#lothiriel

[emyn-arnens]

ÉOMER AND LOTHÍRIEL for @konartiste

In the last year of the Third Age he wedded Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. Their son Elfwine the Fair ruled after him.

[echo-bleu]

Éomer and Lothíriel.

Secret Santa gift for @miss-mouse

[remusjohnslupin]

MAKE ME CHOOSE ↳ @shieldmaidenofsherwood asked: éomer and lothíriel or goldilocks gamgee and faramir took

"Éomer became a great king, and being young when he succeeded Théoden he reigned for sixty-five years, longer than all their kings before him save Aldor the Old. In the War of the Ring he made the friendship of King Elessar, and of Imrahil of Dol Amroth; and he rode often to Gondor. In the last year of the Third Age he wedded Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil. Their son Elfwine the Fair ruled after him."

[inthehouseoffinwe]

HCs about Aragorn and Arwen’s kids!

Eldarion is tired oldest brother to five or six younger sisters and gives the blandest look when people say he’s ‘lucky it’s not boys.’ I mean. Have you met their parents? The girls are total terrors when they want to be.

Identical twin daughters. Need I say more?

One of their daughters has silver hair courtesy of Celebrian, and the other a beautiful gold from Gilraen. Their hair *gleams* in lamplight to something definitely not human.

Eldarion is Responsible Older Brother TM but leave him with Elboron and Elfwine and all hell breaks loose. Best friend chaos trio since they were born.

One of the girls takes a liking to Rohan and spends several years there with Éomer and Lothíriel

Elrond’s foresight allowed him to see all of Estel and Arwen’s children and he wrote several letters to each of them before he left so they know their grandfather loves them.

All of them learn healing fighting and battle strategy. Plants are easier for tiny kids to handle than wooden swords. And it’s important to emphasise that yes their job is to keep the kingdoms safe, but more importantly to help heal their people.

Éowyn is the only one who can wrangle all of them other than their parents. Faramir tries but collapses under ‘pleeeaaaase Uncle Faramir!’ *insert puppy dog eyes*

All the parents look after all the kids. Éomer, Lothíriel, Éowyn, Faramir, Aragorn, Arwen. They’ll close with all the children and collectively parent them

Legolas is a common visitor. Gimli comes as much as he can. They’re both enablers for chaos and subsequently favourites.

Elladan and Elrohir can’t visit as often as they like, now managing Rivendell’s final affairs. But the kids do visit Imladris a couple of times and whilst it’s a little emptier than in Aragorn’s youth, it still holds the warmth of the Last Homely House. Eldarion is particularly taken with it.

Glorfindel and Erestor are vindicated Elrond’s children have to deal with their own chaotic kids. They are also enablers. Glorfindel trains them while they’re there and follows them back to Gondor for some time until he’s happy with their progress. He comes again when they’re older and heading out.

Eldarion’s a history nerd. I take no argument.

Yes his sisters make fun of him for it. But Eru help anyone else who dared do the same

Elboron and Elfwine, and their siblings are the exceptions

Agree? Disagree? Got any of your own? Add them on! I’ll probably make a pt2 at some point.

[neechees]

Ive drawn traditional Cree tattoos on WOMEN lots of times, but never any for men!

So here's some traditional Cree tattoos men had, featuring Plains Native Éomer (+Lothiriel lol)

[themoonlily]

Look, I know this is kind of conjecture, but there is just something about Éomer adjusting to a life after the War of the Ring with Théoden and Théodred gone, and knowing that Éowyn will be moving on to live her own life far away from him, and then meeting Lothíriel and through her becoming adjacent (more so than just as a friend of Imrahil) to her Amrothian family, gaining a father-in-law and no less than three brothers, and all that comes with being a part of such a company. It must be so strange and yet so comforting for him. He wonders about how Théoden would have got along with Imrahil. And before he knows it Imrahil has adopted him and Éowyn.

I have this mental image of Éomer nearly weeping in relief after his and Lothíriel's engagement is made. Finally, he has a family.

[torchwood-99]

Elfwine is an unfortunate name. I know that it translates to "Elf friend", like Holdwine seems to mean faithful friend. While the pun in Holdwine is quite funny and suits Merry, and makes you think of wine the drink, Elfwine sounds more like Eomer called his son a whiney elf. Of if we lean into Lothiriel's elvish descent, the sound Lothiriel made when he was concieved.

[emmanuellececchi]

LOTR and Hobbit characters and cats -

Absurd headcanon

Warning : this is not serious. this was made out of whim, late at night. not editing done. Just for fun. And not all of them are funny anyway. You've been warned! - Feel free to add characters and headcanon. I forgot a few : Haldir, Hama, Theoden, Saruman, Treebeard and so on. I hope you will all have fun and play with this! (OC welcome - thinking of my moots with awesome OC).

