You have to see the beauty, the extraordinary, the unimaginable

in the unexpected.

(Karoline von Günderrode, 1780 - 1806)

Lothíriel found herself staring blindly at the door of the Queen’s bedchamber, which had just closed behind her handmaiden, after Winfrith had wished her a pleasant night.

A pleasant night? That remained to be seen.

She had an inkling that this night was going to be a lot of things, but not necessarily of the pleasant kind.

Éomer had been furious ever since he had charged into Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’, which was – as she understood now - not an ordinary drinking house. He had tried to conceal his anger but – as her father once had said – the King of Rohan was rather unable to pretend. He had been – amazingly enough – fuming quietly, but highly visibly. It had almost surprised her that that no steam had escaped from any orifices of his body.

Everybody had easily been able to detect his foul mood, but had appeared to be rather unconcerned about it. After all, their king’s anger had been primarily directed towards their queen, so they had nothing more to fear than the occasional snarling.

Since he had dragged her uphill and left her in the middle of the Great Hall with the order to stay at Meduseld for the rest of the day – which she had done because that had been her own plan anyway; after all, she had to take care of Amrothos and still intended to meet Mistress Ælfgyth and Lady Cynewyn – they hadn’t exchanged a single word. Not even during the evening meal, when she had been seated next to him at the high table. Not that he had ignored her. His glares spoke volumes. Lothíriel had rather received the impression that he didn’t trust his self-imposed restraint. He didn’t want to yell at her in the presence of others. Rather considerate on his part. He was simply waiting until they were in private. Then he would have plenty to say – or shout.

That was perfectly fine with her, because she had quite a few things to settle with her husband on her part.

Lothíriel shivered, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. She looked down her front with a sigh, wondering if Winfrith had picked out this short-sleeved, flimsy chemise with its low-cut neckline with an ulterior motive. If so, her handmaiden had just cast a pearl before swine. She had her doubts that Éomer was in the mood tonight to be distracted by so obviously flaunted charms. And besides, she was cold.

“Where is my robe?” she murmured.

The answer was the noise of the door to the King’s chamber: first it was flung open and then slammed shut.

Éomer had retired for the night.

She had made only a single step towards the door connecting their chambers when it was pushed open so forcefully that it bounced against the wall. No wonder all the hinges in the Golden Hall were heavily made of bronze. They had to withstand the famous temper of the House of Eorl.

“What are you doing in here?” the - for the time being, anyway - last male descendant of Eorl barked.

“This is my bedchamber,” his wife reminded him.

“Come in here,” he growled, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder.

“If I comply, do I get a pat and an apple?”

“Lothíriel.”

He allowed his voice to become very mild. Those who knew him well generally ran for cover when he used that particular tone. Lothíriel pretended not to be overly impressed by the threatening undertone and, as she had intended to meet him in the King’s chamber anyway, she obliged him. Éomer followed her so closely that she could feel his hot breath against the back of her head.

“Sit!” he ordered, stabbing his finger toward an armchair.

“I would rather stand, if you do not mind.”

“Sit!”

She sat. It seemed a foolish battle to pick, when the larger war was clearly looming in the near future. For a moment he did nothing but stare at her, and she actually wished he would just open his mouth and yell. Anything would be better than this silent stare. The light in the chamber was just strong enough to illuminate the gold in his eyes, and she felt pierced to the quick by his gaze.

“My Lord?” she finally said, determined to break the silence.

That seemed to spark him. “Do you have any idea what mischief you have caused today?” he demanded.

Lothíriel made no immediate reply. She didn’t think he really wanted an answer. And she was proved correct not three heartbeats later, when he continued.

“In the space of one meagre day you have managed to embarrass my standard-bearer by descending upon him while he was in his underclothing, . . .”

“How could I expect a man to sit outside his quarters wearing only his braises and chausses?” Lothíriel interrupted, but Éomer chose to ignore her – justifiable - protest.

“Furthermore, you paid a visit to an unwedded man in his living quarters, and even found a lame excuse to send a third party away so that you could have some private time with him . . .”

“Who told you that?” she asked annoyed, but her interjection was again disregarded.

“. . . a conduct I can neither comprehend nor approve of, particularly after I had warned you about that man only the other day.”

“I did not take what you told me about Captain Éofor as a warning.”

Éomer didn’t reply, but there was a clear threat in his thunderous glare, making it quite plain that it would be much better for her if she refrained from saying anything else before he had finished. Lothíriel sighed and decided to concede for the time being.

“And while he was accompanying you to a part of the city you should never had gone to in the first place,” her husband continued, the terrible even tone of his voice suggesting that he was trying very hard to keep his temper in check, “Amrothos broke his leg. Meaning: he will not be able to travel. Meaning: he will not be able to leave Rohan for the foreseeable future.” He took a deep, a very deep breath. “And on top of everything you had him taken to Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’, a place any woman of reputation should give a wide berth.”

“How was I supposed to know that there are any ill-reputed quarters in Edoras?” Lothíriel blurted out, forgetting that she’d meant to remain silent. Éomer was truly behaving unjustly. It was certainly not her fault that Amrothos had broken his leg. “And how was I supposed to know that there is a brothel around?”

“What do you know about brothels?” he demanded, his sharp mask of control beginning to crack.

“There is one in Minas Tirith. On the second level. Next to the rat catcher’s cottage,” she added for clarification, although it was rather unlikely that Éomer had any knowledge of where the official vermin exterminator of the White City resided.

