If we are expected to expect the unexpected,

does not the unexpected become the expected?

(Groucho Marx, 1895 - 1977)

Éomer woke later than usual. The sun was high in the sky when he opened his eyes. But then, it had been very late when they had gone to sleep. Lothíriel was still sleeping.

She was lying half over him: her breasts crushed against his chest; her legs tangled with his. Her hair flowed in a cascade down her back and over his shoulders, the dark mass concealing her face. He could feel her lips slightly open against his collarbone, the warmth of her breath moistening his skin. He carefully shifted her off him and down onto the sheets. He placed her head gently on the pillow and brushed aside the silky strands which had fallen over her face. He raised himself up on one elbow and then watched her as she lay there. Her skin was as smooth as honey and cream amidst the folds of the dark green quilt and he was tempted to touch her all over again. She looked like a dream. Some celestial spirit, he thought, a tender smile curving his lips. Her inner purity, her essence, had told him from the beginning, the very first night he met her: the healer was something special, someone unique. A woman not to be taken lightly.

A woman to whom a man could lose his heart.

The woman to whom he had lost his heart.

Warmth invaded his system again. No unearthly creature last night, but an enchantress, stirring him, beguiling him, mystifying him. He reached for her again, unable to withstand the temptation to touch. His fingertips feathered over her lips, traced the line of her jaw, went along her slender throat and down the delicate breastbone, brushing the curve of her breast.

Lothíriel opened her eyes slowly, her dark lashes blinking over silver-and-grey irises. At first she studied him with a misted confusion, then she smiled a soft, almost shy welcome.

She yawned and shifted, and the dusky crest of a nipple became visible. He groaned inwardly. By now it didn’t take much to want her again. The mere sight of her smile sent him plummeting into a downward swirl that gripped his heart and his loins in a painful vice.

She reached out and stroked his cheek, running her fingers slowly down his torso. She paused at his waist, drawing circles idly with her fingers. She sought his gaze. There was a shadow of hesitation in her eyes, a question, a warm flush to her skin that started just above her breast and coloured everything in its path, all the way to her cheeks. He bent forward, brushed his lips lightly across hers and then he began to deepen the kiss, making it last a long time, not rushing her. She edged towards him, her hand plunged lower and her slim fingers curved seductively around him. Spasms of desire stabbed him like white-hot arrows.

Definitely no divine creature.

“Lothíriel . . .”

He eased her onto her back and angled his body across hers, kissing her more intensely, tossing, with an impatient movement, the quilt down to the foot of the bed. Soon he forgot that there was a world beyond this chamber. All that mattered at that very moment was them: their kisses, their whispers and sighs, and their slick, entangled bodies.

And later, she smiled at him sweetly and yawned again. Then she curled up just like a kitten and slipped away into some forecourt of sleep.

Éomer gradually drifted back to full awareness. He took his time about it, savouring once again the feel of Lothíriel’s body snuggled alongside his own. Her head was cradled on his arm. She had one palm resting on his chest and one foot wedged intimately between his legs. He felt her flex her toes a few times as though she liked touching him that way. He wanted to stay like this all day.

But since when had his personal wishes been allowed to take preference? Outside this chamber there was the populated world, expecting them to make an appearance. Reluctantly, he turned towards his dozing wife.

“Lothíriel?”

She made some kind of grumbly noise, rubbing her nose against his shoulder. Finally, with a deep sigh, she raised her lashes.

“Do we have to get up?” she asked in a husky tone, her gaze on him hazy.

“I am afraid so.” He nestled her closer against him. There was something preying on his mind, but somehow he hadn’t got around to asking her about it last night. “Lothíriel, why were you dancing with Captain Éofor? You had been on the dance floor with Merry.”

“Hmm?” It appeared she hadn’t fully joined him in the waking state. She pressed her face into his shoulder and he felt her nipping at his collarbone. He kissed her on the top of the head.

“If you are hungry again then I had better call for Ælfgyth to bring us some food. I might yet be needed in my entirety.”

He felt her smile against his skin – and then a sharp little bite.

“Ow!” He caught her chin between three fingers and compelled her to look up to him. “Mistress Healer, do I have to remind you that you are not supposed to inflict wounds?”

She flipped onto her back and gave a leisurely stretch. “I do, too,” she informed him.

“You do, too . . . what?”

“I do like touching you.”

