Théoden was steered toward her as a match by his parents. They had wanted a Gondorian wife for him, but those efforts provoked a lot of displeasure in the Mark because people were getting pretty tired of Thengel’s obsession with Gondorian culture and practices. As damage control, then, they looked to one of Rohan’s oldest and most venerable families to find his wife, knowing that the choice would placate the people. Elfhild’s parents loved the idea and the chance to marry their family into the royal house, so they glommed onto that strategy quickly and hard. The relationship wasn’t forced on Elfhild against her will, but neither was it her idea and she was definitely heavily pushed into it.

She resented the pressures that were put on her in that respect, but she did grow to love Théoden after they met and spent time together. She liked his enthusiasm for life and his vitality, and he loved her because she was kind, very grounded and had a delightfully dry sense of humor. They were definitely a complementary/balance situation and not two kindred spirits. He’d grown up a tad spoiled as the only son in a big family and, of course, as heir to the throne, and Elfhild was one of the few people with the standing and ability to call him on his bullshit, which she did regularly. (She and Morwen did not always vibe for this reason; Morwen liked her only little boy to get his way.) But Théoden came to really rely on her judgment for that reason, believing (rightly) that she made him a better person.

I think she had a touch of that Middle Earth foresight, and when she became pregnant with Théodred, she was fairly certain right away that she wouldn’t survive his birth. She didn’t tell anyone that, knowing that Théoden in particular would find it distressing in the extreme, but she did ask her brother, Elfhelm, to move to Edoras so that her son could be raised among members of her family, too. (Thus began Elfhelm’s lifetime commitment to looking after and supporting Théodred and, later, his adopted siblings.) She also took to talking out loud to Théodred throughout her pregnancy, telling him all about herself, giving him advice, or singing him songs and telling him stories while she had the chance.

Though she did die in childbirth, her influence lived on in her son. Théodred strongly favored her in both appearance and manner. While Théoden was a bit impulsive, extroverted, and an “act first, think later” guy, Théodred was introspective, thoughtful, strong willed and enjoyed solitary pursuits. He also took up his mother’s interest in Rohirrim history and culture, which led to him supporting Éowyn’s desire to be a shieldmaiden, a cherished Rohirrim tradition of old that was fading at the time. He often went to Elfhild’s grave barrow throughout his life to talk to her, telling her about his achievements and his setbacks and his hopes and desires. In her example of standing up to Théoden when needed and telling him hard truths, Théodred found the inspiration to push back on his father’s decision making and begin acting without orders to oppose the influence of Saruman and Gríma in the lead up to the war.

When Théodred died and made his way to the Rohirrim afterlife (the hall of his forebears), he recognized Elfhild immediately not by sight but by the sound of her calling his name; some small part of his soul knew her voice from having heard all that she spoke to him before he was born.

He even continued sleeping on his half of the bed, as sometimes in the early mornings he would wake and yet be dreaming, his senses would fool him, tease him, by making him think Elfhild still slept beside him and not in her tomb. At those times he was glad to be the fool, for it would be closest to her than he would ever be.

Théodred had suggested remarriage plenty of times, but a new wife would mean that he would have to make room for her and he could never have borne even the thought of removing Elfhild’s belongings.

Therefore the idea that came to him after the news of Éomer and Éowyn’s impending arrival –

So much loss, so much death!

Oh, he could not fall into despair again, he was all they had left.

- That idea was odd and prickly, but it had not left his mind.

All he needed to do was to muster up the courage.

And finally, he did.

Théodred picked up Elfhild’s silver hairbrush and walked to the room he had readied for his niece.

There was a small table and upon it a round mirror stand. It was the one his second sister Théodfrith had used, for she had used the tip of a knife to carve flowers – wonky and wonderful – along the woodwork of the looking glass.

On one corner was the pen that his eldest sister Théodhild had used for her correspondence. Next to the mirror was a bowl with the delicate jewellery that his third sister Théodgifu enjoyed wearing. On the other corner was a stack of equestrian lineage record books, written by his youngest sister and Éowyn’s mother Théodwyn.

Now these items had been readied for the little Éowyn to use.

He placed the hairbrush in front of the mirror on the tabletop.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’m just trying to work out how we’re going to kiss at the wedding ceremony.”

The thought had not even crossed Théoden’s mind and he was glad that the dimming light would hide the pink in his cheeks. She was quite short, he thought, he’d have to bend down to kiss her. He tried to imagine them standing opposite each other, before their families and the entire court and it seemed impossibly terrifying. “We’ll work it out,” he said, rather than voice that thought.

“I’m sure we will,” said Elfhild brightly. The sunset caught her smile, the slight gap between her front teeth, her soft pink lips curved in amusement. Théoden felt slightly less nervous at the sight of that smile.