“And how do you know so precisely where that establishment is located?” It was hard to read his expression.

“According to the law of the city, the women who inhabit that establishment have to be given regular physical examinations.”

“What?” He raked his hand through his hair, and then fixed a hard stare on his wife’s face. “Are you saying you had to examine those women?” Lothíriel opened her mouth, but didn’t get the chance to answer his question because he fired off another one. “Does Imrahil know that?”

Lothíriel caught herself sighing again. She remembered quite well that a major topic of her and Éomer’s earliest acquaintance had been the question of how much her father knew about her various activities – or her dealings with a certain warrior from Rohan.

“There is nothing for my father to know, because the Warden would have never let me close to such a place of ill fame.”

“That Warden,” Éomer retorted, “is clearly a man of impeccable wisdom and sense.”

His queen slanted him a sceptical glance. She was quite certain that up until this very moment he had never wasted a thought – favourably or otherwise - on the Warden of the Houses of Healing.

“Be that as it may,” she hurried to keep pressing her point, “as I have never been to that place – I do not even think I have ever been to the second level of the White City except on my way through to the Great Gates – I had no idea what a brothel looks like. Therefore, I thought the house that we took Amrothos to was an ordinary - albeit shabby - drinking house. I have never been to a drinking house before, either. Of course, I might have been able to recognize that house for what it is, had you told me that there is a brothel in Edoras.”

“Lothíriel,” he cut her off in a clipped, impatient voice. “First of all, I did not see the necessity to acquaint you within the first sennight of your residence in Rohan with its seedier places. And secondly, Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’ is not a brothel – at least not exactly.”

At this Lothíriel frowned at him, slightly confused. “If it is not exactly a brothel, what exactly is it?”

Judging from his expression Éomer would have preferred to change the subject. “I have my doubts that you actually know what a brothel is,” he replied evasively. “Bema, I do not think I have used that word in my entire life up till now as often as I have used it already this evening,” he muttered, more to himself.

“You have used it only three times so far,” his queen pointed out and was rewarded with a scowl, but he remained silent. Therefore, Lothíriel assumed that he expected her to give a summary of what her knowledge of this subject was. “But of course I understand what a brothel is. It is a facility considered to be a necessity, a sort of lesser evil. It is generally accepted that men will seek out carnal relations regardless of their options, and thus the women working in such places serve to protect respectable women from seduction and – if the worst comes to worst – even from force.” Her frown deepened. She was quite sure that this was the first time ever that Éomer stared at her open-mouthed, but she felt she had to bring this particular train of thought to an end before she asked him why he looked so perfectly dumbfounded. “I suppose for the women in the brothels such activity is primarily directed towards the earning of a living, rather than the gratification of carnal desires.”

Éomer slumped down in one of the chairs in front of the hearth and rubbed both hands over his face. He gazed at her through his spread fingers so she couldn’t really read his expression.

“Listening to you, one could come to the conclusion that you do not condemn those sorts of women.”

“Why should I?” She leant back in her chair. “I doubt that they would have chosen that kind of life had they been given a choice. And I have never understood why the women are so much despised, but not the men who seek them out because they are unable to maintain a grip on their urges.”

Éomer gave a chuckle, half resigned, half unnerved. “Is there anything in this world you are unconcerned about? Anything that does not set you thinking?”

Lothíriel found herself shaking her head. “It is not that I search for particular topics, but when I come across something, of course I begin to think about it. I consider that to be quite natural.”

“You are certainly aware that respectable women – such as you - are not supposed to think about . . .” he hesitated, obviously looking for the right, non-offensive term before he continued, “. . . harlots.”

“You cannot prohibit somebody from thinking,” she contradicted him. “Respectable women – such as I – are just not supposed to discuss harlots or admit that they have knowledge of their existence.”

“And why are we going into the subject right now in such detail?” Éomer asked, probably wishing that he hadn’t mentioned Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’ in the first place.

“You are my husband,” Lothíriel stated matter-of-factly. “There is nothing a husband and wife should not be able to discuss.” She tilted her head, gazing at him quite earnestly, “Would you not agree?”

“I have a feeling that I am going to regret it immediately if I do so.”

She chose to ignore his sarcasm. “To come back to the initial question: what is Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’ if not a proper brothel?”

“Is there something like a proper brothel?” Éomer countered, apparently still determined to evade answering.

“Quibbling.” Lothíriel gave an elegant shrug with her shoulders and then raised her eyebrows inquiringly to indicate that she was waiting for his explanation. Her husband shook his head in surrender. A strand of his hair got caught in his lashes and he pushed it out of his face with an impatient sweep of his hand.

“A brothel,” he began, speaking excessively clearly, “is a place where one seeks first and foremost – to borrow from your terminology – carnal gratification. At Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’ the riders congregate together in their spare time to enjoy a decent brew and some company. When the opportunity arises and the parties involved reach a mutual agreement, they can retire to one of the back chambers.”

“I see,” Lothíriel nodded.

“I sincerely hope not.”

“Have you ever been to . . . ?”

It was a perfectly impartial question but she wasn’t given the chance to word it completely before she got interrupted. Éomer acted as if his chair had bitten into his behind. He came out of it like the bolt off a crossbow.

“Lothíriel!”

