Chapter Text
There had certainly been worse matches made, and that served as her sole consolation in her forthcoming nuptials. Lothiriel knew the bridegroom in passing, having met him twice and having become friendly enough with his sister that perhaps it would be an agreeable marriage if they were anything alike.
And yet against those calming thoughts, the reality of the fact stared her in the face whenever she considered it. The reality of it was that a man who had lately come to take the throne of her country had likely seen the benefits of a marriage between his new country and their northern neighbors, and she felt herself given as a reward to the king of Rohan for his country’s aid in the war.
She was the niece of the late steward, and until his death had been a member of his household. To her eyes it seemed a tidy way to ensure that she would make no trouble for her father or the king, and would not be able to stay in Minas Tirith, or even in Gondor to voice her opinion that they had been without a king as long as they had, and that to her mind there was no true reason to have one now.
Eomer King had been polite to her, and she held the quiet hope that he would remain so through their marriage, as if her hopes had ever been enough to sustain her. She had hoped for a good marriage, and this was one, on paper at least. She had once hoped for romance and courtship, but there had been little enough of that in her life, so that hope was as fool hardy as any other. Marriages for a lady of her standing were made of deals, and families, not of affections, and she had made her peace with that, as well as she could, trying to ignore that voice in her mind that told her that hope was not dead, and that perhaps she would find some happiness.
But, it hardly mattered what she had hoped for. In a few days, she would be passed from her father’s hands to another man’s, who was only slightly more a stranger to her. She would be a wife and queen and do her duties to the best of her abilities no matter what it was that she wanted.
Her uncle never would have stood for this, eager as he had been to get her married and settled into a good household. He had known her well enough to know that she was well placed where she had been. But now she was being uprooted from her entire life and being moved to a country that she had never seen to marry a man who had only become king by the bizarre twists of fate.
In her heart she knew it was a punishment for her sharp tongue, and for her loyalty to the late Steward of Gondor. The new King of Gondor didn’t want her stirring up trouble for him, any more than her father did, she guessed, though no one had stated it as such. And so, she would be made a gift to the Rohirrim for their part in the war against the Enemy in Mordor, another spoil of war to be taken.
One night, while sitting by her brother’s wife, a woman she knew as well as the rest of her family, which was to say not as well as she should, Lothiriel took a deep breath, knowing that she had questions to ask, but not in truth wanting to do so. She wondered what it was to be a wife, and if Lady Gadrien would tell her the secrets of wifehood, but her own pride held her tongue. There was no reason to share her concerns with her brother’s wife, or with anyone else. They would only assure her that she had no cause for concern and say nothing of facts to prove their point. They would tell her than her husband-to-be was a man of honor, that he was a soldier of renown, that he was her father’s friend, and they would expect those things to be enough for her.
She would be a good queen, and she would mind her thoughts as well as she could, a losing battle, but one that would need to be won if she wished to keep her station. She knew little enough of the customs of her new country, and she wondered if there was such a custom for casting aside disobedient wives.
She stared ahead of her, reminding herself not to look back. Queens did not look back, nor did they show fear, or dismay. A Queen could not be seen to wallow in her own misery.
0x0x0
The roof of the Hall of Meduseld glinted like gold as they approached, and Lothiriel did her best to take stock of the city that would be her new home. She would live in a hall of wood rather than the palaces of stone that she had always known and wondered if it was a drafty house.
Autumn was coming on, and she had never felt a truly cold winter as they had here. It was another fear that she had not considered until the first chilly morning had come as they traveled.
Lothiriel took in every sight that she could as she rode through the city, trying to familiarize herself, in the quick glimpses she took, with the layout of the settlements and roads. The crowds did little to make this easy, as it seemed that every person that lived in Edoras had poured out into the streets.
As they reined their horses to stop, she pulled her veil back over her face from where she had worn it as she rode, needing to see better than the thin fabric and the wind would jointly allow. She reminded herself was not some common woman that could be gawked at like a beast of burden. It was important that she make a good impression, and that she make the impression that she was a woman of modesty and standing.
