While the winter winds howled and beat against the walls of Edoras, under snow-covered thatch Eomund and Illian fought a different kind of battle for the lives of their people. The old and infirm were the first to go, brought low by illness that was no respecter of sentiment. The children were next to succumb—and were also the hardest to lose. Too many families laid loved ones in the empty shed behind Meduseld, awaiting burial come the spring thaw.
But there were victories too. Thanks to fervent prayers and Illian's dedicated nursing, both Alsef and his older brother survived, though their mother, Helena, was not so lucky.
Every day Eomund and Illian worked from dawn to sundown, splitting time between state affairs and nursing the sick, before falling into bed, exhausted, at the day's end. And if they had neither time nor energy to devote to their relationship, at least the constant weariness had left them no energy for fighting each other.
Eomund banished the morose thought and bent his head against the stiff wind tunneling up the main road and whipping his hair against his cheeks. It didn't carry the bitter bite of winter, though. Perhaps the spring thaw was finally on its way at last.
"Eomund King!"
He covered his wince at the summons—it still felt wrong to claim a title with common birth—and turned to find the speaker. One of the gate guards, Aelric by name. Eomund paused en route to the stables and waited for the guard to reach him.
The man paused before him, and sketched a bow. "Milord, we have spotted riders approaching, half an hour out."
His usually calm demeanor showed interest, and Eomund's eyes narrowed.
The man nodded again. "They carry the standard of Gondor, milord."
Visitors from Gondor—the Dimrolt road must be cleared of snow, then. What occasion might bring them hence?
"Make preparations for their arrival," Eomund said, his steps already turning toward the structure of Meduseld. He could not receive envoys from Rohan's most important allies dressed to go riding—even he knew that. Nor would it do to make their visitors exchange pleasantries in the cold.
"We will receive them inside," Eomund said, nodding thanks to the door guards as they swung wide the heavy doors for him. He sent a servant in search of Illian, and headed for their quarters in search of more suitable attire.
"Eomund King, and Queen Illian of the Mark, I present to you representatives of Prince Denethrin of the realm of Gondor!"
Their herald regarded his new role with much enthusiasm, and the introduction rang out through a hall clustered with servants and riders who had found sudden excuses to be needed in the Golden Hall upon the announcement of their unexpected visitors.
Pretending more confidence than he felt, Eomund took Illian's pale, white hand in his—testimony to their shared nerves, that she did not pull away—and stood to greet their guests.
"You will have heard of Prince Denethrin's betrothal," the messenger said, once the pleasantries were out of the way. He fixed bulging eyes on Eomund, his nose wrinkling. Doubtless he smelt horse, Eomund realized, as many a rider who'd invited themselves into the hall had come straight from the stable. Eomund's mouth twitched, and out of the corner of his eye he caught an amused spark in Illian's gaze.
But when she spoke, it was with trained diplomatic grace.
"The blessed news reached us," Illian murmured. "We offer our congratulations."
The messenger did not look as if he thought Prince Dinethren would appreciate their well wishes.
"If it would please your highnesses—" Here the messenger looked straight at Eomund, whose collar felt suddenly strangling.
Doubtless the news of Illian's marriage to a commoner, Marshal notwithstanding, over Prince Bithen had not been regarded with complete goodwill by the citizens of Gondor. Eomund stifled the un-kingly urge to shift under the man's mocking gaze.
Desired effect achieved, the messenger went on. "—Prince Dinethren of Gondor would be honored by the privilege of your presence at his marriage to Princess Berinis of Dol Amroth the 3rd of March."
Illian's fingers tightened in Eomund's grip. He felt no less alarmed at the prospect of a journey to Gondor in two weeks' time to consort with their sophisticated allies. Well, they were king and queen, like it or not. Nothing to do but make the best of it.
"The honor would be all ours," Eomund said, squeezing Illian's hand. "And now, you must be weary after your journey. My steward—" He nodded at old Efred, hovering in the background, "—will show you to your room."
The messenger looked dubiously at the bent old steward, but Efred could charm a pole cat in a snowstorm and soon hustled their guest and his retinue off to bed.
Eomund let a deep breath escape as he and Illian stepped down from the dais, and forcibly relaxed his shoulders. Well, they'd survived—and committed no diplomatic error more grievous than allowing riders smelling of horse to invade the Golden Hall.
The image of the messenger's wrinkled nose and bulging eyes popped back into Eomund's mind, and he coughed back a deep chuckle. Illian cast him an inquiring glance, and he drew her into an interior hallway where he could laugh without disgracing the dignity of his title.
"That man—" Eomund fought back another laugh, leaning his back against the wall. "One would have thought a pig ran loose in the Golden Hall, the way he wrinkled that highborn nose."
Illian's eyes sparkled with rare humor, and she grinned up at him. "He should have expected it. We are not the horselords for nothing, after all."
"Yes." Eomund smirked. "The barbarians of the North. I should hate to disappoint. Perhaps I should pull out my wolfskin cloak for this state occasion."
She laughed—actually laughed!—and he stood, astounded, staring down at her. She was beautiful when she laughed. He'd almost forgotten.
