Cushions

The sun shone, over all the Riddermark, much to the relief of the bards who would record this royal wedding day. Edoras was packed with visitors from all over the country and from further afield; there was even a dwarf and three elves (the sons of Elrond, as well as Legolas, had decided to meet with their brother and sister at this social event). Messengers had been sent out to tell towns and villages that today was to be a day of celebration – after such a good harvest Éomer King had ensured there would be ale and mead for all.

It was usual for the bride and groom to each spend their last night before the wedding in the house of their parents but, clearly, this was not possible. Lothíriel had suggested she could sleep in one of the tents, amongst Father’s guard, but no-one seemed to take her seriously.

Oddly enough it had been the Lady Osdryth, a woman of about forty with a look of Éowyn about her, who had solved the problem. Her father had recovered and she had returned to the house in Edoras where she had lived with her husband. Éomer, she said, would sleep under >her roof and Lothíriel and her family could sleep in Meduseld as they had done for the past seven nights. This would make it easier for the housekeeping staff, too, as they could ensure the King’s bedroom was prepared for his wedding night the day before and leave them less work on the day itself.

Also, she said, she would do her best to make sure her cousin was not too badly hung-over by the appointed hour for the ceremony. There was a very good reason why no Rohir made their wedding vows until at least an hour after mid-day unless in dire circumstances.

Lothíriel was so busy for much of the morning that she had no time for nerves. Miraina had arrived, not long after a maid brought breakfast, and expressed pleasure and surprise at the amount Lothíriel had eaten. No sooner had she eaten than her maid arrived to see to her bath, and the washing of her hair, and she was no sooner out of the bath than her room was filled with women. Friendly, smiling, chattering women.

Miraina, Cwenhild (now recovered, although she would have an interesting scar of her own), Cwengyth, Éowyn, and Queen Arwen arrived together ‘to prepare the bride’; which required wine, cakes, and a lot of laughter. Lothíriel was pleased that the three Rohirric members of the group didn’t mention her misunderstanding at Cena’s hold, even though all three had found it very funny. She really didn’t want her sister-in-law, or the wonderfully serene Queen of Gondor, to know. And none of them knew, nor would they, of that intimate visit to Éomer’s bedroom in the aftermath.

They helped her into her wedding gown. It seemed as if the first three months after her betrothal had involved little more than discussions about what this should be like. ‘Not Dol Amroth blue, even though it is beautiful – you will need to wear the dress as Queen of the Mark in the future…’ ‘You need to stand out from the crowds. But not all white, for the people of Rohan associate that with Éowyn’. ‘Something you can breathe in,’ ‘Something that will take away Éomer’s breath… and that he can easily get you out of when the time comes!’ That last advice from Cwengyth in a letter.

Lothíriel hoped that they had achieved that latter along with all those other suggestions. Queen Arwen had, in the end, come up with the best ideas and the dress owed much to her. The bride now wore a bliaut (over-dress) of a shot cream silk; the iridescent fabric reminded her of the sea and the inside of shells. Green ribbons laced the sides and bound the arms down to the elbows, and the front was split up to hip level to reveal the under-dress of the same soft, fine, green fabric that, encrusted with pearls to represent Dol Amroth, had been used to fashion her girdle. The neck of the underdress was edged with more pearls, and it had long, tight-fitting, sleeves fastened from elbow to wrist with pearl buttons.

She would show up amongst the darker colours, there was enough green on view to show her loyalty to her new country, the soft unstiffened fabrics meant that she could easily breathe – and no-one could doubt that, wearing it, she would take Éomer’s breath away. Especially with her hair dressed by the Queen of Gondor. Arwen had just finished plaiting it, and working in more pearls, but no circlet today.

Miraina fastened a single large pearl on a gold chain around Lothíriel’s neck – a memento of her scarce remembered mother – and Éowyn added the finishing touch of golden earrings in the shape of running horses, these a memento of that other mother who was not at this wedding.

There was a knock on the door and Father entered. “It is time, Your Majesty, ladies. I would have a few moments with my daughter.”

“You look perfect,” he told her. “I would ask if you are happy but I see there is no need. Are you nervous?

“No. Well, just a little in case I get my words wrong. There are a lot of people out there and it would be awful if I mispronounced a word so that I ended up saying something silly.”

She sincerely hoped he wasn’t going to ask if she was nervous about her wedding night – it wasn’t something you could discuss with your father! She forestalled him just in case. “But I am really looking forward to the feast, the dancing and all the rest. I think it will be much more fun than the wedding of King Elessar and Queen Arwen, to be honest.”

He looked relieved. “I think you may be right. It promises to be a most exuberant affair. I am so happy that the thought does not unnerve you.”

Another knock, she took his arm, and made her way to her wedding.

………………….

