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Trust To Hope, Book Two

Chapter 8: Of Trials & Troths, Part 3

by Novedhelion

Trust To Hope – Book Two
OF Trials and Troths - Part 3
Author: Novedhelion
Type: FP Het
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Pairing: Éomer/Lothíriel aka Anhuil
Rating: R
Warnings: Sex. Yes, married people can and DO have really good sex.
Beta: Riyallyn
Disclaimer: Not responsible for the elevation of your blood pressure.

*************************************************
The first, the last, my everything
And the answer to all my dreams
You're my sun, my moon, my guiding star
My kind of wonderful, that's what you are
I know there's only, only one like you
There's no way they could have made two
You're all I'm living for
Your love I'll keep for evermore
You're the first, your the last, my everything

Barry White
*******************************
Of Trials & Troths, Part 3
*******************************
Edoras
15 Lothron, 3020 Third Age
********************************


In the corridor outside the private chamber he shared with his wife, Éomer took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. His wife sat in a chair near the fire, still wrapped in his robe, rubbing the head of the huge canine beside her. It wasn’t often Elenion would deem to enter Meduseld, spending most of his time in and around the stables, but he seemed to know when his mistress needed him.

He turned his head toward Éomer, his amber eyes glinting in the firelight. Anhuil might insist that the beast was only half-wolf, but the look the animal was giving him right now was purely lupine. And unmistakably protective.

Elenion gave Éomer the equivalent of a wolfish once-over, realized he posed no threat, and laid his head down on Ani’s knee. Éomer couldn’t quite decide whether to be pleased or offended by the animal’s vigilance. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

“You are leaving,” Anhuil said softly, before Éomer could speak. Her gaze remained on the fire, her fingers still idly stroking Elenion’s head.

“Yes,” he answered. “There have been attacks on the villages and herds in the north. We cannot afford—“

“You do not have to justify your riding out to me, Éomer. I know that you would not go were it not necessary.”

“Gamling offered to ride in my stead, but I feel this is something I must do.”

She nodded. “You must do what you think is best for our people. I am perfectly capable of handling the courts until your return.”

“I have no doubt,” Éomer said, moving to stand beside her chair.

“Then it is decided,” she announced with finality. Rising from her seat, she stood in front of him. Her spine straight, her shoulders square, and, he noted, her eyes were dry. Elenion laid down, resting his head on his paws, and dutifully ignored them.

“You leave at first light?”

“Yes. We have a long ride ahead, and will need every moment of daylight.”

“Then you will need rest.”

Éomer nodded at what he assumed was his dismissal. He picked up a clean tunic from the back of a chair and moved toward the door. “I will get my things and go back to my—“

She'd be damned if she was going to let him walk out again. “No.”

The word was spoken so softly he wasn’t sure he heard her correctly. He turned, his expression questioning., and stared at his wife. Dark hair, tousled from sleep, tumbled in wild waves over her shoulders, ending in curls that teased the curves of her breasts at the top of the low-cut shift she wore beneath his robe. Her eyes held his steadily, unabashedly.

She took a slow, deep breath. “Please stay.”

His hand fisted tightly around the tunic he held, his eyes closing. He couldn’t, not after what he’d put her through. “Ani...”

Anhuil tugged at the belt of the robe she wore, untying it. She shrugged out of it, letting it fall to the chair behind her. Clad only in the thin shift, she walked slowly toward him.

Éomer's knuckles whitened around the tunic in his hand as she closed the distance between them. The scent of her, soft lavender, fogged his brain as she came closer. His gaze dropped to the loose lacings on the front of her shift, his heart hammering as he took in the shape of her silhouetted by the flames through the thin gown. Closing his eyes didn’t help, as it immediately brought on vivid thoughts of tracing those wicked curves with his hands, his mouth...

“Come to bed, Éomer,” she whispered softly.

Gods, but he wanted nothing more than to carry her to that bed and cover that shapely little body with his own. Lifting his eyes back to hers, he held her gaze, but didn’t answer.

Anhuil raised an eyebrow at him. “So this is the way of it?” She leaned close to him, tracing a finger lightly down his chest. The gentle touch speared desire through him, her finger burning his skin through the fabric of his tunic. “I am to be denied your company and my own pleasure because you feel guilt?”

“You know I would deny you nothing,” Éomer answered, his voice husky. How could she want him still?

“Then come to bed," she said over her shoulder as she started toward their bedchamber.

“Ani...”