Illian must have caught the expression on his face, for her smile faltered and she looked down. "So, we must make a trip to Gondor, and kiss cheeks with our finer friends."
"Not finer." Eomund tightened his grip on her hand. "More cultured, perhaps, but none are finer than the people of the Mark."
"Then let us hope we do not disgrace them," Illian said, sighing and drawing her hand away. "It seems there are many preparations to be made."
Spring, my frozen foot. Illian set her teeth, clutching her cloak tighter about her shoulders as the cool bite of the spring breeze flapped the fabric and penetrated her many layers. Despite the light blue flowers carpeting the hills of the Riddermark—a sure sign of spring on the way—the cold wind and occasional patches of snow assured her winter would not release its grip so easily.
Illian wiggled her numb toes in her fur-lined boots, attempting to surreptitiously wiggle her sore and half-frozen bottom in the saddle.
Her efforts were in vain. She ignored Eomund's look, his silence speaking as loudly for him as it ever did. Curse the man. He could say more with silence than she ever could with the tumult of words.
They'd already had this out hours ago when they broke camp for the third day of travel. Eomund seemed under the impression she was a delicate princess who would perish at the first cool breeze, and insisted she ride in a litter suspended between the gentler ponies under piles of blankets.
She'd promptly retorted that she didn't deserve to be queen of the horselords if she couldn't manage a week's ride on horseback.
When she'd made it clear she'd walk to Gondor before riding in a litter, Eomund gave in—with very ill humor—and contented himself with riding at her hip all day, his sharp gaze not missing a single sigh, shiver, or stiff movement.
He'd been right, of course. After weeks of working indoors looking after her queenly duties, with little time for more than short daily rides, Illian was no longer accustomed to hours on horseback. Her bruised and sore bottom and thighs bore mute testimony to the fact, and the damp chill had soaked clear to her bones.
What she wouldn't give for a hot bath and her fur-covered bed right now.
"Railf!"
She jumped in the saddle at her husband's bellow, wincing as she came down on a particularly tender spot. He didn't look at her, but they both knew he saw. Eomund saw everything.
"Milord." Railf drew his shining chestnut up beside Eomund, nodding at Illian in mute greeting. His kind eyes radiated concern, and Illian suppressed the uncharitable urge to roll her eyes.
Honestly. They were treating her like some breakable porcelain doll, when she'd been out-riding most of them the first 20 years of her life.
"Pull the men in," Eomund said, in a low tone. "We'll make camp here."
They exchanged one of their knowing looks, a silent conversation with her an unwilling audience, and Railf whirled away toward the head of the party of riders.
Illian narrowed her eyes at Eomund, suspecting they would have kept riding were she not in their company, but couldn't bring herself to complain. In truth, exhaustion and cold numbed her limbs and her senses—all but her aching muscles. Even the meager comfort of the tents and a fire would be welcome.
Illian nudged her mare toward the center of the circling riders, where some were already dismounting and setting about making camp with quiet efficiency. She eyed the ground and resigned herself to the jarring impact.
Dragging a leg over the mare's rump, she kicked her foot loose and slid toward the semi-frozen turf. Sharp prickles of pain shot up through her feet and legs and her knees gave out. Illian gasped, making a frantic grab for the saddle leathers to save what little remained of her dignity.
Curse her own stubbornness. Illian pressed her face into the saddle, blinking back angry tears at her own weakness as feeling crept back into her limbs. Freya brought her head around, blowing warm horsey breath down Illian's neck in curious inquiry.
Large hands came around Illian's waist, taking her weight. "You should have waited," Eomund said, his voice nearly a low growl in her ear.
"I'm fine," she whispered through her teeth, well aware her white-knuckle grip on the saddle made a liar of her. She closed her eyes. What must the men think of her? A useless queen, far too weak to lead her people.
"Don't let them see…" Illian gave a breathless gasp.
Eomund grunted, one muscled forearm tightening across her stomach as he shifted to blow his men's view. "Just what are you trying to prove, Illi?"
What, indeed? What was the point in even trying? They could see the truth for themselves. She was weak.
Illian twisted to wipe away the irritating tears on the shoulder of her kirtle, not trusting herself to let go of the saddle yet. Eomund sighed, his grip loosening, then she gasped as her world tilted sideways.
Eomund settled her more firmly in his arms, ignoring her death glare with typical stoicism.
"Eomund," she hissed. "Put me down."
He obligingly did, perching her on a convenient boulder near the fire and straightening. Turning without a word, he walked back toward their horses, crooning to them in the familiar, sing-song tone peculiar to the horselords.
Illian closed her eyes, fighting the angry flush warming her neck. If it didn't feel like a monumental effort just to stand, let alone traipse after him and give him a piece of her mind…
She sighed, watching the men make camp and Eomund care for the horses in that calm, reassuring way of his. He ran a hand slowly down Freya's furry neck, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, and Illian shivered.
The cold must have addled her brain, to be jealous of her horse.