There was as much indignation as warning in her name. She really hadn’t expected him to be so touchy. And besides, he had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

“I did not mean if you have been to the back chambers . . .”

“How indiscreet a question is that?” Éomer prematurely interrupted again. He had begun to tear at the lacings of his amber coloured tunic – a colour that suited him quite well – so vigorously, that his wife feared he was going to rip them off.

“Questions are never indiscreet; answers sometimes are.” She got up and went to him. Pushing his hands aside, she set about undoing the tight knots he had caused. “I just meant to ask if you went there with the other riders to drink,” Lothíriel finished her exposition, completely oblivious to the next thunderstorm that was brewing in her husband.

“I was eleven years of age when I came to live in Edoras,” he pointed out, having obviously to force himself to stand still. “I left it shortly after my sixteenth birthday. I was sent back to the Eastfold and entrusted into Elfhelm’s care for training.”

With her slim, nimble fingers Lothíriel had managed to disentangle the first knot. She moved around her husband to work on the other side fastening of his tunic.

“But you came to Edoras now and then.”

“You are simply unable to let go once you have sunk your sharp little teeth into something.” It was not a question but a conclusion. And if the tone of his voice was an indicator then his mood was just about to shift from bad to foul.

Lothíriel looked up at him through her lashes. His jaw was set rather tightly and she wondered if it would be wise to point out that he was in danger of grinding his teeth into powder.

She had vanquished the second knot and loosened the lace fastening. As if not trusting himself, Éomer took a step back from her and, grabbing the tunic with both hands at its collar, he yanked it over his head. His wife could hear the tearing of the fabric. She followed the garment with her eyes as it was thrown across the room towards a chest, which it missed and fluttered to the floor. Caring for his clothes could become one of those small, constant challenges in life.

Now that Éomer had emerged from his tunic, he slanted her another irritable glance. Lothíriel just lifted her eyebrows once more in a wordless but unambiguous question. It was not so much that she desperately wanted to know about his exploits at a place that wasn’t exactly a brothel. But she was not willing to accept that Éomer chose, as he saw best, which of her questions he was going to answer and which not. If she gave in now, then soon he would choose the topics of their conversations.

He dropped back down onto his chair and began to attack his riding boots. His wife was quite relieved. It was unlikely that he would cause much damage to them. They were exceedingly sturdily made. The first boot hit the floor, the next followed, ending up separated from its companion by a good four feet.

“Yes,” he growled rather unexpectedly, making that one single syllable sound as if it had been pulled from him with red-hot tongs. “I have been to Brictwen’s bloody ‘drenchūs’,” he admitted. “To drink!” he added, placing as much emphasis as possible on those last two words. “But not since I became a Marshal of the Mark.”

She must have been wrong in her assumption that the difference in ranks was not as pronounced in Rohan as it was in Gondor. Obviously the higher ranks of the fighting-force of Rohan were not supposed to fraternise with the common riders. Of course, it could undermine the authority of a commander if he regularly got involved in drinking bouts with his subordinates. It was certainly not easy to accept the authority of somebody one had experienced being in drunken stupor.

Something else flashed up in the back of her mind and prevented her from following this train of thought further. Without thinking twice she asked, “If you went to Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’ only to drink, where did you go to . . . ?”

“Lothíriel!” he nearly roared.

That must have been heard, if not in the Great Hall, than at least in the other bedchambers where her father and King Elessar had been accommodated during their stay. He looked at her as though she had just turned into some salivating beast before his very eyes.

“I cannot believe you are asking me this.”

“I cannot believe you are so sensitive about this matter,” she retorted with imperturbable calmness.

“A bit more sensitivity would be very becoming for the Queen of the Riddermark.” He had managed to subdue the volume of his voice, but his tone stayed tart.

“In public, in my role as the Queen of the Riddermark, I would never dream of mentioning something like this,” Lothíriel explained, astounded that she needed to set that right. “I thought, however, that when we are in private, as your wife, I could address anything of relevance.”

“Those kinds of intimate details are of no relevance to you.”

Remembering Amrothos’s words from that morning, she made haste to correct the assumption that she wanted to learn that sort of thing. “I really did not wish to go into details. I was asking for something more universally valid.”

Éomer stared at her in stony silence for a moment. Then he shook his head as if he needed to clear his senses and pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead.

“How did we end up on this unseemly topic?” he muttered, soliloquising.

“Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’?” Lothíriel offered helpfully but the cue wasn’t appreciated. Her husband glared at her, thunder in his eyes.

“Indeed,” he snapped. “Where you wouldn’t have ended up in the first place, had you not gone to pay the Captain of my guard a private visit.”

“I felt it was my responsibility to inquire after his state of health after my brother – with the knowledge and, very likely, the approval of my husband – had done serious damage to his sword hand.” She wondered how many more times she had to say her little piece – and have it dismissed. Éomer looked even less impressed by her reasoning than Amrothos had.

“That man’s injury was nothing to speak of. He was defeated in fair single combat and certainly does not need to be nursed back to health by his queen.”

“At least I could rid him of that oversized splint I found him wearing. It had disabled his entire right arm. With the stiff bandage I fitted, he will be able to attend to some of the duties of the Royal Guard.”

“Ah, that reminds me,” Éomer remarked, suddenly sounding awfully complacent. “When I earlier specified your deeds for the day, I did not get around to mentioning that you managed to offend the sensibilities of your fellow healers.”

