We only understand the miracle of life fully

when we allow the unexpected to happen.

(Paul Coelho 1947 - )

Éomer swore under his breath.

“You are rather inventive, are you not?” his brother-in-law remarked dryly before he caught the same sight. “Oops! How did he manage to arrange that?”

“I do not know. I do not care.” Éomer began to move forward but was intercepted by an elbow, which the Prince dug into his ribs.

“I do not think it is very befitting for a king to pummel a captain without obvious reason.”

“No reason?” the Rohír grunted. That elbow had been pretty pointed.

“It does not look as if he forced her to dance with him,” Erchirion pointed out, waving his hand towards the dancing couples.

Regrettably, he was quite correct. Lothíriel was smiling amiably at the man who had been introduced to her officially by her own husband as an esteemed member of his guard. She had no reason not to behave in a friendly way towards him, as long as he treated her with due respect. And even if he took any liberty it was more likely that Lothíriel would be oblivious to it than that she would catch on to the fact that somebody was making a pass at her – if Éofor’s instinct of self-preservation was indeed so low that he would try to do that.

The male and female lines had separated and moved in different directions, the orderly formation seemingly breaking up, but after both parties had danced around the perimeter of the floor, they came together again in a sweeping figure and each dancer found himself back with his former partner. Promptly the music started from the beginning, but this time going faster, causing the dancers to repeat the steps at a quicker pace.

Not completely familiar with the swift succession of steps, even after the first round, Éomer saw Lothíriel hesitating, for just a heartbeat. She was near to getting all the other dancers into a muddle, but Éofor quickly steadied her by wrapping his hand around her elbow. The further movements required that the man took the woman’s right hand in his own right one, resting his left on her left hip. Involuntarily Éomer’s jaws clenched when he saw the rider pulling his wife more closely against his side than was necessary. The lunatic even dared to bend down, apparently muttering something into Lothíriel’s ear. And his wife looked up and laughed at him.

Éomer’s reaction was immediate and startlingly intense. Every nerve in his body reacted fiercely to the sight of Lothíriel laughing with another man. The possessiveness he felt took him by surprise and for a moment also took his breath away. He gave a very low growl. Erchirion turned his head quickly at that tone and frowned at him, clearly alarmed now.

“Éomer, you are not going to pick a fight!” That was not a statement but a definite order. Momentarily baffled, Rohan’s King gazed at his brother-in-law, and for the first time he felt he saw what truly lay behind the ever-amused façade: those chocolate-brown eyes were as hard as granite. This was the man who didn’t mind putting the thumbscrews on others.

“And you are going to prevent it?” he ask in a dangerously even voice when he found Erchirion’s hand on his forearm. He really didn’t want to hit Lothíriel’s brother.

“At least I will try,” Erchirion replied, matching the tone. “And in the course of it, we would not only embarrass ourselves, but also Lothíriel.”

Éomer puffed out his cheeks, releasing some of the air which had been bottled up inside his chest, summoning all the self-control he possessed. “Are you expecting me to watch idly while that boor runs his hands all over my wife?” he snarled, although the accusation was slightly exaggerated. Suddenly he felt the need to paw like an ill-tempered Firefoot before a charge, but he forced himself to accept the inevitable . . . with bad grace

The Prince did not answer at once, his attention was again fixed on the dancers, but the strain in his body gave away his preparedness to hold his brother-in-law back if he had to. 

The dancers had finished the second round and just started out for another, even quicker paced one. Again Éofor had his hand on his queen’s hip, or rather had his arm nearly wrapped all around her waist. And Lothíriel had begun to look perhaps, not yet uncomfortable with the situation, but undoubtedly puzzled by the brazen action. At least she wasn’t laughing anymore at the man’s face but frowning down at the hand, which touched her with audacious confidence.

“You are right,” Erchirion admitted. “It is time to bring this to a halt. But I think we should leave it to Amrothos.”

“Amrothos?”

Erchirion grinned fleetingly at the utmost incredulity punctuating that single name. “He has his uses . . .  now and then. Do you know that he is a brilliant chess player?”

“What – by all that you hold sacred – has that to do with the impertinent behaviour of my captain towards my wife?"

“Amrothos knows how to place a pawn. See for yourself.” He pointed with his chin at his younger brother.