In Gondor, a lady covered her face when leaving any house, but looking about the city, the people cheering at their arrival, this did not seem to be the custom. The common married women wore their hair covered in different fashions with homespun fabrics, and the ladies and women of means wore finer fabrics in the same fashion. It seemed that unmarried women wore their hair free, making golden banners of varying hues in the wind that came up from the plains.
Her brother, Erchirion, held his hands up to her, to help her dismount her horse, a quick and reassuring smile on his face. She accepted the help as much as it galled her.
“It will be well, sister,” he cupped her hand under his, folding her hand over his arm.
“What if I do not like him?” she asked, in Sindarin, aware from the corner of her eye that the King approached their group to greet them, to welcome them in his city, and his country.
“He is a good man,” Erchirion replied in kind, smiling gently, “and if you have any trouble, write to me, and I shall knock some sense into his good head.”
Lothiriel clicked her tongue at him, not certain she should put any stock in her brother’s promise. She had lived apart from her family for years, but if she was to call upon any of them, it would have been her father’s second son. He had always been fond of her in his own teasing way. She pinched at her brother’s arm as he led her to meet her future husband.
King Eomer stood embracing his sister, and he beamed at her petting her cheek and commenting on how she glowed with happiness. He was not bad looking, if he had a mind to smile it seemed. He looked at Lothiriel in her veil, the smile shrinking to a fraction of its size, and a curious look coming into his eyes as he peered at her.
Her anxiety twisted her stomach into knots, but she did her best to hide it, thankful for the veil she hid behind. No, she did not hide, Princesses and Queens did not hide. She was simply protecting her modesty, as was right.
As the dark eyes of the king turned on her, they were not unkind as such, but they inspected her through the thin silk of her veil.
“You will of course, my lord, remember my daughter, Princess Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, soon to be of Rohan,” her father, Prince Imrahil said, his tone jovial as he rested a hand on her shoulder.
“Of course, I did not recognize you,” Eomer smirked a hesitant smile that asked her for something. His voice was deep, and a bit flat, “I must beg your pardon, Your Highness.”
She dropped into a low curtsy, as graceful as she could manage. She was not certain what he meant by his words, or by his smile. “Your Majesty.”
The smile shifted a little and she wondered if she had offended, if he had meant to make some jest at her. King Eomer’s head tilted a little before he nodded, “You are most welcome here. We have had houses made ready for your use.”
She looked at him, and did her best to smile at him, and he seemed to soften a little, but that might be a trick of her partially obscured vision.
“I will leave you to make yourselves comfortable,” King Eomer said, the Princess of Ithilien, Lady Eowyn coming to stand beside him, and taking his arm with a sisterly affection. “When you are ready, we have refreshments made ready for you.” He bowed his head and left them.
It was a strange and abrupt departure that seemed to bode ill to no one besides Lothiriel.
“Thank you, Your Majesty, you are most kind,” Lothiriel said, trying so sound happy to be in Edoras. It would be her home, and she should do her best to like it.
An older woman, to call her stately would have been an understatement, smiled at Lothiriel, looking rather intrigued by the princess before checking herself and curtsying, “I am Lady Baldgwyn. My house is at your use, my lords and my ladies,” she gestured to a large and sturdy house and Lothiriel fought back the thought that it looked rather like a barn. It was not a charitable thought, and such things would not do at present.
Her handmaid followed after her, a Rohirric woman close to Lothiriel’s age named Heohild. Lothiriel had asked Lady Eowyn to send word to have a handmaid brought from the Riddermark, as she did not want to bring her maid from Minas Tirith. She had never been particularly close with Anthel, her maid before Heohild, and Heohild had been sent with King Eomer’s assurance that she was a good and honest woman. It had seemed a good idea to have someone to give her an education, admittedly brief though it was, in the ways of her new country.