Cirdan The cats roam freely in the Grey Haven as if they owned the place. Cirdan find them amusing and charming when he gets to pet them. Of course, what he does not know is that they tolerate him because he’s a great fisherman. And a good back scratcher.

Galadriel While there are not many felines in the Golden Forest, each time she is somewhere where there’s one (or two, or three) the cats are drawn to her and vice-versa. As a matter of fact, the cats consider her to be one of their kind. She does not correct them.

Celeborn There is no cat in Lothlorien. On the other hand, when there are cats, he has to tolerate them for Galadriel’s sake. Although, the truth is that they tolerate him because Galadriel shares her bed with him.

Elrond Rivendell had been free of felines for a while. Then, and he never found out how, they began to suddenly appear all around. Mostly around supper. They’re discreet and great pest hunters which he appreciate for his books sake. Although he would never admit it, he kind of like when they come and sleep in his lap while he sips his tea.

Aragorn learned to admire and respect cats as they can survive pretty much everywhere. As king, admits that cats are useful. But he does not like to share their bed with one of them, even Arwen’s pet. On the other hand, he relishes when the pet come in his lap to nap while he is smoking his pipe.

Arwen Since in Minas Tirith, she has adopted a few. Arwen is terribly jealous of their affection. She does not like when she finds out they nap on Aragorn’s lap, pretexting they smell like smoke. Aragorn only smiles which infuriates her.

Imrahil Cats hunt pests in stable, in kitchen, protect grain. He will tolerates cats. But they belong outside. On the other hand, he is actively ignoring the ginger fur transgression living in Lothiriel’s room. Relieved she left with it.

Lothiriel Positively delighted to realize cats prefer her lap to Arwen’s. Brings her pet with her in Rohan. Finds hilarious that Eomer is taking personally its presence in the bed and is jealous of the poor thing.

Eomer Blasted animals. Should stay in the barn and stable to hunt rats and mouse. Not in a bed. And certainly not between him and his queen when he wants privacy. Eomer is convinced the thing is plotting his demise. Always trying to steal his side of the bed.

Eowyn Cats were great listener when she was young. Once, one of them clawed Grima. She was delighted to see her little hero flee alive. Since in Ithilien, she has begun feeding the strays. She considers a high honor if one of them chooses to nap at her side.

Faramir Admires their independent spirit and intelligence. Consider them like a good blade: useful and dangerous. Will never admit he is a bit afraid of them. But if Eowyn loves them, he will say nothing. He is just relieved she does not bring them in.

Denethor Never could stand the little buggers. Tolerated them when his wife was alive but that was the best he could do. While he recognizes their usefulness he is terribly allergic to them.

Boromir Does not seem to care about the furry things. Until he is home. Where an old stray is waiting for him. Gave him food and a warm place to stay. Melted the first time the old cat came to sleep with him. Will never admit the cat makes him happy.

Gandalf Keeps a safe distance between him and them. They tend to appear out of nowhere and they don’t even have magic. He can’t even buy them with food.

Bilbo Find them amusing when chasing his smoke rings, love to watch them sleep in the sunny spot in the garden. Chase them away when they hunt the butterflies.

Sam Stupid animals. They dig in the garden and poison the flowers. And they don’t even like potatoes.

Frodo Good reading companions. Not very trustworthy with food. Love to climb in trees with him. Really good nap companions.

Pippin Cats are the evilest things after the ringwraiths. Did you see their eyes when they follow you in the night? Did you hear them meow after you in the night? That and their claws…

Merry Fights hard not to laugh each time Pippin speak about cats. Got a few scars out of the whole adventure but well worth it when seeing Pippin’s terrified face.

Thorin There is only one king under the mountain. And it won’t be a cat!

Thranduil He is the only one with the right of being fabulous. And this is HIS throne! Cats are not welcome in his palace.

Gimli Dwarves hate pests. But wild cats roaming unchecked underground? Unacceptable. What do you mean, he has adopted one? Don’t be ridiculous, he only keeps it in his room to hunt the rats that would eat his bed linen!

Legolas Never really got close of cats while in Mirkwood. Can’t understand why people would want to sleep with them when they're doing such noises. What was the great idea for Gimli to call his cat like him anyway?

[4thheorlingas]

Idk if I’m more jealous of her or husband tbh

[frodothefair]

Character birthdays.

I am actually fond of coming up with specific birthdays for my characters if they don't already have dates in canon, and I like to make them momentous and in keeping with their personalities from an astrological standpoint -- though I don't put any serious stock in astrology. Thus, without further ado:

Frodo: Sept 22, known in canon. Virgo, like Mr. Nisilë!

Marigold: Nov 5. Scorpio, like me! ("Remember, remember, the fifth of November." Also the day after the liberation from the Lockholes).