And then before he knew it the wedding was tomorrow and he was delivering his wedding gift to Elfhild. A harp, made after she told him of her love of music, painted and carved with spring flowers and rippling plains and the whirling shapes of horses, running with all the vigour of spring. He had managed to persuade his parents to let him deliver it in private, arriving outside her quarters to be greeted by her younger cousins, giggling girls drunk on stolen mead or giddiness. She had pushed them aside, laughing and telling them to grant her a moment’s peace. “Nervous?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Incredibly,” he said. “You?”

She laughed, tugging at the end of her braid. There were flowers embroidered on her dress, green and gold and red chasing each other up her sleeves. There were freckles on her arms too, he realised. He was beginning to wonder if she was freckled all over. You’ll find out soon, I suppose. Now that was a thrilling thought.

“Very,” he managed. “But … it will be good, I think.”

She did not ask what exactly ‘it’ was - the wedding, their marriage, their lives in general - but she nodded and he took that as the sign to hand over the harp. She had beamed for joy at the sight of it, and he had been overwhelmed by his own giddy burst of happiness at that. She did have such a lovely smile. It seemed to take over her whole face, her eyes creasing deeply at the edges as her hands ran over the harp, carefully tracing the elaborate carving, plucking delicately at the strings. “Wait a moment,” she told him, when she had said her thanks.

And when she returned, Théoden felt his own eyes widen and his mouth part in a broad smile. For she carried with her a bundle of fur, a grey and shaggy pup with a wet nose and sleepy eyes staring up at him. 

“I heard you have a love for hounds,” said Elfhild, stepping closer that he should better see the pup. “I hope that I am correct.”

“You are,” Théoden assured her, his eyes unable to tear themselves away from the pup, who was now sniffing his fingers inquisitively, before deciding that he liked the smell of him and favoured his hand with a wet lick. “Although it is not expected for the bride to give the groom a gift.”

“Are you not lucky I am so generous?” she teased.

It occurred to Théoden that they were standing very close, the pup still in her arms as they both bent over it. Her eyes were not entirely brown, he realised, but shot through with flecks of gold and amber. A strand of sandy blonde hair had come loose of her braid and he was very tempted to reach forward and tuck it behind her ear. He could smell her too, soap and spring grass and the flowers that would have been gathered by her maids and her cousins to decorate her quarters.

“I am,” said Théoden, and he must not have managed to mask the seriousness in his tone, for Elfhild blushed red beneath her freckles and retreated back to her quarters, promising to bring the pup to him tomorrow evening. They would be married, tomorrow evening, he realised, and suddenly felt very young and unprepared.

And then it was the day of their wedding. Théoden struggled to properly recall that day outside of Elfhild. They were wed outdoors, for the sun shone warmly and the clouds were but few in the brilliant blue of the sky. He heard it said that Blede had blessed their wedding, that the flowers blooming so brightly in the fresh spring grass were proof that their marriage would be fruitful and happy. And when she was brought out, on her father’s arm, he saw her for the first time. 

It was said that the marriage vows of their people were modelled after those that Béma spoke to Blossom-Crowned Blede in the first spring of the world when he saw her scattering flowers among the grass and loved her. It was only when he saw Elfhild walking toward him across the dew-wet grass that Théoden understood what Béma must have felt. They had let down her hair, and it flowed down her back in long, rippling curls. Flowers were wound in a crown of blue and white and gold and pink about her head, and they had been woven into her hair. And then one of her younger cousins, too small to realise that the time had not yet come and overcome with excitement, threw the petals she held, and Elfhild was cast in a blur of blue and white petals. And she laughed, even as the cousin in question was scolded by her mother, her gaze leaping to Théoden, who found himself smiling in response. And he did not cease to smile as she was led toward him, uncaring of how his cheeks hurt as she walked toward him. The petals were all over her, caught in her hair and in the folds of the spring-green gown that she wore. It was a beautiful dress but too long for her and she tripped a little as she neared him. A distant, fading voice in his mind said that his mother would be minorly mortified, but he did not care, for Elfhild only met his gaze, unable to stop the burst of amusement that leapt from her lips like the music of life itself, and suddenly Théoden knew that he need not be nervous. It was going to be good, whatever it was, and he stepped forward, reaching eagerly to take her hand and pull her close to where he stood with the priest. Her hands were warm as he clasped them, her fingers slightly roughened by her harp-playing, and her eyes were glittering with amusement, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and the weight of so many eyes on her. Life and light seemed to shine about her, and Théoden could look at nothing but her, wished nothing more than for her to look at him with those warm, bright eyes. He squeezed her hand in reassurance and those mirthful eyes met his properly. He felt it then, what it must feel to look upon the blooming flowers and the waking earth and the dancing winds of spring made flesh.

He needed no prompt from the priest, no words had ever fallen more easily from his lips as he began, “As Béma swore to sun-clothed Blede …”