Warning: This chapter gets a little mature. Not explicit, but mature.

None of the chambers he had seen yet in the palace were quite like this one. It was enormous, for one thing, and a chill breeze entered the room from gauzy curtains that hung from marble pillars. He assumed it led to a balcony, which would undoubtedly be pleasant in the daytime. A fire crackled in a great stone hearth on the western wall, and the various furniture items were tasteful and clean. Then the pungent, heady smell smell hit him—he saw a surprisingly small bed, adorned with a canopy of flowers. It was not what he expected, and he stared in near horror at the opulence.

"Oh, I am sorry!" A gulping cry met his ears, and he saw, to his horror, his bride—his beautiful, laughing Lothíriel—bury her face in her hands and collapse, sitting on the top of a trunk. Éomer hastened to her, kneeling by her side and embracing her as best he could despite the awkward position. That she was wearing no more than a silken shift did not escape his attention.

"I am sorry!" she continued to sob, turning her face away from him, "Oh, this has been positively wretched! It is too much! It is all t—too much!"

He might have tried to say something then, but now that she had started, Lothíriel showed no inclination of stopping.

"Oh, that stupid dress Mother wore, the obscene dancing and the terrible, practically-public dressing down—I have never felt such humiliation in my life! This is all too much!"

Éomer took to stroking her soft hair, though the smell of the flowers nearby were making him feeling dizzy. Truthfully he did not know what to say, and his heart ached at his wife's unhappiness.

"And—and now, I am making things a thousand times worse by—by crying on my wedding night! You must th—think me the worst sort of f—fool…"

"You are not a fool," Éomer said gently. "Do know that I blame none of this fiasco on you! I feel as though this was not really our wedding at all, but the wedding of pomp and nobility and really, an excuse to dress ridiculously and act worse."

"Oh—I know!" Lothíriel sniffed, her weeping abating. "I cannot—I can hardly believe you are still with me. If the man I was to wed came with this—this disaster I would have cut my losses and run!"

"I love you," he murmured. She whimpered, and he continued, insisting. "No, really! 'Tis true! I loved you the moment I saw you, Lothíriel. I waited months for a betrothal, and months again for a wedding, and now I have waited hours even to speak to you, to hold you! And I would do it again ten times over if I must—I would suffer this and more for even a single moment with you."

"Oh, Éomer!" She lifted her face, and with another sob she threw her arms 'round his neck.

"Of course," Éomer continued, half-strangled. "You may change your mind about me once you see the coronation my council has planned for you. I have always thought that kissing every babe in Edoras was excessive, but now I have attended a Dol Amrothian wedding…"

Lothíriel peered into his face, biting her lip. Even with tears staining her cheeks and her eyes red and puffy, Éomer's heart thudded uncomfortably at a surge of desire. "You are teasing," she decided, and smiled. "Thank you."

"For…?"

"Teasing me out of my megrims. I am embarrassed."

"Do not be," Éomer said, and fished a handkerchief out of his vest, which she accepted gratefully. "As long as I am not the cause of your tears…"

She smiled again, drying her eyes. "Never!"

"Good! Now, will you object if I remove these infernal flowers? They are giving me quite the headache!"

"Oh, please do! I did specifically tell the servants not to bother…"

Éomer stood and approached the bed. With a firm yank, the first strand flitted to the floor. "If I may guess," he said, pulling down several more at once. "Your mother?" He glanced at his bride, pleased by the formation of her dimples in her red cheeks.

"She adores traditions," Lothíriel said. "Though I am sure you have noticed."

"Indeed, I have."

There was a repast laid out on a small table, and she poured herself a drink while Éomer dragged the flowers onto the balcony. He hesitated for a moment, and then tossed the lot over the edge. His head felt clearer immediately.

"Water?" Lothíriel offered him her cup as he reentered. The cool water cleared the scratchiness in his throat from the flowers, the mead, the dancing, the crowds… When he finished, he noticed a shift in the atmosphere of the room, and not simply due to the absence of the flowers…

"There is one more obstacle of which I must inform you," she said, her smile fading slightly. "You remember—the guests wish to keep us apart?"

