#eothiriel

Lothíriel had been trying to talk to her husband, with no success. He had just returned from dealing with a band of Orcs in the West-mark, but every time she sought him out, he was either in meetings with his counselors, buried in papers, or holding court—which mostly consisted of people from the western lands coming to gripe about the damages and demand or plead with the king to fix everything. They had seen each other at meals, but she hadn’t wanted to speak about this matter unless they were alone in the privacy of their own chambers. And, more often than not, Éomer ate his meal quickly before excusing himself to take care of some sort of business and left the feast hall with a brief kiss to her forehead.

It wasn’t vital that she broach the topic at this very instant. Though it was important, she could wait a few more days before trying again, likely with better luck of catching him at a time where he is free to talk. But she did not want to wait, for it was happy news she wished to impart.

She understood that Éomer was busy and could not fault him for that. But it wasn’t just during the day that he was occupied. Even at night, his absence was noticeable. Lothíriel would lie awake in the darkness of their bedchamber and wait for him, but either he would come in very late after she could no longer keep her eyes open, or he would not come at all. She sometimes thought she remembered being aware of his arrival, though she did not stir, only to awaken at dawn to find the space next to her empty.

At least she had Elfwine to keep her mind occupied on occasion. He would be turning six this year, and he would only have to wait one more year before he could choose his first horse to start practicing with. Ever since Éomer had told him about this a few months prior, it was all Elfwine could talk about. Seeing her son this happy made her happy, even if her heart was slowly breaking.

This was almost worse than the four years Éomer had gone to help King Elessar deal with the Corsairs of Umbar. That had been terrible, too, but at least she had received news from him on occasion of his wellbeing. His letters were always short, but the fact that he’d sent them helped Lothíriel sleep easier at night. This time, however, she knew nothing. She felt as though she were adrift at sea on a cloudy day with nothing but a raft that was barely holding itself together, with no compass or sunlight to help her find which direction she needed to go while the waves batted her around like a cat playing with a ball of string.

“Naneth?”

Elfwine speaking in Sindarin always seemed to draw Lothíriel from her thoughts in an instant. Though Sindarin was not his favorite of the three languages he was learning, he always addressed her in her mother tongue because he had discovered that it made her happy. It did not work so well this time, given the thoughts on her mind, but she forced a smile onto her face to avoid worrying him.

“I am sorry, Elfwine, what were you saying?”

“Nothing. You just looked sad.”

Lothíriel’s smile faltered for a moment. So, she had not done as good a job of hiding her inner turmoil as she’d originally thought. She shook her head and gave him another gentle smile.

“I am just tired, that is all. In fact, I think I will rest for a bit.” She set her forgotten needlework aside and crossed the room to press a kiss to Elfwine’s brow. “You can keep playing in your room, just be good.”

“Yes, Naneth.”

While Elfwine and his nursemaid were picking up his toys to bring them to his room, Lothíriel headed towards the bedchamber she shared with the king, her two ladies-in-waiting in tow. As she pushed the door open, she heard a pair of voices speaking in hushed whispers, which she quickly recognized as belonging to her chambermaid and the laundry maid. This normally would not have affected her in any way, but it was not only what they were saying that made her pause but also the fact that they were both speaking in Westron, though heavily accented, instead of Rohirric, meaning she could understand every word. These two maids, as well as most of the other younger servants, knew some Westron and were more willing to use it when interacting with her than the servants who had been around longer and were set in their ways. She wondered if the maids had simply not realized they were speaking in the Common Tongue or if they knew she was nearby and were doing so on purpose.

“I found more hair on his side when I stripped the bedding this morning.”

“Are you certain it does not belong to the queen?”

“Yes. The queen’s hair is not this coarse. Hers always looks so soft.”

A lump formed in Lothíriel’s throat. The maids had found another woman’s hair… where Éomer had been sleeping just last night.

“Oh… the king is certainly spending a lot of time with her these days.”

“Of course, he is. I heard she’s due any day now.”

Lothíriel lifted a hand to her mouth. She was going to be sick. Not only had Éomer been with another woman, but she was pregnant with his child, too? Did he not love Elfwine? Did he not love her? Were they not enough for him?

“Your Majesty?!” one of Lothíriel’s ladies exclaimed when her legs gave out underneath her. The two girls kept Lothíriel Queen upright and led her through the door to the bed, startling the two maids.

“If you two have this much time to talk, then why is the bed not made and why is there no fire in the hearth?” the other lady-in-waiting snapped at the maids, who scrambled to finish their chores. “When you are done with that, send for the healer right away.”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I just need to lie down,” Lothíriel said weakly. All she wanted was to be left alone to process what she had just heard and then react to it in private. The maids finished and curtsied on their way out of the room, their embarrassment impossible to hide despite keeping their heads down. Lothíriel’s ladies helped her into a dressing gown. She waved them off when they tried to unpin her hair. “Please wake me in an hour. There are still a few things for the feast that must be organized and prepared.”

“Your Majesty,” the pair said in unison as they curtsied and disappeared through the door to the drawing room.

Lothíriel turned onto her side and pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle any sounds. Tears soaked into her pillow, and she hoped they would dry before anyone else took notice of them. She couldn’t let rumors spread that her marriage to Éomer was riddled with unhappiness and discord. If the advisers and other lords of the Mark thought that the king was unsatisfied with his Gondorian queen, despite her giving him the heir needed to secure his line, they would not hesitate to try to get rid of her. They had grown to tolerate her more over the past decade, but she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that any of them had completely abandoned their initial desire to have a queen from among their own people.

Her eyes burned and her throat clenched as she finally allowed her cries to be unrestrained. She had to let all of her emotions out now before her ladies returned. No one could know that she had been crying about her husband. The rumors would never end. She was no stranger to rumors, of course, having grown up in the court of Dol Amroth, but she was more worried about how those rumors might affect Elfwine. He was just a boy, and she didn’t want him to get drawn into her problems, let alone think that his parents were unhappy together.

She let out a shaky sigh and uncurled her fingers that had been tightly gripping the sheets, allowing her hand to drift lower until it rested on her abdomen. Lothíriel closed her eyes, reciting the names of each of the Princes of Dol Amroth, their consorts, and their siblings in her head while she tried to calm down. With any luck, this would help her drift off as it used to when she was younger and found herself unable to fall asleep, and her rest would be accompanied by dreams where her husband loved her.

Lothíriel entered the feast hall after finishing the last of her meetings for the day about the upcoming banquet. In a few days, Middle-earth would be celebrating the anniversary of the end of the War of the Ring, with each region observing the event in their own unique ways. Compared to the Reunited Kingdom, Rohan’s festivities were less elaborate and focused more on feasting and spending time with family and friends than the pomp and circumstance of Gondor’s over-the-top ceremonies. With the exception of the few years of conflict with Umbar, Éomer King and Lothíriel Queen had usually traveled to Minas Tirith for the annual celebrations and spent a few days in the White City before heading to Dol Amroth for another week or so before eventually returning to Edoras for a simple, yet jovial, night of feasting and singing in the Golden Hall celebrating victory over Rohan’s enemies and honoring those who gave their lives in defense of that hard-won victory.

It had taken Lothíriel some time to get used to the preferences of the Rohirrim for simplicity, but she didn’t want to ruffle any feathers by trying to add too many Dol Amrothian elements to the point that their traditions become unrecognizable. She often wished that she’d had the foresight to ask Lady Morwen about how she had bridged the gap between her homeland and the Mark. Of course, back then, she hadn’t known that she was to be her successor as Queen of Rohan. Since she didn’t have the former queen’s words of wisdom at her disposal, Lothíriel would use her own teachings at Dol Amroth’s court to implement small changes that would go mostly unnoticed by her people, starting with the decorations, table centerpieces, and foods served with each course for the feast.

The occasion coincided with the beginning of Spring, so floral decorations were a must. The Rohirrim seemed to enjoy spending time around a roaring fire, no matter what time of year or the weather, so incorporating fresh flowers into the décor was Lothíriel’s way of differentiating between this special evening of celebration and any other feast and night gathered by the fire.

Lothíriel and her ladies weaved flowers into wreaths and arranged the larger blooms in vases that would be evenly placed on the long tables, adding some pale hues to the greens, golds, and reds of the feast hall. She learned quite early on in her marriage that the Rohirrim were fond of darker and bolder colors, and not one person seemed to own anything in pastel. Seeing how she was unlikely to change anyone's mind about the matter anytime soon, Lothíriel left all of her gowns in lighter shades behind to wear whenever she was visiting Gondor and tried to match the locals’ tastes; though she did bring sheer and silk scarves and ribbons and jewelry pieces to compliment her darker outfits.

