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Trust To Hope, Book Two

Chapter 3: Good Things Come... Chapter Two

by Novedhelion

Trust To Hope - Book Two
Chapter Two

I’m going to skip most of this information, cause by now you guys know I wrote it and Riya beta’d it.

Rating - PG 13
Disclaimer - Not making any money. Wish I was. Sorry it's short. Still healing from these injuries...but I thought it was better than making you wait longer!
Warning - Willa’s a bitch.

Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts.
-- William Shakespeare, King Henry the Sixth
Chapter Two
12 Gwaeron, 3020 T.A.

“Stop for a moment, please,” Anhuil asked, her voice quiet.

Éomer reined in Firefoot and followed her gaze. Before them, gleaming atop the hill less than half a day’s ride away, sat Edoras, the Golden Hall of Meduseld.

“It is so beautiful,” she finally said.

“Not as beautiful as you,” the king answered softly, pressing his lips to her temple. He transferred the reins to one hand, sliding the other around her waist. She laid her hands on his arm, pulling it tight around her in an effort to stop the leaping of her insides. Her slight tremble did not go unnoticed. “Are you nervous?” he asked.

“Scared to death,” she admitted. “What if your people--“

“Our people,” he corrected her.

Ignoring him, she continued. “Éomer...what if they do not take kindly to you bringing an outsider to be queen? What if they do not approve of me?”

He chuckled, squeezing her against him, and lowered his voice dangerously. “If anyone dares speak against the queen, I will raise their head on stake as a warning to any others who might--Ow!” He cut himself off as she elbowed him in the ribs.

“You are not helping,” she said, stifling a nervous laugh.

“Stop fretting, Ani. They will love you.” Urging Firefoot forward, they made their way across the open fields.

14 Gwaeron, 3020 T.A.

“Ic þé þás mece giefe...” Anhuil repeated softly to herself, sitting in front of the mirror, running a brush through her curls, trying desperately to take her mind off the constant flipping of her insides and the pounding of her heart. Dressed only in a shift, the creak of the door startled her, and she whirled to see Cam enter. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned back to the mirror.

“You are not dressed yet,” her friend observed, moving to the small table and picking up the bottle of wine that sat upon it.

“I am still trying to do something with this hair!” Anhuil complained. “I cannot seem to make it behave. I tried braiding it but it kept coming down, and it is still too short to--“

“Ani, relax.” Cam laughed, taking the brush from her. “I will help with your hair,” she said, placing a cup of wine she had poured in front of the queen, “and this will help with your nerves. You have plenty of time.” She stood behind her, studying the way the curls fell.

Anhuil blew out a breath and picked up the cup. “I was not the least bit nervous at our wedding in Gondor. For Valar’s sake, Cam, I have been married to the man for several weeks!”

“You were at home,” her friend reminded her calmly, working with a braid on one side of her head. “And you knew the language. That,” she paused for effect, tugging on her hair playfully, “and you were not being crowned Queen of the Mark.”

At her friend’s sharp intake of breath, she chuckled and started another braid on the other side. “You will be fine. You know what to do and what to say, and even if you trip up your vows and say something absolutely ridiculous no one will notice because they will all be so stunned by your beauty,” she said teasingly.

“Not funny, Camwethrin.”

Braiding the two sides together in the back, Cam fastened them at the back of her head with a golden band. The remainder of her hair fell loose, just brushing her shoulders. Anhuil smiled into the mirror at the result.

”There, see? Simple and elegant. Now, for that dress.” Cam moved to the gown that hung from the door of the wardrobe and removed it, helping the queen slip into it. As she laced up the back, she giggled, realizing her friend was holding her breath. “Breathe, Ani. You are going to pass out.”

“It is just...Oh, gods, Cam...” She dropped to sit on the edge of the bed, the lacings in the back of her dress still undone. Butterflies in her stomach seemed to multiply in droves.

Cam retrieved the goblet of wine and passed it to her. “Ani, the only thing you need to concern yourself with is Éomer. Focus on him, and you will get through this fine.”