Éomer: May 9. Taurus. (Ok, this is actually a whole Thing. 5/8 and 5/9 are celebrated in Europe as "Victory Day," or VE day for short in the UK. It is the day that Germany declared its unconditional surrender in WWII. The reason for the date difference is that the unconditional surrender came in shortly after midnight on 5/9 in Eastern Europe. Since I believe that Rohan is a biiiiit Eastern Europe coded, in addition to the obvious Anglo Saxon vibes, I went with 5/9. I also like the numbers 5 and 9 aesthetically. Overall, a birthday on Victory Day is fitting because he led his people to victory, even though it's not the date of any specific victory in Tolkien's world).

Lothíriel: 12/21. Sagittarius, though technically Sagittarius-Capricorn cusp. (Winter Solstice, the darkest day of the year. She is an archer, and it goes well with the tsundere thing she has going on, and her dark hair).

Now, the next step in the madness is to actually celebrate the birthdays of these characters on my blog, even if the birthdays are completely made up for everyone except Frodo. What do you think? Should I do that?

@emmanuellececchi @konartiste @dilettantefeminist @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @celeluwhenfics

[dreambigdreamz]

On Our Own | Éomer Éadig (part three)

Summary : The wedding night.

Rating : M, oral + consummation

Word count : 8,776

Author’s note : ahehehe. I have never written anything smut and rarely write anything physical-romance beyond eye-contact and that sends me into agony 😣 I know this doesn’t do anyone or anything enough justice. But I tried. Next up, our newly wedded King and Queen of the Mark has their first marital quarrel <3 Elfwine will simply have to wait until these two can sort their feelings out and that might take some time.

Part One Part Two

Hope you enjoy.

The ladies-in-waiting were getting Lothíriel ready for her first shared night with her husband, while Éomer was having to undergo a further round of backslapping ribaldry before his friends and companions escorted him to her door. The Princess had a heavy mind and was apt to drift away into distant thoughts but she did not let it show that the silence hung gloomy around the bride on her wedding night.

“He liked you,” one of the young women said as they were brushing out her hair. “He watched you very closely, he liked you.”

“And why should he not?” she asked back with the instinctive arrogance of a girl who was delighted with the result of her best efforts.

“Then, why were you ever nervous this morning about whether he would like you or not?”

Lothíriel only smiled sheepishly, looking at the mirror in front of her with a flutter in her stomach that reminisced again the rare smiles on the King’s face that had turned everything around for the wedding day. And she was immensely grateful for it.

But the day was over and night had set in, and what to say but that Lothíriel felt a new kind of dread?

She was then quietly put into her nightdress and her dark hair plaited by her ladies; Lady Saelwen kissed her good-night and gave her a mother’s blessing.

“Good-night, princess. Or rather,” Lady Saelwen looked up from her curtsey with a glow of matronly pride and smile on her face, “Queen Lothíriel.”

Lothíriel gave a slow nod, giving a small smile in return. It would seem she was trying to repress a beam of childish delight, already donning the grace and propriety of a queen — but rather, it was the nervous thump-thump in her chest that made her smile come out uncertain.

“Lady Saelwen,” the Princess — the Queen of Rohan — turned round to speak decidedly to the woman as the ladies were retreating towards the door. “A word, if you have a moment.”

The other ladies-in-waiting all looked with apprehension. There was an underlying tremor in the way the princess had ordered, and they were only too curious to know what she would have to say to Lady Saelwen now. But Lothíriel saw them standing around, and said coolly, “The rest of you may leave.”

Once the ladies had departed and only Lady Saelwen remained, Lothíriel stood up and walked briskly to her. The older lady waited patiently, though there was a look in her eyes that prompted the princess to voice anything she might have to say. After a few moments of silence while she processed her words and emotions, Lothíriel blurted out with as much self-command as she could,

“I do not know what I am supposed to do. I have tried to ask everybody I could, and nobody has told me what exactly I am supposed to do.” The words came out of her, first a bit composed and steady, but then increasing in speed as her vexation grew obvious and her trepidation took over, fidgeting with her hands and the strings on the front of her nightdress as she continued, “My mother says everything will happen by and by; but that is vague, and actually does not answer the question at all if you think about it, really. My aunt — oh Valar — my aunt says all that I need to do is obey my husband and make sure I do not sully our family’s honour in no way. Whatever in Middle-earth is that supposed to mean? What does she mean?”

At this point, Lothíriel was almost talking to herself incessantly, her voice growing wobbly with each word that formed from her anxious mind. Her eyes finally fixed on Lady Saelwen and with a regained composure and determination, Lothíriel said, “You must tell me. You must tell me everything.”

Up till then Lady Saelwen had observed the princess mildly and nodded with a calm countenance contrasting to Lothíriel’s very much disheveled expression. Now, she was nervous herself, biting her lip in careful consideration of a proper answer. “You are overthinking, Lothíriel. Maybe there is not an exact . . . description to tell you. Don’t let yourself panic, sweetling, it will go just fine and there is nothing to worry about,” the lady cooed in that motherly way of hers as usual, gently stroking Lothíriel’s hair to soothe her.

But this time the Princess — the Queen — was not to be satisfied.