She also had some culinary items sent from Dol Amroth to add extra flavor—and to be quite frank some variety—to the dishes the Rohirrim typically ate. One thing that the people of Gondor and Rohan had in common was their aversion to change, but where Gondorians followed more of a “this is how it has always been done” mindset, the Rohirrim were stubborn and saw no reason to make changes to things that suited them well and good.

In regards to Rohirrim cuisine, it was quite limited because food was meant to be filling as well as practical, unlike in Gondor where food was meant to be beautiful as well as rich in flavor and of the highest quality. Lothíriel’s attempts to persuade the royal cook of Meduseld to add embellishments to dishes or add beauty to the presentation fell on deaf ears. She saw no reason to waste her time making the food look pretty if it was just going to end up in people’s stomachs. And so, Lothíriel had little choice, with such short notice, but to focus on adding to what was already on hand.

Fish was typically only eaten while the men were out on the road and had to hunt for their supper, not at feasts, but Lothíriel had managed to persuade the cook to serve some at the banquet, who agreed only to make her cease asking about it, and prepare it with some herbs and lemons from Dol Amroth. Lothíriel also suggested sweet glazes for the other meat dishes, and to prepare some herbed goat cheese from the first batches of the season and serve them as tarts with fruit. She didn’t know how much to serve at the banquet, assuming that either everyone would scowl at the tarts but not touch them or the warriors would each consume about a dozen. At least she and her ladies liked goat cheese and fruit tarts, so there would be plenty left over if none of the Rohirrim partook; another reason why she even thought to serve them at the banquet was because she had been craving them for the past ten days.

The sweet smell of mead mixing with the juices of the roast boar made Lothíriel gag. What she wouldn’t give for a simple plate of fruits and cheeses with some flowering tea at that moment. Éomer and Elfwine were already at the table, and the latter was fidgeting with impatience.

“I apologize for my tardiness,” she said as she took her seat, unfolding her napkin and placing it in her lap, though she made no move to indulge in the meal after the others started eating.

“I heard that you were discussing the foods for the feast with Brunhild. I do not envy you,” Éomer said good-naturedly. Lothíriel hummed in agreement but said nothing. “Did she agree to implement your ideas?”

“She agreed to some of them, though it took quite a bit of effort to change her mind.”

“If anyone can persuade her, it is you.” Lothíriel lifted the cup to her lips but did not drink from it. “The centerpieces look nice.”

“Thank you.” Had the compliment come from anyone else, Lothíriel would have been indifferent and dismissed it altogether. But because Éomer had said it, she immediately warmed at his praise. Now would have been a good time to make her announcement. She had wanted Éomer to be the first to know and for both of them to tell Elfwine shortly afterward, but she supposed she could tell them while they were all together. Except as soon as he scooped some more food onto his plate, Éomer pushed his chair back from the table and got up to leave. “You are leaving?”

Éomer’s steps faltered, and he hesitated before turning to meet her gaze, his expression one of regret. Lothíriel felt a lump form in her throat.

“Unfortunately, yes. After the attack in the West-mark, many of the farmers will be unable to begin planting. I will be meeting with Erkenbrand shortly to discuss what to do.”

“I can help,” she blurted out. Éomer’s gaze softened.

“You already have enough to worry about with all of the preparations for the feast. I could not ask you to take on anything else,” he said before nodding to her in farewell. Lothíriel gaped like a fish as she watched him go from the hall.

“Naneth, what’s wrong?” Elfwine’s voice made her force her mouth closed, and she waited until she was certain that her inner turmoil would not appear on her face before turning to him.

“Nothing. Eat your supper before it gets cold, hmm?”

“Yes, Naneth.”

Lothíriel watched her son eat for a few seconds before looking at the empty chair that Éomer had just occupied, staring intensely at it as though doing so might cause him to reappear. It was only when her vision blurred and her eyes burned with tears that she turned her attention back to her untouched meal, idly tapping her fingers on the stem of her wine goblet and trying to ignore the voice in the back of her mind that tormented her with all her flaws and faults that had caused Éomer to no longer care for her as he once did.

Lothíriel had made certain to regain her composure by the time Elfwine had been tucked into bed. She sat on the edge of the bed and pet his hair, her lips curving into a smile that was not forced. As much as she enjoyed seeing him play and hearing his unabashed laughter, she loved these quiet moments with her son perhaps even more. They brought back memories of when she was a child and her mother would say goodnight to her. Her hand drifted to her abdomen without her notice as she imagined doing the same for her next child.

“Does your tummy hurt, Naneth?” Lothíriel laughed quietly and shook her head.

“It is a good feeling.”

“That’s good,” Elfwine said just before yawning. With how rowdy he had been in the bath, she wasn’t surprised that he was tired. She would make sure that the poor maid who had been tasked with washing him was paid a little bit extra.

“Elei velui, ion nín.”

“Elei ve… vewu… what’s that?”

“It means ‘sleep well.’”

“Oh. Sleep well, Naneth.”

Lothíriel smiled faintly and leaned forward to press a kiss to Elfwine’s brow. She remained at his side until his eyes began to flutter, rising from the bed smoothly to avoid stirring him. The nursemaid curtsied as she passed, and Lothíriel nodded briefly to her.

She started to open the door to Elfwine’s room when the sound of footsteps reached her ears. Someone had passed through the hall in a hurry. Lothíriel peeked out and saw a glimpse of someone disappearing from view, but that glimpse was enough for her to recognize them. Éomer had been heading somewhere in a rush, but where was he headed? And for what purpose? After checking to make sure no one else was coming, Lothíriel entered the hall and took a few steps in the direction he had gone before halting.

The numerous etiquette lessons that had been ingrained into her very being almost from the day she could walk were repeating in the voices of her mother, nurse, and governess all at once, causing her head to throb and making her lean on the wall for balance. She was expected to look the other way in regard to her husband’s unfaithfulness. It was common for men to take mistresses, and it would be better for her to get used to the idea rather than worry unnecessarily about an inevitability. All she needed to concern herself with was running her husband’s household and overseeing the raising of their children. Yes, that may have been true… in Gondor. It was indeed common for men to take mistresses, but that was typically only in cases where the man found his wife unappealing or she had not met his expectations—borne him a son or any children at all—or he sought another woman to attend to his physical needs while his wife was with child and could not engage in sexual intimacy without endangering the baby.

She could not think of any reason why Éomer would do this to her. He did not seem to be unhappy with her, she had provided him with his heir who was healthy and growing swiftly, and he couldn’t have known that she was pregnant with their second child, since she had only just realized it herself. Lothíriel closed her eyes when tears threatened to spill over. But as she continued to ask questions and reflect on the past weeks, her tears slowly changed from ones of sadness to those of simmering anger. Her mother’s lectures that she must keep her emotions hidden and never raise her voice were silenced. Perhaps had she remained in Gondor, she would have continued to follow her teaching. But not in Rohan, where straightforward speaking and confronting obstacles or challenges head-on were common practice. She was going to find her husband and hear the excuses straight from the horse’s mouth; or rather from the Horse-lord’s mouth.

After encountering a pair of guards and learning that they had seen the king heading toward the stables, Lothíriel had to keep the bitterness from coming out in her reply or from appearing on her face as she went on her way. Her husband wasn’t even trying to hide his infidelity! The servants and the guards knew it was happening, and none of them batted an eye! Perhaps it was more common in Rohan than she’d originally thought.

Lothíriel maintained her pace until she reached the stables and slipped into the doors that were slightly ajar. She did not look at the stable hand who was replenishing the water for the horses and seemed more alarmed by the fact that she had come to the stables at night without either her ladies or a guard escort than the fact that she was about to cause a scene that he would be privy to, whether he wished to be or not.

There was a glow of lantern light emitting from one of the far stalls, which Lothíriel watched like a hawk, waiting for any movement and listening for noises made by humans. She thought she picked up the low murmur of a man’s voice, but as she continued to listen, she could have sworn that there were two. Perhaps Éomer had asked someone to keep watch. She drew up short when she saw movement in the stall, and then the person reappeared and peeked through the gate.

“Lothíriel Queen?”

“Gamling?” she remarked as the man got to his feet and bowed to her. A second later, another head peeked out.