A warm, heavy, very bright sensation drifted through him, travelling down his midsection to an area . . . He quickly rolled out of bed before he could act on it and as a distraction – a very meagre one - he began picking up his clothes, which he had left widespread all over the floor the previous night. Lothíriel propped herself up on her elbows, watching him, her bewilderment showing clearly on her beautiful features. Straightening, he grinned at her, keeping his garments in front of him.

“My sweet, just hold the thought and tell me again tonight. Or even better, show me tonight, but for now . . . I have to keep some distance.”

Her expression transformed into a satisfied smile, but then she announced with her usual sober disposition, “I am in need of my robe.” 

That was, no doubt, a request to him to fetch the garment from the Queen’s Chamber. Éomer dumped the clothes he had already retrieved unceremoniously on an armchair – Ælfgyth would take care of them later. He reached for his own robe which was hanging from the screen shielding the washing facilities. Whilst he slipped into it, he inspected the floor. The soaked rugs and skins from the previous morning had been replaced. From now on he would pay more attention to the amount of water that had been put into any bathtub he intended to share with his wife. Otherwise the housekeeper of Meduseld might run out of floor coverings.

He tied his belt and returned to the side of the bed, sitting down. Lothíriel had retrieved the quilt and tucked it around her body.

“To come back to my earlier question,” he began, noticing with amusement the tiny frown appearing between her eyebrows whilst she looked at him attentively. “Why were you dancing with Captain Éofor?”

“Oh, that question.” Lothíriel sat up, drew her legs up to her breast and wrapped her arms around her knees. “The Captain suggested that we – that is Merry and I and the Captain and his lady – swapped partners for the upcoming dance, because it was going to be a rather fast and complicated one. He held the view that it would be easier for Merry and me if we each danced with a partner who knew the music and the steps.”

The devious bastard. However, Éomer didn’t get the chance to voice his opinion, because his wife went on contemplatively.

“I know that the Captain is a reputable member of your Guard, but if you do not mind me saying so, I – personally – feel he is pretty full of himself.”

That remark made Éomer’s mouth curve very slightly in satisfaction. One should have trust in Lothíriel to sense the obvious.

“In what way do you think he is too full of himself?”

“He is by far not the good dancer he believes himself to be.”

Indeed, one could trust Lothíriel to sense the obvious without always catching its relevance.

“He is a bad dancer?”

“He certainly is. He twice stepped on my foot – I was truly glad that I was wearing boots, although I had never dreamed that I would one day dance in a riding habit – and he was so clumsy that he  constantly bumped into me.”

“He was clumsy and bumped into you?” Éomer rubbed a hand over his face and covered his mouth for a short moment to disguise his smile. He wasn’t quite sure if he felt only amused or even slightly at a loss. “Well, I suppose that is one possible appraisal of Captain Éofor’s behaviour,” he said, eyeing her with a sidelong glance.

She tilted her head, studying him. “And what would be the other?” She looked slightly confused.

“That he took advantage of a situation he had deliberately set out to bring about.”

After this explanation his wife looked even more mystified, if that was possible. She opened her mouth and then closed it abruptly, obviously feeling the need to reconsider whatever she had been about to say.

“What situation did the Captain bring about and what sort of advantage did he take?” she asked after some contemplation. “I was certainly there but it appears I failed to take notice.”

Éomer groaned inwardly, for a moment tempted to placate her and change the subject. But that would be patronizing and presumptuous. Hadn’t Lothíriel proven just last night that, though she might be still inexperienced and perhaps even naïve, she had a very capable brain which came quite quickly to the right conclusion once she had all the facts before her?

“Lothíriel, I have been wondering since last night what led Éofor to behave the way he did, and I think it must have been some kind of bet.” He nearly smiled at her expression, which was curious and bemused in equal measures. “The riddle he asked and so very obligingly presented in Westron, should have never been uttered in the company of a lady. It was the kind of crude one that the riders use to entertain each other whilst on patrol.”

“Oh, I understand. What cheek!” Lothíriel declared indignantly. “That is why suddenly everybody looked so disconcerted. I was wondering about it, but at that moment I was so certain I had got the answer right. It only dawned on me later when I saw you . . .” Her lips twitched and, punctuating her words with a wave of her hand, she vaguely indicated the vicinity of his groin.

“I think an onion was, at any rate, a convincing conclusion,” Éomer remarked in feigned seriousness.