A few interminably long minutes later, Eomund brought her a steaming bowl of soup, the spoon of hand-carved wood with a horsehead handle. He handed her the food without comment, crouching on his heels beside her. Eomund polished off the bowl in a matter of moments—the man had always eaten nearly as much as his steed—and returned with another.
Illian curled her stiff fingers around the spoon, relishing the warm liquid slipping down her throat and warming her insides. Maybe after a few cauldrons of the stuff she'd be able to feel her toes.
"Just one more day until we sight the White City," Eomund spoke to his soup bowl, setting aside their disagreement with characteristic practicality. "If all goes well."
If all goes well. Illian swallowed the last spoonful of soup, along with her pride, and limped to the fire to hand her bowl to the rider on cooking duty. He took it with a cheerful smile and she attempted one back.
Such good people, and she so unworthy to represent them to the great men of the West in only one more day.
Weariness fell over her like a wet blanket and Illian summoned her strength to walk with a semblance of grace to their tent. She ducked inside, noting with grateful relief the fur bedding already laid out. Quickly slipping her wool overdress over her head, Illian dove for the pile of furs and curled into a shivering ball.
Exhaustion soon overcame cold and she fell into oblivion.
So cold.
Illian came awake in the thick black, heart pounding in her chest as she took in unfamiliar surroundings. The low voices of the riders changing watch traveled to her through the tent canvas in the quiet of the wee morning hours.
Shivers wracked her whole body and Illian bit back a whimper, tugging the furs even closer around her body. They wouldn't move.
Someone shifted and grunted close at hand, and she froze. Had she awoken Eomund? Years on the road had made him a notoriously light sleeper.
"Illi?"
Her name in his deep voice, thick with sleep and so close, sent a flush racing into her cheeks.
"I'm fine," she whispered through teeth clenched to still their chattering.
Eomund made a snort that could mean anything from amusement to disbelief, the fur blanket shifting. "Come here. I can hear your teeth clacking."
Illian's useless denial was lost in a startled squeak as his arm came over her stomach and he drew her firmly back against him. Heat rushed through her—though whether from embarrassment or the man himself she couldn't discern.
She held herself still, hardly daring to move for fear of doing or saying the wrong thing, and let his blissful warm seep into her. The man was a walking furnace.
Eomund grunted, his breath hot in her ear. "Relax. I won't ravish you."
Despite his unmistakably grumpy tone, Illian felt a blush once again heating her cheeks. Thank the gods for the dark that hid her humiliation. She'd thought no such thing. Beyond the wedding night coupling necessary to prove the loss of her maidenhood, they'd not slept together in that way.
Eomund was honorable in every sense of the word. He'd never even hinted at "exercising his husbandly rights," as one of Illian's elderly housemaids had delicately put it. Illian shifted uncomfortably at the thought, seeking out warmth to thaw her feet.
"Stop squirming," Eomund growled, his arm tightening into a band around her waist.
"You're suffocating me."
Releasing a deep sigh of long-suffering, Eomund loosened his grip and pulled the blankets up higher with his free hand. Illian rolled her eyes, her muscles finally beginning to relax as heat began pushing back the cold. She let out her breath slowly, allowing herself to slump back against Eomund's solid body, contentment drifting in on the wake of her toasty cocoon.
Illian closed her eyes. She'd been so irritable with him, and he'd been nothing but kind. He always was, taking care of her even when it wasn't needed—and especially when she didn't want to admit she needed it.
"Eomund?"
"Mmm?" His sleepy murmur vibrated against her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Illian said. "You were right. I needed help, I just—was too proud to ask for it."
He didn't move or respond. Had he fallen back asleep? So much for her heartfelt apology. Outside the tent, one of the riders paused in his snoring, turned over, and resumed snoring.
"Why wouldn't you ask me?"
His quiet question stirred feelings much better left buried. Illian grimaced, searching for the most honest answer.
"I—didn't want the men to think me weak. Too weak to be their queen. Even if it's true."
I didn't want you to see me as weak. You, who are always so strong. But she could never say that. Admit to that even more humiliating weakness.
His sigh brushed across her cheek, and he drew her closer. "You are a beautiful and wise queen, worthy of your family and your people. Your men know this well."
Illian forced herself to take a shuddering breath, her mind snagging on an irrelevant fact that her stubborn heart could not overlook. He called me beautiful.
A childish thrill warmed her heart and Illian scowled. Just because he said I'm beautiful, doesn't mean he—personally—finds me attractive. He probably just meant that she dressed well for her station, or that her wisdom made her beautiful, or—Illian sternly cut off the line of thought.
No use dwelling on it. If anything, she should be worrying about their upcoming visit. Her last visit to Gondor she'd been only twelve, young enough to be bored but old enough to feel the intense mortification of tripping on her dress and spilling wine down the front of the elven queen.
"Eomund." She bit her lip. "What if I spill wine on the queen again?"
His chest beneath her ear rumbled in what could have been a laugh.
"Illian?"
She frowned. "Yes?"
A soft touch on the side of her neck, just below her ear. Shivers rippled up her back, and Illian closed her eyes, thoughts swirling.
Eomund settled back into the blankets. "Go to sleep, Illi."