“No. I must know what it is that might happen and what I should do then. I will not have my fears lulled in this manner, you know I never liked it. Nobody bothered to tell me about that ring-exchanging culture in Rohan, nobody bothered to let me know what might happen, and look how that turned out! I am sick of it! Lady Saelwen,” and then Lothíriel’s voice steady and her face grew stern, as if she was speaking to a servant or a lesser person that was not her beloved nanny since her childhood. In truth, Lothíriel’s good nature had given way to anxiety and then anger in turn that now she felt inclined to lash it out right now on anybody really. “Lady Saelwen, I command you to tell me.”

But the lady was not fazed a bit by this fey mood of the princess. She stood there all calm and proper, only pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “What exactly am I to tell you?” Then, with a little hesitation she added, “Why do you suppose I should know it enough to tell you?”

“Oh,” was all Lothíriel managed to say as her shoulders slumped from their tense posture, a few things dawning on her all at once, and she was quieted though her questions were not.  “Oh, okay, I am sorry.” But then why did not her mother or grandmother or other matrons ever told them anything? “But surely somebody should have told us,” she complained as a last resort.

Lady Saelwen only sighed, and they were both silent. Then she observed Lothíriel’s blank expression and tried to think of something to say, and choosing her words carefully, she said, “All that will happen is most probably a few . . . kisses, and then he would insert himself and it shall be done.”

“Insert himself? Insert himself where?”

“Your— where your moon blood comes from every month,” Lady Saelwen said nervously, wishing they could get this conversation over and hoping no more questions were coming her way.

Lothíriel stared at her. “Where— and, and that is also from where the baby will come out?” She had learned long ago the story about the storks bringing babies was simply untrue.

Lady Saelwen nodded solemnly without a word.

“So, it is true then?” There was almost a note of incredulity and disbelief in Lothíriel’s voice. “What Mylaela has been saying . . .”

“What has Mylaela been saying?” Lady Saelwen demanded.

“She told us very long ago that where everything goes in, is where the baby comes out,” Lothíriel gulped nervously. “So it’s true? I was hoping she was just being crazy like she always is.”

“You should not be discussing such kinds of—”

“Well, how else am I to know what it is that everybody wants me to do?” Lothíriel snapped viciously. “You send us out of the room when the conversation becomes inappropriate, and then you expect us to know what to do on our own. You think we already know about everything by the time we’re grown up or whatever; but most of us don’t, not unless we go around shamelessly prying and listening behind corners, like Mylaela does. Most of what she hears and says is appalling, but I think I have her to thank for right now!” 

The newly wedded queen stopped her frantic pacing across the room, rubbing her eyes in exhaustion and sighed. “I know, I know. I am getting worked up again, and this will not do. It’s just . . .” She raised her hands in a gesture of haplessness. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Lady Saelwen. Ariellë had her love match; Andrídha fell head over heels as soon as she met my brother; but what of me? What will happen to me? Nobody should be sent away to do something they haven’t even got an idea of what! ”

Lady Saelwen endured her anger not only civilly, but kindly. She took a step forwards, and rubbed Lothíriel’s side of the arm comfortingly. “I understand, I understand what you are feeling, my sweet princess. Be brave; you are strong, and you must be brave. You are a Princess of Dol Amroth and if he mistreats you in any improper way, king or no, you come straight away to me, understand?”

“Thank you, but I do not think he will, rest assured.” And Lothíriel only smiled, not adding how Lady Saelwen’s words had felt quite useless and brought no real comfort to her actual dread of the night. How could she let the woman know what was truly making her nervous, when she herself could not materialize that fear itself into words? “So, is it going to be very painful? Like childbirth?”

“More or less, I suppose. I would not know of either, now would I?” Lady Saelwen tried to brush away the embarrassment; watching over the princess for over two decades had not prepared the spinster for this.

“Would I . . . die?” She held out tightly for the older woman’s hand.

“Heavens forbid, no! What makes you say that?”

Lothíriel struggled with herself to bring out the words. “I don’t know, maybe the fact that women often die in childbirth? Mylaela also told us that the man lies on top of the woman in bed, so isn’t it possible that she might suffocate to death? And in any case, you said—”

The door to the chamber opened to reveal Éomer King standing there. Lothíriel turned abruptly and stared with wide eyes, and let go immediately of Lady Saelwen’s hand that she had grown to clutch in desperation. It probably did not strike as a regal pose, and she awkwardly tried to straighten herself and take a step back to be standing independent on her own. And then in her best attempt to sound calm and normal, she said very slowly, “If that is all, you may leave now, Lady Saelwen.”

The lady curtseyed and made her way out.

Once her lady-in-waiting was gone and she left to herself, Lothíriel promptly invited the king to sit down at the table; all the while his eyes fixed on her meaningfully.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Lothíriel asked not too composedly, still trying to recover from the shock of having to receive him so soon, hoping desperately he had not heard anything.

