Welcome To Middle Earth

“Has Lord Erkenbrand sent word whether he will be supping with us when he arrives?” you asked your ladies maid, Matilde, as you wove your way through the wooden homes in the lower parts of Edoras. She was a quiet woman, only a few years younger than you, but she was as loyal and responsible as they come. 

“Yes, your Grace. The messenger arrived this morning. Lord Erkenbrand says he plans to arrive around midday the day after tomorrow and would be honored to accept your invitation to take a seat at the King’s table. He also sent well wishes for both you and the King,” Matilde recited what she remembered. 

You nodded in thought, “Good, I am glad he is able to come. Although there is still much to do,” you thought aloud. In the coming week, many lords were planning to arrive in Edoras to meet and take counsel with each other over various subjects. “Has the menu been prepared?” 

“Cook is sending it for your approval today. It should be waiting for us when we return,” Mathilde answered. 

Behind you, flanked three guards, handpicked by the king himself to protect you and do your bidding while he was away. A Kingsguard was a high honor, but to be picked for Rohan’s Queensguard was the highest. It conveyed that King Éomer trusted these men not only with his life, but yours. The men he picked were gentle and kind, but in the few times you had seen them fight, also deadly.

Today, you had tasked them all to carry coins and foodstuffs for the sick citizens of Rohan’s capital city. You liked to keep busy while Éomer was away, one of the ways you preferred was attending to the people of Edoras and earning your spot as their Queen. Most items had already been distributed and you were on the last few stops before heading home.

“Your Majesty,” an elderly woman gasped, making you and your small procession slow to a stop. You looked to see who had called you and the woman bowed low. The child who grasped her hand did the same, although with considerably less grace. 

“Rise,” you prompted, “Aethid, is it not?” You were quite sure you had met this woman before at the market selling her wares. 

The woman and, who you assumed to be, her grandchild rose to their full heights, allowing you to see the small sacks of grain they each carried. “Yes, your grace. I am honored that one as busy as yourself would remember the likes of old me. The people say you are kind, and they are right to do so. This is my son’s daughter, Éowyn, named for our king’s brave sister, as you could guess.”

The blonde little girl peered up at you with soft brown eyes that looked liquid. She smiled nervously before dropping into a hasty curtsy. “Your Majesty,” she said in an adorable voice. 

You could not help the smile that made its way onto your own face. “You are beautiful, as is my sister, Éowyn. I say, you will be just as mighty and kind as she one day,” you told her. 

A bright pink blush rose to her cheeks as she stepped closer to her grandmother. “You are pretty too,” she said quietly. 

Your chest warmed at her genuine heart. “Thank you, dear Éowyn. That means much that you would tell me that you think so,” you said. 

Éowyn’s eyebrows furrowed. “Does King Éomer not tell you?” she asked

You let out a laugh, “Yes, he does, be he has to as he is stuck with me. But you did not have to say so, therefore it is special that you would tell me.” 

Éowyn beamed up at you and her grandmother proudly smoothed the child’s hair down.

At that moment, a great shout sounded from the lower gates, which were just barely in sight between the houses. Everyone’s heads flew to look just as the guards opened the gates and three horses thundered through. 

The riders were merely humanoid blobs from this far away, but you could recognize the gray coat and differentiated armor of Firefoot, Éomer’s horse, from anywhere. Atop his back was a slumped-over man with the build of a bear and who looked to be just barely staying in his saddle. 

“Éomer,” you gasped, your hand flying to your chest and feeling the rapid beating of your heart. 

The three riders flew past the guards, barely slowing from a gallop. Éomer’s peacetime Eored should have been heading back from the North where there had been whispers of rouge orc packs near Fangorn. The small army of 200 Rohirrim had gone to kill any stragglers and Éomer had insisted on seeing to it himself. Fresh on his mind was his promise to Aragorn that he would hold Rohan’s borders against any ill mannered creature and would handle any evil still in the lands. 

Eomer had set out as their leader, yet he returned now with only two at his side. Had things gone south? You desperately needed to know what had occurred and the state of the other men. Surely they had not died in battle with so few orcs, not after they had survived Helm’s Deep, Pellennor, and the Black Gate. Something must have gone terribly wrong.

