A/N: I wrote the first chapter of this story after a painting I did of Arwen, Lothíriel, and Éowyn, and I felt like I couldn't stop there. Cue a multi-chapter fic!

Warning: this is one of my least cheerful stories, but it's not all doom and gloom. This is a story about living with depression, not surviving horrifying events.

Thanks for reading; I hope you enjoy. Feedback is always welcome.

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Chapter I: "Éomer King to Lothíriel, his excellent and honorable wife"

"My lady, a letter from King Éomer."

With a glance to Arwen and Éowyn, sitting together on the opposite couch, Lothíriel accepted the letter from the hovering page. His task complete, the man bowed and left, closing Arwen's parlor door with a gentle click.

"Don't mind us," Éowyn said. "If my brother has bestirred himself enough to write, it must be worth reading." She turned to Arwen, whose gray eyes lingered an extra moment on Lothíriel. The two immersed themselves in a hushed conversation that Lothíriel blocked out.

What did Éomer have to say? Her husband was not a brilliant correspondent.

Lothíriel slid her pocket knife back and forth between the green wax seal and the parchment. She'd always had a knack for opening letters without cracking the seal. During her first (and only) ill-fated flirtation at fifteen, she'd opened her admirer's letters, penned a reply inside, and sent them back with every appearance of being unread. Her father found out about that soon enough, though, and put a stop to it. But even now, as a married woman and queen, she kept up the habit of keeping seals intact. She had a box of unbroken seals at Meduseld.

Minas Tirith was another matter. After only a bit of wheedling, Éomer had acquiesced to her request to visit Gondor for a time. Since her arrival in the White City, he had written diligently. His letters, always brief and to the point, came once a week with the regular courier. Meduseld runs smoothly in your absence and Lord Erkenbrand has come from the Hornburg and the sun came out after four days of mist and rain.

But this letter had come at an odd time. Perhaps some other business had come up. It happened every so often—Éomer dispatched a special messenger to King Elessar perhaps once a month, and her being in Minas Tirith, it would be no great trial for him to pen her a quick missive.

The seal finally popped away from the parchment. Éowyn and Arwen glanced over; Lothíriel raised her eyebrows at them. They grinned apologetically and resumed their conversation.

Lothíriel sighed and finally opened her letter.

Éomer King to Lothíriel, his excellent and honorable wife—his greeting and fondest wishes.

Lord Erkenbrand returned to the Hornburg with a dwarven surveyor sent with compliments and gifts from Erebor. Gimli's interest in the Glittering Caves appears unabated. On that same day, Cousin Sefa plighted her troth to Eofor of the Eastfold, grandson of my great-uncle Cearl. They wish to wed in Meduseld. Lord Aldor of the Fenmark has submitted a proposal for improving the road through the Firien Wood. The council has promised to bring it to table by the end of the month.

The pruning of the young apple trees in the royal orchards is completed. Head Gardener assures me that the older trees are in good form. You may expect a heap of apple hand pies come autumn.

Meduseld runs smoothly in your absence.

Your visit to your former home having lasted now some four weeks, I bid you return to your post by my side at Meduseld in Edoras. The messenger I have sent this letter by waits upon you to come back to Rohan. I anticipate your arriving before Sunstede¹.

Farewell.

(Edoras, 2 May, F.A. 1.)

Lothíriel stared down at her husband's words. She blinked. Her eyes stung, and she swallowed and set her jaw. She did not dare look up past the letter to Arwen and Éowyn, whose conversation has trickled to a close. Her husband's words she could observe without crying, but to see pity in her friends' faces…

Why did she have to be so affected? This letter could not have come much later. She'd been so busy enjoying her time in Gondor—visiting with her family, who had come from Dol Amroth; her former queen, for whom she'd been a lady-in-waiting before her marriage; her cousin Faramir and Éowyn, her sister by marriage—that she'd pushed all thought of her inevitable return to Rohan from her mind. But all her enjoyment of the last few weeks was nothing now that Éomer had ordered her to return to Edoras.