“The ale, please. And one for yourself too.”

“I . . . don’t like ale very much.”

“This is different,” said he with patience, as if he understood the cause of her uneasiness. He was too skilled with women to ask her what was wrong. He knew very well what was wrong: the impending sense of fear added to the loneliness, and homesickness natural enough in a young woman. But she would show none of it, nor would she accept sympathy for it. So Éomer remained silent on the subject. “They call it wedding ale. It’s sweetened with mead and spices. It’s for courage.”

“Do we need courage?” Lothíriel found herself draping herself in cool lightheartedness, chuckling to mask away the uncomfortable, disquieted feelings attending to her.

He was emboldened by her smile and got up to pour her a cup and handed it towards her, saying with the slightest curve of his own lips, “I should think we do. It is only a tradition, and traditions merely exist to impart courage at times.”

She took the cup of hot ale from his hand, noting the gold band on it, and dared to look up at him standing next to where she sat. The candlelight had enveloped his figure in a golden frame, and the expression on his face was an unreadable one. Lothíriel lowered her head in confused turmoil of her emotions and sipped the heady drink. “Oh, this is nice,” she remarked with quite a delight in her face and took a few more sips eagerly this time.

It soon became apparent, however, that she was going through the ale quite fast as she poured herself another cup and finished that one as well. Éomer quietly watched her from across the table, enchanted by the flawlessness of her being. He drew a heavy breath, at last, and stood up and walked to her as she was pouring another time. Lothíriel glanced at him, her cup of ale held in her hand. Gently, he took the cup from her and she looked on in silence, her face a blanch-surface of calm but her eyes were indignant, curious and resigned all at the same time.

“Even the best of ale should not be taken in excessive,” he said with a small smile, polite but firm as Lothíriel’s head drooped.

“Should I now leave for you to retire?” Éomer added.

“L-Leave?” Her eyes widened at his unexpected words, her confusion hardly concealed. And on top of that was worry bordering on alarm. “But is there not something we are supposed to do?”

He hesitated a moment, before saying slowly, “I shall be honest now as you asked me before: I do not wish for you to be brought to bed positively terrified and unprepared for what will take place when you hardly know what—”

“I know what must be done.” She had stood up abruptly in indignation, her reassurance had come out haughty, and then she covered her mouth in an apologetic way, and she added a bit more composed, “Or at least, I would be willing to learn. Whatever the case, I shall not skimp my duty.” Saying so, Lothíriel willed herself to look up at him with utter determination though she felt like her knees would give away anytime.

It was Éomer’s turn to speak out hastily this time. “Is it always going to be duty, for you?”

“I do not understand . . .” she was taken aback, was quite perturbed, to be honest. But she knew better to let it show, waiting for him to clarify what he meant, but her heart was beating away quite violently at this very unexpected change in his behaviour.

“I am sorry,” Éomer started again. “But I would not wish for you to be forced by your duty to do something unwillingly. I would not wish for you to be unhappy because of our marriage.”

“I am not unhappy,” Lothíriel tried to put up the argument calmly but with precision.

“But you are uneasy,” Éomer countered with a docility of his own.

“It is only the wibber-gibbers, the heebie-jeebies.”

“And quite drunk,” Éomer added, and a smile threatened to pervade his countenance.

His bride gave a scowl, “That was only my third cup that you took away.”

There was a long while of silence, as both of them strove to deal with the different emotions. Éomer looked on the lady standing in front of him with quiet apprehension, unable to keep from admiring every thing about her, while she looked down at the floor, trying to collect herself wisely and keep the situation in control. But she hardly knew what she needed to be doing! All she knew was she needed to make him understand, she needed to let him know that it was all right with her and they somehow needed to get this done and so she needed to make him stay. Then what? What next?

Lothíriel bit her lip in thoughtfulness, finally deciding on being equally honest to him as he had also asked her before, going through her words carefully as she said, “I thank you, for caring about me. But you are a king and you also have a duty to your people. You need an heir for your country, and it is my duty to help you. I would be honoured to be your friend, partner, and comforter. I shall be perfectly honoured to be your wife.”

“And what of happiness?” The King of the Mark lifted her chin, making her look into his dark eyes filled with a thousand concerns and questions that she understood but did not know how best to answer.

“That too. I believe I shall be a happy woman married to you.” Then she tiptoed to kiss him.

This time, despite the drink and the pounding of her heart, Lothíriel was fully aware of the touch of his lips against hers: it was soft, warm and his beard brushing lightly on her cheeks. She knew she had done one thing correctly at least as he responded to her and deepened the kiss that grew passionate; his one arm round her waist, drawing her body closer to him, and the other caressing the side of her face as she stood there, quite rigid, the warmth spreading through her from where he touched her body over her nightdress.

She had never even been kissed before today, let alone to have known how it felt like to be touched this way by a man.

