Cushions

‘Well,’ thought Éowyn as, propped up by a pile of cushions, she sipped her early morning tea in bed, ‘by this time next week it will all be over.’

She took another sip and then laughed out loud at herself.

Probably as well not to tell anyone that she had thought that about her own wedding day – and night.

There seemed to be so many dinners and balls in the week before the event and, then, a ceremony that sounded a good deal more formal than it would have been had they married in Édoras. She wasn’t exactly worried about the wedding night; but she would be glad to get that over, too.

She was fairly sure that many young women her age, amongst her own people at least, would have had more experience of love making. However, when Éowyn was the age where others might have been exploring a little more than the occasional kiss, there had not only been an older brother who was very good at the time-honoured competition of seeing how far he could get with his friends’ sisters whilst doing all he could to prevent them reciprocating, but there was soon the constant presence of Wormtongue, as well, all too willing to ‘educate’ her should she have dropped her guard for a minute.

Still, she had no fear of the wedding night – Cwengyth and others found the whole exercise a pleasure, so she was sure she would too. But, even so, it would be a relief to get past the initial embarrassment, which would surely be there, and get on with actually being married – on with the important thing which was being Faramir’s wife. Yes – it would be good to get to this point next week and have all that behind her, and be ready to step out into married life.

In the meantime, she thought, she could keep herself distracted by watching Éomer courting Lothíriel.

……………………………..

There was a lot to be said, Éomer thought, for the sort of courtship Éothain had undertaken before he had proposed marriage to Cwengyth – although without the likelihood of imminent death for at least one of them, of course. But no-one had watched their every move; they had often ridden together, without need of an escort, for a start; and now it was Éothain who wouldn’t let Éomer outside the walls of Mundburg unless he was accompanied by at least half a dozen riders.

“You are a King now, Éomer, and we don’t want these Gondorians thinking we men of The Mark don’t know how to take care of our royalty.”

“They might be insulted that you don’t trust them to keep the land around the city safe,” Éomer had replied.

“Didn’t you notice Aragorn had a royal escort of at least a score when he rode out to meet us? No,” Éothain answered his own question, “I don’t suppose you did. You were too busy trying to see if your Lothíriel was riding behind them.”

Éomer no longer declared that the princess of Dol Amroth was not ‘his’. Instead he retorted, “I could make her mine a lot faster if we were allowed to go out riding alone!”

“Éomer!” his friend sounded quite shocked, “She is a princess – a proper one, like the ones in the stories. There is no way you can just bed her under a tree, or even in the stables!”

“That was not what I meant, even if the idea appeals greatly. But I never seem to get five minutes alone with her. There is always someone around; her brothers, her father, Aragorn, his queen, a whole court of young women who are still trying to attract me, or the parents of young women who are trying to thrust them at me.

“And,” he went on, “I don’t remember anyone insisting on turning up to describe the plants to you whenever you and Cwengyth went into a garden!”

“You are right. Not that Cwengyth and I had much trouble identifying carrots and cabbages, but I see what you mean.” Éothain paused, sighed, and then said “another job for your adjutant I suppose.”

Then he grinned, offered Éomer a glass of wine, and changed the subject.

……………………………..

Lothíriel looked at the recently delivered note. She didn’t recognise the handwriting but the seal was familiar.

Éomer King requests the pleasure of the company of Lothíriel of Dol Amroth to exercise their mounts tomorrow morning. An escort and married chaperone will be provided.

That was great deal more formal than anything Éomer had written to her since the letter sent via her father. How strange. She read on.

At least, he would request it if he knew… Éothain Eldwinson, adjutant to the King of the Riddermark.

Lothíriel laughed out loud, then quickly wrote a reply for the messenger.

Lothíriel of Dol Amroth is pleased to accept the invitation of Éothain Eldwinson issued on behalf of his monarch.

Father was happy for her to take up the invitation. He had been happy to let her, accompanied by Erchirion, ride with Éomer and his men earlier in the week as well; father clearly realised which way the wind was blowing, and was content to let this ship run before it with full sails.