“Lothíriel?” Éomer also got up and stepped towards her. She took in his appearance, noting that he was in a worn tunic with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, staring as if in a trance until all that she could see was his muscular chest. He moved to place his hands on her shoulders before pausing. Standing this close, Lothíriel could better see the glisten on his arms and the faint water stains on his tunic. “Are you alright? Is Elfwine alright?”

Lothíriel couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. Something was wrong… or perhaps right. Had she misunderstood what she’d heard the maids saying? Surely, if Éomer really had been having an affair, he would have looked at least somewhat guilty for having been caught in the act.

“I…” The rest of her reply came out only as a gasp. Éomer quickly wiped his hands on his trousers before grasping her arms to steady her. Gamling appeared at his side with a stool, which Éomer coaxed her to sit upon. “I am such a fool. I thought…”

“You are many things, Lothíriel, but a fool you most definitely are not. Why would you say so?”

When she didn’t answer right away, he clasped her smooth hands between his large, calloused ones, his warmth chasing away the chill she always seemed to carry. A choked sob forced its way past her lips, and she bowed her head, unable to hide her face behind her hands while they were being held by him.

“I thought you were with another woman,” she said at last.

She felt him stiffen. When she dared to gauge his reaction, he seemed more horrified than angry or offended. But horrified at what—that she would ever think him capable of such a thing or that there was, in fact, truth to her words and he had been found out?

“Why would you think that?” He hadn’t used a different tone, but the question made Lothíriel flush with embarrassment, as though she were a little girl again and her parents were chiding her for making a silly mistake that everyone else in Middle-earth seemed to have the sense not to.

“Because… I heard the maids talking.” His grunt of affirmation only added to her mortification.

“And what exactly did the maids say?” At least his tone wasn’t patronizing.

“They said that they found another woman’s hair on your side of the bed and that you were spending a lot of time with her.” Éomer’s brow furrowed, and Lothíriel could have sworn that she detected a hint of rage smoldering in his eyes.

“They said what?!” Before she could answer, he shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face. “Firstly, servants are going to gossip regardless, so don’t put any stock into anything they say. At least the ones here. I don’t know if it’s the same in Gondor.”

“It is. Worse, actually,” she admitted.

“Secondly,” he paused and laid his hands on her shoulders again, which made her look up at him, “I have never been, nor will I ever be unfaithful to you, no matter what anyone else says or what certain individuals might secretly hope for.”

She knew that those “certain individuals” he was referring to were his councilors who still had not warmed up to her. The first part of his statement comforted her somewhat, and she felt that she could release the breath that she’d been holding ever since Éomer started questioning her.

“Lothíriel, what exactly did they say?”

“It… it was nothing…” she said, waving a hand dismissively.

“If my household is speaking falsely about me, I want to know. And clearly it was not ‘nothing’ if it has caused you this much distress.”

“Beomia said that she found hair on your side of the bed and that it wasn’t mine when Oswyn asked. They then said you had been spending a lot of time with a woman because she was going to… to give birth any day.” Lothíriel flinched at his reaction, not because he was angry but because he was laughing.

“Aye, it is true that I was with a woman who is expecting… but not one who walks on two legs.”

“What?” she blurted, her mouth slightly agape.

Éomer moved slightly and gestured to the illuminated stall where Gamling still stood, pretending to find the hem of his shirt extremely interesting. It took a few more seconds for it to dawn on her. That stall belonged to Midnight, a mare aptly named for her dark coat and mane.

“The foal was in an abnormal position, and so I asked Gamling to come and try to rotate it so that the front legs and head would emerge first when she went into labor.”

She could tell just from his voice how worried he had been. Éomer had told her once that Midnight was a half-sister to Firefoot and that her dam had belonged to his mother, so the black mare was a beloved horse to him.

“My lord,” Gamling called when a whinny emitted from the stall.

“Is it time?” At Gamling’s nod, Éomer turned back to her with a hint of regret in his features. “I’m sorry, but can we speak of this later?”

“Of course, but… I would like to watch.”

“You would?” She nodded, and his mouth curved into a relieved smile.

He took her hand and led her to Midnight’s stall, where the mare was pacing and pawing at the ground. When the delivery began, Midnight remained standing, her heaving breaths forming puffs of fog in the air. Lothíriel stood within Éomer’s embrace, her hand resting on her belly as she blinked past the tears that spilled down her cheeks. She had never seen a foal being born, but as she watched the scene unfold, she thought that it was one of the most beautiful things she had ever witnessed, and she felt a sense of solidarity with the mare whom she had believed only moments ago had stolen her husband’s affections. Perhaps one day, the foal that was about to come into the world would be the chosen steed of her own child.

After a couple of pauses in between, the lanky foal stood up on wobbly legs while its mother cleaned and nuzzled it. A charcoal gray filly with a patch of white on its forehead.

“I think that will be her last foal,” Éomer murmured close to her ear. “What say you, Gamling?”

“I agree, sire. It’s probably for the best.”

As Gamling wiped his hands and continued to observe the foal, Éomer loosened his old on Lothíriel and turned her around to face him. He carefully rubbed his thumb across her cheeks, wiping away tears she had missed.

“Are you still upset?” She shook her head and gave him a shaky smile.

“No. In fact, I have news of my own. I have been wanting to tell you for the past few days, but you were either in meetings or I could not find you. I wanted you to be the first to know, and then we would tell Elfwine together.”

“Would you like for me to leave, my queen?” Gamling asked.

“No, you can stay,” Lothíriel answered with a laugh. “The news would have reached you soon enough.”

“I will be sure to let the prince think he found out before me.”

“What is this news?” Éomer asked, though the way his eyes shifted to her midsection briefly told her that he’d already guessed.

“I am with child again.” The grin that overtook Éomer’s face made her heart leap.

“You are certain?” Before she could finish nodding, he took her in his arms again and kissed her. She kissed him back with just as much fervor, and her eyelids fluttered closed after he moved from her lips to her jawline and up to her temple. Her fingers grasped at his shirt as she leaned into him and rested her cheek against his chest with a sigh of contentment, her worries from earlier all but forgotten. “I hope that it is a girl.”

“You do?” she asked, leaning back to meet his gaze.

“I do.” His expression softened. “Elfwine is about the same age I was when Éowyn was born. Having a little sister will be good for him. And I hope that they will have a much happier childhood than the one we had.”

“They will,” she said firmly, “for I wish the same thing.”

“I hope you do not mind if I offer you my congratulations,” Gamling chimed in.

“Not at all,” said Éomer.

“Now, I must beg your pardon, but I am on my last legs and wish to retire. I bid you a good night, my king, my queen.”

“Thank you for your help, Gamling.” After the man left, the couple turned to spare a final glance at the weary mare who was trying to rest and the spunky foal who was preventing her from doing so before they also left the stable, hands clasped between them. “Shall we go and tell Elfwine the news?”

“Absolutely not,” Lothíriel huffed, lightly smacking him on the chest. “He was just put to bed and if we wake him, he will be up all night just like that foal in there.”

“Very well. We shall wait until the morrow. And I am actually glad for it, because it would seem that I have been neglecting my wife for far too long.”

“I heard a similar rumor. I hope you realize that you will need to make it up to me for causing me so much grief.”

“Just so.”

“And I should also inform you that it will not be easy.”

“Then it is a good thing that we Rohirrim are stubborn.” Lothíriel hummed in thought.

“But we folk of Dol Amroth are not so easily swayed,” she said with a hint of a challenge in her voice. “I am not sure if you will be able to accomplish it by morning.”

“Oh, I wish to take my time. And it will be done in ways that even you will not expect, despite your cleverness and quick mind.” Lothíriel raised a brow.

“Is that so? Well then, I am eager to see what you have in mind.”

The way he gave no hint as to what he was thinking behind his smirk made Lothíriel wonder if she had rubbed off on him. Perhaps the Rohirrim were not so averse to change after all.

Thank you for reading!

Part 2 of this series featuring Éothain and my Dunlending OCs will be posted 05/01/2026

It was the seventh evening since the wedding.

Queen Lothíriel was seated at the table in her solar room; she was playing cards with her ladies though it was past midnight. Her mind was occupied elsewhere and she was not making an effort to win the games, as she had always been wont to do since she was a child.

She was recounting the past week that had unfolded after her wedding.