Lothíriel met this assertion with patent disbelief. “Granted, Master Ærwin was quite insistent upon treating Amrothos. But he must have certainly understood that I wished to take care of my own brother. And besides,” she added, “I requested him explicitly to lend me a helping hand in applying the stiff bandage to Amrothos’s leg. He appeared not to be convinced about this method of setting a broken bone and I hoped observing me would persuade him to consider using it in the future.”

Éomer gave an unflattering snort. “You have certainly not persuaded him to change his opinion by removing his splint from Éofor’s arm and therewith belittling his skills.”

“I would never malign a fellow healer,” Lothíriel retorted, aghast at this accusation. “The Captain asked me to provide a more adequate brace for his hand.”

“And how could he have known about such a thing?” her husband demanded curtly, beginning to fumble with the laces of his shirt collar.

“I pointed it out to him.”

“Which you should not have done.” He got up from the chair, stepping closer, hovering over her in an intimidating manner. “You should not have sought him out on your own, and certainly not in his quarters, in the first place. This nothingness of an injury was of no concern to you.”

Lothíriel had sincerely hoped that Éomer’s temperamental fit had begun to wear off, but any word she spoke, seemed to add fuel to the flames of his outrage, causing them to flare up again. She didn’t feel as if she had done anything wrong – at least not basically. And she was fed up being forced into the defensive.

“First and foremost, I sought Captain Éofor out with the intention of reprehending him regarding his behaviour towards me. His behaviour towards me,” she repeated with emphasis when Éomer made a move to interrupt her. She doubted that she could keep up with him in a shouting contest, but if she had to get loud to make her point, she would give her vocal best. “He tried to put me on the spot. He intended to boast of his maleness by trifling with me. Therefore it is my right to reprimand him as I see fit.”

“Wrong,” Éomer bellowed. “I am your husband. I have taken a solemn vow to protect and to shield you . . .”

“You are cordially invited to save me from marauding wargs or any other threats of the physical kind.” His expression told her he didn’t find her quip particularly amusing. “However, I will not permit you to decide over my head, how to settle any matters concerning me.”

“You will not permit?” he echoed.

She had seen this stare of pure incredulity once before - when she had dealt him a blow on his wound to convince him to let her treat it and subsequently barring his way. This warrior was still not used to having his way blocked. But she, Lothíriel, was not used to being passed over.

“Indeed,” she confirmed pleasantly. “You will not keep anything from me that pertains to my person, be it as your wife or as the Queen of the Riddermark. I am willing to discuss everything with you and to seek your advice. And of course, I will always take the reasons of state into consideration, but it will be me in the end who decides how my affairs are to be dealt with.”

The skin around Éomer’s mouth had whitened with the convulsive tightening of his jaw. There was no doubt that he was really angry. Lothíriel wondered if anybody had ever told him that with the change of his mood the colour of his eyes turned to blazing amber.

“Lothíriel . . .”

Anybody else might have faltered under his fierce glare and the iced fury in his voice. Lothíriel held out against it, unaware of her own expression of severe determination. She brought up her hand to wave him quiet.

“Before you reply, my Lord, you should perhaps remember your own words - that as your wife I will be allowed to make my own decisions. You said you might not always agree with them, but you promised that you would respect them.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “That was less than a sennight ago.”

With a muscle jumping in his cheek, Éomer kept staring at her. Slowly his features began to relax, gentling his expression. And then, unexpectedly, he laughed. It was a sound she had never before heard from him, something between a low growl and a gruff purr.

“I should have known that you are going to be a tough nut to crack, my sweet.” He made this term of endearment sound not exactly endearing. “Your father predicted that in all probability, you would be the last one standing in any argument. That your delicate looks are just camouflage.”

“Who says that I am the nut in need of being cracked?” she challenged, crossing her arms tighter in front of her and pushing her bosom unintentionally upwards to the low cut neckline of her chemise.

Éomer’s eyes dropped for an instant to that area below her neck before returning to her face. The corner of his mouth twitched as if he was fighting a grin.

“You do enjoy this, do you not? Trading puns; arguing?”

“I do not enjoy fighting with you.”

“But you are not willing to back down - just for the sake of peace and quiet?”

“Of course not,” she said without thinking twice but then conceded, “At least not as long as my argument is sound.”

This time he broke out in a full laugh that made Lothíriel sigh. Not just in relief, but mostly because once again one of his unpredictable mood changes had happened. Only moments ago he had appeared to be giving serious consideration to throttling her. And now his shoulders were shaking with laughter. But then, Éomer without his shifts of temper just wasn’t Éomer, was he?

“Bema, Lothíriel! What am I going to do with you?” He speared his hand through his hair, and he seemed to look all around the room in order to gather himself and control his features.

“What did you intend doing with me when you stormed into this chamber earlier?”

Dangerous question, even more dangerous answer.

His gaze raked over her body. A slow smile emerged, crooked and devastatingly seductive. It took a long time to reach his eyes. By the time it did, Lothíriel was breathless – annoyed at herself because his smile could so easily turn her into such an enamoured goose – but definitely breathless anyway.

Loosening the underarm laces of his shirt and drawing it over his head, he muttered something in Rohirric. The shirt was tossed aside negligently but Lothíriel didn’t care that by now his clothes were scattered all over the room. Besides that, a half naked Éomer was somewhat distracting and she thought she might have caught the meaning of what he had just said. She frowned deeply.