It was past time, really. King Elessar had remarked upon the length of her stay only last night. Yet despite the sense of the summons, her husband's letter was a punch in the gut.

The couch dipped to her left. Lothíriel flinched, but it was only Éowyn, who leaned against the back of the couch to read over Lothíriel's shoulder. Arwen sat gingerly on Lothíriel's other side. Lothíriel felt Arwen's eyes on her face—thank goodness that at least one of them had the decency not to read a private letter. Not that Éomer had written anything unfit for Éowyn's eyes.

After a minute, Éowyn sat back with a sigh. She always had read fast, Lothíriel thought sourly.

"Well! I am happy for my cousins," Éowyn said. "Two of my cousins—on different sides—are to be married," she told Arwen. "A good match, I think. They were always fond, the few times they met."

"Hm," Arwen said.

Lothíriel glanced at Arwen under her lashes. Arwen was still staring at her, and Lothíriel flushed and thrust Éomer's letter at her former queen. "Here," she blurted. "There is nothing much."

Arwen quirked her brow but accepted the letter. She read slowly, carefully, then folded the letter and returned it to Lothíriel.

"So you are to leave us, Lothíriel," Arwen murmured. She toyed with her necklace. "I am sorry for it. I was glad when Éomer sent you to visit. I have daily felt the benefit of your company. I am sure he has felt your absence keenly."

Lothíriel barely contained a snort. Meduseld runs smoothly in your absence, he had written in every letter. Éomer was no more bereft by her absence than his hall.

"Are you fond of apple pies, Lothíriel?" Arwen continued.

"Ah—I suppose so." Lothíriel ran the seam of her letter between her fingers. The green wax seal had a horse stamped into it, the same horse that adorned Rohan's banners. The king's seal. "They're warm and filling on a cold day. They're sold at market in the autumn." Apple hand pies were good, one of her favorite things to eat in Rohan. They were almost as good as the lemon cream pies at home. She was surprised that Éomer remembered she liked them. She'd only eaten them a few times in his presence—far more often when visiting the markets herself.

"It's only sensible that he should want you home," Éowyn broke in. She crossed her arms. "You're his wife! You should be together for Sunstede." Her pale cheeks tinged pink, but she met Lothíriel's eyes boldly.

Lothíriel's blush threatened to spread up to her hairline. She knew as well as Éowyn that Sunstede was the favored season for conceiving in Rohan. Babies conceived at midsummer were born near Modraniht, and babies born on Modraniht were considered lucky. Éowyn's son Elboron had been born around Modraniht last year, the same day, it turned out, as Lothíriel and Éomer's wedding. Éomer had bemoaned his sister's absence, but Lothíriel had pointed out that no woman heavy with child—or with a newborn—should have to suffer the three hundred miles each way.

And though Lothíriel had been married over a year, no sign of pregnancy had come. She had almost cried when her courses had come two weeks past, but like now, no tears had come. Her next letter to Éomer had been even more terse than usual, though his retained the same plain-speaking cadences as ever.

Arwen coughed lightly, breaking through Lothíriel's morose thoughts with her usual grace.

"At any rate," said the queen of Gondor, folding her white hands in her lap. "wherever she is from, the queen of Rohan belongs in the Golden Hall."

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A/N: This chapter was originally posted on Tumblr, along with the full illustration (part of which is acting as the story cover).

Éomer's letter to Lothíriel is inspired by medieval letters; specifically, by a letter written in 1098 from Stephen, Count of Blois and Chartres to his wife, Adele, during the 1st Crusade. There's an excellent bunch of medieval letters and missives available from DragonBear History that I highly recommend! So different from what we're used to.

¹ Sunstede: June 25. Rohirric Midsummer festival. Roughly translates to "sun standing still." (My own invention :3) Modraniht in Anglo-Saxon times was celebrated the eve of Yule, but I adapted it as Rohan's springtime festival during the spring equinox, roughly nine months after midsummer. I'm happy to give more info if anyone's interested in my headcanons!