The day right after, it had been the coronation ceremony where she had been proclaimed queen, anointed with the holy oil under the eyes of gods and men. She had been given a crown of gold and fire, hailed by the people crowding into the golden hall to have a glimpse of their beautiful, foreign queen. She even fancied that she saw faint traces of her lord husband watching her throughout the day with a ghost of a smile under that brooding gaze. He had had his eyes on her all day, and she had tried to be composed about it though she revelled greatly in secret. She remembered the way her heart would flutter every time their eyes met amid the noise of the hall.

Yes, Lothíriel still recalled that feeling even now, though it felt like a lifetime ago.

That very evening, as the court dined lavishly and boisterously to music and mead, she began to feel a headache and a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach—not the good kind. Thankfully, she had been able to retreat early from the celebrations, though it was not without much curiosity and raised eyebrows.

In the privacy of her rooms, Lothíriel discovered that she was indeed having her moon's blood, as she predicted. It was an inconvenient timing for this month, to be sure, but what was there to do? She knew that the next twenty-four hours were about to get more inconvenient. Lady Saelwen got everything ready: a good fire going, feather pillows brought all the way from Dol Amroth, hot water ready at all times, and the princess' comfort beverage for when the pain would strike worst, little sachets of ground cocoa beans to be prepared with the best milk cream from the kitchens.

Frankly, few childbirths in Rohan could be more complicated than the Princess of Dol Amroth's preparations for that time of the month.

But there was one more thing this time, as Lothíriel remembered to call one of her ladies-in-waiting. “Mylaela, go to the king and . . . explain of my predicament, as to why I retired." Even as the words fell from her lips, Lothíriel found them strange, either incorrect or inadequate.

Lady Saelwen took up the matter with more precision, and prudence. “Say nothing but that the queen is indisposed, and that she will not be seeing anyone for a while. Best keep it under the wraps, do you understand?" The older woman turned from lacing up Lothíriel's nightgown, to looking at Mylaela with a quizzical glare as if sizing her up for her worth.

The young girl nodded keenly, and went out the door with the great teachings of Lady Saelwen's discretion, eager to do it rightly by the task.

Afterwards, they had put the queen to bed, with Lady Saelwen saying, “Well, that's properly done. Rest now, my queen."

The next day, Lothíriel had not stepped one foot out of her room. She had not seen anyone either, thanks to Lady Saelwen's diligent guarding at all hours. She had also heard nothing, which piqued her curiosity somewhat because she'd been expecting maybe Éomer to ask after her well-being at the very least. So, to hear nothing from that quarter made Lothíriel feel slightly confused, and maybe a tad bit more upset than she would admit, and she did ask of Lady Saelwen for any words sent to her. Just in case.

On the third day, a new occurrence took place. Two local girls were sent to be in the service of the queen. Though Gwyneth and Maethilde were perfectly lovely girls, and Gwyneth even shared the same name as the clumsy maid back in Dol Amroth, Lothíriel was not highly pleased because she could barely understand their strong Rohirric tongue. What was worse, she did not like the sketchiness of why they were here. When she told them politely that she had an adequate number of ladies-in-waiting to see to her every need, the girls had said: “The king insists."

Insists what? Insists why?

She did not like that at all. Was he spying on her? Was he planning to replace her immediate household as he wished?

No, she didn't think Éomer was the kind to play these cunning politics. He did not seem like that; but Lothíriel reminded herself that she did not know him all that well. But he was kindly, he must have surely sent the maids out of good will to show his courtesy and care. Yes, that would be it.

But whatever the motive had been that got these girls into her service, Lothíriel felt uneasy. In the short span of days since she became a wife and a queen, she found herself to have grown quiet. The presence of the Rohan maids who were not of her close circle, who were not the ones she had known and trusted for many years, felt intrusive in her chambers even as they waited inconspicuously in the corner of the room, mostly having no task to do that Lothíriel's own ladies-in-waiting could not. She felt uncomfortable to even muse out loud as was her old habit.

It was to the point that proud, infallible Lady Saelwen had the two girls often waiting outside the door to look out for approaches; it was an overt play to get them out of the way, because the older woman, who had easily picked up on her sweetling's uneasiness, did not scruple to ensure everything that was within her power to make her darling princess happy enough.

But, even with the terrible period cramps, Lothíriel was not without guilt and shame. She felt mean and inconsiderate. She was aware that it was among her duties now to be acquainted and form close bonds with the people of this land that she was now queen of. She knew she had to do more than just smile prettily to win their hearts and love; she had to be their friend, share their troubles, and understand their ways.

She would do that exactly, because she knew love could wear thin after the novelty had worn off. It was very much like everything else where nothing could be expected to last long without a good, solid, reasonable foundation. It was much like building sand castles on the beach with her brothers or little Alphros.

All this to say was that the queen had the two poor girls called back inside, and as she was able to make conversation by the fourth day, she talked—or tried to—with them, about their work, their homes. It was quite futile, though, because Gwyneth spoke so incoherently even in the Westron common tongue, and Maethilde only ever gave slight nods and vague gestures at everything. Lothíriel gave up the befriending bit for another time.

By the evening of the fourth day, she contemplated going to join the dinner in the great hall. But the idea was deferred by a soothing Lady Saelwen being anxious that they should take no risks of her well-being yet. No one would question if the queen could not show up to dinner after excusing her health, the woman said.

But that very evening, after Lothíriel had finished dinner by herself in her rooms, there was a knock on the door.

Amrothos walked in, and sat down at the table with his sister. “They are talking of your absence at dinners," he told her.

“Who?"

“The lords of his council."

Lothíriel did not say anything.

“You'd think it was treachery at the national level," her brother went on bitterly, “the way they were talking about the queen not showing her face for two days. Especially that old simpering man, the one named Déorbrand. I quite dislike him, and his son. Actually, all the lot of them—"

She had shushed Amrothos quickly, eyeing at the two girls standing by in waiting.

After a long pause, she had spoken, “I don't know why it must be such a big deal." Her voice was sulky and fretful, but she was careful not to lose the graceful lilt to her words like she was merely stating a simple fact and not voicing displeasure.

“Because you are their queen now," her brother said with a careless air, lounging back in the chair. But the thing about Amrothos was that his casualness often contained simple truths, in spite of his lack of ever being serious. “They want to see you at all times, I suppose," he went on, “if not for surveillance that you're not up to no good, then for a sign of upholding your responsibilities and beloved rank in the people's hearts…maybe?" He shrugged.

Lothíriel sighed internally—at his words, at her own weariness, at the thought of everything—and she searched for the proper words and trained her voice to come out neutral. “Our mother did not have to show up like that. We had private family dinners."

“That is Dol Amroth. This is not," Amrothos replied unhelpfully. “Every dinner here is half a festival, and I don't think it's only because we're here. You're lucky, though; I bet they could fill up the royal coffers if they would have the commoners pay gold to watch their queen dine. What an idea that'd be."

He had laughed at her unimpressed glare, and went on, “I am only giving you good advice on how to earn money as newly crowned queen. These people would fall head over heels for your pretty eating, sis. They hardly seem to grasp the notion of privacy or seclusion, anyways."

Lothíriel's glare at him intensified when her ears caught a disgruntled murmur in Rohirric from the maids. She swore that she could kick this oblivious brother of hers all the way back to Dol Amroth.

She had sent him away from her room shortly after that.

On the fifth day, as she was feeling better, and also felt it would be unwise to go missing any longer, the queen came to join the breakfast table.

She was sure, to this day, Lothíriel was sure she had entered that hall with a ready smile on her lips. She had even greeted those pesky nobles with especial warmth! She had gone in, determined to be good and conciliating queen that her father and mother no doubt wished her to be. She would be the queen of Rohan that everybody looked to her for.

But what did her lord husband do? He barely spoke to her, barely even acknowledged her as she sat down beside him, barely even looked at her!

After attributing this sombre mood as the king's normal brooding manner just as when they had first met, Lothíriel had recovered her confused feelings with a quiet self-grace. One could not expect the husband to be tender at all times, she understood enough of that to be careful of public appearances. But she also knew she was making excuses for him and herself, for the best of things, when she knew well just how her own father and mother navigated the court together and how they looked tender together.

Chastising herself silently for admitting these silly notions into her head at these inconvenient early days, she had directed her thoughts to more sensible things. Like eating her meal as primly and naturally as it could appear, unable to shake off the thought now that there were eyes watching her even when she ate. She had grown up with eyes on her all the time, but now it wasn't a certainty whether those eyes were all friendly or misgiving.

And the one person that should matter to her most was not looking at her at all.

