Lady In Waiting

It was time. The wedding feast had ended merrily. The attendants departed, their laughter fading from the changing room.

Lothíriel trembled as she stepped over the threshold.

He lay before the hearth upon the rugs, the firelight caressing his golden hair and sun-burnt skin. Her eyes dipped to the curve of his hip where the blanket had slipped away. She was surprised to find an expanse of flesh not kissed by the elements, but it pleased her to know he still had territory she could claim for her own.

Fair of form indeed -- her husband.

“Come,” he smiled at her, “be not afraid.”

She knelt beside him, shivering: not from fear, but from desire.

“It will hurt a little,” he caressed her cheek with a callused palm. “I wish it were not so.”

She swallowed hard, tilting her chin. “I am made of strong stock,” she replied.

His laughter broke in waves over her. “Think you that is why I married you?”

She turned away. “My lord, do not tease me. I-I do not know,” she stammered.

With gentle fingers, he stroked her cheek, returning her gaze to his. “Then know this, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.

I love you.”