Heohild had proved a good worker, and she had been friendly enough, and had taught Lothiriel a little of Rohan, the Riddermark. She was to be of this country, and she should know how to be Queen here, whether she wanted to be one or not.
“I would like to offer you any help that you might need in these early days,” Lady Baldgwyn said, smiling at Lothiriel.
“In what ways?” Lothiriel asked, her voice low and dulcet, as befitted a well-bred young lady.
“In any way you might need,” Lady Baldgwyn curtsied again, raising her voice in the entry way of her house, “If there is anything that our guests need, you have but to ask. My servants are yours while you stay here.” She curtsied again and left her house.
Lothiriel watched the door closed with some confusion, wondering where the lady meant to live for the week that her family was here.
Lothiriel would live at Meduseld after tomorrow, after her wedding. She wondered what her accommodations would be, if she would share a room with her husband, or if she would have her own room as she had through her entire life, and that he would visit her there before returning to his own bed.
In truth, she was not certain which was preferred.
She removed her veil in the privacy of the house and noticed the rolled eyes from her families, and handed it to Heohild with a smile, “Thank you, I would like some water heated that I may wash the dirt from my hands and face.”
Heohild curtsied, “Yes, my lady.” The blonde maid left her side so quietly. Lothiriel wondered if her footfalls made any noise at all, if it was a skill that she had learned or it she came by it naturally.
“You need not hide your face here, daughter,” Imrahil said, settling into a chair, he shifted his weight a moment before deciding that he was comfortable. “I do not think it is their way.”
“You will be their Queen, sister, I should think you would take their ways on,” Amrothos said, a teasing glint in his eyes, “Perhaps you will learn to use a sword and love it better than all your fine frocks.”
“I will change my ways, when I have the crown on my head,” Lothiriel said, too sweetly. Her smile softened at Elphir’s chuckle.
“Such an ambitious lady,” Elphir shook his head, peering around the house. “You might be careful to keep that ambition hidden.”
“I am to be crowned a Queen tomorrow, I think there is likely no higher status for me to seek,” Lothiriel said, looking over the room, “Do we know how many beds there are here? Or are we all to sleep on the floor?”
“There should be beds aplenty,” Imrahil said, smiling at his daughter, “and you would do well to mind your manners.”
“Consider them closely minded, my lord father,” Lothiriel made her face innocent, “I should hate to upset the plans that you and our king have made.”
“King Eomer is a good man,” Amrothos said, reiterating a sentiment that had been pushed at her for months with no further explanation or evidence, “and he likes you. If you do not cross him, there is no reason not to find a good marriage.”
“As you have said, more times than I am able to count,” Lothiriel said, “I am weary from travel, and I should make myself presentable.”
She opened a few doors, trying to discern which room was hers by the trunks that had been brought in before their arrival. Finding herself housed in a smaller room, she sat on the edge of the bed, and found it at least comfortable. Her room was smaller than the others, likely for the simple reason that she would only be sleeping in it for one night. She lay back, staring at the ceiling over her head, tears finally coming too late to do her any good.
There was a gentle knock on the door before Heohild entered, with a basin and pitcher of water. “My lady, are you well?”
“Well enough,” Lothiriel smiled at her maid, as she wiped her eyes, “I am only being a fool.”
Heohild set the water and basin on a sideboard by the window and looked at her mistress, trying to read whether her interference would be accepted. “My lady, to be anxious before a wedding is nothing to be ashamed of?”
“I am not anxious. I am angry,” Lothiriel admitted finally.
“Does Eomer King not please you, my lady?”
“I do not know him to be pleased,” she crossed her arms, “But you speak truly, I am simply anxious, and I should not be so. I have heard that your king is a good man, and I am certain that I will find him so, having come to know him.”
Heohild nodded, resting her hand on Lothiriel’s shoulder and smiling conspiratorially, “And if you come to know him and find that you do not like him, then we will find some way to help with that.”
“I am certain that I should scold you for such brazen speech… but I am curious.”
