightly and took the empty glass from her.
"That is good news," he mumbled hurriedly, turning to set the glass on the table.
"My lord, would you mind keeping this from the rest of the court?"
"As you wish. But why?"
"Your people are still… getting used to me. I do not wish to further burden them with this. Not yet," she looked at him, grey eyes pleading. Éomer offered another weak smile and nodded.
"Of course, my lady. Is there anything I can get you?"
"No, but thank you."
"Then I shall take my leave." Éomer left her standing by the privy as he rushed away, forgetting the papers and his task.