Osdryth woke the groom with herbal tea in case his head ached. It did. But not too badly, and not at all by the time he had eaten the breakfast she put in front of him. There had been a good deal of quaffing the night before, but Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, and Aragorn had counterbalanced Éothain and the bride’s brothers in the traditional campaign to get the groom, king or not, as drunk as possible; and one of the sons of Elrond had given him a draught to drink before he slept ‘to clear your head and settle the ale’. He must ask for more of that; it was pretty successful.

Then his morning mirrored that of his bride. A hot bath before a company of men (and a dwarf and three elves) arrived, with cakes and ale, to supervise the trimming of his hair and beard (Ah, laddie, you should have let it grow properly and I would have bound it and decorated it in a manner suitable for a king and bridegroom…), and the donning of his clothes.

Éothain handed him the newly made wedding cloak, embroidered with what seemed to be miles of gold thread and scores of tiny pearls that Imrahil had sent. He went to sling it over his shoulder, but Aragorn caught his eye and he put it on more carefully over the equally lavish surcoat. The soft black linen breeches had been Éowyn’s suggestion, so that he would not fade totally into the background, as most of the people would also wear green in honour of their king.

He was ready. The other males surrounded him and they began the walk to the steps of Meduseld, cheered by crowds all the way.

……………………………

At the top of the steps Lothíriel waited, surrounded by her family and her female friends. The men bunched briefly at the bottom because Éomer, now in the lead, stopped dead. The others had been right when they said she would take his breath away, it seemed.

The crowds cheered as he almost ran up the long stairs to her; a groom anxious to get on with marrying was a good thing. And then he was there, standing facing her, the men (and three elves and a dwarf, of course!) fell back behind him, those who had surrounded Lothíriel did likewise at her side of the terrace, and a hush fell.

Éomer looked at her, held her gaze and, in the language of his people, asked loudly and clearly, not in an intimate whisper as she might have expected, “Are you sure of this?”

She took his cue and answered just as clearly. “Yes.”

He smiled and then, taking both her hands in his, spoke out the words of his vows.

“I, Éomer Éomund’s son, of the House of Éorl, give myself as your husband. I will protect you, provide for you, join my body with yours alone, and be the father of your children.”

Hoping she had all the words right, Lothíriel spoke clearly, too.

“I, Lothíriel, Imrahil’s daughter, of the House of Dol Amroth, give myself as your wife. I will nourish you, provide for you, join my body with yours alone, and be the mother of your children.”

Éomer bent his head to kiss her, his arms went around her, and hers around him, and as the kiss went on so, from all around Edoras, the cheering rang out.

And that was it. No fuss, no long speeches; this was the way of the Rohirrim, and they were married.

The tiny part of Lothíriel that was not entirely caught up in the pleasure of that long, long, kiss thought all those who had married in Gondor might envy her this simplicity… and the pleasure of this very public, unrestrained, evidence of why they were marrying.

Then Éomer straightened, and stepped back a little, and within seconds the crowd was silent again, waiting. Two pages appeared and the first held out the crown of Rohan to Éomer who, almost nonchalantly, placed it on his own head before turning to Lothíriel again.

His voice rang out once more.

“I Éomer, King of the Riddermark, am sworn to protect and provide for my people, to rule wisely and hold their needs as equal to my own. I now ask Lothíriel, my wife, if she is willing to become the Queen. To be as a mother to my people, loving them, giving wise counsel, and ruling in my place should I be called away.”

And so the first time she was called Éomer’s wife was to be asked if she would also be his queen. An equally solemn and binding vow.

“I am willing,” she said. “Your people will be my people and I will love them as I do their king.”

The second page handed a lighter, smaller, crown to Éomer, who took it and placed it into Lothíriel’s hands. Just as he accepted the kingship at his coronation by placing the crown on his own head, now she would become queen. She took the crown, pleased that her hands didn’t shake, and put it on, hoping she was setting it straight without a mirror!

“Perfect,” Éomer said quietly. “Your hair is just the right shape to hold it in place, too.”

“Arwen,” she replied, and then stood beside her husband as the cheers went on and on.

……………………………

When he caught sight of Lothíriel, standing outside the great doors of Meduseld, Éomer knew why Imrahil had sent the pearls to add to the embroidery on his wedding cloak. She looked beautiful; a sea pearl herself, at first sight, with the green of The Mark ready to be revealed when she sheds the sea-maiden’s gown! I wonder, Éomer thought fleetingly, if the bards will put it quite like that?

Standing now, with the hand of his new wife and queen in his, Éomer said a silent ‘thank you’ to Béma, and to all his fellow members of the Valar, that after all the misunderstandings (mostly his, he would admit) they had finally reached this point.

“Let’s begin,” he said, and started the long walk down the steps between their friends, families, and all the members of the Court of the Riddermark. By the time they reached the lower steps they were surrounded by the ordinary people of the city, and two of Éomer’s Royal Guard moved into place ahead of them; not to stop the crowd getting close, but to clear a path.

