DilettanteFeminist

Given that he had supposedly never seen them before, Éomer did his best impression of a man entering the Lady Lothíriel’s chambers for the first time. This turned out to be easier than he would have thought, given that he truly had never seen them by the light of a candle, never mind that of the sun, and had, at that time, had other things to focus his attention than the room about him.

The lady’s rooms were, at present, swarming with women. Cousins, aunts, servants, friends, all moved about the room with the frenetic precision of ants, laden with flowers, jewellery and various swathes of cloth whose purpose was a mystery to Éomer. He just had time to hear his bride’s voice before he felt a firm hand on his arm and a voice said, “You are not supposed to be here, my lord.”

Ah. Putting on his most charming smile, less because he thought it would be effective and more as proof of his fearlessness, Éomer turned to face the Lady Ivriniel. Lady Ivriniel distinguished herself as being the tallest, boldest and most intimidating of Lothíriel’s aunts. Éomer turned to find her greeting him with a  friendly smile, and wondered if she too had put it on as a battle mask. “My lady,” he greeted, “you look lovely.”

“As do you, my lord,” said Lady Ivriniel. “But I am afraid that you cannot be here. It is customary for the groom to first see the bride upon her arrival at the ceremony.”

“Is that Éomer?” It was Lothíriel herself, and Éomer turned, before he even thought of it.

Maybe it was the rising sun shining through the window behind her, but Lothíriel appeared to be glowing. Her hair shone, black curls gleaming with sunrise gold, her face beamed with the flush of laughter and life. Even though the bags under them spoke of a night as sleepless as his own, her eyes gleamed golden-brown and creased with the strength of her smile.

“I came to see you.” Éomer began to take a step forward, only to have Lady Ivriniel’s hand firmly keep him in place. Across from him, Lothíriel’s attempt to move toward him was also stalled by another aunt laying a hand on her arm. “Well, to try to see you.”

“Aunty, do come on,” Lothíriel protested, directing her words to Ivriniel. “May he not see me?”

“In your shift?” Ivriniel cast meaningful look at the solitary white linen which enrobed her niece. “No. In your wedding attire? Certainly not. And speaking of which, Aya, are you ready to dress the bride?”

A tall, brown-skinned woman flanked by two maids emerged from behind a brightly painted screen. “The real question is whether the bride is ready to sit still.”

“I would just like to talk with her a little,” said Éomer, as Lothíriel was chivvied toward the screen and whatever lay behind it.

Lady Ivriniel hesitated a moment, casting one of those discomfortingly analytic looks of hers at him. Then she smiled, the soft indulging smile of an elder facilitating two youngsters in their new love. “Of course. She will wish to speak to you too.”

Unable to help himself, Éomer exclaimed, “But what about the tradition?”

Lady Ivriniel shrugged. “A little bending never hurt anyone. Although I must insist upon you not seeing her until the grand reveal. I assure you it shall be worth it.”

“I am awed already,” Éomer assured her.

The dreaded aunt gave him another of her searching looks before nodding in approval. “Good.”

Éomer followed her to the modesty screen, shaking his head to himself in bemusement. It was less that Éomer thought that Lady Ivriniel disliked him, rather that her liking him was firmly contingent on Lothíriel’s liking him.

Tapping lightly on the screen, Éomer called, “I have been permitted to speak with you. In private.” Those last words accompanied by a meaningful glance at Lady Ivriniel, who pursed her lips in amusement before leaving to put herself to use elsewhere.

“You are aware that I am very much not alone on my side,” came Lothíriel’s voice. She sounded almost deliriously light, as though she were both amused and slightly outside her own body. Éomer knew how she felt.

“We won’t be alone all day,” Éomer remarked. He understood it, a wedding as a time of celebration, a union between two families and, in this case, countries. That did not mean that an entire day of the two of them surrounded by people did not make him feel a little like grabbing her hand and leaping out a window. Béma knows I feel that I could fly. “On that note, how do you feel about the two of us just bolting?”

Lothíriel giggled. “But then you won’t get to see me all beautified.”

“You are always beautiful, Lothíriel.”

“Damn right she is,” came Aya’s agreement.

(“Aya, you’re supposed to be pretending you aren’t here,” Lothíriel reprimanded her.) “No, Éomer,” she said, and he could hear the excitement in her voice, “you will want to see me. Look to your left.”

Éomer looked to his left where Ivriniel and two other aunts were getting into an argument about what sounded like shoes. “Your aunt being a tyrant of colour schemes?”

“Your right then, Éomer, they must have moved them!”

Éomer looked, and immediately he felt something in his heart clench. Various maids sat, carefully organising flowers, freshly cut and blooming in vibrant blue, white and yellow. The marriage flowers of the Mark, ready to be woven into Lothíriel’s hair. “You are right,” said Éomer, and felt the words stick in his throat. “I would like to see that.”