“Make way for the King!” A voice you recognized to be Gamling’s roared over the town. At the panicked sound of his voice and the confirmation that it was Éomer slumped over, you picked up your skirts and took off at a sprint, forgetting all about those you were leaving behind. 

Your slippers were quickly covered in grass and dirt, but you cared little for the silk at your feet. People gaped at their queen as you flew by them, but you did not stop. When Meduseld’s doors finally came into view, you had broken into a sweat in the late Spring warmth. Your hair tangled and streamed behind you as you took the steps two at a time. 

You reached the veranda and pushed through the doors, finding a small group of Éomer’s council whispering worriedly to themselves. They stilled when you stormed in, hair wild and your hem covered six inches in mud. You looked for Gamling or Eomer, but found neither. They would have beat you here by several minutes.

“Where is he?” you asked shortly. One of your Queensguard skidded to a stop in the doorway, having evidently followed you, but you paid him no mind. 

An elderly man stepped forward and began to speak. “My lady, he is not feeling well, perhaps you should-” 

“Enough. Where is he?” you snapped, a fire burning in your gaze that made the councilmember to step back. 

“My Queen, he is here,” a voice to the side of the room called. To your relief, you turned to see Gamling waving you down the hall. 

You hurried to him. “What has happened?” you asked, “Is the king well?” 

Gamling pursed his lips grimly. “He is quite sick, he began feeling ill three days past, but only consented to parting with the men this morning.” 

You paled. In all the years you had known him, Éomer had never been sick. His allergies had acted up, he occasionally woke with aching joints and sore past battle wounds in the coldest days of winter, but he did not get sick. 

“But the other men are okay?” you asked to clarify.

“Yes, my lady. We defeated the orcs we found for there were few. We were heading back to Edoras when he became sick. He thought he could carry on, but he only got worse. We decided to ride ahead so he could see a physician,” he explained.

“Good, that was wise,” you said. 

You and Gamling made it down the hall and he paused before your chamber door. “The physician has been called, but the king is quite ill. I feel I must prepare you.”

“If he was well enough to ride back on his horse, he will be well enough to suffer me. Let me see him.” You pushed past him to open the door. Éomer was not in the bed as you expected, but instead standing next to the fireplace with a hand braced against the mantle as if that was all that was holding him up. Alwain, a young boy who served as Gamling’s squire, was helping him pull on a sleeping tunic. Éomer had already changed out of his armor and traveling attire, and was now in his bedclothes. 

“My love,” Éomer croaked, looking over at you, relief filling his gaze. His face was pale and had a sheen of perspiration over it. His hair looked dark with sweat as well, and the smaller, blond wisps stuck to his skin. 

“Éomer,” you breathed out, hurrying to his side. “They made it out to be that you were on your deathbed. You must not be so unwell, if you are standing and moving about,” you pointed out, a glimmer of hope finding its way back into your heart. 

“Even so, I feel as though I were at death’s door. Help me to bed, Alwain,” he instructed. 

Éomer put his arm over the teenager’s shoulders and Alwain aided him in hobbling to bed. You rushed to throw the covers back so that Éomer could get under them unhindered. He sneezed then, racking his whole body with the movement before Alwain helped him lay down on the mattress.

It hurt you like a violent stabbing to your heart that your strong and independent husband was being helped from place to place as if he were an old man. Alwain backed away as Éomer laid out on the bed, groaning and griping as he moved. He must be in a terrible way. It was rare for Éomer to complain about nearly anything.

“Oh my dear,” you fussed, pulling the covers up to his chin. “Gamling, have some soup prepared and extra blankets brought,” you ordered. You departed from Éomer’s side for just a moment to grab a chair, yet he reached out a hand and grabbed your wrist as if you were leaving him entirely. 

“Yes, My Lady. Come, Alwain, go on and see to the horses,” Gamling instructed, waving the boy through and shutting the door when both had made their exit. 

You sat gingerly on the wooden seat, leaning forward to be close to your husband. “What ails you? Is there anything I can do?” you murmured, gripping Éomer’s hand tightly in both of yours. 