To the cheers of the crowd they made their way through packed streets to the market place, and then back up to Meduseld, by way of the Royal Stables which they entered and, doubtless to the amusement of some of the Gondorian members of the party, where Éomer announced loudly to the horses that this was his bride and the Queen of the Riddermark.

A stable boy produced two apples; one for Firefoot and one for Lothíriel’s horse. Both took them very daintily; a good thing, as it would have been a shame to add further adornment to their wedding finery with trails of horse slobber. He told Lothíriel this, which made her giggle, as they left to walk between an honour guard of the stable staff.

He had a feeling that any possible doubts the people of Edoras might have about their king marrying a Gondorian princess, rather than a lady of Rohan, would be forgotten due to her obvious pleasure in their horses and their king! That and, he thought as they paused again in their progress, her willingness to accept all sorts of small tokens from those who pressed them onto her… Fortunately, her father, brothers, and nephew were close behind and they willingly carried everything she passed on to them; flowers, a couple of rag dolls, carved horses, horseshoes, and spoons, even a full-sized horseshoe threaded through with ribbon. Éomer wondered if she realised that almost all of them were fertility symbols.

Eventually they entered through the great doors of Meduseld, leaving the crowds to continue celebrating outside. Now they were back to being the bride and groom and their crowns were returned to the two pages. Inside a great feast had been laid out and Éomer led his wife (His wife!) to the top table, with others sitting wherever they wished.

It was a lot more informal than the wedding feast for Éowyn and her husband, in Mundburg, but none the worse for that, he felt. Better, in fact. He hoped the Gondorian visitors would agree but, to be honest, it didn’t bother him too much if they didn’t… as long as Lothíriel was happy.

A glance at her was enough to confirm that she was definitely happy; and she was eating, as she had said she would. Osdryth had certainly ensured that the spread was plentiful and, although it may have been a little less refined than the one Arwen had arranged for Éowyn’s wedding, there was freshly smoked trout, then tender beef, colourful vegetables, and the sweet remove, when it was placed in front of them, included bright fruits piled in swan-shaped pastry cases. All in all, Éomer felt, The Mark had shown itself able to hold a good feast.

There were toasts, of course; every so often someone would stand, bang their knife handle on the table to call for quiet, and make a speech, long or short as they would, to drink the health of Éomer King and Lothíriel Queen. The first person to do this was Aragorn, and Lothíriel looked startled at this first use of her name and title. Éomer reached beneath the table and took her hand.

Even Legolas stood and made a short, but elegant, toast – his voice, usually softly spoken, carried to every corner and Éomer remembered being told that, at home, he was a commander.

Eventually most people seemed to have eaten their fill and, as the tables were cleared, they were pushed back to make a space for dancing. Cwenhild had made sure Lothíriel knew the steps to the most common Rohirric dances and she positively skipped as Éomer led her out onto the floor.

“I am having such a lovely day,” she said to him, “I really don’t want it to end.”

“I have to tell you, Mðdleófu, that I have every intention of us leaving well before the dancing is over and all the ale and wine are finished.”

She blushed.

As the evening continued Éomer began to worry that she would be too tired to do anything but sleep by the time they reached their bedroom. She danced with her father, her brothers, Aragorn, Elrohir (or possibly Elladan), Legolas, Éothain… and one or two Riders who were brave enough to ask.

Finally, he caught her hand and said “I am beginning to wonder if you are trying to avoid your wedding night by dancing until sunrise.”

“No! Oh no! Is it time do you think?”

“The moon is high in the sky, Mðdleófu, I think it is time. And you know we cannot just sneak out.”

“I know. But there are much more embarrassing traditions in some parts of Gondor.”

Éomer gestured to one of the pages, and sent him to speak to the leader of the musicians. The dancing stopped.

“We hope you will all enjoy yourselves until the sky is light – drink on, dance on – but my wife and I will leave you to your pleasures, and seek ours elsewhere.”

He could see Aragorn grin, he had been to Rohirric weddings in the past and had expected such an announcement, whereas Lothíriel’s menfolk looked a little discomforted – but so be it. As Éomer led his wife towards the doors to the royal apartments the entire assembly stood to cheer, and clap them out, and then as many as could followed.

Éomer glanced down at Lothíriel again as he led her through the passageway; she was blushing but still smiling. Somehow Éothain and Erkenbrand had got to the door of the bedroom ahead of them, and swung it open, but then prevented anyone following them in. The doors closed firmly behind them, and Éomer slipped the bolt, but it took a few minutes before the sound of clapping and cheering died down.

…………….