"Too well," Éomer muttered.

"Well, about a half-hour or so after the bridal couple is left alone, they begin a parade with instruments and singing and marching, and—well, they take a tour of the gardens. The gardens which this, the bridal chamber, looks over."

It took him a moment to understand this. "A half-hour," he said. "Very well-timed, I should think."

"Indeed," Lothíriel sighed and took the empty cup, setting it back on the table. The glint of the fire nearby was casting golden light across the bare skin of her arms, and Éomer swallowed several times.

"Well—we must think of a solution," he said, his voice hoarse.

"My maid made a suggestion, though it is not my preference," she said, her lips pulling downwards into a frown. "She said that any couple that does not wish to be disturbed ought to wait until the parade is over before consummating their marriage."

The words were delivered so blandly that Éomer again found his mind working slowly. "Wait?" he asked. "What a terrible idea."

"I do agree, but is it worse than the interruption? I cannot say." She smiled again.

"A half-hour," Éomer mused, and strode away to sit down in the furthest chair from his bride that he could find, lacing his fingers behind his head. A knot of disappointment was forming in his belly, but he managed a smile anyway. "A half-hour! Is not the whole day long enough?"

"Evidently not!" Lothíriel laughed, the sound bringing him more happiness than nearly anything else could. Her features were not as discernible as he sat so far from the fire. "But if you do not mind interruption…"

"I would rather not," he said firmly. "We may wait."

She was wringing her hands, though a sad sort of smile remained on her face as she sunk onto an upholstered stool, which sat in front of a mirrored vanity. "I am sorry," she repeated, for perhaps the tenth time that evening. "This really is all a muddle…"

"If I had known of this parade when I first arrived," Éomer said, thinking wistfully. "I would have searched out all the instruments I could find to snap the strings or tear the bellows."

Lothíriel laughed and picked up a comb, beginning to smooth out the tangles in her hair. It seemed that her headdress had not been removed well at all, and she winced slightly as she said, "I ought to have thought of it earlier; I could have done so weeks ago."

"But then they might have made repairs!"

"Oh, too true! Well, I might have hidden the instruments then…or tossed them into the sea."

Éomer watched her dark waves of hair shine in the firelight. A lump had risen in his throat, and he forced himself to say, "Is it too late for a reconnaissance mission, then?"

"As you can see, I have no appropriate clothing for such a mission," she said cheerily. "I will not be brought anything else to wear until the morning. 'Tis another—"

"Tradition," he supplied. "I understand."

She glanced into the mirror at him, and he smiled back broadly.

"And in any case," Éomer added. "I am finding myself perfectly content to watch my wife, for the time being."

"Nonsensical man," Lothíriel said, but her tone was affectionate.

"I always have been."

The bridal chamber must be far from the hall, Éomer decided lazily. There was nothing but silence when he took a moment to listen; no indication that dozens of drunken guests would be shouting and singing at any moment. Lothíriel began to hum to herself, and a surge of affection made him glance at her again.

Now with his attention just so, he saw that the firelight was glowing through the sheer of her nightgown, and he could see the dark outline of her bare curves.

The weight of their long separation, made worse by their forced segregation during their own wedding, pushed heavily on Éomer's shoulders once more, and then lifted in a glorious haze. She was his wife! And they need not be apart again, perhaps for a very long time. And blast any drunken guests; he would not be beleaguered by those whom he held in considerably low esteem.

The sound of his boots echoed loudly on the marble floor as he made hastily for his wife, and she had only the time to emit a small, "Oh!" of surprise before he wrapped his arms 'round her waist from behind and nuzzled his face into her soft neck.

"This really is ridiculous," he murmured into her ear, watching the smile spread across her face in the silver mirror. "But I have changed my mind about waiting; we have endured the day enough."

"I am easily convinced." Lothíriel wriggled in his embrace until she faced him, and he hauled her to her feet at once. The kiss that followed made Éomer both dizzy and unnaturally aware of everything about him. The creamy, supple skin of her skin where his hands roved on her arms, neck and shoulders; the faint taste of pear cordial on her breath and the feel of her tongue against his own. Her breasts were pressed so tightly to his own chest he imagined he could feel her heart beating as frantically as his own.