Though the hall was as usual filled with merry noise, the silence between the newly-wedded royal couple was strained and bothersome, at least to her. Why had he not uttered a single word of inquiry after her health? Surely it didn't take a cultural understanding to be polite and ask if she was doing well, Lothíriel had thought indignantly the more he went on with his silence.

Feeling that she would have to take the matter into her hands if she wished him to talk to her, she subtly wheedled in a murmur of thanks for the two maids he had sent into her service. A part of her was secretly thinking, Let us see what he meant by that, then. The matter still lay uneasy upon her conscience, and she resented the loss of honest conversations with her brother or her ladies all because of the two girls' presence. She meant to find out something that would put her suspicions—and Lady Saelwen's, for the most part—to rest. Maybe she could also assure him to send them away again as she had no need.

But, much as the queen may have been eager to believe whatever was the stated reason for such a placement as ordered by him, keenly watching her husband to observe anything of the slightest discrepancy, her purpose was not wholly disappointed.

The king had turned to her—finally!—with his brows furrowed and eyes blanched with confusion, his mug of beer halfway to his mouth. He'd set it down, before telling her mildly that he did not know what she meant.

It then took them a few sentences of explanation from her side, and his firm negative of having done no such thing of the kind, that this misunderstanding was settled. Lothíriel wasn't sure whether she ought to feel relieved or disappointed that he seemed to show very little interest in this. And if it had not been him who'd sent those two girls, then why had they explicitly lied to her? And who had actually done it, then, if it wasn't him?

She voiced that second question aloud in another soft murmur, strategically to bring attention to his thick skull that there must be something amiss about this. But he was so useless, or being stubbornly unhelpful, in that all he did was finish his drink and say gruffly, “I hope they will be a help to your needs."

Lothíriel could not be sure now if she had only imagined the next thing he muttered; to be sure, it was noisy in the din of the hall, and she was willing to make any rationale for his side, but what was vivid still to her recollection was the surge of anger at his nonchalance, though that was unlike her. So the question that had been running on in her mind ever since was, did she really hear him add, “I hear they are many," about her needs? Had he really said that, stupid and uncaring as he was turning out to be with every hour of knowing him? Did she even know him at this point?

It was then that, cutting between the cold silence that was growing to wedge in between them, they heard someone clearing his throat a bit further down the table. It sounded too attention-seeking to go by unnoted, Lothíriel now recalled with disdain.

It had been Déorbrand, with his greying hair, shrewd eyes, and thin lips stretched into a superficial smile. His voice was smooth, like it was literally oily, when he spoke. “That would be me, my lady. I sent them so they would see to your well-being, and the girls are handpicked the best for the queen's service. I am sure you will not think me interfering for this."

Lothíriel had to rally all her senses to fix her blank stare, so appalled and astonished was she at this blatant, unbothering insolence—yes, she thought it an insolence and took it as such, if not an insult to her privacy. How dare he think to take such liberty with placing servants to her household. And for what reason? What reason could there be but to spy on her household? She was sure she would not tolerate such manner even from her husband. To have her personal boundaries encroached, by a total stranger who didn't have anything to do with her life or her marriage!

There her indignation took a pause.

She gave a smile, remembering to be gracious as queen of a foreign land now, and this old man happened to be one of the important men on the king's council. She vowed to send him away from court the first chance she'd get.

But for now, she said with equal amiableness, “Not at all, my lord. I thank you for your consideration." She kept it at that: she thought of how those two girls were placed initially with dishonesty, how the story had been painted as if to seem like the king's command, how she had felt disconnected—slightly disrespected even—by the maids in her own bedchamber.

But she said none of that. She had reasoned within herself that maybe it was she who was being hostile out of paranoia. Déorbrand could just be as reasonable as any high lord of a country. There was nothing evil to pinpoint, after all.

But then she couldn't be at ease now that it was known Déorbrand was behind all that. She knew for a vague reference that he did not greet her arrival too warmly. To make matters worse, Déorbrand had continued in jest, “My lady must forgive our concern for your health. The people were beginning to be worried we shall not be seeing our queen again till spring comes."

“There is no need for apologies,” Lothíriel replied with a curt smile, not missing the jab in those words of his, no doubt carefully constructed to appear congenial. Only a few days since she became queen, but she had observed the old man to be of no honest intention towards her. If anything, he wasn’t the kind to let his words be plainly well-meaning as he declared. Lothíriel, who was well-versed in such manners of court intricacy, knew just how to handle with equal honey. But she did not want to risk it yet. So she played safe for now. “And I am well now, thank you.”

“It is a strange thing,” but Déorbrand had said lightly after a pause, as though musing to himself, “how the Mark has a way of testing its queens.”

“When Queen Morwen came to us,” he continued, “there was much the same worry. A southerner, we thought—unused to our winds, our winters, our plain-speaking ways.” He smiled faintly. “How wrong we were.”

The court listened. They always listened when the past was invoked.

“She rode out within her first month. Ate as our women ate. Laughed at the cold.” His eyes gleamed, pleased with the remembering. “Some said the North had found her more than ready. There was comfort in that, I think.”

Lothíriel felt the words like a measuring line drawn against her spine. She straightened without meaning to, even as she wondered incredulously what he was aiming to achieve by this speech. But whatever it was, she would let him have no satisfaction. 

But it was hard to refrain from retaliating his oily words disguised with sincerity. The longer he went on, the more she felt sick and the stronger grew the urge to retire back to her chambers. It was not the comparisons attacking he insecurities, Lothíriel told herself; she was more disgusted with his way of choosing the mean, lesser road of alienating her when a mutual friendship could have been most beneficial. 

It had nothing to do with her as a self, she told herself. She was not moved at all by his pretentious words, she told herself. 

But, the Valar help her, did she so want to get up from that table soon.

“She, too, came north from gentler shores,” the old man was still saying when Lothíriel remembered zoning into the talk again. “Yet it was ever remarked how swiftly she took to our winters. Rarely a sickbed, even in her first years. Steel in her constitution, we said. A marvel.”

“Of course,” he added smoothly, “the burdens were fewer then. A queen consort may afford to be… well. The crown presses harder now in these trying times. The Mark is a hard land. No one could fault you for yielding to it.”

Yielding.

Her fingers stilled on the fork she was holding.

“I am grateful for such understanding,” Lothíriel said, her voice even, her smile soft as linen. “Rohan has shown me nothing but generosity.”

“Just so,” he replied, bowing his head. “We are a loyal people. We remember strength fondly.”

“Gondor has plenty of strength to share, as Morwen Steelsheen was also from that land and kin to my family,” the young queen had reminded the old man.

Déorbrand’s smile never faltered, though Lothíriel could feel his scrutinising gaze from her pale cheeks to the shawl at her throat. 

“All the more reason to hope for the same from you. Your conviction speaks well of your devotion.”

The court murmured assent. Sympathy, admiration—exactly as he intended—bloomed like mold. Beside her, she could feel her husband silently downing another mug of his drink. How could nobody be noticing what was going on here?

Lothíriel knew there was no way she could match this difficult lord, yet. He was too masterful in his territory and she was still a newcomer here. 

When she spoke, her voice was steady, warm as summer water.

“I am honored to follow in Queen Morwen’s path,” she said. “If I falter, it is only because I strive to serve this land as wholly as she did.”

She smiled, serene and unassailable.

The lord bowed, satisfied.

“Surely you will not falter. It is only that old men grow sentimental,” he said mildly, like a step of dancing to see which of them will back down gracefully, only to attack the next move. “We cling to what felt… secure.”

She rose. The court stilled.

“I am glad the memory of Queen Morwen still brings comfort,” Lothíriel said. Her voice did not tremble as she said out clearly: memory. “She loved this land dearly.”

“And it loved her,” he agreed at once, too quickly, as if eager to not be outdone. “That sort of harmony is rare. ‘Tis not easily won.”

The words settled like frost.

She had taken leave then, and returned to her rooms without a single word of imploring or questioning from anyone, not even Éomer. Back in her rooms, she was too angry to actually dwell on his lack of involvement in the conversation that had just gone down between her and Déorbrand. 

She was too angry and shaking with the inadmissible terror, of a dawning realisation that there was a dangerous snake in this court and there might be more. To be sure, her father had spoken of such circumstances being a possibility; she was a princess of Dol Amroth, she had been raised to be ready for anything, from the gossip that could spread and sway royal courts, to the skirmishes along the borders with Harad. One fork-tongued old man in Rohan was not going to daunt Lothíriel. She was queen, and queens did not allow doubts to be turned into danger.