“What did you say?”

“Did I say something?” he countered.

There was an ominous gleam in his eyes, and therefore she decided that the few snatches she had picked up of what he had muttered made sense.

“You said something about bed.”

“Did I?”

“And I think you said ‘nýdnǽman’.” His surprised look confirmed her assumption. “Am I right?” she asked smugly.

“Do you actually know what it means,” he responded sceptically.

“It means ravish, and together with bed . . .” She let trail her voice off. “I think one could say you are quite single-minded, my Lord.”

“Where did you pick it up?” Éomer interrupted her, a hint of dread in his voice.

“When Winfrith assists me in my toilet, we usually practise some Rohirric along the way.”

“And word-stock along the lines of ‘nýdnǽman’ is given preference?” His mouth curved briefly. “Who thought the term to be essential? You or your handmaiden?”

“I think it simply arouse out of a conversation.”

“And I think you need a proper tutor.”

“I may have found him already,” Lothíriel told him. “I spoke to Gléowine this morning.”

“Your day was no doubt of bustling activity.” Lothíriel didn’t miss the vague sarcasm of his tone. “Be not too hopeful. Gléowine has retired from his service to the kingship. He was devoted to my uncle. The last years have cost him dearly, as they cost all of those loyal to Théoden. He is an old man who wishes to live in quiet and peace.”

“I think he will accept. I have something to offer him in return.”

“Yes?” Éomer slanted her a cautious glance.

“He has a granddaughter,” his wife informed him.

“That I know.”

“Gardryð.”

“Yes?”

“She wishes to become a healer.”

“Mercy me!”

“I offered to take her as an apprentice.”

Éomer crossed his arms over his bare chest. The movement accentuated the sinews along his muscular arms, which in turn distracted Lothíriel momentarily from the matter in hand.

“Apprentice,” Éomer reminded her.

“Well, yes.” She brought her eyes back to his face. “She wishes to become a healer.”

“So you have already said.” The patience of his voice appeared to be pretended.

“And as Master Ærwin is not willing to instruct females in our craft and Gardryð cannot move to Aldburg to be an apprentice to Master Berenwald, I thought it a good idea to take it upon myself to educate her.”

“A good idea?” he asked mockingly. “And you are absolutely certain that you do not intend to alienate Ærwin and the other healers?”

“Why should he feel alienated? I was told that he has no interest in taking on women as apprentices.” Hadn’t he listened?

“And they say it is us, the Rohirrim, who lack certain qualities such as subtlety and tact,” Éomer muttered wryly.

“And I always thought it was us, the Gondorians, who so easily bow to preconceived opinions.”

He opened his mouth, motioning with his hand before any words actually emerged. “Hold it right here. I do not need another exchange of verbal blows tonight.” He searched her face with a slightly uneasy expression. “Are there any more of your today’s activities I should be aware of?”

Lothíriel nearly pulled a face at him and then stood to attention, folding her hands behind her back like a child called before a parent. Her taunting stance earned her a frown.

“I set my brother’s leg and established him in Elphir’s bedchamber,” she reeled off, ignoring the warning in Éomer’s gaze. “Elphir will have to share with Erchirion for the remainder of his stay. I also conferred with Mistress Ælfgyth, to acquaint me with the different matters of the royal household and, of course, to find a solution to the problem of the redundant servants of the Great Hall.”

“Oh my,” he groaned. “I forgot that I have given you free rein in that matter. Do I need to worry?”

Lothíriel raised her chin in indignation. “For the moment I only asked Mistress Ælfgyth to describe this long neglected problem from her point of view, as the housekeeper of Meduseld. I will not decide on anything before I am thoroughly familiar with the situation.”

“Will I be informed before you put any decision into action?” Éomer asked noncommittally.

“Of course,” his wife assured him. “I told you earlier that I will discuss everything with you and ask for your opinion.” She smiled sweetly. “I am not in the habit of forgetting what I once said.”

“Right,” he said, in that way men – or at least her brothers – did when they were trying to cover up the fact that they were not sure what to say.

He reached for the poker and began to stir the fire. Standing in front of the hearth with only his breeches covering his nakedness from just above his hipbones to his ankles, he was quite impressive to look at. Lothíriel watched the firelight play over his muscles with growing fascination, feeling her heartbeat quicken. He was more handsome than he had any right to be.

After having added a couple of logs, he put the poker aside and without prior warning he pulled the lacing of his leg clothing open and pushed it down. Lothíriel got an eyeful of a tight, round bottom and a lean, muscular back. A sight to behold. Her lips parted but she managed to keep the sigh locked in her throat. Hard to believe that there had been a time when an unclothed male body had merely prompted her to check it for injuries.

Éomer turned around before she had a chance to conceal her appreciative appraisal of his assets or avert her eyes from the region of his pelvis. One of his slow grins appeared on his face, teasing her, and Lothíriel felt her cheeks colour. She cleared her throat.

“Ælfgyth gave me the names,” she rattled on. “The names of the servants. And I made a list. Of the servants. And Ælfgyth told me about their skills and their interests and how many children they have and how old they are and what their duties are in the household and I thought that after I have gathered all the facts I will . . .”

Éomer had stepped closer. When he reached out for her, she fell silent in the middle of her sentence.

“What does ‘lēasbrēda’ mean?” she asked incoherently after taking a deep breath.