"Éomer…" Her voice was husky as she wound her fingers in his hair. "Take me to bed."

It was some time later, perhaps fifteen minutes or so, when the distant sound of a thump-thump-thump of drums caused them to break apart in slight panic.

"Has it been so long?" Lothíriel, her lips pink and swollen from kissing, glanced beyond his shoulder to the curtained balcony.

"So long?" Éomer questioned in a growl, nipping at her neck.

"Oh—I did not mean—!"

He silenced her with his mouth on hers, slow and languid and drawing another moan from his bride. "I know," he murmured. The parade was growing louder, and the unmistakeable sound of lutes and fiddles made Éomer groan in frustration.

"I did warn you," Lothíriel dimpled, her fingers roaming across his shoulders. "You may as well go see the sight; the music really is nothing short of a potent killer of passion."

"You speak for yourself." He pulled the neckline of her shift lower, kissing the cleft between her breasts. She began to laugh, and he was inconveniently disturbed from his ministrations, and he lifted his head to glower. "I am busy," Éomer snapped.

"Oh, I know very well—but it is only going to become louder—" As if on cue, several voices broke out into song. Éomer thought he head Amrothos's dulcet tones especially. Lothíriel was smiling benignly, and said in a gentle tone, "I would care for refreshment; I am sure that when my thirst is quenched they will have departed."

"Do I have your word?"

"You have more than that, you tease!"

Éomer rolled to his side, and with a sniff Lothíriel straightened her shift before bounding from the bed. He was feeling terribly hot, (in a different way than in the feasting hall), and while his bride fetched a pair of goblets he divested himself of his undershirt and added it to the growing pile of discarded clothing by the bed. He did not hear Lothíriel approach, with the noise outside, and only looked up when he saw her holding a cup towards him. She sat beside him on the bed, appearing far too casual, all things considered, and sipped from her goblet.

"You are quiet," he said, taking a drink of his own. If Dol Amroth had to be praised on one thing alone, Éomer decided it must be the pear cordial.

"I cannot think of a single joke," Lothíriel confessed, almost inaudible over the din of the parade, and smiled up at him. "I am feeling…too raw. Too warm. Too…too amazed. Does that make any sense at all? I suppose not."

"It makes perfect sense," Éomer said, and drew her close to kiss the top of her head. "And I am glad you are amazed; it bodes well for the remainder of our evening."

Her eyes, normally a bright and cheery blue, were looking dark in the firelight. The hunger he had seen at the feast had returned, and he traced her sulked bottom lip with his thumb. Outside, more shouting and even louder drumbeats sounded, but Éomer ignored it. Her silky shift, slightly damp now, was hanging off of one of her shoulders, exposing the pale skin and drawing him towards her. Lothíriel's hand lifted to his face, and his gaze was drawn upwards once more.

"When you look at me so, I begin to consider upending the chamber pot on my brothers outside, so that they will shut up and go away," she whispered.

His beautiful bride, matching his own desire! Éomer was beginning to recognize the fire in her soul, and not a trace of fear had exposed itself. His admiration of his wife increased all the more, and his arousal peaked.

Silver goblets clattered to the floor, spilling cordial over his discarded clothing. But Éomer did not see; Lothíriel had nearly thrown herself at him, and straddling his hips she began to kiss him fiercely. It was done very well from her height. He tugged at the neckline of her shift, drawing it downwards, and with a breathy moan she broke away. Éomer wasted no time to taste the sweet skin of her breasts…the shift sunk lower, and as they collapsed on the bed together, he lowered his head further and kissed the soft skin of her belly, her hips…

The feeling of her hands on his own skin was enough to make him wild. There was no hesitation in her actions, and she seemed as intent on feeling every bit of him as he was of her. His bride…his…

The only time when the spell between them was broken was the rather difficult moment when Éomer tried to remove his trousers without pausing in their kissing. Lothíriel began to laugh at his struggle, and though he scowled slightly he knew the ridiculous sight he must be. At last, the trousers joined her shift on the ground, and her laugh was swallowed in his mouth.