When they parted, Éomer saw her face flushed as her ruby lips and the glimmer in her large, grey eyes. He gently ran his thumb across her smooth skin, taking in the sight of her as if mere memory could never be enough. The slightest look of sadness crossed his face, and Lothíriel saw it in his eyes as if his heart was breaking from some kind of pain—with a sense of the situation, she grasped the meaning of that look to be something of love, and that was when Lothíriel’s instinct brought her to hold his hand that was against her cheek, and her eyes spoke of earnestness.

“My dear lady wife,” Éomer said softly, dropping his hand from her face and holding her hand in both of his. She felt soft and gentle, her small hand fitting into his rough, calloused ones like they were meant to be fitted for one another perfectly. Lothíriel, in turn, laid her other hand on his, trying to get out of her shell to reassure this kind man who was now her husband.

But she glanced at the bed behind her, and steeled herself to ask him awkwardly, “Would . . . would you like to undress me, my lord?” The warmth in her cheeks grew fiery, her eyes cast down on the floor, unable to meet his eyes again in the embarrassment of what lies ahead.

“You shall call me Éomer, when we are on our own.”

Lothíriel dared to look up at him and quickly looked back down again, feeling very much like blushing and giggling and running away all at the same time. 

A soft sigh later, he reached out, nimbly caressing a lock of her hair between his fingers, before his fingertips grazed her cheek, trailing down her neck. Lothíriel could feel her breath quicken at the feathery touch, as he wordlessly continued to trail his fingers down to the neckline of her dress. He paused there and looked her in the eye, his silence telling her there would be no going back once he started. As he found her face unwavering, he deftly pulled on one of the strings at the front of her nightdress, and soon they came loose and Lothíriel held her breath, as Éomer lifted it up from the hem of the dress and over her head. She raised up her arms, making sure her plaited hair did not get messed up.

When she stood there in front of him, unclothed and uncovered by anything, a great wave of emotional instability hit Lothíriel then. She felt like sinking into the floorboards, she felt like sobbing and telling Éomer honestly that she could not do this. She had never dreamed of having to do this; she would willingly have gone through the world without knowing about this; she would have died before ever imagining herself this way in front of a man, husband or no. This was utterly appalling!

But despite the strongest urge to drop all courtesy and run and dive under the bed sheets, or to even just try and cover herself with her hands, Lothíriel stood still. She could not bear to meet his eyes, but she willed herself to do it with all that she had in her entire being. She was a Princess of Dol Amroth and she was not meant to show fear or uncertainty. She was now a Queen of Rohan and there was a country and people to lead.

She brought herself to look up at Éomer, and saw in his face the usual, unreadable expression of a vague scowl. Like he was displeased. Or just a very intense gaze. Lothíriel could not be certain.

Something like disappointment washed over Lothíriel this time, and she felt the emotions constricting in her throat — she looked away, hiding the vulnerability in her gaze, her silver-glazed eyes facing the quivering flames of the candles in the room.

“Are—are we not supposed to blow the candles out?” she asked in a small whisper.

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Isn’t that what’s normally done? In the dark?” Lothíriel said innocently, her words trailing off on a high intonation that indicated her uncertainty.

“Who told you that?”

“No-one!” She had looked at him in alarm, not wishing to come off as the kind of girl who ever discussed these things. Though only earlier she was bitterly resentful of not knowing, it was still hard to shed off old ideals that had been ingrained in the ladies’ minds that it was horrifying to know of these matters.

She saw a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and her stomach turned a somersault again. She loved and hated what he did to her feelings, so entirely what she had never been used to.

Éomer replied slowly, “Not exactly. Not always, no. But if you wish . . .”

“I do,” Lothíriel affirmed and there was a tiny quiver in her voice. She was thinking, while Éomer went to put out the flames one by one, that it was better to not have to see his face at all and for him to not see hers if he did not wish to. And he obviously did not wish to. Maybe? But Lothíriel stole a quick glance at the sight of her husband walking round the room, bending to blow out the candles, the light reflecting off through his golden hair. She would mourn in silence to herself the loss of having to see him; but as one candle remained lit at last, Éomer turned to her.

“May we not leave just this one?” Her blank face of confusion made him add more hesitantly, “It would be a shame to miss seeing you in the darkness.”

Oh, what does he mean, was the question racing through Lothíriel’s mind in a frenzy as she found herself nodding slowly, like a little puppet whose strings of control had snapped suddenly. She so longed to know what he meant!

“But if you do not wish . . .”

“Yes. I wish, very much.” She told him quickly, and forced the slightest of a smile through her shocked expression for good measure that he was assured of her willingness. Then she added in a flustered manner, “I mean, I only thought . . .”

“You thought?” Éomer asked as he came back towards her, his eyes fixed on her face.

Lothíriel lowered her head, shaking it slowly.

They stood in front of each other, untouching, and after a few moments Éomer said, “Your hair . . . will you allow me to . . .?”