Éomer caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Lēasbrēda’?” An amused grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Who called you that?”

“What makes you think I was called . . .” She stopped herself when she watched one of his eyebrows arching eloquently. “Master Gléowine.”

“After you dangled that carrot in front of his nose?”

“What does it mean?” she repeated her question suspiciously.

“Literally it translates to little trickster but the meaning is more along the line of sly fox.”

“Oh,” Lothíriel said, taken aback and uncertain if she should consider the term to be a compliment or an insult. “I do not think that is a good description of me. It is much more fitting for Amrothos. If you look at it . . .”

Éomer interrupted her by cradling her chin in his palm. “Tell me something.”

She searched his face. “What?”

“Do you ever cease talking?”

“Not as long as I feel I have something to say.”

“Ah,” he said, as if something that had been obscure was now made clear.

He kept his eyes on her face, studied it as if he had never done so before, or rather studied it like one regarded, time and again, an object of particular artistry or intriguing uniqueness.

A sudden fierce flare in his eyes was all the warning she got. He pulled her close, crushing her against his body and slanting his lips over hers. He took her mouth with a hungry sensuality that seemed to melt her bones. Lothíriel couldn’t keep her eyes open. This was what she had truly longed for since he had entered his chamber . . . their chamber. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her head spun. She kissed him back while everything turned upside down with excitement. There would be time to continue their argument later. Her arms slid up over his shoulders to wrap around his neck. She pressed close, flattening herself against him. Her breasts snuggled into the firm wall of his chest. She wanted to get closer, and there was only one way.

She tapped on his shoulder and got his attention. Éomer lifted his mouth from hers, met her gaze with eyes that were narrow and gleaming with desire.

“Bed,” Lothíriel managed.

A sensual smile curved his mouth. “Do I detect a certain single-mindedness, my Lady?”

“Do you mind?”

Instead of an answer he took the drawstring of her chemise to pull it open and hooked the forefinger of the other hand under the neckline to widen it. Lothíriel dropped her arms, gave a delicate shrug and let the garment slither down her body to her ankles. His eyes gleamed like hot gold. They seemed to scorch her as they followed the path of the chemise in a comprehensive sweep.

“You are beautiful,” he said and reached for her, scooping her up into his arms and carrying her to the four-poster. He put her onto the sheets and lay down beside her. The mattress gave under his weight, rolling her towards him. His hands slid down her back, forcing her gently against the length of him. He began to trace the delicately chiselled features of her face with the tip of his finger.

“Ðū eart ælfscīenu.”

“What does that mean?”

“It is said that no woman ever gets tired of hearing it.”

“I am beautiful?”

“That would be: Iċ eom ælfscīenu.”

She tipped her head back, so that she was able to survey his face. Tenderly she touched the striking features, brushing her thumb along the edge of his lower lip. “Yes, that is true.”

He caught her fingers to pull them away, clearing the path to her mouth. He placed feathery light kiss on it and sucked her bottom lip between his teeth, biting down gently.

“Smær.”

She raised her lashes, which had dropped in anticipation and looked at him with an enquiring frown. She saw the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement before he lowered it again to hers and licked between her lips, touching her tongue with his, caressing it.

“Tunge.”

Lothíriel caught onto the game and giggled. “Lips and tongue?”

“Smær is lip, smæran is lips.”

“And two tongues?”

“Twā tungan.”

She tipped a finger on her nose and received a peck there as well as the Rohirric term. “Nosu.”

Kissing a trail from her forehead –“hnifel” – over her brows –“ēagbrǽw” – and cheek – “wange” – to her chin – “cinn” – Éomer made her squirm beneath him in delight. She wondered what she had to do so that his mouth would find its way back to her lips.

“You are a talented tutor,” she assured him, her giggles having become more of a hiccup. “I am quite certain your unique method of instruction will ensure that I am not going to forget any of those words.”

“That was the idea,” Éomer replied smugly. “I doubt that Gléowine has anything to offer that could make his lessons more . . . memorable.”

He rolled her onto her back and bent over her, but this time his target was not her lips. Instead, his mouth aimed for the sensitive spot just below her ear. Lothíriel practically swooned as he ran his mouth down the side of her neck, pressing tingling little kisses to her soft skin. He kissed her throat - “ðrotu,” he whispered – her collarbone – “wiðobān” – and finally her ear – “eāre”. The rasp of his beard was as arousing as the hot trail blazed by his lips.

“Éomer.” She lifted her hand to touch his face, savouring the strong lines of his jaw.

He caught it and pressed his mouth against her palm. “Handbrēd.” His lips captured the tip of her forefinger and sucked it into the heat his mouth, running his tongue around it. It was a simple, playful gesture but it made her skin tingle. “Scytefinger.” One after the other he took her middle finger – “hālettend” - her little finger – “ēarclǽnsend” – and her thumb -“ðūma” - between his teeth and nibbled them gently.

Lothíriel watched him. By now her breath was coming in flat little gasps through her parted lips and her lids were getting heavy.

“Are you still paying attention, my sweet?” he asked, kissing her knuckles, his smile pure teasing.

She dipped her chin in affirmation and put up the thumb of her free hand. “Ðūma,” she was able to answer unthinkingly, because there was this little part of her brain that refused to lose a thread, no matter the circumstances.