Between the latter and his partner, and Lothíriel and the captain, there were two other couples and only now did Éomer realize that Amrothos had his eyes fixed on his sister and the man leading her through the dance. Judging by the frown the Prince wore – a serious expression by his standards – he had caught on and wasn’t pleased either. But how was he supposed to take action – other than pummel Éofor? Perhaps Erchirion considered it more fitting for a prince than for a king to start a brawl. Talk of Gondorians and their emphasis on proper conduct.

Just when the female and male lines of dancers were about to separate once more, Amrothos – who until now had been an epitome of light-footedness – stumbled and shoved his partner straight into the woman next to her. Éomer saw his mouth moving, no doubt spluttering his apologies, helping his victims to find their footing again and propelling them back into positions. One had to allow him that he was fast and so the disturbance was quickly resolved, the dancers eager not to fall behind the music.

“What was that?” Éomer wanted to know.

“A chess move,” Erchirion replied easily, all tension gone from his voice. “He positioned the Queen.”

Éomer dubiously watched the course of events unfolding before him. The third round of the dance drew to a close and the lines swept towards one another. One after the other the partners found each other again. Suddenly he realized that the next pair joining hands looked dumbfounded when they met and then Éofor found himself with a short, tubby woman. If his King was not mistaken, it was the wife of Master Gearwald, the cooper.

Slowly Éomer began to grin. Somehow Amrothos had managed to change the order of the female line of dancers, and not just at random, but in such a way that he and his sister came together. When she met her brother, Lothíriel laughed, not only surprised but, Éomer could have sworn, also relieved. Whilst they were performing the next moves, Amrothos’s head bent down to her, he whispered something into her ear and when Lothíriel nodded, he whirled her gracefully out of the formation and led her off the dance floor. He escorted her over to where his brothers were waiting for them.

“I think I have found something that belongs to you,” he addressed Éomer in his customary cocky tone. “You should really try not to lose sight of it. It easily catches the eye of others.”

“I am not ‘something’, Lothíriel protested in mock irritation, taking the hand Éomer held out to her and letting herself be pulled against his side. Granted, it was a rather possessive gesture, but he didn’t really care about Erchirion’s knowing grin.

“On the contrary” he told his wife. “You are something very special.” The warm smile that lit her eyes made it very difficult not to act on the urge to kiss her. On the other hand, two attentively watching older brothers had a rather deflating effect on such a longing.

But it seemed they would soon be left on their own. Éomer watched, with interest, the silent communication between the two princes: a glance, the rise of an eyebrow, the twitch of a corner of the mouth and some understanding had been reached. Only close-knit siblings were able to confer in such a covert way. He and Éowyn had done it as long as he could remember.

“Dearest, now that you are back in the care of your husband, you will not mind if we pursue our own amusement?” Erchirion asked his sister. The question was - no doubt – purely rhetorical.

That was an ambiguous announcement if he had ever heard one. What exactly was this pair up to?

“Behave yourselves!” Lothíriel ordered her brothers sternly. “I do not wish to hear any complaints about you.”

“Now look at our midget; ordering us around. Ouch!” Amrothos cried out and rubbed his arm where his sister had swatted him. “Marry her off to a king and she thinks she can maltreat me.” The two of them launched happily into an affectionate siblings’ quarrel.

Seeing that his wife was distracted, Éomer turned to his other brother-in-law.

“What are you intending to do?” he asked in a low voice.

“We will take care of that man,” Erchirion answered, also at pains not to let Lothíriel hear his words.

“No, you will not. He is my responsibility.”

“And I still feel that it is not a good idea for a king to beat up a captain of his guard, though I fully understand the urgent and natural desire to do so.”

“And you think it is a better idea that a prince does the beating up?”

“We might come up with something more inventive.”

“Now, that should put my mind to rest.” To think that there had been times in his life when he had wished for more brothers and sisters.

He felt a small, warm hand against his back. “Éomer, you will not believe it, but I am hungry again.” He turned around to find Lothíriel smiling up at him, wrinkling her nose sheepishly. More fine strands had escaped from her elaborately braided hair and framed her face. The fair skin over her cheekbones was flushed from the exercise of the dancing. It seemed only natural for him to put his arm around her shoulder and for her to lean into his body.