The sensation of his beautiful Lothíriel with him was not exactly as his imagination had supplied, during those long months: Éomer was only too happy to admit it was better. She was soft, she was warm, she was eager and easily pleasured. They moved together, they breathed together, they even laughed together, and at last…at last…

The parade must have finished. No sound, apart from the fire, broke the heady silence of the chamber. Éomer lifted his head, kissing his wife's damp forehead. Her eyes were closed, and dark lashes spread across flushed, pink cheeks. There had never been, nor could ever be, a sight better than this one—he was absolutely certain. He kissed her lips tenderly, and her hands rose to touch the ends of his beard.

"Dear Éomer," Lothíriel murmured, her voice slightly hoarse. "If you can still love me now, I suppose…"

"I love you all the more," he told her firmly. "How can a man possibly love his wife less after such wonderful lovemaking?"

She smiled, and he kissed the dimples that formed. "I expect I am a rather sore sight at this point. And—ow! I am a bit sore myself, truth be told."

At once Éomer removed himself, though he continued to watch his wife with interest as she stretched and sat forward, shaking out her mussed hair. "Where are you hurting?" he asked.

"My hips," she said ruefully. "You are—er—rather broad, I must say."

"Say what you must. Lie down!"

Lothíriel obeyed, only glancing at him with a measure of worry, and positioning himself next to her, Éomer began to knead her sore muscles with his hands. The breeze entering through the curtains was cooling the sweat on his skin, and he imagined that they would sleep very well under the covers. It really was a comfortable chamber, after the noise and music was forgotten…

"You are too kind," she murmured after a moment. Her eyes had closed again, and he wondered briefly what hour it was. Was it past midnight already?

"Do you still wish to leave in the morning?" Éomer asked softly.

Her brows creased, and her eyes fluttered open to gaze up at him. "What is your opinion?" she countered.

"Well—in an ideal situation, we would be allowed to stay in this chamber without any more social appearances for a week or so, then we would steal away at night without having to attend a farewell feast."

Lothíriel laughed. "I do agree, but it is an unlikely ideal. Though if we insist on leaving tomorrow, I think most people would still be too drunk to insist on any special sort of farewell."

"There may not be any inns available for some time. What with how many guests I have seen these last days!"

"They will be departing soon enough," she said. "I think that in two days' time, the inns around the city will be emptied."

"Hmm. And now I must ask—where are we to go next? Minas Tirith?"

She rested her chin on his chest, and with her honest gaze that had drawn her to him at the beginning, Éomer could not help a lazy grin from forming. "Wherever you wish," Lothíriel said simply.

"I only wish to be with you. And I must be in Rohan by the waning of February, at the latest."

An impish smile made her face positively brim with excitement. "Let us go to Rohan now," she said. "I have no desire to travel the length and width of Gondor! I want to see your home; I want to know where you came from. And I would rather enjoy practicing my new Rohirric phrases in the near future."

"You may practice on me," Éomer said, and his grin broadened. "Do you truly wish to go to Rohan so soon? I—I am honored, really."

"Of course!"

"Then we shall do as my bride wishes." He drew her closer for a kiss—a long one—before she nestled deeper into his arms and closed her eyes once more.

"We ought to rest, then," Lothíriel's voice was muffled. "Especially as I somehow have the impression that packing our things may be a distracted ordeal…"

He did agree with that; already he was anticipating the morning…with pleasure and fervor and a great deal of delight…

Éomer was just drifting to sleep when his wife removed herself from his embrace with a groan of exasperation. He peeked open one eye to see her sitting on the edge of the bed, shaking out her loose hair. "What is it?" he asked.

"My hair!" she said, sounding close to a snap. "I had forgotten; every time we are together my hair is a veritable rat's nest afterwards. I do not know why, but you do seem to enjoy messing it terribly!" With those strong words, she stood to fetch her comb, and Éomer continued to watch her through half-closed eyes with great interest. She began to roughly comb out her tousled curls by the fire, apparently completely oblivious to her own nudity and the affect it had on her husband.