She whirled around to face him. Familiar fire blazed in her green eyes, but she kept her voice calm. “You deny yourself because you do not feel you deserve what you want. But in punishing yourself, you deny me what I both want and need.” She came back to him, taking the shirt from his hand and tossing it aside. She stepped closer. “Do you love me still?”

His hand came up to touch her cheek, but stopped just short. “More than my own life,” he told her.

Anhuil grasped his hand in hers gently, her small fingers closing warmly over his. Even the light touch made him shudder. “And do you want me still?” she asked, bringing his hand to her lips, but keeping her eyes on his.

Éomer stared down at her, swallowing hard. “More than I have ever wanted anything in my life.”

"I do not wish for you to sleep in your study again. Ever.” She laid his hand flat against her skin, just above the bodice of her gown, and closed her eyes at the warmth radiating from him. “I want you in our bed.” Her fingers guided his hand to the laces of her shift, her eyes raised to his. “If I must, I can accept whatever happened before we were wed, but I will not allow that woman to come between us now.”

Suddenly remembering he hadn't yet explained about Willa, Éomer balked. “Ani, I was in the study. Éothain had just left…she came to me, told me she had become disoriented and wandered down the wrong corridor…I did not…I sent her—“

“Stop.” She laid her fingers over his mouth. “I am not unaware of her schemes. I would not put it past that woman to do everything in her power to drive a wedge between us.” Sliding her fingers down his throat, Anhuil wrapped the laces of his tunic around them and pulled him closer. "It will not happen."

The touch of her cool hands had his breath catching in his throat, his heart pounding against his ribs. His fingers lay motionless on the laces between the curves of her breasts, her dark eyes watching his intently. Her lips curved into a seductive smile as she gave the laces of his tunic a playful tug. "You remember how those work, meleth nin?"

Éomer returned the smile. "I am fairly certain."

Slowly, his fingers grasped the ribbon that tied her shift and tugged it free, unlacing the bodice. The rising and falling of her breast beneath his fingers quickened as he traced the edge of the fabric with a calloused fingertip.

“Kiss me, Éomer.”

He hesitated only for a moment before lowering his mouth to hers. His wife’s eager hands entwined into the golden waves of his hair, pulling him closer, her lips parting under his.

The fingers that had deftly untied the laces slid up, catching the ruffled edge of her shift and pushing the soft fabric down from her shoulders until it fell in a pool at her feet.

****************

The heavy drapes were still drawn, the sun not yet risen over the mountains. Anhuil rolled to her back, sighing as she sank into the soft mattress. A slow smile spread across her face at the memory of the previous night.

It still amazed her that she could feel so much. Éomer could make her feel cherished and treasured, and at the same time, wicked and wanton. His hands were gentle and soft one moment, greedy and seeking the next, wracking her body with pleasure. His mouth would tease hers with arousing kisses, lips and tongue playing lightly over her skin, only to become heated and heathen and hungry, taking her to places that she never imagined existed. It was a miraculous and astounding thing, she thought, to be both wanted so urgently and loved so deeply.

Éomer slept on his stomach across the big bed, the tangled waves of his golden mane spread across the muscles of his back and shoulders. He was a beautiful man, she thought, although she could imagine his scowl at her saying so. She could hardly blame other women for wanting him. The thought gave her some pause, but she knew he was hers. Hers alone, despite whatever happened before their vows were spoken.

She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him, remembering the first time she’d seen him like this. She’d crept into his room at night, in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. There had been so much doubt then, so much fear. Fenwick had threatened his life, threatened the life they both so desperately wanted together.

The fairy tale had ended happily after all, and now reality had set in. Whatever challenges they would face, they would do so together.

Leaning down, she brushed his hair aside and pressed her lips against the back of his neck. Éomer murmured something unintelligible into his pillow, making her giggle softly. Her hand slid down his back, beneath the covers.

Éomer groaned softly, rolling slightly back toward her. He opened one eye, glancing over his shoulder. “Woman, you will be the death of me.”

“You should be so fortunate,” Anhuil whispered against his ear. She pressed herself against his back, her hand sliding over his hip, over the hard muscle of his thigh. His skin was warm beneath her palm, his hair tickling her cheek as she nipped his ear lightly.

“And what an epitaph that would make for a king,” he teased. “Instead of singing of my death in the glory of battle, or as an aged, wizened king,” he continued as he shifted his position, turning toward her, “bards would sing of how Éomer King perished of pleasure atop his beautiful, saucy wench of a wife.” Flipping her on to her back, he grabbed her roaming hands and pinned them beside her head.

She grinned up at him. “And would that be such a terrible fate?”

His mouth curved slightly. “I cannot think of a better way to die.”