If anything, this only made her more determined to put her heart and mind into the task of reforming this wretched land, starting with its palace that was beginning to show the rust under all that shining gold.

The next day had made Lothíriel feel even worse with the cold shoulder given by the king at mealtimes or whenever they were passing one another. The increasing slights of unacknowledgement fuelled her burning indignation and confusion, though Lothíriel suppressed it with her own icy fortresses of composure. She didn't care, couldn't really care to regret if she had married a man of stone who can only afford to love her, or pretend to, behind closed doors.

Today had been the celebration of Yule, the feasting and festive Midwinter where the joy and noise were at their highest. For Lothíriel, though, the latter probably eclipsed the former. With little to no knowledge at all about how this festival was differently held from the ones in the South, she had received the word the day before from Erkenbrand that the queen was expected to place an evergreen garland at the door of Meduseld.

Lothíriel and her ladies had set to weaving and arranging the garland, with pine, juniper, and cedar and other evergreens that were supplied abundantly for the time of the year. To her credit, as queen of Rohan she had ordered the wreaths for the tombs of the old kings as well, herself making the green spruce wreath for the late Théoden King.

She had appeared to the people, cloaked in her dark blue furs, black hair gleaming like an elven-queen in the bright winter morning; the cheers and waves of the people were a tremendous victory to her heart and she vowed she would not mind the chill at all if this was what she'd get for being in their eyes.

But the festivities inside, in the evening, were warmly lit with the yule log burning in the fireplace, crackling soothingly in the center of the hall, and yet it was not enough to dissolve the cold that she felt between her and the king.

They dined together, as usual, seated at the great table facing down the hall, and as many of the people of Edoras who could get into the king’s hall took their seats at the long benches spread out, and watched the queen put small morsels of food in her mouth and turn her shoulder to her husband, while he looked around the hall for companions and conversation, as if he were dining alone.

The hall of Meduseld blazed with Yule greenery and lantern-light, the long tables groaning with roasted meats and winter cakes. Minstrels played by the far hearth; children wove between boots and skirts; warriors drank and slapped each other’s backs until the rafters shook. It was thunder and warmth—feasting, dancing, ale sloshing, someone shouting badly in time with the minstrels.

They brought in dancers and tumblers, mummers and players. The queen smiled very pleasantly but never laughed, gave small purses of Dol Amroth coins to all the entertainers, thanked them for their attendance but never once turned to her husband to ask him if he was enjoying the evening. The king sometimes walked around the room, affable and pleasant to the great men of his council. He spoke in Rohirric all the time, and his bride had to wait for someone to talk to her in Westron or Gondorian, if they would. Instead they clustered around the king and chatted and joked and laughed, almost as if they were laughing at her and did not want her to understand the jest.

And on the dais—alone at her place—sat the Queen of the Mark, straight-backed and serene as if carved from marble. At the high table she was, calm as frost on a windowpane, hands folded on the table. Lothíriel watched the revel with the distant grace of a woman who had not grown up with songs being belted at full volume while a boar’s head was paraded past her.

She missed Dol Amroth. She would never say it, but she missed it with the dull ache of a bruise pressed now and then: the salt in the winds coming up from the sea, and the quiet courtyards and harp music of elegance. She pushed it down with the same discipline she used for every homesick thought now.

She had chosen one of her Dol Amroth gowns for the night: deep blue velvet, silver-threaded at the sleeves and hem, her hair braided in the Gondorian style with tiny pearl pins that caught the firelight like frost, and a small defiant smile lifelessly playing on her lips. She looked every inch a winter star: untouchable and glacially calm.

It was her only defense.

Lothíriel refused to flush. She refused to drop her gaze or tighten her grip on her goblet. She was her mother’s daughter—it was said that Anarïen of Dol Amroth had once hosted a banquet mere hours after giving birth, looking as if she hadn’t missed an hour of sleep.

Still. The slight burned.

She was spared from her own thoughts when a shadow dipped into a courteous bow before her. Erkenbrand had come to greet her.

“My queen,” he said, standing in front of her from below the dais, “may I sit a while? These young lads drink too quickly—it tires an old man’s eyes.”

She smiled. “Then sit, my lord, before your eyes give out entirely.”

He laughed softly and took the chair beside her. For a moment they simply watched the hall, the firelight playing across the riders’ braided hair, the clang of tankards. And though the silence reigned for a longer time, Lothíriel felt comforted in having a friendly company, for Erkenbrand had been one of the kind faces she had grown to distinguish in this foreign land.

“Tonight reminds me of the first Yule I spent in Edoras,” the man said quietly, elbow resting on the table in a comfortable, unguarded way. “I felt a stranger.”

Lothíriel’s brows lifted. Lord Erkenbrand was as much a fixture of the Mark as the stables; it was hard imagining him uncertain or not belonging in Edoras.

“You?” she asked. “You seem born to these halls.”

“Oh, no,” he said, chuckling. “I was raised in the Westfold. We had wide plains, but very few feasts. When I first came here it was all noise and ceremony and watching eyes. I longed for the sound of wind in the grass and the scent of coal burning. Westfold makes fine coal, you know. I used to think I'd never be able to spend a day away from home.”

His voice had a storyteller’s softness, and Lothíriel found herself listening keenly, her throat tight before she understood why. “And now?” she asked.

“Now Edoras is just as much home,” he answered. “It became so when I stopped comparing it to the Westfold and started seeing what it offered instead. Homesickness is a strange beast—it is not cured by denial, only made worse over time. Acceptance, on the other hand, may alleviate that suffering somewhat. And it is not like belonging here means the home you left behind is not anymore.”

He said it lightly, as if discussing weather, but it settled deep under her ribs.

Lothíriel looked out across the sea of fair hair and green cloaks and golden hall. She did not say I miss the sea, nor I do not yet belong, because she knew queenship allowed no such confessions. But Erkenbrand caught the flicker in her eyes and offered a small nod.

“I am glad you are here,” he added. “The Mark needed a queen who listens and embraces. That is a rare gift.”

That startled a soft, almost sheepish smile from her. She had done nothing of the kind, she was sure. “You give me too much credit, my lord.”

“I speak truth,” he said with an earnestness. “Though,” he added wryly, lifting his cup, “I feared Edoras would have swallowed you whole, with how much the people are prepared to be in love with their queen.”

“But I am as alone now as a deserted ship,” Lothíriel replied with smiling honesty. She remembered that even old, wrecked ships were often the playground for the kids in Dol Amroth--at least she and her brothers used to have jolly good times sneaking away to those restricted areas in the docks. “At the bottom of the sea, at that,” she added for a better imagery.

Erkenbrand chuckled. “No,” he corrected her with a fatherly tone in kindness, “you are more like the North Star that the sailors would follow for guidance.”

The young queen looked like she was about to make a face, perhaps a scowl, which was duly checked to retain her composed expression, stately and gracious. “Is that not a lonely job?” she wondered out loud, not knowing that there was many hints to the workings of her mind in that simple question. “The North Star must be quite alone.”

“Ah,” the older man sighed, and waved his forefinger in the air as if to make a point. “But you must remember, though the North Star appears alone first at twilight, as the dusk darkens the other stars always show up around her as friends, and together they light up through the night.”

She looked very intent in that thought, and then she looked at him with a faint smile of amusement. “That is lovely to think of,” her voice was soft, like a child learning something new and finding it very nice and comforting. Then she recovered her coolness. “But, my lord, are you really going to spend the festival tonight by spilling these fine philosophies? Might not the others accuse you of cleverly backing out of their drinking games?”

“Then I will tell them the truth: that I was merely freezing and sought warmth by the fire that is the Queen of the Mark.”

The warmth crept up her throat before she could help it—not a blush, but the warmth of being seen, acknowledged, spoken to as a person rather than a duty. She felt that she was still the girl inside, not just the queen that had been masked over. Lothíriel allowed herself to laugh, and it was not the polite diplomat’s laugh but a brief, warm ripple of sound she had not made in weeks.

It was, naturally, at that moment that Éomer appeared to her side.

He had crossed the floor without a word, without asking leave, and placed his goblet down on the table beside hers with a soft clink that was somehow louder than a war horn. He smelled of snow-wind and ale and smoke. And though he forced a half-smile, there was nothing genial in the way he assessed Erkenbrand’s distance from his queen.

“My lord,” Éomer said, voice deceptively mild. “I was not aware you meant to monopolize my wife.”