Lothíriel had thought she might be embarrassed or uncertain once they were finally alone. But instead she found her eyes drawn to the room. It was large and, unlike the great hall that was wood panelled all around, this had panelling only up to Éomer’s shoulder level. What could be seen of the walls above were white, where they showed between tapestries depicting hills, horses and, on one she had sent from home, blue sea and ships. There was a window, now covered with heavy green curtains, a fire burning in the hearth beside which were two comfortable looking chairs and a small table, and there were two more doors.

Éomer was watching her. “Bathing room and privy closet,” he nodded at one door, “wardrobe,” he nodded at the other. “You will find your clothes already in the chests and presses in there, alongside mine.” He smiled. “Osdryth banished my armour, and its stand, into there as well for she said it might scare you if you woke in the night and thought it a man. I said I would happily defend you from it, but still it was banished… for now!” he finished.

Finally Lothíriel let her gaze turn to the bed. It was very big. The base and the pillars were beautifully carved with horse motifs; the bed hangings were thick dark green fabric embroidered with white horses. And the whole bed was piled high with cushions! Blue cushions with swans on them; green cushions embroidered with more white horses; blue ones with horses and green ones with swans – and some in waves of blue and green with silver thread that surely represented the sea!

She burst out laughing.

Any tension she might have felt dissipated. She couldn’t resist; she threw herself down into the middle of the cushion mountain.

Now Éomer laughed as well and threw himself onto the great bed beside her. It was but the work of a moment for him to take her in his arms, and kiss her, and Lothíriel lost herself in the sheer pleasure of it.

It was only when Éomer lifted his mouth from the hollow of her neck that she realised she was lying on her back amongst most of the cushions, some having fallen onto the floor, and Éomer was lying partly beside her and partly over her, with a hand cupping one of her breasts.

“I had thought,” he said, sounding slightly breathless, “to take the pins from your hair, then slowly remove your shell of pearl to reveal the green of Rohan. I planned to slip that off you and coax you to the bed… Not that I am objecting to you throwing yourself whole heartedly onto it. But perhaps it might be better if we undress before our wedding clothes become too badly crumpled.”

Lothíriel found that she wanted to do that very much. Not that, just now, she cared much about the clothes. She wanted to press herself against his bare chest, as she had at Cena’s Hold, trace that interesting scar down further than she had when he still wore his breeches, get to see and touch his pintel. Cwenhild had taught her that word, but said it might be good to know the ‘usual’ Rohirric words for that as well – if Éomer spoke of his hamor or his cocc in bed he probably didn’t mean a hammer or a cockerel! Cwenhild had also told her no man of The Mark ever complained about his wife being too forward…

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, please!”

Now she began to unfasten his surcoat and, as first her bliaut and then her underdress pooled at her feet, he quickly demonstrated that her wedding gown fulfilled Cwengyth’s criteria and was easy for him to remove.

Somewhere along the way he had unpinned her hair, they had shed their shoes, and the only clothing left in place were his breeches. She began to trace the scar she had found before and he breathed in with a slight hiss. Then his hand stroked down her naked back to her behind.

He whispered in her ear, now in Rohirric as he had promised, “I’ll show you my scars if you show me yours…!”

“Éomer!” She began to laugh again.

He picked her up, as if she weighed no more than Alphros, and carried her back to the bed, dropping her amongst the cushions, and following her down.

He wriggled out of his breeches and she was glad that Cwenhild had pointed out that even though a hamor might look worryingly large, until you got used to it, they were definitely smaller than babies and they used the same passage.

“Mðdleófu… oh woman…” he said, “I love you when you laugh.”

He paused. “I love you at all times, really, but when you laugh I want to…”

It was somewhere between a tickle and a caress – then it became only a caress – a caress that slowly took in all her body and she forgot about scars, and about everything else but Éomer’s hands and mouth, and his skin beneath her own hands and mouth, the weight of his body as she pulled him over her without conscious thought, and the giving and taking of pleasure.

…………………….

The fire was little more than embers, but the night wasn’t cold, and Éomer had no wish to leave his bed. Their bed. His wife was asleep in his arms. He wanted to wake her and make love to her again but, good as their first joining had been, she was probably a little sore. Thank Béma, he thought, for a willing, enthusiastic wife; and for Cwenhild, who must surely have made sure she was not scared of the idea of intercourse as Aragorn had warned him, some months ago, Gondorian girls often were.

He moved his hand, just a little, so that it lay on her stomach. She wriggled, murmured his name sleepily, them brought her hand to his and moved it down her abdomen towards the still damp patch of curls…

The sun was rising before they slept again.

…………………….

And so the story ends. Although beset by many misunderstandings the King of the Riddermark has found his queen. Or should we say the Queen of the Riddermark has found her king?

And of course, gentle reader, we know that, for them, this is not the end of the story, but only the beginning – but from here they will travel the path of their lives without us.

…………………….



The End.


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