"Sorry," Éomer mumbled hoarsely after a moment. "I did not know it bothered you so."

Lothíriel turned to cast him a laughing glance. "Of course you did not," she said. "But I shall forgive you, all the same. I suspect I need the practice." Several moments passed before she was able to expertly braid her hair back, and with a shiver she bounded back to the bed, where Éomer lifted the counterpane for her to curl up close to him.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better." She nestled close to him with a yawn, and then asked, "Would you mind very much if I cut my hair? It may be more efficient, now that you and your inconsiderate, mischievous fingers are going to be about my person permanently."

"I do like your hair," Éomer admitted. "Which am I sure you have guessed."

Lothíriel gave a snort of laughter, and he ran his hands along her chilled, bare arms. "Well," she said. "I can cut it, or you can stop tangling it. I will leave the decision to you."

He lifted the end of her braid to tickle her nose, which she wrinkled at him. "You are not helping your case," Lothíriel added.

"I suppose it depends," he said, stroking his beard in thought. She looked skeptical at this, and Éomer continued, "If you intend to wear those lace caps of your mother, well—"

Lothíriel gasped in outrage, squirming away from him, though it morphed into a laugh as he tugged her back. "We really have to speak about your outrageous teasing!" she wheezed. "Completely uncalled for in all respects!"

"Then consider me a fool," he told her with a grin. "Most do already."

She glanced at him, askance. "Then what do they call the woman whom the fool marries? Nothing flattering, I should think."

"Why, they will call you queen!"

"Oh, dear," Lothíriel bit her lip, her ever-present smile fading somewhat. "I—with all of the wedding nonsense, I had forgotten that bit."

"I did not forget," Éomer said cheerily. "But you have worried enough; really, if you are wanting to leave at dawn, I think we will be lucky to have even a few hours' sleep."

"I hardly feel like sleeping now," she said with a smile. "You are too distracting."

"I thank you for the compliment, my love. Must I retire to the dressing room, then?"

"Oh, no! You mustn't! Oh—you are funning again. Éomer, you utter—"

"Fool," Éomer supplied, tweaking her nose. "Go on, say it! I will not be offended."

Lothíriel sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "I was going to say 'tease', as it does seem more flattering."

"I do appreciate my wife's flattery, even if it is untrue."

She laughed, tugging the covers to her chin. "Go to sleep, Éomer. I have no wish to banter until dawn."

"That is what I have been trying to say," Éomer told her, scowling in a jesting manner, and she giggled once more.

"Good night then," Lothíriel said, and closed her eyes.

It must have been far past midnight, but sleep escaped Éomer almost as much as it had the night previous. He remained in the throes of excitement to be married to the woman he loved and to have her so near. Even the sound of her soft breathing as she was fortunate enough to slip into slumber tugged at his heart in a most intriguing way: a mixture of love and desire, sentimentality and, strangely, a dull ache.

This pain was completely unfamiliar to him, and for some time he lay awake, staring at the vaulted marble ceiling and wondering why loving Lothíriel would be tinged with that heartache. It must have started, he thought, when he saw the full measure of her misery over their grandiose wedding. To see her unhappy made him unhappy. A wry smile crossed his face at the next thought: Éowyn would likely say he was experiencing an unselfish love. He cared for Lothíriel's well being as much as (if not more than) his own, and that vulnerability was that wistful ache.

Dawn broke through the curtains some time later. Éomer blinked awake; he had dozed. But instead of exhausted, he felt wide-awake and quite ready to begin the preparations to extract his bride from her childhood home as soon as possible. Careful not to disturb Lothíriel, he left the bed and threw trousers and an undershirt before fetching a glass of pear cordial. It was still cool, and refreshed him greatly for his next task.

There was a fully-supplied writing desk on the far side of the hearth. He sat down, thinking of how to word such a letter without offending Imrahil or lying about why they would be departing so soon. At last he wrote,

Imrahil,

We thank you for the wedding you have provided us; it was nothing short of magnificent, due to your generosity and the hard work of many. It was certainly a day we will never forget.