“In that case I had better feed you or I might have my Marshal’s wife back at my throat.” He glanced at Erchirion, for a moment reluctantly. It was not in his nature to have others take care of his affairs. But then they were her brothers. They had a right to be involved. That Éowyn was married and now living far away at her husband’s side did not mean that he no longer felt a responsibility. “Very well, you may go and pursue whatever you find . . . amusing.”

Erchirion gave him a short nod and turned to saunter away. Amrothos gave his sister a wink and followed in his wake.

Éomer let the tips of his fingers slide down her arm and across the small of her back. He took her hand in his. “Shall we join your father and Aragorn?” he murmured. He escorted her over to the table, where he had earlier seen his friends gathered. Gandalf had joined them and now sat at the High King’s side and Elfhelm was again next to his wife.

When he saw the royal couple approaching, Imrahil greeted his daughter. “How are you enjoying your first Rohirric celebration, my dear?”

“Very much, Father.” This time she climbed without hesitation over the bench to sit down across from the Lord of Dol Amroth, next to Aragorn, who, like Gandalf, had lit his pipe. “It is a brydealoþ, by the way,”Lothíriel informed no-one in particular.

“Is it indeed?” Imrahil refrained from demanding more details.

Éomer grinned at his father-in-law before addressing his wife, “I will see if I can find Ælfgyth to bring you some more food.” However Cynewyn got up from her place.

“Leave it to me, my Lord. The boldweard of Meduseld needs a moment of rest and time to eat something herself.” She walked swiftly away.

“Boldweard means housekeeper?” Lothíriel asked.

“It does.” Éomer took a seat next to his wife.

“So you have already begun to learn the language of the Riddermark, my Lady?” Aragorn inquired, making sure that the smoke of his pipe drifted away from his friend’s new wife.

“I am only picking up pieces at the moment,” Lothíriel replied. “However, I wish to begin wholeheartedly as soon as possible. But I will need some sort of tutor to guide and to instruct me.”

Gandalf took the pipe out of the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps you should talk to Gléowine. You met him earlier amongst the riddlers. He used to be Théoden King’s scop but he does not wish to serve in such a function any longer.”

Lothíriel frowned in contemplation. “He was the old man who presented the riddle about the quill.”

“That is right,” Gandalf nodded.

“I will talk to him within the next couple of days,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Well, I suppose that my opinion is no longer required,” Éomer remarked in mock disgruntlement.

“Do you have a better suggestion to make?” his wife wanted to know.

“I am certain he has not,” Lady Cynewyn interjected as she returned, balancing a flat bowl and two goblets, “Men always get in a huff, when they are not allowed to shove their oar in.” She put down the bowl in front of Lothíriel, before setting down the goblets of wine for her Queen and King. “I brought you some cucumber salad in honey and cider vinegar, my Lady. I thought you would prefer something light.”

“Thank you, Lady Cynewyn. That is quite right.” Lothíriel picked up the fork.

Éomer pointed at the dish that had been served to her. “Hwerhwettan wyrtmete.”

Lothíriel blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

“Hwerhwettan wyrtmete,” her husband repeated with a hint of glee. “Cucumber salad.”

The next moment the King of Rohan found out that riding boots made in Gondor had pretty solid heels and his wife an unexpected cruel streak.

Nevertheless, as the night grew older and the air colder, Lothíriel slid closer to him, seeking the warmth of his body and the pillowing quality of his shoulder. He looked down at her and found her adorably drowsy. There was a good chance that he needed to carry her up to the Golden Hall only to have to tuck her in for a good night sleep. It was really time to leave all these annoying requirements of a royal wedding behind them and begin their normal life as husband and wife . . . and as King and Queen-Consort, which would undoubtedly always put a restriction on their privacy.

From the corner of his eye his saw a movement and his head went around quickly, his senses always on the watch, even in the company of kin and friends. A group of men had gathered at the edge of the square. He identified them without difficulty as the burhgemót of Edoras, the assembly of the common citizens. They came towards his table, led by Master Ælbert, the saddler and their ealdorman, their spokesman. Éomer slid around on the bench and rose to his feet to greet the man.

“My Lord Éomer, can we have a moment of your time?”