Erkenbrand did not flinch. “Only offering company to the queen,” he said, standing with easy dignity. “On Yule, no less. It would be poor form to leave her unattended on such a night.”

“Well,” Éomer replied, planting one hand on the back of Lothíriel’s chair, “I have attended her now.”

Lothíriel did not look up at him. She sipped her wine, gaze fixed on the musicians, as if her husband’s presence was of no more concern than a change in weather. The jocular warmth died like a candle pinched out. She looked at the old man and bowed her head slightly to him. “You have been kind to me,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

Erkenbrand rose, slowly, courteously, with a nod first to the queen. “My lady, it was a pleasure.” Then to the king, with a glimmer of amusement, “And you, lord, as always.”

“Rest well. And mind your step—the hall is slippery with spilled ale.”

The older man chuckled. He departed toward the fire, likely to join the older veterans trading stories. There was a beat of silence in which Éomer did not sit; he prowled around behind her chair, as restless as a horse in a storm.

“He’s fond of you,” he said low.

Lothíriel did not look at him. “He is fond of the Westfold. He was speaking of it.”

“You seemed to enjoy his company.”

“I enjoyed being spoken to,” Lothíriel answered calmly, eyes still forward. “He does it very well.”

He bristled. “I speak to you.”

“Do you?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head slightly to see him, eyebrow raised in a challenge.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You twist words like a courtier.”

“And you ignore your wife like a boy on a training field,” she replied, at last turning her head to look at him, expression smooth as glass. “We each excel at something.”

His jaw tightened; jealousy and guilt warred across his face so plainly she almost pitied him. Almost.

The minstrels struck up a new reel. The hall roared with applause. And Lothíriel, Queen of the Mark, turned back to her wine and smiled as if nothing in the world were amiss. He could be furious for whatever illogical reason he wished to entertain, she’d show him Dol Amroth was not without pride at being interfered at every smallest circumstance. She felt her autonomy was constantly under attack at this point, and he wasn’t the only one furious here.

They remained in stony silence after that, until both clocked the approach of Déorbrand.

“We are to go to my grandmother at Aldburg,” Éomer had then remarked awkwardly to her, as he sat down beside her once again, the servants scurrying to and fro with plates and pitchers. He looked just as irritated to be dealing with this.

Before she could turn to ask him properly anything following up, Lothíriel heard Déorbrand adding in with a sleazy smile, “Ah yes. I came to remind my king to tell that. A rider came from Aldburg with word that the old dowager queen, the king's grandmother, asked after my lady’s arrival—asked whether the Queen would be strong enough to ride to visit her soon.”

Strong enough.

Lothíriel remained unexpressive of that which had irked her; her face gave way nothing that showed any distress or displeasure, for she knew it would be a matter to nitpick on if the new queen were to be of so volatile, and it was not for nothing that she had been trained all these years to appear unaffected by any news, no matter how drastic. She had always held her composure, though a little icy, that was true. But it ensured her to be neither clocked nor cornered easily in any conversation, it always gave her an advantage of choosing whichever way the wind may blow fairer, to tread her words with caution than to regret a mild carelessness afterwards. 

But, like her, Déorbrand did not rush his words. Men like him never did. And he had probably thought of his words long beforehand, probably played out this moment of holding the meager victory over her silence with his honeyed words, which Lothíriel had no doubt were intended to mean double-edged as she perceived the words to be. She was sure it could not simply be her fancied paranoia at these many times. It was too evident, he had been too adamant in showing his frosty, disrespectful manner towards her since her arrival.

She bowed her head but did not look at either him or Éomer. “Is it a tradition?” she asked.

“Not really. But she asked," Éomer answered gruffly.

“And no one refuses the Steelsheen," Déorbrand added with a smile.

“Then I shall be happy to go,” she replied.

“We will have the court travel too, if that is your wish,” Éomer told her. He wanted to say that he hoped she would not mind, that he hoped she would not be bored or sad or—worst of all—angry with him.

She looked at him without a smile. “And so?” 

“I hope you will be content,” he stumbled.

“Whatever my lord wishes,” she said steadily, as if to remind him that they were merely king and queen and had no rights and no power at all over themselves.

He cleared his throat. Lothíriel waited for one precarious moment to see if he was going to say anything else, but he did not. And soon, it was evident he had spoken to her enough for that dinner, as he ordered for a refill of his goblet.

At last it was midnight, and the long evening could end. Lothíriel rose from her seat and watched the court sink into bows and curtseys. She dropped a low Southern curtsey to her husband, her lady-in-waiting coming up behind her with a face like flint. “I bid you good night, my lord,” said the queen in Westron, her voice clear, her tone crisp.

“I shall come to your room,” Éomer said. There was a little murmur of approval; the court wanted a lusty king, and it was a merry time to ensure an heir was secured soon.

The color rose in her cheeks at the very public announcement. There was nothing she could say. She could not refuse him, but the way she rose and left the room did not promise him a warm welcome when they were alone. Her ladies dipped their curtseys and followed her in a little offended flurry, swishing off like a many-colored veil trailing behind her. The court smiled behind their hands at the high spirits of the young queen.

It was not like this for her mother. Her mother fell in love with her father on sight and she married him with great joy. When her parents had to be apart they wrote every day, he would not move one step without telling her of it, and asking for her advice. When he was in danger she hardly slept.

Elphir and Andrídha were so besotted with each other, a paradise of their own with little Alphros now. Erchirion and Amrothos were in no way settled yet, but Erchirion had been a chronic yearner for a highborn lady who he was still scared to approach properly, and Amrothos would always have unserious bouts of pining and poetry-writing phases for some random girl he would happen to meet somewhere.

Her own grandfather had married a nobody from the marshes of Lebennin, deeply in love with her feisty nature when he was but a youth travelling to Minas Tirith and came across Amarantha who appeared to him like a wood-sprite when he was lost for directions. Their love story had been told by Adrahil himself around the fire to his grandchildren whenever he reminisced in his later days.

She came from passionate stock—but what about her? Shall she ever fall in love, with this man who was now her husband? Her early liking for him had quite melted away. She felt a fool now, and she blamed him for her embarrassment.

“Been to Dol Amroth,” indeed!

When she first saw him she had thought he was as handsome as a knight from the romances, like a troubadour, like a poet. She thought she could be like a lady in a tower and he could write her poems and persuade her to love him.

But he didn't seem like the kind to do that. She could never get more than two words out of him these days, and she began to feel that she was demeaning herself in trying to please him.

Of course, she would never forget that it was her duty to endure this man now, this king. Her hope would always be for a child, and her destiny was to keep Rohan in good ties with Dol Amroth. She shall do that; whatever else happened, she shall be Queen of Rohan and protect her two countries: the Dol Amroth of her birth and the Rohan of her marriage.

These were Lothíriel's ruminations, insulted and indignant and growing more agitated as the minutes passed by while she continued to play cards with her ladies at the table in her solar room. They could hear the noise of the festival dying down from the great hall, and she guessed that he'd be coming to her rooms—as he so overtly declared—any time now. She was prepared to meet him with steel in her spine after that humiliation.

Éomer came to her half an hour later, clearly fired up by drink and resentment. Lady Saelwen admitted him to the solar room, her face like a stone, disapproval in every gesture. He found his queen still dressed, waiting by the fire, her room ablaze with candles, her ladies still talking and playing cards as if it were the middle of the afternoon. Clearly, she was not a young woman on her way to bed.

“My lord, good evening,” she said and rose and curtseyed as he entered.

Éomer had to check his backwards step, in retreat at the first encounter. 

“I expected you to be in bed,” he said.

“Of course, I can go to bed,” she returned with glacial courtesy. “I was about to go to bed. It is very late. But when you announced so publicly that you would visit me in my rooms, I thought you must be planning to bring all the court with you. I thought you were telling everyone to come to my rooms. Why else announce it at the top of your voice so that everybody could hear?”

“I did not announce it at the top of my voice!” 

She raised an eyebrow in wordless contradiction.

“I shall stay the night,” he said stubbornly. He marched to her bedroom door. “These ladies can go to their beds, it is late.” He nodded to his men. “Leave us.” He went into her bedchamber and closed the door behind him.

She followed him and closed the door behind her, shutting out the bright, scandalized faces of her ladies. Her back to the door, she watched him throw off his robe and nightshirt so he was naked, and climb into her bed. He plumped up the pillows and leaned back, his arms crossed against his broad bare chest, like a man awaiting an entertainment.