Polishing off the wine, Anhuil felt much steadier. “Easy for you to say,” she commented, rising again so Cam could finish the laces. “We shall see how calm you are on your wedding day.”

Cam deliberately yanked the laces a bit too hard, biting back a grin. “I am certain you will remind me of this conversation.”

Anhuil held up the empty cup and slanted Cam an expectant look. Taking the cup, Cam filled it again. “One more,” Anhuil said, taking the filled goblet. “That is all. I cannot go stumbling drunk into the Golden Hall for my own coronation.”

“This is Rohan, Ani,” Cam reminded her. “Do you think anyone would even notice?”


“Are you going to hide in here all day or are we going to see a wedding?”

Éomer looked up as Éowyn peeked in the doorway of his study. He rose from the desk as she slipped inside. The deep green tunic he wore was long, belted at the waist, with a narrow, braided cord around the collar and sleeves in gold. His boots, to her amusement, had been polished to a shine. He had left his hair loose, the waves falling loose over his shoulders. Nearly, she thought, the color of the embroidery that adorned his tunic.

But it could use a trim.

“I would think you would be in a hurry to get this over with,” she said teasingly as he reached for his cloak.

“Why is that?” he asked, rolling his eyes as she stepped forward to fiddle with the clasp of his cloak herself. “Éowyn, if you have failed to notice thus far, I think I should inform you that I am a grown man now.” He slapped playfully at her hands.

“Mmm-hmm. And since you have failed to notice thus far, I think I should inform you that your cloak is inside out.”

Looking down, he sighed, removed the cloak and flipped it around. “Better?”

“A bit nervous, big brother?”

“I just want everything to be perfect. For Ani. This is an important evening for her.”

“Well, putting your clothing on correctly would be a start,” she mocked, giving the brooch that held his cloak a pat with her fingertips.

“And as for me, I just want to get all this ceremony out of the way. I am looking forward to spending some relaxing time with my wife and our guests,” he said, sounding so diplomatic it was almost convincing.

But not quite.

Éowyn shrugged, casually arranging his hair on his shoulders. “I assumed after that promise you made to Ani, you would want this over as soon as possible. I know she does. I do not think you will be spending much time with your guests tonight,” she said, the knowing smile creeping across her face.

At his stunned expression, his sister laughed out loud. “Do not look so shocked, brother. Do you not think women talk about these things?” She laughed as the color rose in his cheeks. “Trust me, you have all but driven her mad these last few weeks.”

“I assure you it has been mutual,” he said tersely.

His sister chuckled, laying a hand on his cheek. “It was very sweet. Very sweet and very chivalrous, and very romantic. And you proven to your wife that you are a man of your word, which in her heart, is something every woman wants to know.” She kissed his other cheek, and gave it a sisterly pat. “Now, go get married so you can properly bed your queen.”


She grinned at him over her shoulder as she swept from his study.


Filled to capacity, the Golden Hall became deadly quiet as Éomer stood on the dais in front of his throne. His eyes traveled over the crowd. Some were newer friends. Aragorn, who he had jokingly called Wingfoot since their first meeting on the plains of Rohan, and the beautiful Queen of Gondor. Meriadoc Brandybuck had traveled from the Shire, bringing with him his dearest friend, Peregrin Took. Faramir, the one man he had thought worthy of marrying his sister. Anhuil’s brothers, whom he had begun to think of as his own kin.

But most of them he knew, had known all of his life. He had seen the sidelong looks and outright stares at his queen, and had noted the approval on their faces.

Glancing down at Anhuil, who stood at his side with her father. He smiled, then turned to the waiting guests.

“Ic grete Þe,” he said softly, greeting his people in their own tongue. “Wilcum.” He paused, taking a deep breath, and changing to Westron so that all those present could understand him. “Ere we begin, I would like to extend our deepest gratitude to those of you gathered here to celebrate with us tonight.”