“Of course, Master Ælbert.” He was certainly not the one who would tell the old man that he had just addressed him with the wrong title, the one he had left behind when he took the one of king. “What can I do for you?”

“In the name of all the citizens of Edoras, and representing all the men and women in the Mark, we would like to convey our best wishes to you and your Lady Queen and wife for your wedded life. And we hope you will allow us to present you with ðe geþeawe brydegifu.”

Lothíriel had risen as well and unthinkingly he held out his hand for her and helped her climb over the bench – once more. This was getting a habit.

He had forgotten to tell her about the traditional bride-gift. Or rather, he had forgotten about it. Now it was too late to find out what Lothíriel would think about this particular present and he just had to wait and see how she responded.

“The Queen and I would like to thank all of our kinsmen for their good wishes and for the brydealoþ – and we will gladly accept the brydegifu.” 

Old Ælbert nodded and motioned somebody in the background. Two men – one of them Master Ecgbehrt, the carpenter – carried something large and heavy towards them. It was covered by a dark green blanket and it could have been a chest, though Éomer knew it wasn’t.

By now a large crowd had gathered around them, no doubt all of them eager to witness the presentation of the gift and, without a doubt, the reaction of their young queen.

He should have warned her.

The men placed the heavy object directly in front of them and Ælbert stepped forward to remove the blanket and unveil the cradle.

On every brydealoþ he had attended a cradle had been given to the bridal couple, but this was by far the most elaborate piece of craftsmanship he had ever seen – not that he had paid much attention to this particular piece of furniture in the past. It was made of maple-wood, the surface finished to velvet-smooth perfection. It was embellished with carvings of heads of horses and the high headboard showed the multi-shafted Rohirric sun.

“How lovely.”  There was true appreciation in Lothíriel’s voice. Obviously at the moment she was not giving a thought to the fact that she was supposed to conceive, carry and bear the future occupant – or occupants – of this nursery fixture. She ran her hand admiringly over the soft wood. “This is a master’s work. I thank you all so very much.” She smiled at the carpenter.  “And especially you, Master Ecgbehrt. You have done wonderfully. It is the most beautiful cradle I have ever seen.”

How many had she seen? Éomer was just relieved that Lothíriel didn’t seem to feel any embarrassment about the implication behind the gift, and the expectation that she should soon deliver the heir of Rohan. He had to make certain that nobody – primarily Aldhelm – began pestering her about an early and prompt creation of the next in the line to the throne. Not that he wouldn’t be interested in eavesdropping on that conversation.

After having thanked and talked briefly to all the other members of the burhgemót, everything began to settle again. Ælfgyth assured her Queen that she would make arrangements for the cradle to be taken up to the Golden Hall. Finally Amrothos appeared out of nowhere and gave the furniture a push that sent it rocking.

“Looks pretty sturdy,” he commented. “Might even last the first Horselord you are going to keep in there.”

“You are talking nonsense, Amrothos,” Lothíriel informed him. “It is so well made that it will last for generations.”

The Prince’s eyes darted between his sister and her husband, several times, back and forth, his expression getting more and more sceptical with every sweep. At long last he shook his head.

“I would not bet on it. I am expecting the worst from any mutual offspring of yours.”

“I doubt there is a chance of anybody ever surpassing you,” Éomer assured him. He had decided to make his peace with his brother-in-law – at least for tonight.

Amrothos beamed at him. “Are you trying to tell me, brother dearest, that I am creation’s crowning glory?”

Somewhere in the back of his mind Éomer felt a faint wonder that he didn’t flinch at being called brother by this menace. He must have begun to come to terms with this particular fate of his. “You are proof that whatever deity is ultimately responsible for creation has a strange sense of humour.”

“Especially if you consider that humour is nothing but reason gone mad.”

And he must have gone mad that he was letting himself get into another of these imbecile banters. He just waved him off and Amrothos conceded with a sly grin. Probably because he guessed that Rohan’s King was going to suggest to his wife that they should retire. Lothíriel was once again losing her battle against the yawns ambushing her regularly.

By now he understood the working of her mind well enough to know how to avoid an imminent argument. He quietly and quickly made their apologies, bade their farewells and steered her towards the main path leading up to Meduseld. True, he was moving her again, but it didn’t seem to have penetrated her momentary lethargy. They were already half the way up to the Golden Hall before he heard a word from her.