Lothíriel was not expecting this kind of retort from him. Were they going to have to fight over this? She knew she should not openly say or do anything disrespectful to his face outright. But, then she was suspended midway through wanting to remain angry at him. “My lord...”

“You had better get undressed,” he taunted her. “As you say, it is very late.” 

She turned one way and then the other. “I shall send for Lady Saelwen.” 

“Do. And send for whoever else undresses you. Don’t mind me, please.”

Lothíriel bit her lip. He could see her uncertainty. He was doing this on purpose. She could not bear to be stripped naked in front of him. She turned and went out of the bedchamber.

There was a rattle of irritable murmurs from the room next door as the queen cleared the solar room of her ladies and had herself undressed out there away from his sight. When she came back, she was wearing a white gown trimmed with exquisite lace, and her hair was in a long plait down her back. She looked more like a young woman than the haughty queen she had been only moments before.

She glanced at him, her face unfriendly. “I will have to say my prayers,” she said. She knelt at the foot of the bed and placed her elbows on the linen. She hated that he was still sitting on the bed like he owned the place (which, he did) and her bowed head over her clasped hands, and her reverent whispers of prayers, seemed more like they were offered up for him than the gods.

Lothíriel hated that thought. But she let it perish away with the holy words infusing with the memory of her pious mother's voice as well as the advice that everyone from home had been giving her: to be dutiful, if not anything else.

Awkwardly the young queen stood up from the edge of the bed, and went around the room blowing the candles out softly without as much as looking at her husband. Then she climbed to her side under the sheets, laying there very gingerly, almost as if holding her breath.

She felt him move closer, and he lifted her chin with his hand, and she looked back at him like a stone statue. When he kissed her, Lothíriel was still holding her breath and unmoving.

Everything happened fast and he let her chin go and sprung out of the bed, walking away. “I’m not staying. I’m going back,” Éomer said tersely as he redressed himself.

“What?” Lothíriel blurted out confusedly, sitting up on the bed.

“I shan’t stay here. I’m not wanted...”

“Not wanted? I never said you were not—”

“It is obvious. The way you look—”

“It’s pitch black! How do you know how I look? And anyway, you look as if someone forced you here!”

“I? It isn’t me who sent a message that half the court heard, that I was not to come to your bed.”

She let out a gasp. “I did not say you were not to come. I had to tell them to tell you—” She broke off in embarrassment. “It was my time...you had to know...”

“Your lady-in-waiting told me in the middle of my council that I was not to come to your bed. How do you think that made me feel? How d’you think that looked to everyone?”

“How else was I to tell you?” she demanded, although she knew that the anger welling up in her chest was not just at him.

“Tell me yourself!” he raged. “Don’t tell everyone else in the world.” 

“How could I? How could I say such a thing? I should be so embarrassed!” 

“Instead it is me who is made to look a fool!”

Lothíriel slipped out of bed and steadied herself, holding the tall carved bedpost. “My lord, I apologize if I have offended you, I don’t know how such things are done here.... In future I will do as you wish....”

He said nothing. She waited, wondering what else she would need to say to appease him.

“I’m going,” he said at last and went to hammer on the door for his groom to come to him.

“Don’t!” The cry was forced out of her.

“What?” She heard him turning back in the dark.

“Everyone will know,” she said desperately, the words pouring out of her. “Know that there is something wrong between us. Everyone will know that you have just come to me. If you leave at once, everyone will think...”

“I won’t stay here!” he shouted.

Though she flinched at his raised voice, her pride rushed up. “You will shame us both!” she cried out. “What do you want people to think? That I disgust you, or that you are impotent?”

“Why not? If either is true?” He hammered on the door even louder. She gasped in horror and fell back against the bedpost. Did he really just say that?

“My lord?” came a shout from the outer chamber, and the door opened to reveal the groom of the bedchamber and a couple of pages, and behind them Lady Saelwen and a lady-in-waiting.

Lothíriel stalked over to the window and turned her back to the room, shoulders already shaking from holding back her tears that she would not let him see. Uncertainly, Éomer hesitated, glancing back at her, for some indication that he could stay after all.

“For shame!” Lady Saelwen exclaimed, pushing past the king and running to throw a gown over Lothíriel’s shoulders. Once the woman was standing with her arm around Lothíriel, glaring at him, Éomer could not return to his bride; he stepped over the threshold and went to his own rooms.

As soon as the door was closed, Lothíriel turned around and dove onto the bed, burying her face into the pillow as she willed herself with every nerve in her body not to cry out or make a sound. She heard Lady Saelwen fretting about, trying to console her, and she ordered them all out. “Leave me."

She couldn't bear him. She couldn't bear this country. She couldn't live here for the rest of her life. That he should say that she disgusted him! That he should dare to speak to her so! Had he run mad like one of their disgusting dogs that pant everywhere? Had he forgotten who she was? Had he forgotten himself?

Lothíriel was so furious with him she thought she should like to take a scimitar and slice his stupid head off. If he had thought for a moment, he would have known that everyone in the palace, everyone in Edoras, probably everyone in this disgusting country, will laugh at them. They would say she was ugly and that she cannot please him.

She was crying with temper, it was not grief. She tucked her head into the pillow of her bed, so that no one can hear her and tell everyone else that the queen cried herself to sleep because her husband would not bed her. She was choking on tears and temper, so angry was she with him that if it were not for her genteel upbringing, Lothíriel would have liked to throw things at the door where he had left, and to scream out the frustration and exhaustion of the past week, no, the past year since this accursed marriage was planned.

After a little while, she stopped crying, she wiped her face, she sat up. She was a princess by birth and by marriage, she should not give way. She shall have some dignity even if he has none. He was a man, a Northerner at that—how should he know how to behave? That bitter thought fuelled her more than any other reason to get a grip of herself.

Looking out the window, Lothíriel found herself thinking of her home in the moonlight, of how the walls and the tracery gleamed white and the yellow stone bleached to cream. That was a palace, she thought, where people knew how to behave with grace and dignity. She wished with all her heart that she was still there. She remembered that she used to watch a big silver moon reflected in the water of the sea. Like a fool, she used to dream of being married to a good man.

Then she stared at the carved door long after he’d gone, as if she could set it aflame with sheer force of will.

“A swine,” she hissed under her breath. “A horse-brained, thick-headed, grass-eating swine.”

Her voice cracked, not with tears but with outrage. She pressed the heel of her palm to her eyes, refusing to shed any more tears on his account. Her jaw clenched. “Very well,” was all she murmured, voice cold as the Anduin’s winter current.

Wiping her hands over her tearstained cheeks one last time, the young queen set her face to stone, and said aloud, “I am Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. I am not afraid of anything—I have never been afraid of anything."

She would remember herself, who she was before this Golden Hall that reeked of prejudice and couldn't even attempt proper courtesy for the sake of appearances.

“I am not lost. I am not weak. I am not the first woman to stand alone among strangers and make a kingdom hers. I know who I am, I know what my worth is, I know what I have to do."

She was not sent here to wilt.

Her fingers curled into the blankets, knuckles pale. Her chin lifted, proud, swanlike, unmistakably every inch the princess that Dol Amroth had raised and delivered. She sat taller, spine straight as the prow of a ship cleaving wind.

“This marriage will stand,” she said, as if issuing orders to a council. “With or without his understanding. With or without his patience. I will learn this country. I will win these people. I will keep this tedious land safe and sure. On my own."

She had seen enough in Éomer to believe there could be goodness. But goodness was not handed like a garland. It was built brick by brick, quarrel by quarrel, until it stood steady.

So stand steady now.

Her heartbeat slowed, no longer wild, but determined. The anger remained—sharp, useful, fuel. She placed her hand over her own sternum, feeling the rise of breath, the solidness of bone. As long as she was living, she knew what her life was for; and as long as she was breathing, she would endure everything that came her way in order to be what she needed to be.

There was a faint noise of shuffling feet outside her door. She didn't care who heard her or what they thought. She was Queen of Rohan and, if all else failed in her life, she would do her best to show the world that she was a worthy queen not only in her beauty but her steely determination.

Yes, she would make this work for herself and her country, if not for that uncultured swine. She would not be diminished. She would not be misplaced. She would learn this land and its people—and if its king must be taught patience, then so be it.

A single, wry breath escaped her.

“I am my mother’s daughter and my father's pride. I can weather any storm with grace," she whispered like a prayer and vow. And after a heartbeat, she gave a thin, humorless smile to herself in the darkness of the room.

Even if the storm was her husband.

Sincerely Snow

29 December 2025 — 14 January 2026