She glanced behind her shoulder to realise that he meant to undo her plaited hair, and awkwardly but clearly she replied, “Oh, yes, certainly.”

When he moved nearer to her, and got behind her back, it was overwhelming how the warmth from the proximity of his body seemed to radiate and envelope her. But Éomer kept strictly to his word alone and touched nothing but her hair that he had asked; he undid the plait of her hair gently, his hands combing through the dark mass of it and, as it got loose and flowed down her shoulders and past below her back, Lothíriel felt soft prickles all over her skin at his barest touches. She turned to look at him, and his eyes met hers with a steady gaze that made her flustered.

“What is it?” he asked, soft and courteous but his voice naturally gruff.

“Nothing. I—” there was something insistent in the look of his eyes, something of undoing all her stone walls, that Lothíriel allowed them to crumble and herself to wither away, and told him plainly but shyly, “You are not upset with my hair?”

The wonder that came into her husband’s eyes could only be described as incredulous and shocked, as for a momentary pause his sternness melted. “No . . . why would I ever . . . your hair? What do you think could be wrong with your hair to make me—upset?”

Lothíriel was left stunned and at a loss for some of her usual quippy remarks as she tried to process the way he had just said what he just said; for she was almost shocked as himself to have this brief glance of him being uncertain and the way he struggled for the proper words, and how he had said them in so uncomfortable a manner, especially that last one. His brows were furrowed and that was not unfamiliar, but now there was real confusion in his eyes and he looked, why, he almost looked like a mere pageboy trying to understand something incredulous. It left her throat dry. Moreover, it left her frustrated because she could not pin down on why it made him so endearing in her eyes and heart. He was still the self-same King of Rohan, tall and proud, very regal and so utterly dashing in his roughshod manners, and yet the distant formality and ambiguity. But here there was this small side within him that was looking at her with wide eyes as if she had said something labyrinthine. It drove her insane.

“My hair . . .” she started uncertainly. “Is it not . . . well, dark and foreign and . . . and so very . . . I don’t know . . . dark.” Lothíriel heard herself saying this and tried to justify the emotions but immediately decided it sounded stupid in the end. She lowered her head, in a struggle that went beyond words or comprehension of men.

She felt, no, she knew, that what she was trying to do was a useless attempt to re-summon the wild uncertainties she had faced earlier in the morning. These were beginning to be cleared away gradually somehow with each passing moment now, but she still wanted to keep room for these doubts just in case, just in case she was hoping too high and above the blunt reality that often fell into the lot of women before her. A high-born lady married to a stranger for convenience or alliance, that case had two scenarios and an uninteresting in-between; and she was well aware which was the more probable oft-times. And just like most young ladies, she entertained this doubt and hope at the same time.

Éomer stared at her for a long moment, during which Lothíriel was on an earth-shattering brink of suspense, then he blinked. “It is beautiful,” he said slowly, caressing and bringing all of her hair onto one side of her shoulder. “And, and I love it.”

A thousand things happened all at once; and it was all in Lothíriel’s mind.

When her heart seemed to have recovered from the momentary pause and air breathed into her lungs once again, when the exploding fireworks in her chest had quietened down and herself had run happily across the length of Middle-earth there and back again in her mind, when her legs had regained steadiness and her ears had stopped to ring with the singing and shouting of her own voice and celestial bells, then Lothíriel’s lips quivered into a smile, grateful and relieved, and she murmured a little “Thank you,” still heaving breathless from what he had just said. If only he knew. Oh, the Valar be praised, if only he knew.

He gazed at her face, from her eyes to her lips to the slender curve of her neck, and asked, “Would you mind if I . . .” His hand, thick and roughened by years of war, softly traced the side of her face. The sensation brought Lothíriel to meet his eyes, and though he did not specify and she longed to know what it was that he meant to say, she nodded, saying,

“Not at all.”

The touch of his fingers, so calloused yet gentle, trailed over her jawline, and then down her neck and landed on her bare shoulder, smooth and glowing in the golden candlelight. They continued down across the length of her arm, leaving behind the feel of goosebumps on her skin and the silent yearning for more of that heat from his touch. When he reached her hand, he held it to his lips and placed a kiss, looking at her and taking in with much awareness of how her lips had parted a little and she looked on with suppressed anticipation in her eyes.

“You . . . are . . . flawless,” Éomer said quietly, almost to himself, and a shuddering breath escaped him before he pulled her towards him in a kiss of effusion, placing her hand over his chest. Lothíriel only had a moment of a small gasp before her lips crashed into his and she found herself kissing her husband again, this time more passionate and desirous as she felt his hands on her back, pressing her body against him. Their lips seemed to move in synchronisation to a dance of desire, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to do away with all space between them as she felt the burning fire inside, longing to feel his body all over hers.

For a moment there, a thought passed her mind about the propriety of how she was behaving and feeling. It left her confused and stopped short her responding, but half a second later Lothíriel had pushed away these chastising thoughts away from her mind and returned to the warmth that was growing inside her at the touch of his skin or the taste of his lips.