His wife managed to adapt herself to this pretended countenance, although her neck was noticeably quivering with the exertion of keeping a giggle inside. However, she quickly gathered herself for one of her direct questions. “If it is considered impolite to present that kind of riddle in female company . . .”

Éomer interrupted her.  “You can also call it boorish or loutish or rude.”

“How about vulgar?” she suggested with a hint of rarely displayed irony.

He grinned, poking her shoulder gently with his forefinger. “It was you who said proper diction is important,” he reminded her. Lothíriel caught his hand in hers.

“Why did he do it? It is beyond all reason.”

It was not easy to come up with simple answers to a complex question. “I can only guess, but I suppose to prove to his comrades-in-arms that he accepts a dare; that he dares to reach for what is strictly out of reach.” Éomer shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid I do not have a better explanation.”

Lothíriel nodded slowly. “What an idiot,” she stated, still looking faintly non- comprehending.

Her husband choked out a laugh. “I could not have put it any better.”

“He must have realised that you would not be pleased, even though I did not fall for his bait simply because I did not understand it then.” She reached for him, resting her palm against his cheek and tracing his eyebrow with the tip of her thumb. “You were angry. I saw it in your eyes. Why would he risk making his King angry?”

“Because he is stupid? Because he is a man,” Éomer admitted in pretended reluctance.

Amusement gleamed in her eyes. “Now, that is an explanation I like.” She pushed the strands of his tangled hair behind his ears. “However, that is not all.”

He gave her a wry look. “Basically that is all. He is a man and you are a very beautiful woman and what’s more, your beauty is one that the men of the Mark are not used to. It is unfamiliar to them and that makes it even more alluring and – as it appears for some - yielding to its lure more tempting.”

Lothíriel stared at him, nonplussed and he could see her cheeks warming. “But I am a wedded woman now. His King’s wife.”

“His Queen,” Éomer reminded her. “And my Captain needs to understand exactly what that bears for him. Once, not that long ago, I was a rider like him. We were equals. But then, in quick succession, I became a captain, his Marshal and now his King. However, it appears Éofor finds it difficult to leave the rider behind. I do not have a problem with such lack of distance as long as it concerns only me, but I will not accept that he treats his Queen other than with utmost respect.”

“What do you intend to do to him?” There was a certain suspicion in her voice. He felt quite relieved that he could put her at ease without actually lying.

“I will not do anything to the Captain, except have a word with him . . . at some time . . . later,” he assured her. Her sceptical frown lessened but did not disappear entirely. “What do you expect me to do? Pummel him?” he asked, striking a light tone. After all, he was perfectly aware that his wife was not in favour of resorting to force. “That would be hardly befitting for a king, would it not?” Éomer tilted her chin with his forefinger and kissed the tip of her nose. “I will get your robe.”

And he had to get out of here unnoticed and without provoking his wife’s distrust so he could find out what that pair of fearsome brothers of hers had done to the Captain of his Guard.

Not that he felt appeased towards the man. He was quite certain, after having given the affair some thought, that the sole purpose of Éofor’s impertinent behaviour had been nothing but to give himself airs before his fellow riders. He considered himself a formidable squire of women, one who could get any female - maiden or matron alike – flustered. When they had ridden together under Elfhelm’s command, there had been some sort of constant competition going on between them. It enveloped their horsemanship, their skills with the sword and spear and their fortune with the opposite gender. For Éofor everything had come down to a challenge and more often than not he, Éomer, had accepted it. At least as long he had been a young rider without any noted responsibility or obligation. The best he could claim for himself was that he had never philandered with women. However, he had seldom refused an offer either. The best he could say about Éofor in this regard was that the man was a fair loser. That should become quite convenient for him, because he was going to lose more than the self-assured grin that he had worn last night.

In the Queen’s Chamber he came across Lothíriel’s handmaiden. Winfrith greeted him with a curtsy.

“My Lady Queen is awake?” she inquired.

“She is, and she asks for her robe.”

The young woman quickly retrieved the garment and handed it to him. “I had hot water brought from the kitchen house. So if my Lady wishes to take a bath, I can have it ready without delay.”

“I am certain the Queen will appreciate that.”

And the handmaiden had not only everything set up for a bath but also had kept her queen’s nutrition in mind. Éomer discovered a tray with a mug of buttermilk, sweet bread and apple butter.