“Excellent,” Éomer praised her as some tutor might have done with a heedful pupil. He pushed himself up on his knees and let his hand run slowly down the length of her leg, exploring the shape of it.

“Scana.”

Rocking back and sitting up on his heels, he grasped her around her ankle, circling it easily with his thumb and middle finger.

“Anclēow,” he murmured, taking his time to study her foot – so much time that Lothíriel lifted her head from the pillow to take a look herself at that particular part of her lower extremities.

“Is something wrong with my foot?” she asked, amazing herself with the raspy tone of her voice.

“Nothing is wrong. It is a beautiful foot – and lovely little toes.” Carefully he lifted it up and she gave a tiny squeal of surprise when he took her toe into his mouth and sucked softly at it, as he had done before with her fingers. He tickled her skin with his teeth and tongue.

“Tā.”

“Tā?”

“Tā!” He kissed one after the other “Tan.”

“Tan is toes?” Whatever the right term for toes was, she would have never expected that one day somebody would kiss them. Who would expect to have her feet kissed? Not that it wasn’t a very toe-curling sensation.

Éomer rubbed with his thumb gently over a nail. “Nægl.” Her only response was some mewling sound that escaped from the back of her throat.

His lips had already found a new target that left a trail of goose bumps on her shin - “scīa” -, his teeth biting gently her knee - “cnēow” -, his tongue licking its way to the hollow of it “hwerofbān”. He pulled her lower leg over his shoulder and suddenly his mouth was inching up the inside of her thigh.

Breathing fast and feeling as light-headed as if she hadn’t eaten for too long, Lothíriel watched him, mesmerized, feeling as if lightning had struck her. Heart pounding, she felt coils of delight rippling through her, beginning at the place where his tongue caressed the delicate skin. Her breath caught and she threw her head back and closed her eyes. Clutching the sheets she lay supine, getting more and more dizzy and beginning to see stars.

And then he stopped what he was doing, stopped just like that, pulled his mouth back and heaved himself up.

“Breathe, sweeting.”

Her eyes snapped open. The repressed air escaped from her lungs with a huff and she sucked in a fresh supply. She bit her lip and could not hide the shiver that took her. From under heavy lids she saw the teasing grin on Éomer’s face soften and he let her leg slide down from his shoulder to his elbow and placed it carefully onto the sheets. Leaning over her, he nuzzled his bristly chin across her hipbone.

“Perhaps not tonight. Some other day . . . another lesson. There should something be left for . . . soon.”

Now she seemed to be losing the thread after all. Confused she asked, “What?”

“Never mind.” He kissed her navel, his tongue darting quickly into it. “Nafela.”

“Éomer . . .”

“Hmmm?”

But whatever she’d been going to say was lost when he pressed the hot wetness of his mouth against her belly and nipped it.

“Oh,” she said instead in a surprised tone, as the sheer pleasure of it made her shiver.

“Gerif.”

He crawled further up her body, his mouth pursuing its way through the valley between her breasts. Lothíriel trembled - it seemed she simply couldn’t stop those tremors waving through her. - Her hands wound tightly in his hair and she arched her back to press herself closer to him. But Éomer lifted his head and propped himself up beside her on one elbow. He trailed a gentle finger across the tips of both breasts.

“Delū.”

Her nipples tightened in instant response to his touch and she had to gulp a couple of times before she was able to phrase her question. “Is that the word for breast or for nipple?”

He gave a husky chuckle. His hand curved around her breast and she arched into his touch. “Brēost”. The thumb feathered over the nipple. “Delū,” he repeated and then dropped a whiff of a kiss on each of the body parts in question.

“What are the plurals?” Lothíriel gasped, not really interested in the answer – at least not right now.

Without replying Éomer shifted his position and moved over her, caging her between his elbows and letting them carry most of his weight. With a will of their own her legs wrapped around his, her feet drawing down the back of his calves. The body covering hers felt firm and hot and powerful. And good – he felt so good. She quivered a little at the sheer goodness of it. She had never in her dreams imagined how exquisite the pressure of man’s body could be.

And he knew it. He looked a bit complacent but there was also a great tenderness in his gaze. He touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Do you think there are still some body parts not accounted for?”

She gave a few jerky nods.

“And what could those be?”

“The ones on the backside.”

“Ah!” He bestowed one of his spine-tingling grins upon her. “Well, then we have to turn you around so I can make up for this neglect.”

Her breath faltered. “No. . . not . . . necessary,” she rasped. She brought her hands to his back, touching him, softly, tentatively. “I have a better idea.”

“Do you indeed?”

“I indicate the parts . . . you name them.”

“If I remember correctly, I said only the other day that a king should always be receptive to suggestions.”

Had he been born with this grin or had he had to put it to the test over the years to refine it?

“We may begin, whenever you are ready, sweeting.”

Oh, she was ready. She wanted to touch him; she loved touching him. Her fingers twitched in anticipation and she let them trail across the width of his shoulders – “sculdor” - and around the back of his neck – “hēals” -, conducting an idle survey of him. She let her hands slide down his back, her fingernails scratching gently over every single vertebra of his spine.

“Hrycgbān,” Éomer supplied.

When her palms reached his well-muscled bottom she cupped the firm contours of it and squeezed.

“Botm.” The tone of his voice had changed. It had become more coarse – much more coarse.

One of her fingers lightly brushed the cleft between his buttocks. She felt his chest expand and heard a sound that made her think that he was sucking in air through his teeth. For the split of a moment his eyes closed.