The expected cheers erupted, tankards raised in salute. Éomer grinned, waited until the clamor subsided, then continued. “Many of you are aware that I spent the last few months in Southern Gondor. With us this evening is a man to whom I owe my very life, as well as that of my sister.” His gaze fell on his father in law, and he smiled. “I would like to welcome to the Golden Hall Prince Imrahil of the city of Dol Amroth.”

Imrahil stepped forward with a slight gracious bow. As the applause subsided, he scanned the assemblage quietly before speaking. “Two months ago, the city of Dol Amroth was attacked by a fleet of Corsair ships from the South. Our own military had been severely weakened by the losses of the war with Sauron, and our defenses were minimal. Your king and his men rode to our aid, and it was their valor that saved our fair city. For that, Dol Amroth will be forever indebted to the people of Rohan.” Cries rang out again, the sound of pewter tankards clanking ringing through the hall.

Imrahil smiled widely, enjoying the raucous atmosphere. “On behalf of our city, of the region of Belfalas, Ic sæcge eow þancas.” He bowed politely, and stepped back.

Éomer took a deep breath, reaching for Anhuil’s small hand. “As we are indebted to one another, the alliance with Gondor is further strengthened by our new bond with the people of Dol Amroth. During my stay there, I asked the prince for the hand of his lovely daughter in marriage. He duly informed me it was her consent I must procure...”

At that comment, the room erupted in laughter. Anhuil squeezed his hand, her lips pressed tightly together as the color rose in her cheeks. His expression softened as he turned his gaze on her. “She graciously agreed,” he continued, eliciting a few more giggles, “ and we were wed by the sea. I would like to present to you my wife, and your queen, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.”

Anhuil kept her gaze on him, afraid the jelly that her knees had become would dissolve completely if she did not. Her hand trembled in his, and he clasped it tighter, bringing it to his lips. His eyes held hers, the pride in them more than evident, before he turned back to his people.

“It is our wish this evening to share our union with all of you, pledging our lives to each other and to the Mark,” he said, turning with a nod to Imrahil, who came to stand beside his daughter. As Éothain moved behind Éomer, holding in his upturned palms a folded, oblong cloth, Cam did the same behind Anhuil.

“In Gondor we pledged our troth to one another, and that vow will hold until death parts us. Now let us pledge our lives to the rule of the Mark, to our heirs, and to our people.”

Turning to face her, he carefully unwrapped the cloth Éothain held, exposing the gleaming sword.
Taking it in his hands, he knelt before her, holding it up to her. “This is Beorgan, the sword of my father. It is a symbol strength, my own and that of our people. Ic þé þás mece giefe. Geheald hit þæt uncer sona hæbben and befæsten hit.”

Anhuil took the blade by the hilt, her other supporting the blade. “I receive this blade in honor of your father, and of your sons. I will keep it safe until the day they wield it with pride in defense of the Riddermark.” She turned and laid the blade in her father’s hands, then carefully took the one from Cam and laid it in his hands. “'Þæt þu nerien ús, þu scealt beran mece. Mid þisse mece nere úre ham.' He smiled at the perfect flow of his language from her lips, their eyes locked on one another.

“I accept this sword humbly. Your enemies are now mine, and if it cost me my life, I pledge to stand at your side.” Sheathing the sword she had given him, he rose. Éowyn now stood beside Éothain, the small tray she bore holding a thin circlet of braided gold, and two goblets. Lifting the circlet from the tray, he turned to Anhuil.

“As we have pledged our love and loyalty to one another, will you so pledge your fealty to the Mark?”

“I will,” she answered, kneeling on one knee, and bowing her head slightly. Éomer leaned forward and laid the circlet upon her dark curls. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she raised her eyes to his, more than grateful that he took her hand again, bringing her to stand beside him. It may have looked like ceremony, but to Anhuil just then, it was a lifeline that kept her from collapsing.