The next morning she rode down to the gates with one of the grooms who turned back once the company were in sight. Waiting for her were a dozen Riders, Éothain and his wife (the suitable chaperone, presumably), Éowyn – and Éomer. It might not have been his direct invitation but the look on his face showed he was happy to see her and she was soon placed between Éomer and Éowyn, with Éothain and his wife a little behind – and the escort all around them.

It was a beautiful spring morning; there had been a soft mist but it had almost completely gone, leaving tiny wisps no more substantial than the spider webs still damply glistening on the young trees and bushes. These were beginning to show signs of spring as well; here a scattering of fresh green leaves, there a handful of early blossom. That these plants were here at all made Lothíriel smile, for some were unexpected survivors of the battlefield, whilst others were recently planted by those who were intent on reclaiming the Pelennor as farmland.

Lothíriel commented on how quickly the farms were being rebuilt, and the three talked about the hopes for the coming season in Rohan as they rode sedately for the first mile or so out of the city.

Éothain moved alongside as the land became a little more open, and spoke briefly to Éomer who glanced around at the escort before his face was split by a broad grin, reminding Lothíriel once again what very nice teeth he had.

Éowyn seemed to share the joke. Lothíriel wished she did. Then Éowyn called out to one of the escort and urged her mount forward. Within seconds the rider responded and the two of them were racing ahead. Éothain, on the other hand dropped back where Cwengyth seemed to be positively dawdling.

“At last,” Éomer said. “Privacy! I was beginning to think we would just have to keep writing notes to each other.”

Lothíriel glanced at the escort.

“Privacy,” Éomer repeated. “Éothain carefully chose only men who understand nothing of the Common Tongue…”

No wonder Éomer had been so amused.

…………………

They talked. They talked of the things it was hard to ask in a letter when you might wait weeks for the reply. The sort of things where you needed, perhaps, to hear the tone and inflection of voice both in the questions and the answers. And whilst Éomer spoke the Common Tongue almost faultlessly, the language of his heart was Rohirric, and he was never quite sure if he was using exactly the right word for things that had been barely touched on in his lessons, nor were much needed in conversations with other warriors or even a fellow king.

It was not the place to actually ask Lothíriel to marry him, but by the time they were approaching the city on their return he knew she was certainly not averse to living away from Minas Tirith nor to living away from the sea as, she explained, she had always spent time away from either one or the other. He knew she enjoyed galloping her horse along the flat sands in Dol Amroth and, whilst Éomer had never seen the sea strand, he thought she might be happy to gallop across the flat plains of The Mark.

Even more importantly, he knew she was not attracted to anyone else, and had tried to make it clear that neither was he. Now all he needed to do was find a suitable time and place to propose.

No chance this evening, he thought, as there was another formal event to welcome some emissary from somewhere; an emissary he would doubtless have to meet again during the day tomorrow. And tomorrow evening there was to be a ‘family’ meal at the Dol Amroth town house; the groom’s family entertaining that of the bride. This was the tradition in Gondor and, although her sister-in-law was meant to be the hostess, with a babe in arms she was likely to rely on Lothíriel’s help. So, little chance of spiriting her away then either.

The night after would be yet another semi-formal dinner, hosted by the bride’s family – in other words Éomer – but Arwen had declared that it would be her pleasure to organise this and act as hostess; all Éomer would have to do was welcome everyone and propose a couple of toasts.

It might well be that his first chance would come at Éowyn’s wedding. He resigned himself to waiting until then, and simply seeing how much time he could spend with Lothíriel in public at the forthcoming events.

Éothain had, somehow, managed to get himself on the guest list for everything and at a status comparable to a middle ranking member of Gondorian nobility. Cwengyth was, therefore, also attending tonight. Éomer could see her deep in conversation with Éowyn and Lothíriel; he wished he could join them, but Aragorn kept him in conversation with people he felt Éomer should know.