However, Lothíriel has been quite exhausted by the ordeal, and has asked that we depart on our honeymoon at once. I cannot refuse my bride, nor do I wish to keep her, in her fragile state, in such a continually overwhelming atmosphere.

We will be leaving for Rohan at noon today. We both understand that the preparations for the transportation of Lothíriel's belongings is incomplete, but it is no matter. Send it along later, and I will compensate you the cost. For now, we will take only what we need.

Please make our regards for us—and we hope that without our presence, your home will soon return to its normal state.

Yours sincerely, etc.

Perhaps he should have allowed for a real farewell between Imrahil and his daughter—and perhaps it might still happen. Éomer sealed the letter with satisfaction.

There was a bell-pull for servants, and when a maid appeared not a minute later, Éomer was rightly impressed. He addressed her through the half-opened door, and hoped with all his energy he had thought of everything. Deliver the letter to Imrahil…inform Erkenbrand to have the king's guard ready to leave at noon…have a bath and meal delivered to their chamber at midmorning…see that the princess's belongings were packed for departure.

"Begging your pardon, sire," the maid said with a toothy grin. "Word is, the princess has had her bags packed for weeks. Some said that she would run for an elopement…or to avoid wedding at all."

Éomer stifled a laugh and dismissed the maid, who curtseyed before hurrying away with the letter in her apron pocket. He latched the door again, and decided that since it was now well-past dawn, it might be sensible for Lothíriel to wake…

To his surprise, she still slept on, despite the noise of his conversation with the maid. He stretched out behind her, lifting her braid and gently undoing the knot that was tied at the end of it. Because of her complaints the night before, Éomer was careful to keep her hair smooth, running his fingers through it as he undid the plait, making sure it had no tangles.

Lothíriel had not moved nor made a sound. With her back towards him, it was tricky to tell if she was awake or not—but Éomer guessed not. So he moved closer, pulling her by the waist until their bodies fit together rather snugly, and he moved her hair to kiss her ear softly.

No response. He might have laughed, but that surely would have jolted her, and so he began to brush his lips against her smooth, sweet-smelling neck. It was positively glorious; he had already forgotten her taste…

At last she made a noise: a mumbling groan that, if containing words, made no sense at all. Éomer did chuckle then, and snaked his hands under the covers to perhaps wake her a bit better.

"Whaturyoudoing?" she mumbled, still unmoving.

"Why, I am waking my wife, of course," Éomer said, and returned to kissing her neck. "Well—mostly. I am doing a bit of worshipping as well." He was feeling vastly amused to learn this new side of Lothíriel: she did not seem to be an early riser at all. "It is an important day today," he whispered huskily into her ear. "We are leaving at noon, you know. There is much to do, and very little time…"

She muttered something else, but again he did not understand.

"I have heard the most interesting gossip," he continued, burying his nose into her hair and breathing deeply. "Is it true you packed your belongings weeks ago? Intending to run to me, or from me?"

"Éomer!" Lothíriel said, at last sounding awake as she turned on her side to face him. Her eyes were groggy but sharp, and she drew a hand from underneath the covers to point in his face. "Listening to gossip? I thought better of you!"

He grinned, and kissed her nose. "Well, which is it?"

She was flushing pink. "I considered—only once or twice, mind you—taking Rofsefa and absconding for Rohan by myself. I thought that you would bully me less than my mother about our wedding. If, indeed, you had insisted on one at all."

"Perhaps," Éomer said. "But I am bullying you now. The bath will be arriving in an hour or so."

"Then why must I wake? My sleep was very pleasant; I did not like being dragged from it!" Lothíriel was smiling, so he knew she was not too upset. But she certainly deserved to be teased for it.

"I have been awake for hours," he declared. "I have been terribly lonely."

"Lonely!"

"Indeed."

She burst into laughter then. "Éomer, Éomer! You are ridiculous. Go on then; I will keep your company until the bath arrives. What do you wish to talk about?

"Well . . . it is not really talking that I had in mind . . ."