“I have heard that he still fears the cook-woman that runs his kitchen. She boxed his ears once as a child and he has never overcome the fear of her fury,” Heohild giggled.
“You know much of him, then?” Lothiriel looked at her maid, surprised by her words, which for their whimsy seemed untrue. It was the sort of amusing court gossip that was passed about so that one might laugh at a ruler.
“Only pieces of gossip, in truth,” Heohild had a fellow that she liked, and he was a stableboy for the king, and Lothiriel thought that was likely how King Eomer had found her in the first place. “It is said that he likes strong women, and you have strength enough.”
“Strength enough?” Lothiriel chuckled, feeling a little better. “What a glowing affirmation.”
Heohild chuckled, “Come and wash, my lady.”
Lothiriel stood and pushed her sleeves up past her elbows to wash her hands and her face. She knew that she should rejoin her family, and she knew that she should do her best to be polite to her future husband and his men. They had not given her any reason to act otherwise.
0x0x0
That evening came early, the chill of the early autumn air promised what Eomer’s advisors had predicted, that it would be a hard winter. The King’s Stores had been counted carefully in each of their holdings through the country to ensure that if it came to it, they would have enough to feed his people.
It would be a lie if he said that Princess Lothiriel’s dowry would not be a help. If she agreed, the money would be put into rebuilding the farms of the Westfold. He had agreed to accept a dowry with the understanding that as he saw it, that money was hers, and that she would be asked before it was spent. The Gondorian lords had smiled politely at the request, but clearly thought it a silly, and youthful declaration to make.
He intended to be a good husband to the princess and thought that they seemed well matched for such an arranged marriage. She was clever and seemed more than willing to speak her mind. The fact that she was a beauty did not hurt either.
He did not quite say aloud that he liked her. They had not in truth spent much time together, and he did feel a level of anxiety over the fact that he would the next day be wedding to a woman that he hardly knew, but the few times they had spoken, he had been left with a pressing desire to speak to her further. He had heard her offer scathing commentary on the opinions of others in the occasion that she had disagreed with them and had a respect for the fire in her.
That she had agreed to the match had pleased him more than he should think to admit, not wanting to be teased by the claims that would come that the young king was infatuated, as he was of the opinion that he was too old for the unbidden fluttering in his chest. It was a concern that he knew was not unfounded, and that the embarrassment of it was not a thing he wished to battle.
“Are you excited?” Eowyn asked, teasingly.
Marriage suited his sister, and he would be the first to admit it. She seemed genuinely happy for the first time in years, and he reminded himself to thank Faramir for… for what? Being a decent fellow? Eomer was not as gifted with expressing himself as others, and he was distinctly aware of the fact.
“In a way,” Eomer smiled, gesturing for his sister to help herself to the decanter of mead, an offer that she had accepted without him having made it, “though I am nervous.”
“Then you are fit to match your bride, I would dare say.”
“Truly?”
Eowyn all but rolled her eyes at him, drinking deeply.
“I should not think that the indominable princess would be nervous about anything,” Eomer admitted.
“She has said little on the forthcoming nuptials, which is the only reason I have to guess that she is nervous,” Eowyn said, thinking out the best way to say what she thought.
Arranged marriages were not as common in the Riddermark as they were in Gondor, and Lothiriel had likely assumed that hers would be such a marriage, but the little that Eowyn knew of the matter, having asked Princess Lothiriel and received short answers, left Eowyn all but certain that any assent that Lothiriel had given was out of duty, or certainty that the marriage would be done whether she agreed to it or not. Faramir had told Eowyn that he thought it was a good match, but that someone ought to warn Eomer of this, having ascertained that Eomer was in some small way fond of Lothiriel. For her part, Lothiriel said nothing, but seemed to be filled with a cold and distant rage the whole journey from Minas Tirith.
“Are you well?” Eomer asked, noticing the set of his sister’s brow, and the look that came into her eyes.