Last night, their lovemaking had been tender, rolling them both over wave after wave of pleasure. While Anhuil cherished the sweet kisses and soft caresses of slow loving, there were other times when she wanted him with a desperation that didn’t wait for gentleness. The heat that flooded through her when he lowered his mouth to her throat made this one of those times.

Oh, gods, the things that man could do to her, Anhuil thought as his mouth moved lower, teasing, tantalizing, tormenting, before finally closing over her breast. “Do you not have to ride this morning?” She gasped out the question, breathless.

Éomer grinned against her skin, reveling in the feel of her heart pounding beneath his mouth. “Oh, I plan to,” he promised, giving her a slightly wicked nip with his teeth. She jumped, the little moan that escaped her lips sending a bolt of desire screaming through his system. His mouth roamed over her breasts, her belly, nibbling along the side of her waist with his teeth.

“For Valar’s sake, Éomer,” she pled. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back. He kept her wrists in his hands as his tongue left a moist trail back up to her throat. She struggled against him, fists clenched. The desire to touch him, to feel his skin under her hands, to have his mouth on hers, had her writhing beneath him. “I thought riders of the Mark were not capable of falsehood,” she panted.

“What lie have I told?” he asked, his teeth and tongue continuing their torture at her breasts. She could feel him pressing against her thigh.

“You said you were—Oh, gods,” she whimpered as he slid down her body again, still pinning her arms, this time to her sides.

“Yes?” His lips were warm against her skin, his long hair softly brushing her thigh.

“You said you were planning to…” She bit off her own words with her teeth in her bottom lip as his tongue drove her higher.

“Hmm?”

“Ride…”

His mouth was busy, his fingers tight around her wrists.

“Elei, Elbereth,” Anhuil gasped.

“Do you want me to take you, Ani?” His lips skimmed over her belly. Unable to speak, she nodded. Éomer chuckled softly. “Do you want me to take you?” he asked again, smiling when she raised her hips beneath him, her body instinctively seeking his. He raised himself over her, pinning her hands beside her head, propping his weight on his elbows. “Look at me, Ani,” he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open, dark as midnight. When they met his, he smiled. “Do you want me to take you?”

Anhuil gasped for breath. Her voice was thick, her eyes clouded, but they met his steadily. “Yes! By the gods, take me, you arrogant son of a--“

Her words stopped abruptly with a keening cry as Éomer thrust into her, hard. Pleasure shot through her system, catapulting her almost painfully over that first wild wave. He held still, knowing full well the sweet torment he was wreaking on her, but wanting so desperately to prolong it as long as possible for both of them. Pressing his lips together, Éomer grappled for control as he felt her shudder beneath him. He watched her face, waited for her eyes to focus again, and grinned at her.

Anhuil’s eyes met his, registering his cocky expression. He knew full well what he was doing to her, and was enjoying it immensely. She returned the smirk and lifted her hips, grinding them against his. He gripped her wrists, his muscles tensing.

Pulling her trump card, Anhuil turned her head to whisper in his ear. "San amin, meleth nin...Anira lle san amin..."

Éomer growled. Burying his face in her hair, he swore. He had yet to understand why her soft voice whispering low pleas in Elvish could send him reeling into complete, helpless insanity, but there it was. His hands slid up her wrists to clasp hers, linking their fingers as he drove into her. When she cried out, her legs wrapping around his, Éomer’s vision blurred.

His breathing was ragged against her neck, her own labored, as they spiraled frantically from one sensation to the next. Relentless, she arched into him, moving with him, fighting to drag him with her over the sharp edge.

She heard voices, murmuring, her own incoherent Sindarin mingled with his Rohirric, but the words were drowned out by the sound of her own pulse hammering. Aware only of her husband and the delirium he brought her, the delightful havoc he was wreaking on her body, Anhuil dug her teeth into his shoulder, and leapt, soaring into the white light that shattered like glass as she fell.

Éomer gasped for breath as his wife’s body went taut against his. His fingers clasping hers tightly, he closed his mouth over hers and followed her into the abyss.

**********

They had said their farewell in private, discussed what matters needed to be handled over their hurried breakfast. She had helped him into his armor, praying silently as she buckled each piece in place. Now, standing on the steps of the Great Hall, Anhuil watched the muster of the Rohirrim. Eorlingas, she corrected herself silently. That was what they called themselves. Rohirrim was the Elvish word for the horse lords, the word the people of Gondor used.

She was no longer of Gondor. The thought pleased her more than she ever thought it would have.