“My head feels as if it has been filled with cotton and my body aches. Could you feel my forehead? Is it hot?” he requested, moving his head closer to you. 

You swept his hair off of his skin and laid the back of your hand on his head. He was warm, but not concerningly hot. You felt his cheek with your palm instead, furrowing your eyebrows. 

“Is it that bad?” he asked pitifully, closing his eyes at the pleasant feel of your cool touch. 

“No, it is not bad at all,” you hummed, leaning down to place your cheek against his. “You feel fairly normal, Éomer. Maybe a touch warm,” you offered, pressing a kiss to his cheek and straightening. 

“Careful, I cannot have you getting sick as well,” he said, squeezing your hand. “I truly have no fever?”

“None that I can tell. Hopefully the physician will have better judgement than I,” you appeased him and he nodded. “Roll onto your side so I can deal with this hair,” you instructed. 

He obediently and silently rolled onto his side and picked his head up a little for you to gather his blond locks to the back of his head. He coughed, a dry and painful sound. 

You began gently fingercombing the windswept snarls out. “Why did you not ride back the moment you felt the least bit ill?” you asked. “Gamling said you waited three days.” 

He scoffed weakly, “I could not leave my men. I have not gotten this sick since I was a boy. I have never left them for something so trivial before,” he said, his voice was a touch deeper than normal.

“And yet you had to leave them in the end anyways,” you pointed out, disappointed, but not surprised by the stubbornness of the nephew of Theoden.

“Éothain and Gamling nearly threw me on the horse and forced me home before I could have anything to do with it. It was hours before dawn when we set off,” he explained.

You grinned at his childish attitude. Éomer was noble, strong, and proud, but it seemed he turned into a big baby when he was not feeling well. 

“I am glad they did. Now I can be the one to care for you,” you said, starting a braid at the top of his head that gathered more hair as it went down until not a single piece was left out of it. 

“That has been a bright spot in all of this,” he agreed. 

“Why did Gamling not find a cart or carriage for you? You looked to have trouble staying upright when you came through the gates.”

He scoffed again. “Can you imagine? The king of the Horse lords riding in a carriage?” he said the last word as if it was a curse. “No, I would rather Firefoot bring me back tied to the saddle.”

“Your pride will be the death of you,” you chastised, although you felt an approaching grin at the thought of him riding in a frilly coach. 

He became silent as you worked, his breathing evening out into deep inhales and exhales. You paused and peered over his shoulder to check on him. To your satisfaction, he had fallen asleep. He needed the rest.

You tied off the braid with a piece of string and pulled the blanket over his shoulder where it had fallen down. You leaned back on your chair, watching his breaths nervously for minutes that grew long. 

A light knock sounded at the door, and when you told them to come in, Mathilde walked through the door with a bowl in her hand and a blanket folded over her other arm. 

“Your Majesty, the healer is here,” she informed you. You smiled slightly in relief. “Good, please come in,” you invited them. An older woman came in after Mathilde with a heavy leather bag at her side. 

You hurried to vacate your seat to get out of the way.

“Your Grace,” the older woman, who you recognized to be called Audrey, nodded to acknowledge you and you nodded back, opening your arm to invite her to look at him.

“You are most welcome here. Thank you for coming so quickly,” you told her. 

“Of course, your majesty. I came as soon as I heard,” she said. She waltzed in and quickly took your spot on the wooden chair. Mathilde set the bowl on the small table next to the fire and began spreading the blanket out at the end of the bed. 

Éomer still slept soundly, not disturbed at all by the newcomers. Although it had worried you at the beginning of your marriage, you had grown used to the way he slept like the dead. It took great effort to wake him before he was ready, yet he always woke up early on his own to get a start on his day. 

You watched while wringing your hands as Audrey pulled out her tools and began the examination. She felt his forehead, hummed in thought, and then put her fingers to his neck to check for the speed of his heartbeat. 

She hesitated and turned back to you. “I hate to wake him when he is resting, but might I do so to ask him a few questions?” she asked.

You nodded. “Do whatever needs to be done.”