“Can we just leave everybody behind?” she asked, her voice sounding as unfocused as her eyes looked when she gazed at him. She stumbled over an uneven paving stone. Éomer steadied her and, after a second thought, picked her up without prior warning. He carried her further up the hill.

“What are you doing?” That sounded, all of the sudden, as if she was very much awake.

“I know I am running the risk of getting a dressing down again for carrying you like some chattel, but I cannot have my wife stumbling around half asleep and possibly hurting herself.”

“Put me down at once!” That sounded not only awake but downright commanding.

They had reached the high stairs leading up the terrace in front of Meduseld. “Are you feeling in shape to surmount this obstacle?”

“I certainly am.” She looked sternly into his eyes.

Éomer put his right foot on the second stone step and sat her on his thigh, holding her easily in place. She folded her arms beneath her breast and regarded him with an irritated glance.

“And what is going to happen now,” she demanded belligerently.

“This.”

His large hand cupped the nape of her neck. He bent his head and kissed her full on the mouth. She went very still, but she did not pull away. He let his tongue slide between her lips in a deliberate attempt to seduce her. Slowly she began to return the kiss, raising her arms to circle his neck. She slid off his thigh and pulled his head down towards her . . . and then she stepped backwards out of his embrace.

“Thank you for the offer, my Lord. However, I am fully capable of walking up the stairs all on my own,” she announced amiably. She turned and rushed up the steps as if she feared he would try to recapture her.

Éomer grinned and went after her. It looked as if she was wide awake again and he had every intention of reaping the benefits of it. Reaching the head of the stairs he saw that the Doorwards had swung open the carved panels of the entrance to Meduseld for her and Lothíriel swept into the Hall without sparing him another glance. He was quite sure that they had just provided some sort of compensation for the two men whose duty had kept them from the entertainment and celebration down at the square.

He followed his wife across the Hall, his longer strides allowing him to easily catch up with her. He overtook her on the dais, drawing back the wall-hanging and opening the door covered by it. She still didn’t spare him a single glance whilst they walked along the corridor towards their chambers. Taking the hint and keeping silent, he opened another door at the end of the corridor and gestured her to precede him – and before she fully realized it, she was in the dimly lit King’s Chamber, with the door shut tightly behind them.

She spun around. “This is not my chamber.”

He really had to struggle to control himself. To burst out laughing didn’t seem to be a good idea at the moment, even though the deadly glare she tried on him was somehow not overly frightening – at least not physically.

“I think I forgot to mention something last night,” he began cautiously and with all the self-control he was able to muster.

“Oh?”

“That,” he pointed behind her back and waited until she had turned around to see what he was indicating. When she faced the huge four-poster, he continued, “is our bed.”

“Oh.” She kept her back to him. “Are you saying I have to sleep with you every night?”

Éomer allowed himself a grin. Her choice of words was sometimes – unintentionally – quite ambiguous. “No, what I am saying is that I wish you to sleep in this bed every night.” He hesitated but then couldn’t help himself. “Beyond that everything else is negotiable.”

Her shoulders squared when she caught on and she cleared her throat.  “So you are not trying to seduce me?”

“Would you insist upon resisting me?”

He got no answer. She just stood there, her back turned towards him. She was obviously not quite sure how to play this game. He stepped closer, not really touching but close enough so she would feel the heat from his body.

“Lothíriel,” he murmured. “You cannot stand here all night. You have to change position sooner or later.”

“Do you have an appropriate suggestion to make, regarding such a change of position?”

“How about . . . ,” he raised his hand over her shoulder, just next to her cheek and pointed straight forward, “. . . the bed?”

She  deliberately  hesitated with the answer. “That suggestion is . . . agreeable.” There was a hint of a smile in her voice.

“May I assist in moving?”

“You may.”

That last syllable had barely left her mouth when he scooped her up in his arms, crossed the space with three long strides and just tossed her down on the bed. She bounced off the mattress with a squeal but had no chance to protest further. Éomer came down next to her, rolled half over her, pressing her with his weight into the bedding. He captured her wrists, pushing them upwards and lightly pinning them above her head. His gaze never left her eyes. Slowly he lowered his mouth, closing it over hers. His reward came quicker than he had expected after their last round of arguments. She returned his kiss with an ardour that surprised him. Her lips parted, inviting him to deepen their kiss. He didn’t need to be encouraged. With a smooth thrust of his tongue, he explored the sweetness of her mouth – and tasted honey and cider vinegar.