To demonstrate, he removed the covers in a flash, causing his bride to gasp with the sudden, cool air. Then he drew himself up and began to kiss those lovely areas where his hands had been roving.

That hour passed by rather quickly, and to the immense satisfaction of them both. The arrival of breakfast and the bath did put a bit of a damper on their fun, but even then: any time spent together involved a great deal of playfulness and laughter.

Very little of the palace was awake when they at last left the chamber, just before noon, and taking less-travelled routes to the stables. Éomer had been very impressed when Lothíriel dressed in a travelling outfit of trousers and riding boots, with a fur vest for the winter. She looked very fetching in it, too, and he nearly bumped into a wall or two, turning his head to admire his bride multiple times on their trek.

The stables, at least, were a flurry of activity, and Éomer was pleased to see his guard tacked and ready in the courtyard just beyond. His squire had saddled Firefoot, and bowed low when they approached.

"My lord, er—my lady," he said in Rohirric, flushing red. "I did not know which horse to prepare for my lady…"

"That is quite alright," Lothíriel responded with a cheery smiley at the boy, who began to look ill. Evidently he was nonplussed that his new queen spoke his native tongue. She continued, "Rofsefa prefers to be saddled by me. You've probably saved your own fingers!"

The noon sun was warm on their backs as they rode together for the gate out of the palace courtyard, even though the midwinter air was sharp and chill. Éomer glanced at his bride once more, and saw her face tilted upwards, eyes closed, and looking far more relaxed and at peace than he had seen her for the last days.

"Thank you, Éomer," she said without opening her eyes. "I feel better already."

"Oi!"

The sudden shout nearly made them draw rein, but Éomer recognized the voice and said to Lothíriel with a grin, "Let us continue on, no?"

"Oh, yes!"

"OI!" Out of the corner of his eye, Éomer saw, not only Amrothos, but Erchirion as well, hurtling down the bailey wall towards them, both half-dressed and looking both a combination of ill and panicked. "Where do you think you're going?" Amrothos bellowed.

"I am leaving, of course," Lothíriel called. "Goodbye, Amrothos."

"Mother is going to have your heads!"

But Erchirion was howling with laughter, gripping the paraphet before him as he tried to stay upright. "Serves the old bat right!" he wheezed, loud enough for them to hear. "I won't marry until she's dead and gone, so help me." Lothíriel had clamped her hand to her mouth, though Éomer could see the smile underneath it.

"You are a fool, Éomer!" Amrothos bellowed after them, as they emerged on the far side of the gate. "Travelling back through the mountains in winter? You'll be lucky to live, between that and Mother's wrath!"

Most of Éomer's guards were laughing to themselves now, to his amusement, and at last Lothíriel began to giggle. "You do not regret leaving so soon?" he asked her quietly.

Her eyes were sparkling. "Not at all."

"Good."

Amrothos's huff of indignation, as he realized they were not stopping, was clearly audible.

"Goodbye, Lothíriel! Good luck!" Erchirion, bless him, was making up for his brother's lack of graciousness. Lothíriel turned in her saddle, and gave a parting wave. There was too much distance now to exchange words, and the palace began to disappear behind the roofs of city houses as they wound through the stone streets.

There were many people out and about on their business at noon in Dol Amroth. Many waved or called greetings, recognizing either their princess or perhaps Éomer from his entrance earlier in the week. Lothíriel was a picture of graciousness, responding with ease to those that hallooed in greeting, as though she had done such things for many years. Which, he reminded himself, was likely true.

"Will you miss your home?" Éomer asked some time later, when they had left the main bustle of the city and were well on their way to the city gates, which loomed ahead of them in white marble sparkling in the sun.

Lothíriel glanced at him, a beaming smile breaking out across her face. "Home, Éomer? But that is where I am going."

"But—"

"I understood your meaning perfectly!" she said, laughing. "But now you must understand that my home is with you, and in Rohan. I am departing the city of my childhood, and that is all."

Éomer enjoyed the sight of her dimples too much to argue. With a great amount of hope and love and not a little foolishness in the strength of those, he grinned back at Lothíriel and once released of the gates, turned Firefoot to the north with his wife beside him.

END

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