“We do have a tradition of weaving flowers in a bride’s hair,” said Lothíriel, “but we favour blue and purple. I thought it would only be right for me to bear your people’s colours.”

And for all that he heard love and happiness in her voice he felt a trace of fear also. “How do you feel?” he asked, looking at the floor. As if even looking upon the painted wood would be too close to looking her in the eye.

There was silence, and Éomer cursed the screen and the sound around him. Was she taking a deep breath to steady herself? Was she turning to her companions for help or reassurance? Was she staring ahead, robbed of words, numb? In that moment, he wished even more so that they were alone, that they could retreat into some dark corner of the castle, or beneath the vine-clad eaves or to the security of woodland calm. Anywhere that he could look upon her face and hold her hand and see by the look in her eyes that all was well. That she was there.

“It is all very grand and serious,” said Lothíriel presently. “And I will admit that I am a little afraid. But I want that, the grandness and the seriousness also. I am not doing this lightly, Éomer. I am doing this because I wish to do it with all that I am, and I intend to give this—and you and Rohan—everything.” She paused again, and when she spoke again she began so softly that she was forced to start again to be heard. “I am glad that it is you, Éomer. I am glad that you are the one I will be with at the end of today.”

He wanted so badly to embrace her then, to be able to hold her close and tangle his fingers in her hair and feel her warm and soft against him, the rhythm of her heart against his, to be able to tell that he was glad too, beyond glad, practically exultant. “I must confess, Lothíriel, that when I rose this morning I was not looking forward to seeing you, I was looking forward to being able to take your hand.”

“You’ve taken my hand many times,” she observed, light teasing in her voice.

“And I’ll be taking your hand for the rest of our lives,” he assured her, and he prayed silently that their lives would be long, that there would be decades of him interlacing her fingers with him as they lay in bed or sat at table or simply walked somewhere, he didn’t give a damn where. “Because I meant what I said, Lothíriel. I mean us to do this together, hand in hand.”

“I believe you,” and it was as though he could feel the intensity of her gaze upon him, her hand reaching out for his, nimble fingers reaching to squeeze his. “I would not be marrying you if I did not believe you the best of men, Éomer. Besides, if I do not marry you, how else am I to make Éowyn my sister?”

Éomer chuckled at that, and he wished again that the screen was gone, that he could see the twinkle in her eye, the dimple in her left cheek as she grinned.

“I love you,” he said.

“What?”

“Hmm?”

“What did you say, Éomer, I can’t hear.”

Huffing in annoyance, Éomer muttered, “Curse this screen.” Louder, he said, “I love you, Lothíriel.” A passing aunt glanced sideways at him and Éomer decided to hell with it. “You know what, I’ll say it a third time, I love you, Lothíriel, and I can’t wait to be your husband!”

He heard Lothíriel laugh, half at the absurdity of him announcing it to the room, partly out of sheer joy, and Éomer thanked Béma that he was lucky enough to be able to hear that sound.

“Iċ lufie þē!”

Éomer froze, his mouth falling open in confusion and delight. I love you, in Rohirric, spoken in transparent affection. Accented, the Dol Amroth lilt noticeable, and yet spoken with the exactness of a phrase given much practice.

**********

As coronations go, Fréaláf’s is more than modest.

A fire struggles to warm the stable that is serving in place of fire-ravaged Meduseld, and there is no feast while meat is yet in short supply. There is only ale and good cheer, plainly dressed men and women who toast their new king while their children tussle playfully with the hounds among the rushes that cover the floor.

It is all distinctly unimpressive to Saruman’s eye, even with allowances made for the harrowing losses of war and famine. The Rohirrim have ever been prideful and stubborn, but at least they had fine horses, rich orchards and great timbers to justify their pride. If this is all they can muster now even for their king then surely they have nothing to offer anyone else, and Saruman’s aching old bones can only regret the long, bumpy ride it took to reach this shadow of Eorl’s realm.

Still, Fréaláf approaches and extends a gaunt hand. His surcoat is threadbare, his boots worn, and Saruman takes the proffered hand with stifled disdain. But the king’s grip is surprisingly strong, and his smile is friendly and open, nothing like the last king’s haughty smirk. Old Helm was too stubborn to seek the counsel of others, let alone to heed it, and his reign had been fruitless for those who deal in influence and strategy. But this smile says that Fréaláf will rule differently. It’s the smile of a man whose people are still hungry, whose borders need strengthening, whose hold on his uncle’s throne remains vulnerable to challenge from within and without. A man in need of allies.

The first stirrings of possibility ease the ache in Saruman’s joints, and his well-lined face breaks into a smile of his own, carefully stripped of eagerness.

Tell me, Fréaláf King, wouldn’t it be nice to have a friend installed in Isengard at last?

**********