A soft little moan escaped her throat, and Éomer tightened his hold on her. She arched her back, pressing her breasts against the wall of his chest. Bema, he couldn’t resist her. How was he supposed to take this slowly? He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t think he could ever get enough of kissing her, touching her. In the back of his mind he made a necessary correction to a hitherto existing conviction. He hadn’t known anything about what wanting a woman really meant.

He let go of her wrists and let his hand slide along her arm down to her breast, cupping it. He nearly growled in frustration. There were too many layers of clothing between them.

Lothíriel had her arms wound around his neck; her fingers woven through his thick hair, the strands gathered in her fist. He felt a tug. She tried to get his attention. Bema grant him mercy! She couldn’t want them to stop. With quite some effort he tore his mouth away from hers, but denied her lips, it searched with a kind of will of its own for another target, moving lower to the curve of her throat.

“Éomer,” she panted with obvious difficulty. It appeared she still hadn’t mastered the art of kissing and breathing simultaneously. “Do we not have to do something about our clothes?”

He began laughing, relieved and happy, pressing his face against the crook of her neck. Talk about kindred spirits.

“What?”

He pushed himself up on his knees, looking down at her beautifully flushed face, her lips swollen from his kiss, her eyes large and dark.

“I am blessed. I am blessed with the most beautiful, desirable and imperturbably pragmatic wife.” Before she had the chance to respond he began to roll her playfully back and forth. “How do I get you out of this? Bema, what is this dress doing with all these lacings?”

Lothíriel giggled, a low, throaty sound that went straight to his groin. “Most of them are ornamental.” She squeaked lightly, when his fingers brushed her under her ribs. “Your pragmatic wife would like to make a suggestion.”

“I am all ears.”

“We will get a much quicker result if both of us undress separately.”

Éomer thought about that. “Very well.” He rolled off the bed and started to work on his belt.

“But first you have to assist me with my boots.” She lay flat on her back, lifting one leg.

Without a word he grasped her booted foot and gave it a yank, dragging his giggling wife down to the foot end of the bed. Her wide, split skirt rode up over her hips, unveiling her breeches. Whilst he pulled her boots off her feet, he regarded the leg clothing with a doubtful gaze.

“It is just as well that we are going to remove our own clothing. I have never had to peel breeches off another person.”

“I am a bit amazed,” Lothíriel commented absent-mindedly, hopping off the bed and beginning to loosen the side lacing of her dress. “I would have thought this kind of riding gown is quite common in Rohan.”

Éomer stared at her. Was she indicating that she expected him to have a wide experience of removing clothes from female bodies? But then she shrugged her gown from her shoulders and let it fall to her feet. Now she was only wearing her breeches and a thin blouse, showing him the only body he had any interest in. He just watched, indulging himself in this vision to behold of his wife shedding the last of her garments. She put them over the back of one of the armchairs and turned around.

“Éomer, you are still fully clothed,” she complained, not in the least shy that she was standing before him perfectly nude. An acute tug in the vicinity of his groin reminded him that he had better shed his attire without any more delay, or he might end up in bed with his wife, still half clad. He yanked off his boots and began to strip, not caring where he dropped any of his garments. 

Lothíriel had turned down the covers, climbed back onto the bed and begun to undo her braids.

Éomer pushed down his breeches and stepped out of them. He was about to walk over and join his wife in bed when he became aware that her hands had stopped unbraiding her hair. She sat there in the middle of their bed, gloriously naked, arms raised, fingers laced through her tresses, staring at his arousal. However, this time not intimidated but plain and simply . . . surprised. Now what? They had been here before but he thought that the matter had been closed the previous night.

“Lothíriel is something wrong?” he asked bemused.

“Wrong?” She looked up into his eyes. “Oh, no! Nothing is wrong.” Her gaze moved back to his groin and he saw a mischievous smile slowly taking over her features. “I think I have just figured out why everybody seemed so amused by my answer to the riddle and . . . on further reflection I think I was definitely mistaken in my conclusion.”

TBC