“I am, but I am trying to work out the best way to say what I am thinking.”
“You might just come out and say it. I know you are by marriage a Princess of Gondor, but you needn’t take on the long-winded and flowery speeches that seem common in that land.”
Eowyn chuckled, “I would simply advise you to have care.”
“In what regard?”
She looked at him as if she was stopping herself from telling him that he was the greatest fool that she had ever encountered, “The princess is silent on her thoughts of the marriage, and I would simply have you know that perhaps she has some reservations.”
Eomer laughed, “Fear not, sister. She has agreed to marry me. I do not expect that in doing so we will suddenly know each other, and I expect that it might take some time.”
“Patience is not a virtue that you have ever quite been able to claim as your own.”
“In actions, and general, I will give you that, but in the matter of wooing a lady, I might know a little more by experience than you do,” Eomer smirked at his sister’s annoyed face, and chuckled.
Eowyn stared at her brother for a moment, debating if she should point out the fallacy of his thinking, but decided that it might be better to just let him think that it would be as simple as he assumed. It had been on the tip of her tongue to explain the differences in the women that he had wooed in the past, and the woman that was going to be his wife from tomorrow onward.
From what she had seen, Lothiriel had been raised on courtly flirtations and was proficient in that skill but knew little of men beyond that. Eowyn tried to remember if Lothiriel had flirted with Eomer in the way that women of the Gondorian courts did, artfully and without any meaning, but could not quite call the memory of any such interaction to her mind. “You spoke with her tonight?”
“I did,” Eomer nodded. Lothiriel had sat next to him at the evening meal in the chair that would be hers, and she had thankfully pulled the veil back from her face, saving him from blundering through another joke about it. Had she worn it, Eomer had intended to ask how he was meant to know that Imrahil had brought the right lady to be his wife. Thinking on it, he took it as a blessing that he had not had the opportunity to make such a joke.
“How did you find her?”
“She seemed well, if nervous, now that you mention it, and I understand. She is leaving her life behind, and I intend to be considerate of that,” Eomer said, wanting to assure his sister that he was not as great a fool as she seemed to think. “And given time, I think we will become comfortable with each other.”
“Do you think that she might come to love you?” It was more of a direct question than she had intended to ask, but she had asked it.
“I hope so,” Eomer smiled, wanting to get himself on more stable ground, and out from under his sister and her impertinent questions, “She is a fine lady, and will be a good queen.”
“That I will give you,” Eowyn smiled, “I am sorry for pressing you so. It seems strange to me that you are to be married.”
“I know,” he smiled and raised his cup to her, “To marriage.”
She returned the salute, “To marriage, may yours be as happy as mine.”
He was certain it would be. Love would come in time, if they both treated each other with kindness and respect, and he had no intention but to treat her with anything but kindness and respect.
0x0x0
Lothiriel sat as Heohild took the pins from her hair with careful fingers, the princess rubbed an ointment into her hands, thinking over the next day and all that would come with it.
“Did you enjoy your supper, my lady?” Heohild asked, noting the tension in Lothiriel’s shoulders.
“I did rather, though it seems they have nothing to flavor the food but salt.”
“No, my lady,” Heohild chuckled, “I hope it does not displease you too terribly. You might see if your family could send you some spices for your kitchen.”
“I think I will do that now that you mention it,” Lothiriel said with a small smile, “The King seemed to be in good spirits.” She almost said that he had smiled at her, in a gentle way rather than the self-conscious smile that he had given her upon her arrival. That smile for a moment made the whole of the situation not seem as dire as it had before. It was such a foolish thing to place one’s hopes on, a smile, it was a fleeting moment that could be feigned by social pressure or awkwardness, but it had made her wonder if he would not be kind to her in some fashion.
Try as she had to dismiss it, the idea of the Rohirrim as a large gang of barbaric warriors had tainted her feelings on being their Queen. She would be Queen, and she would do so to the best of her ability, fulfilling her obligations as she had through her whole life. The idea of the Rohirrim as grim faced and blood thirsty had not been helped by the stoic appearance that their new king presented, nor by the tales of valor that her brothers had told her over and over again.