Finally Arwen joined her husband and Éomer felt he could ease himself away but, when he looked around, he couldn’t see the three young women. At that moment Éothain appeared at his shoulder.

“Éomer King,” he said, “I know you have been told a great deal about the plants that grow here. Could you come and identify something for me?”

What in all Arda was Éothain talking about?

His adjutant was applying not so gentle pressure to Éomer’s arm – but was that the hint of a wink? Remembering the way Éothain had managed to give him the chance of private conversation with Lothíriel earlier Éomer allowed himself to be steered through the groups of people and, eventually, into a garden which was illuminated by small bright lights between which near darkness pooled.

“This way,” Éothain said. “Down this path…”

Voices heralded the approach of a group of women and, almost as if done by the sleight of hand Gandalf was so good at, Éothain was suddenly walking away arm in arm with his wife and her friend, and Éomer was standing in a small alcove, lit by one lamp, in the company of Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.

Lothíriel smiled at him. Clearly she was not going to object to them being unchaperoned in what was, really, a rather romantic spot for a tryst.

“That was neatly done,” she said.

Éomer decided honesty was the best policy and to give the credit where it belonged.

“Wasn’t it?” he replied. “I had given up on the idea of you and I getting time together this evening, but Éothain has organisational talents of which I was totally unaware until I became king.”

He stepped closer. “It would be a shame to waste his efforts…”

Lothíriel didn’t answer, but took a step forward herself, tilting her face up to his.

Really no further invitation was needed. Éomer cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her.

…………………

Éomer cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her. Just as on the previous occasion (so very long ago now) she naturally leant into him and put her arms around his neck and, when his tongue touched her lips, she opened her mouth to allow him access. His other hand was on her back, warm through the thin fabric of her dress, helping her keep her balance as her knees felt somewhat weak and wobbly.

Her tongue met his and then she found that, even within the confined space of their kiss, she could slide her own tongue between Éomer’s lips and explore a little, just as he was doing. He tasted of wine and the small lavender biscuits that had been part of the last remove of the meal and, she breathed in deeply, he smelled as she remembered; of soap with a hint of clean straw and something that was indefinably Éomer. She pressed herself as closely to him as she could, until her breasts were squashed against his tunic, and she felt the warmth in her abdomen that she experienced when she lay in bed at night and thought of Éomer kissing her.

Éomer’s hand left her chin and progressed along her skin to the hollow where her neck met her shoulder. He slowly withdrew his tongue from her mouth and eased his lips away from hers, but only so that he could kiss – oh! and nibble – down the course his hand had plotted, whilst the hand continued its downward path until it was at the top of her buttocks.

She let her head drop back a little to allow his mouth easier access and kept her hands in his hair, simply enjoying the moment. Still holding her close to his body Éomer finally stopped kissing her. She made a somewhat incoherent noise of displeasure which made him laugh quietly.

“Whilst I could happily continue kissing you all evening, and I think you would not object…”

Quite right she would not object!

“I really want to talk, at least for a few minutes,” he continued.

“Although our courtship has mainly been by letter I feel we know each other quite well now. And I think we can both feel the physical attraction between us.”

He paused briefly to drop a kiss at the corner of her mouth and her head turned to bring their mouths together without her needing to even think of it.

Conversation ended for another minute, but eventually Éomer spoke again.

“Like that! Lothíriel, mðdleófu, it is our tradition in The Mark that a man and a woman who wish to wed go together to ask for the blessings of both families. Would you come with me to your father and ask him to give permission, as I know he should in your tradition, and his blessing, which is all that is needed in mine, to us becoming betrothed?”

Probably a refined and delicate princess from a storybook should blush and say she needed time to think about a proposal. But Lothíriel couldn’t see the point.

“Yes. Yes, please! And I am sure he will give us both permission and blessings. But not right now. Not whilst we still have a few minutes to ourselves… Tomorrow maybe?”

No point, she thought, in waiting any longer, but no point, either, in wasting these moments of privacy!


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Mðdleófu- beloved.