This was turning out quite well. Whilst Lothíriel took a bath and got dressed he would set out to find Erchirion and Amrothos and demand a detailed report about just how inventive they had been in their quest to teach a lesson to the man who had dared to pester their sister. His experience with Éowyn had taught him that even women who usually displayed a rather practical approach to every-day-life needed some time to get into their clothes. He had no ambition to be held responsible by Lothíriel for any bodily harm that might have been inflicted upon Éofor. At least not as long as he actually hadn’t lent a hand with it in person.

In the King’s Chamber he was welcomed back by the pleasant view of his wife’s bare and shapely bottom. Lothíriel was picking up a few pieces of clothing that were still scattered on the floor.

“Winfrith has a bath prepared for you,” he informed her, holding up her robe so she could slip into it. After she had put her arms into the sleeves he circled her waist from behind and tied the sash into a bow.

“Éomer, is it very much trouble for the servants to heat the water and carry it all the way to my chamber?”

“What do you mean by much trouble?” He slid his hand under her hair and pulled it out of the collar of her robe so it could fall down her back.

Lothíriel turned to face him. “We are here in the western corner tower of Meduseld. The kitchen house is diagonally opposite from here on the eastern corner. With all the guests around I assume the domestics are very busy.”

His hands curved around her shoulders and he pulled her closer, dropping a brief kiss on her forehead. “No matter how busy they might be, heating the water to prepare a bath for their Queen will always be given priority.” His mouth twisted into a self-conscious, remorseful sort of grin. “And we have many more servants around the Golden Hall than we actually need. So none are likely to get overexerted even during such busy days as these.”

Lothíriel pulled the lapels of her robe properly together, much to her husband’s regret. “Is there a specific reason why more servants are employed in Meduseld at the moment than is common?”

There was indeed a reason. It was a complex and complicated matter and he had to admit that so far he had dodged giving it the necessary attention. However, now that he let drop the remark, it was rather unlikely that Lothíriel would leave the subject alone and just go and take a bath.

“In a way the servants of ðe cynelice hlafætan, the royal household, are just another casualty of the war. Traditionally the family members of the riders of the Royal Guard provide the servants of the Golden Hall. My uncle’s guard perished on the Pelennor and when I came to the title my own riders undertook that duty. But I couldn’t send away the widows of the men who had died defending their king. What is more, the last winter was hard enough on us anyway and those women and their children had no provider. Where could they have gone?”

“So you kept them in service around the Hall and also engaged the family members of the new guards?”

“It is not as if we doubled the number of servants. My riders are still rather young men and only a few already have a wife and children.”

“But when they wed they can rightfully expect their spouses to come by a position in the royal household,” Lothíriel conjectured quite correctly.

“That is not the only problem. We are already short of housing. The dwellings at the foot of the Golden Hall, on the right-hand-side behind the Armoury, are supposed to accommodate the riders of the Guard and their families. Some of the widowed women moved in together to clear a space for the families of my riders. The unwed men squat in a dozen single room stone houses Gimli helped us to construct downhill close to the stables, just behind the city wall. But that can only be a temporary solution.”

He didn’t mention that these houses had only been finished recently and that most of his riders had bedded down in the Great Hall all winter. Not that they minded very much. They had camped in worse places. Inside the walls of Meduseld it had been warm, and they had been able to enjoy the companionship of each other – Ælfgyth had drawn a line at disreputable female company – but they had been supplied generously with food and ale.

“So what do you intend to do about it?” The question didn’t surprise him. Lothíriel’s way of thinking, after all, was very straight and focused.

“I do not know yet,” Éomer admitted ruefully. “Quite frankly, I have not paid much attention to it. I had other matters to consider, ones which seemed more urgent at the time.”

“Would you mind if I took care of the problem?”

He had to admit, this was a proposal he hadn’t expected. “No, certainly not,” Éomer replied, slightly hesitatingly. To put it mildly, he felt taken by surprise. “What do you intend to do?” he asked, perplexity colouring his voice.

“I do not know yet. First I have to acquaint myself with all circumstances. However, there is an answer for every problem,” she informed him in a perfectly convinced tone and then added, in all casualness, “I will inform you when I come up with one.”

Éomer stared at her, for the moment at a loss of words. In the back of his mind an amused voice whispered, ‘Never underestimate Lothíriel of Dol Amroth’. ‘Lothíriel of Rohan’, he corrected that voice silently. He rubbed the back of his neck. Since when had he begun soliloquising?