Her family were not the only guests that had come for the wedding, and it was a sort of solidifying thing to experience, seeing those guests. Her future husband had friends from across his own country and beyond it. Many of the guests she recognized from Minas Tirith, though she did not know them personally. There was an Elvish Prince and a Dwarvish one as well as the High King Elessar and his Queen. They would take the word of her marriage, and send it through their kingdoms, she knew, and she did her best to be polite and seem pleased with her match, deciding that it would do her reputation better than collapsing into a fit over being given away like a handkerchief.
From the time that Lothiriel was sixteen she had lived almost exclusively in her Uncle Denethor’s household and had come to love him as if he was her own father. She had come to love him more than her own father, point of fact, feeling rather as if she had been castoff from her family to another branch of it for convenience. During the war, her father had written her, and had asked her to abandon Minas Tirith and flee, but she had disregarded the missive, burning the letter, and staying in the citadel until the civilians were evacuated from the forthcoming battle at the Pelennor Fields.
After her uncle had died, she had drunk too much in an attempt to match the jolliness of the survivors and had kept up that joviality as a shield against her own grief. She knew that her uncle had not been a perfect man, but the defamations that seemed to swirl about the city after his death made her grief all the harder to cope with. Her father, her aunt, and her brothers seemed to believe every vile word and would hear no explanation when Lothiriel attempted to give them. Her cousin Faramir kept quiet on the topic and had not said a word in his father’s defense.
Perhaps this wedding, and this marriage would not be so horrible, and perhaps the king might come to some sort of fondness for her. She had long ago given up on the poetic notions of romantic love, and a marriage made by such emotions. Those sorts of marriages were for common people, or for such rare cases as Faramir and the Lady Eowyn. There had been the idea floated that Lothiriel might do well to marry her older cousin Boromir, but it had never been fully decided before his death. That marriage, too, had come with a fair number of hesitations, but at least she had known Boromir, and loved him, admittedly as a brother, but still.
King Eomer was at least closer to her own age, and was not unpleasing to the eye, if that eye managed to catch him in a smile. The hard countenance that he regularly showed made her fear him, though she would never admit it. She did not want a hard and fierce husband. She had always hoped that she would marry someone like Boromir, a man who knew his duty, and treated war with the deference that it was due, but who did not forget to smile.
Lothiriel rubbed some of the ointment into her face and neck with slow circling fingers, trying to assure herself that everything was going to be alright. Many arranged marriages turned out to be happy ones, and if she could put her mind to it, she might be able to make a happy marriage of her own.
“Will there be anything else you need, my lady?” Heohild asked, picking up a few things from about the borrowed room as Lothiriel climbed into the bed.
“No, thank you,” Lothiriel smiled, and picked up her book, meaning to read for a while, and try to calm her mind. She had made a decision to make peace with the marriage and did not need her mind wandering or making her question her decision.
She read by candlelight, the only sounds in the room being that of the fire crackling and the pages turning. Books were such a firm part of her life, that she had brought as many of them with her as she had been able to. If there were not enough shelves, she would have some made, if her husband let her.
It suddenly occurred to her that she might not do this again for some time. She had never asked if she was to have her own room, or not, and if she shared a bed with her future husband, she would then need to be respectful of his need for undisturbed sleep.
She slammed her book closed, and stared ahead of her, too aware of her breathing. She could not remember the last time she had shared a bed with anyone. She would have been a small child. Yes, she had gone running to Boromir when she was little and afraid and had slept next to him, not wanting to wake her governess or her reed cane with her night terrors.
Staring up at the ceiling, the weight of every change that her life would have crushed down on her, and she tried to breath through it, reminding herself that she could not control her circumstances, but she could control herself.
She was a princess and she was going to be a queen, and no one would stop her, especially not herself.