Bells rang out as the men gathered in the courtyard, banners flapping in the ever-present breeze. Lovers embraced, passionate kisses exchanged as the women gave their men a final farewell. After nearly three months of living among them, Anhuil knew the Eorlingas were a relatively uninhibited people, but it still took her aback slightly. It was nothing like the somber and proper farewells soldiers of Gondor received. She was beginning to feel sorry for them.

Éomer turned to look up at her, flashed her a quick smile, then finished giving his orders. Stalking up the steps, he kept his eyes locked on hers, the burnished gold of his hair and the metalwork of his armor glinting in the early morning sun. Anhuil sighed. She couldn’t help it. She loved the way he looked in in his full armor, his sword at his side, the dark golden mane that she had brushed and braided back herself spilling across his wide shoulders.

He stopped in front of her, taking one of her hands in his. “Our scouts tell me the party from Dol Amroth should be arriving by tomorrow.”

“I heard.”

“Please give your brother and Cam my regrets.”

“If anyone understands duty, it is Amrothos,” she reminded him.

He paused a moment, studying her face. “Ani, I wish I did not have to--”

“I will be fine. I can handle matters here.”

Éomer nodded. He didn’t doubt that for a minute.

Their eyes stayed locked as he raised her hand to his lips. With her other hand, she reached up and withdrew a small piece of cloth from the bodice of her dress and pressed it into his hand. Éomer looked down at it, running a thumb over the familiar blue flowers embroidered around the edge. It was white again, the lavender scent renewed from her soap. “I looked for it this morning,” he admitted. “Thank you.”

Aware that their people were all watching, Anhuil offered him a proper curtsey. “Sy ðu hal, cyningmin,” she said softly, in practiced Rohirric, and started to step back.

Éomer raised one eyebrow, clearly amused. He shook his head. “Is this what Gondorians consider a proper send off?”

When she opened her mouth to answer, he swept her into his arms, covering her mouth with his. Taken off guard, Anhuil stumbled against him, her fingers gripping the shoulder plates of his armor. Shocked at first, she made a pitiful effort to pull away, which was promptly ignored by her husband. Giving in, she slid her hands into his hair and gave herself over to the mindless kiss.

The sound of their people cheering registered somewhere in the recesses of her scattered senses as Éomer finally lowered her to the ground. Breathless, her fingers gripped his arms as she steadied herself, his hands still on her waist. He grinned, that rakish, devilish grin for which she had fallen so hard.

She knew she was probably blushing, but couldn’t find it in her to care. The men cheered and hooted, a few shouting rather lurid intimations. Her husband grinned, obviously amused by the antics of his men. Well, she’d show him. Knowing what her speaking Elvish did to him, she licked her lips and looked up at him. “Sina lle merne lle uma amin, meleth nin?”

His eyes narrowed playfully. “Do not start that or I will never be able to leave.”

Anhuil raised up on her toes, pressing her lips close to her husband’s ear, and whispered a stream of words in Sindarin that only he heard.

Éomer didn't understand all of it, but he got the general idea. He grinned, raising one eyebrow. “Care to translate?”

“Come home to me, meleth nin, and I will show you.”

“Minx,” he teased, kissing her again. Taking her hands in his again, he brought them both to his lips. “I love you, Ani.”

She grinned. “I know.”

Drawing her in for one last lingering kiss, Éomer held her tightly. He brushed a kiss over her hair and stepped away.

As Éomer descended the steps, the memory of their hurried goodbye on the plains of Rohan flashed through her mind. Anhuil swallowed the lump that seemed determine to form in her throat and smiled as her husband mounted his horse. She listened as he called the men to ride, his deep voice echoing across the courtyard.

She stood on the steps long after they’d left the city gates, watching the cloud of dust disappear in the distance.

*****************

From her position near the outer doors of the Golden Hall, Willa watched the sweet farewell between the king and his queen, fists clenched at her sides. The last thing she’d meant to do the previous night was drive him back into his wife’s arms. Cornflower blue eyes narrowed, she laid a hand over her swelling belly as if to comfort the squiriming child within.

“Do not fret, little one,” she crooned softly. “Our resources are not yet exhausted.” She looked down at the round mound beneath her frock and smiled.

****************


San amin, meleth nin...Anira lle san amin - Take me....I want you to take me...
Sy ðu hal, min cyning. – Fare you well, my king.
Sina lle merne lle uma amin, meleth nin – Do you know what I want you to do to me, my love?

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Chapter name
Of Trials & Troths, Part 3
Created
15 Apr 2005
Last Edited
15 Apr 2005
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