Éomer looked down at her, his heart dissolving into a heated pool of liquid that drained to his feet. Standing before him, the crown he had just placed on her head gleaming in the flickering light, he had never loved her more than at that moment. His wife smiled shakily as he took the goblets from the tray Éowyn held, handed her one, and and held his aloft.

“Hail, Lothíriel, Queen of the Mark,” Éomer announced, his deep voice echoing with pride. Tipping up his own cup, he drained it, and laughed out loud when Anhuil did the same.

Repeating the toast, the crowd exploded with cheers. “Break out the ale,” he called out. “Our guests have much to celebrate!”

Éomer took the goblet from her hand and set them both back on the tray his sister held. Pulling his wife closer to him, he grinned wickedly.

Anhuil’s eyes widened. “Éomer...they are watching!” she whispered furtively. “My father, and --“

“I suppose I should take your over developed sense of propriety into consideration,” he said softly, “but instead I am just going to tell you that in the Mark, propriety is not only overrated, it is practically non-existent. Especially for the king.”

With that, he yanked her into his arms and claimed her lips with his. The guests erupted again, shouts and catcalls filling the hall, but Anhuil failed to notice anything but the mouth which had taken possession of hers so fiercely she nearly stumbled backwards.

Imrahil’s eyebrow raised slightly as he cast a glance at Cam, who stifled a snicker with her fingers over her lips.

When the kiss finally ended, Anhuil nearly limp in his arms, Éomer grinned at her. “Are you going to do that often?” she asked, breathless. “Because if you are, a little warning would do to help a girl keep her feet.”

“As often as I can, I promise you,” he answered. “That,” he teased, “and far more. And you needn’t worry about keeping your feet. I intend to have you off of them as soon as possible.”

“You keep making these promises,” she said, running a finger down the front of his tunic. “I sincerely hope you intend to make good on them.”

“Get me the bloody hell out of here, and I will.” He kissed the tip of her nose and reached for the cup.


Revelry was in full swing in the Golden Hall. Éomer watched over the rim of his tankard as Anhuil danced with her brother.

“You love her very much.”

Nearly choking on his ale, he turned quickly at the sound of her voice. Willa stood behind him, sipping a chalice of wine, her head cocked to one side as she studied the queen. “She is pretty,” she said before he could respond. “In an odd, exotic way, but pretty.”

“Thank you for your appraisal,” he muttered, and took a step away.

“Perhaps her charm will win over those who do not approve...”

Her words stopped him, and he turned to glare at her. “Do not approve of what?”

Willa’s eyes widened innocently. “Those who do not approve of Gondorian blood on the throne of Rohan.”

“Gondorian blood was spilled for Rohan, just as ours was spilled for them,” Éomer stated calmly. “I see no reason to differentiate between the two.”

“Nevertheless, there are those who would have preferred to see you take one of our own to wife.” She leaned against a carved post and sipped her wine. “You certainly never minded the women of your own country when it came to taking their favors, but when it comes to taking a wife, you pick an outsider. Would you like to venture a guess as to how that appears, to some?”

“I am not concerned with appearances, Willa.” Éomer turned, quickly crossing the hall.

Watching him stride across the floor to sweep his wife from her brother’s arms, Willa smiled.

“Maybe you should be,” she said softly to herself, bringing her goblet to her lips.


I apologize for not putting in the translation...I guess I have looked at it so many times I knew what it said, so I just forgot! OOPS!

Here you go:
Ic þé þás mece giefe - I give you this sword...
Ic grete Þe - I greet you
Wilcum - Welcome
Ic þé þás mece giefe. Geheald hit þæt uncer sona hæbben and befæsten hit - I give you this sword to keep for our sons to have and to use.
'Þæt þu nerien ús, þu scealt beran mece. Mid þisse mece nere úre ham - To keep us safe, you must bear a blade. With this sword, protect our home.

I wanted more Rophirric, but time refused to allow...translating this stuff is more difficult than Sindarin!


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Chapter name
Good Things Come... Chapter Two
22 Aug 2004
Last Edited
22 Aug 2004