3021 TA, Edoras

Edoras was brisk in the spring; chill winds from the mountains swept away any pockets of warmth that lingered from the bright sun. But the skies were cloudless and the streets packed full of markets stalls, makeshift shelters, horses and livestock—and it was Lothíriel's wedding day.

The nerves which had plagued her all those months were completely absent. Sitting in the queen's solar of Meduseld—soon to be her solar—she laughed and talked with the ladies attending her: Queen Arwen, Princess Éowyn, and several women of various noble houses of Rohan, whom Lothíriel had met only recently. They were a cheery bunch, bright-eyed and lively, and to Lothíriel's enormous relief, showed none of the devious cunning with which she was so accustomed. Nor did they treat her as an outsider, or as an enemy from foreign lands who had acted despicably under Denethor's orders. To them, Lothíriel was the woman their king loved and who as queen would swear to serve them. That was enough reason to both care for her and to be merciful towards her inevitable adjustment to a new culture and a new station.

She loved Rohan already.

And not least for its king. Éomer had been nothing but attentive and considerate to her; both during their separation over the winter and since she had arrived in Edoras the week previous. How could she doubt him? How could she doubt being his wife?

Lothíriel would not allow herself to be cowed by her memories of her uncle, not anymore. She would act in accordance to her best conscience to become the queen which Rohan needed. And for today, they needed a beautiful one. They had travelled miles from around the Mark to see her and Éomer, after all.

The sea-green silk was a gift from her father; the golden lace trim from Queen Arwen. It had been meticulously sewn by the best tailor in Minas Tirith, and the Queen had applied the trim herself. It was a beautiful garment, and Lothíriel felt wondrous in it—though she did wonder idly if that was simply because of what it represented. She did hope that Éomer would appreciate it.

And evidently it did. When she was escorted to Meduseld's terrace for the ceremony on her father's arms, the eyes of the man she loved were nothing but warm—heated, even, as he held out his hand to her. There was a smirking grin on his handsome face, and his beard did not hide his dimples. He was dressed the part, too; in burgundy velvet and high boots, and her heart thudded.

She had never been so happy.

Some hours later she was forced to revise that notion.

Lothíriel's eyelids drooped, utterly content and warm as she lay in Éomer's arms. It was likely nearing midnight; the festivities and feasting both in the streets and in the hall had gone on for hours. They had been fortunate to escape earlier, there had always seemed to be one more toast, one more guest to greet. . .

Compared to the lively hall, the king's bedchamber was quiet and still, with only the cracking of the fire and the rustle of bedcurtains. A lazy breeze entered through the cracked-open window. The freshness of it was lovely, cooling their heated skin with the gentlest of caresses. Sleep, respite from the long day, beckoned.

She felt her husband press a kiss to her forehead, and a sleepy smile lifted her lips.

"Oh! I thought you were already sleeping," he said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest where her head lay. She lifted her head, quirking an eyebrow up at her husband.

"I doubt that," she teased. "If you truly thought I was asleep, you might not have jostled me so just now—or so I hope!"

Éomer grinned, and he brushed hair away from her face with his gentle fingers. "You know me too well already, wife of mine. This does not bode well for my pride in the future."

"If your pride was truly your first concern, then you ought not have married."

He laughed then, and rewarded her wit with a kiss. She wrapped her around around his neck, feeling the corded muscles which flexed under her touch. His own hands were traversing a slow, caressing path upwards on her bare leg, her hip, her waist. . .

They broke apart, breathing heavily. Lothíriel was languid with his heavy body half-draped atop hers, and she smiled up at her husband.

This, she thought dizzyingly to herself as he nuzzled her nose with his own. This is the happiest I have been.

There it is, folks. I suppose this chapter is more an epilogue than anything. Anyways, hope you liked it, and let me know what you think. As always I'm very grateful for all the kind reviews, they just make me want to write more and more!