“Thank you. Your majesty?” Audrey called, placing a hand on Éomer’s shoulder and shaking him slightly. 

He did not stir, instead he breathed in so deep it nearly sounded like a snore. “Your majesty?” Audrey tried again.

You sighed fondly, walking over to the other side of the bed and kneeling on the mattress. “Éomer, dear. Wake up,” you said evenly, placing a hand on his cheek. You gently tapped him a couple times. “Get up,” you said again louder. 

With a sharp inhale, Éomer blinked awake and looked blearily up at you. 

You smiled at the innocent and confused look on his face.“The healer is here and she needs to take a look at you,” you explained, nodding to the older woman over his shoulder. 

“Ah, my apologies,” he groaned, rolling onto his back. “I do not remember falling asleep.”

“No need to apologize, your Grace. I am sure you are wanting your rest, but I have a few things to ask you.”

Audrey asked Éomer about the state of his throat, his lungs, requested that he stick his tongue out, squeeze her hand, and even had him hum a little tune. She eventually nodded and began packing up. 

“I believe I know what you have, your Majesty,” she said definitively. 

You leaned forward where you had sat on the bed next to him. “What is it? Can it be cured?” you asked desperately.

“Oh quite easily,” she assured you. “King Éomer, you have a cold, probably brought on by the changing of the seasons. Drink plenty of liquids and get your rest. You will begin to feel better in a week or two,” she explained. 

You and Éomer glanced at each other in surprise. “Are you quite sure?” Éomer asked, “I feel much worse than one would expect for just an ordinary cold.”

“I am quite sure,” Audrey assured him. “Fetch me if you fare any worse, but you will be just fine.”

“Thank you,” you told her, standing up and gesturing for Mathilde to show her out and give her coin for the trouble.

They exited the room and you spun back around to a stunned Éomer. “A cold,” he murmured. “I would have guessed I had a plague of some kind.”

“You are a giant child, King Éomer! All this moaning and griping over a cold,” you laughed, sitting back down beside him and kicking off your boots. 

“I fear I have rather embarrassed myself in that aspect,” he groaned, covering his eyes with his hand as you laid beside him and tucked yourself under the covers. 

“Rather thoroughly,” you agreed. 

“Perhaps we could tell others that it is a Sweating Sickness, or some other sort of horror, and that my body is riddled with fever so as to not let anyone else in,” he suggested, only the smirk on his lips giving away his humor. His face was still pale and his eyes looked weary. 

“Tell me plainly,” you teased. “Did you do all this just for a few days of peace? I am sure there have to be simpler ways.”

He laughed, wincing when the movement of air hurt his throat and lungs. “I am sure there are, and had I thought of them, could have enjoyed any of those other excuses far better,” he said. 

“You do look in a bad way,” you admitted. “Very well, I suppose I shall still tend to you, even if it is a simple cold.” You kissed his cheek and settled your head onto his shoulder. 

“You are a most devoted wife to take pity on me,” he hummed, leaning his head on yours.

“You finally noticed,” you joked with a smile. 

"I have always known."

LOTR Taglist: @th3realslimb1tch

Lost his virginity in the stables as a young lad, tumbling the in the hay with a sweet maiden. It was over quickly with neither of them particularly satisfied.

Deliberate with who he takes to his bed. Unlike other men, Éomer doesn’t run through women, preferring to make choices with a level-head (thought that doesn’t always happen.)

When at home in Edoras, Éomer prefers sleeping naked, enjoying the feel of furs against his skin.

Enjoys sex after a fight. Still coated in dirt and blood, he thrives in the rawness of it, of the fleetingness of life.

Prefers it rough and raw or slow and deliberate. Éomer likes to be in the moment, taking things as they come, not plotting a course but simply riding along with the journey.

Not much of a talker during sex. When he does speak, his words are intentional.

Takes a more dominant role in the bedroom. He leads the Rohirrim and leads in sex.

A giver until the end, loves feasting between a woman’s thighs all day. Would stay there forever if he could.

When he or his partner comes, he wants to look into their eyes as he does it.

Even on the road, Éomer finds private time with his hand, especially when he’s stressed and needs relief.