“I am certain you will – I mean, come up with a solution.” Looking at her expression he couldn’t prevent the corners of his mouth from quirking fleetingly into a grin. She appeared to be absolutely confident about what she had just said: that for every problem there was the right answer and that she would find the appropriate one. It didn’t enter her mind that she might fail. Such an attitude was undoubtedly the basic requirement for success in general: exclude failure from your considerations in the first place.

She took his silence to indicate that the subject had been closed for the time being. “Very well, I will take my bath now and prepare for the day. As far as I remember the plan to entertain everybody with some swordplay has not been changed.” She stepped around him, and whilst she walked over to the door leading to her chamber, she mused aloud,  “I think it is time for me to find out where my healer’s equipment had been stored. It might become necessary to have some at hand.”

The bloody ‘behourd’. He had forgotten all about it. Quite a few things had slipped his mind since he had become a wedded man.

Lothíriel came to a halt at the door. Her hand on the latch, she turned towards him. “You are not going to keep me company?” she asked, her tone unmistakably inviting. She had twisted her body around just from her waist, letting it curve into a very interesting and seductive line, and Éomer had to firmly quash the desire to give into the temptation and join her. But for once his urge – heightened by suspicion – to find out what her brothers were up to proved to be – marginally - stronger than the allure of his wife. Besides, tonight she would be back in his bed.

“I am afraid the bathtub in the Queen’s Chamber is definitely too small for both of us.” At any other time he would have considered that to be a lame excuse.

Lothíriel appeared only mildly disconcerted and if he was not mistaken then the look in her eyes meant something along the line of ‘your loss’. Éomer remained where he was for a moment after his wife had deserted the chamber, regarding the door reflectively and wondering how their married life would evolve when its mundane side took over. But somehow he couldn’t imagine life with Lothíriel ever becoming banal. Not in a hundred years.

None of Imrahil’s offspring knew how to be ordinary . . . which reminded him of his new brothers. He allowed himself an audible groan with just a sprinkle of self-loathing. What had come over him to give them his approval to deal with Éofor? Erchirion gave the impression of being quite level headed, but he had confessed himself that there were not to be denied similarities between him and Amrothos. And it was an established fact that the Dol Amroth family – including Imrahil and Lothíriel – had a perception of the world that was undeniably different from any other person Éomer had ever encountered.

He quickly washed, not bothering to call for hot water. He could do quite well with the cold from the large pitcher that had been left on the washstand at some time the previous day. Contrary to what Lothíriel had once accused him of, he liked to indulge himself in a big tub with hot water, but if it had to be, he would make do with the icy floods of a creek. He was used to dressing in a hurry and though he strongly refused to have a valet who would just make a fuss over him, he could depend on Ælfgyth to ensure that his clothes were taken care of and stored in places where a man was actually able to find them.

Thanks to long years of practice Éomer emerged from his chamber probably around the same time Lothíriel had just made in into her bathtub. This would give him the opportunity to deal with whatever mischief – or perhaps he should better think in terms of havoc - the Princes might have done since he had last seen them and to grab a bite to eat. His stomach had just announced, with a low grumble, that it would appreciate some sustenance.

Unlike the previous morning, he found that the Great Hall was a hive of activity. All the wedding guests of honour had gathered at the top table on the dais, only the two seats in the centre were left vacant for the Lord and the Lady of the Hall.

When Éomer stepped through the doorway leading onto the dais, he found Erchirion and Amrothos directly before him, sitting at the end of the top table over some mead and in conversation with Erkenbrand’s two younger sons. The eldest, Erkenwald, had lost his life during the battle for Helm’s Deep.

The two Princes of Dol Amroth gave the impression that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. So far everything appeared to be quite normal and that in itself made Éomer highly suspicious. Normal and  - at least – Amrothos of Dol Amroth in the same sentence simply didn’t fit together. Erchirion looked up and just nodded a noncommittal greeting but it attracted his younger brother’s attention and caused him to bestow a toothy grin upon Rohan’s King. Amrothos’s facial antic reminded the latter unfavourably of the snarling whelp of a warg, and it was then that Éomer knew that this day was going to hold one of those surprises he could do very well without. He needed to have a word with this pair in private.

Whilst he made his way to his seat, he let his eyes roam over the crowd which filled the hall, his attention being drawn by a group of riders, easily to be identified by their surcoats as his guard. Amongst them he spotted Éofor, healthy, of good cheer and his usual boastful self.

Nothing had happen to him. Nobody had taken care of him.  What was going on?

TBC