“Clēofa.”

She got the impression that he had barely managed to stifle a groan. It was good to know that she was having about the same effect on him as he was having on her. Somehow reassuring. And she was quite certain that the hard and fast beating she felt where their ribcages were crushed together was not only the rhythm of her own heart.

She drew in her stomach – which didn’t make breathing any easier – and wedged her hand between their bodies. Éomer made an inarticulate sound. – Or had it come from her? - Her loins clenched. Her heart gave a great, shuddering leap at her daring. She lifted her head and pressed her open mouth to the salt-tinged column of his neck and slid her hand over the tensile muscles of his stomach. Slowly her hand slipped lower. He was there, hot, damp and hard. She touched him, wrapped her hand around . . .

“Lothíriel . . .”

He said it through clenched teeth. Letting her head sink back onto the pillow, she saw that his face was hard and fierce, his pupils were so dilated that only a band of gold no wider than a knife’s edge remained and every muscle she could feel against her had gone taut as a bowstring.

“What is it called?” she whispered, her throat much too tight.

She didn’t get an answer. Éomer had gone from playful caress to hard passion. Hot and hungry his mouth closed over hers. His kiss turned demanding and fierce and she felt the sensation like a burning brand. His mouth was almost aggressive, ravaging hers with wild, reckless kisses. His lips pressed against hers while his tongue constantly thrust and chased hers as if he couldn’t get enough of her. Escalating pleasure took control. She was racing with the wild beat of her heart into the centre of a storm and Éomer was guiding her, pushing her. Her senses exploded and hot-white heat flooded every pore.

Game over.

ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo

Lothíriel stirred amid the rumpled sheets. Their lovemaking had left her feeling boneless and utterly content. Slowly she started to become aware of little things. The first thing was the scent of the man lying on top of her. The next thing she focused on was that she was trapped beneath Éomer’s full weight, and that he was heavy. Now that they were no longer caught up in the throes of passion, he was crushing her into the mattress, suffocating her and roasting her alive to boot. She felt the sweat-slickness of his shoulders beneath her hands, heard the steady rasp of his breathing – had he fallen asleep? – and saw the back of his head as his face remained buried against her neck.

She really, really needed to breathe.

She must have moved, or made some small sound, because he lifted his head then and looked at her. A long, slow smile curled his mouth as he surveyed her and she remembered all the things he had done to her with his hands and his mouth and his body. She felt perfectly relaxed, however, and at ease about being naked and that he was on top of her. She was getting used to this and – if she dared to say so – she was getting better at it.

“Are you well?” His eyes glittered with the age-old expression of a fully satiated male.

“It was wonderful,” she said, simply because it was the truth.

Éomer’s smile grew more pronounced. He looked quite pleased with himself. “Was it now?”

She nodded. Then, because she really couldn’t breathe properly, she gave a little shove to his shoulder. “Now that we are finished, would you mind getting off me? I can hardly breathe.”

“Oh, my apology.” He rolled off her and retrieved the quilt that had somehow gotten crumpled up at the foot end of the bed. He arranged the coverlet over them and reached for her, nestling her against his warmth. His arms around her in a possessive manner, he pulled her into the curve of his body, her back against his chest. He seemed quite willing to go straight to sleep, probably convinced that they had talked enough for one evening and normally she would have just cuddled even closer and savoured being held by him.

But there was something else Lothíriel felt she had to mention without any further delay. She wriggled onto her back so that she could look at him. Without raising his lashes, he frowned, obviously feeling disturbed by her fidgetiness.

“Éomer?”

“Now what?” he grunted, but there was the hint of a smile in his voice.

“There is something I forgot to tell you.”

“There is more?” he asked, mildly curious. “Can it not wait until the morning?”

“No.”

There was a long silence.

“Éomer?”

He opened one eye. “Is this going to be another revelation likely to give me a fit?”

“I am not certain.”

He closed his eye.

“Éomer?”

No response came. She realized he had every intention of escaping into the depths of sleep. Very well then, but there was something else to tell him and therefore she was going to do so.

Now!

“Today I also found a solution regarding the necessity of me becoming more proficient on horseback.” She watched the strong and even rise and fall of his chest for a moment. She was quite sure that he was still awake. Nobody could fall asleep that quickly. “I also found somebody to supervise my exercise rides.” She cleared her throat before she continued.

“I came to an agreement with Captain Éofor.”

TBC

nýdnǽman – to ravish

lēasbrēda – little trickster

Ðū eart ælfscīenu. – You are beautiful.

Iċ eom ælfscīenu. - I am beautiful

smær - lip

smæran - lips

tunge - tongue

twā tungan – two tongues

nosu - nose

hnifel – forehead

ēagbrǽw - eyebrow

wange - cheek

cinn – chin

ðrotu - throat

wiðobān - collarbone

eāre - ear

handbrēd - palm

scytefinger – forefinger

hālettend – middle finger

ēarclǽnsend – little finger

ðūma - thumb

scana - leg

anclēow – ankle

tā - toe

tan - toes

nægl -nail

scīa - shin

cnēow - knee

hwerofbān – hollow of the knee

nafela - navel

gerif - belly

delū - nipple

brēost - breast

sculdor - shoulder

hēals - neck

hrycgbān - spine

botm - bottom

clēofa - cleft