He appeared to have understood her mind, or at least taken notice of this new fervour of her kissing, and brought up his hand to tuck away the loose strands of hair away from her face. Then it slowly travelled down her neck, and this time to the side of her breasts where they lay pressed against his night tunic, and making him hard down below. He cupped one of them, gently squeezing it, and earning another small gasp from her as she stopped their kiss to look up at him with widened eyes. Éomer moved his hand away, asking with some gravity,

“Do you not like it?”

His wife batted her lashes bashfully, and her throat bobbed up and down as she swallowed with some nervousness, and shook her head to say quietly, “No . . . just surprised, my lord . . .” She struggled with herself to get the right words out, then emboldening herself to look at him straight in the eye, she said, “Please, continue.”

Éomer’s mouth went dry and parched, but he assumed a small smirk and replied, “It will be my pleasure.”

They recommenced their kissing, and he placed a firm hand over her breasts, softly kneading the flesh and running his thumb back and forth over the tips that grew stiffer with each of his strokes. Lothíriel was by now trying so hard to hold back letting out any improper noise, and no longer was she able to respond properly to his kisses when his touches on her sensitive buds were making her head go wild and her breath go shallow like she couldn’t get enough of air, enough of him. Her one hand served to push against his strong chest whilst her other hand was on his tunic collar, pulling him in desperately than ever.

The painful ache of her breasts grew unbearable over time under his administrations, building up like waves but without any rocks to crash on and release, and Lothíriel, eyes squeezed shut, gave in at last and let out a small whimpering moan into their deep kiss. The sound seemed to affect Éomer greatly, arousing him ever more and driving him to nip at her lower lip with a grunt, and his hand moved downwards across her abdomen, before stopping suddenly.

“Gods,” he swore loudly, breaking off the kiss to look at her basked in the light, a vision of his dreams every night turned real into flesh. He had his brows furrowed in great seriousness, or rather frustration, before he took in a deep breath and asked gruffly, “Bed?”

She nodded, with a blush of shyness now accompanied with the twinkle of eagerness in her grey eyes.

Slowly Éomer led her to the great white-covered bed of mattresses, and sat her down on the edge of it, with his arms on each side of her. She held his face close to hers, observing every chiselled detail from the lines on his forehead to the way his beard was trimmed above and around his lips and small, dark moles across his cheeks.

He was utterly handsome.

It wrenched Lothíriel’s heart for some reason to realise this and the poignant joy that came with the realisation of how fortunate she was to end up with him, to actually have her fate entwined with his. She felt like she could stay in this moment for ever, to have his eyes on her and never stir again. But of course, she also enjoyed the way his touches left her skin burning like there was nothing more holy than the way he’d hold her in his strong arms.

Their kiss changed a different kind as Éomer tenderly placed these tokens of affection all over her face, trailing from the one side of her temple down her ear to the crook of her neck where his head lay buried and covering with gentle, firm kisses, sucking and grazing at her skin in turn. Lothíriel then pushed his shoulders back and asked in her equable, quippy manner, “Why am I the only one undressed here?”

“And do you consider it unfair?” Her husband asked back with amusement in his eyes but barely a smile on his lips.

“I would think so, yes,” she answered honestly, and it was then that a smile overcame his stern features and he took her hands to place them upon his tunic. Lothíriel took hold of it by the hem and raised it up over his head and arms, and she took in the full view of his body, his well-toned muscular front, the light curly hair on his chest and the two dark areoles, and the visible tightness of the muscles packed in his shoulders and arms up to his hands where the veins could be seen underneath the roughened layer of his skin now enveloped in golden yellow. She reached out an arm to lay her hand on him, feel the touch of those muscle-fibres of an experienced warrior that made him look so god-like in her eyes. When her skin touched his revealed chest, she took a nervous gulp to quell the drumming of her heart, whereas Éomer visibly took a sharp intake of breath, still locking her eyes in his.

She delicately trailed her way down across his midriff, touching him with just the slightest tips of her slender fingers, the heat from his body grazing over them and coursing throughout her own. When she reached to the top of his trousers, and made to work on the string, Éomer seized her wrist then, startling her with the fierce gleam in his eyes. But he said softly, albeit what sounded in a low, threatening whisper, “Not yet, my love.” 

The words sent her into a spiral, a love spiral of fluttering warmth in her chest. It caused her to sit still, breathing heavily in anticipation, as her husband, her love, ran his hand through her hair and leaned in to kiss her, gently pushing her down onto the bed. Lothíriel fell back against the soft, white mattress under her, their kiss unbroken as she wrapped her arms over his shoulders, pulling him down the same and he followed suit. She could feel the sheer weight of him above her, though he was standing on his own and just leaned over the edge of the bed. But his body pressed against her bare skin, with nothing between them no more, was making Lothíriel feel like her whole being was on fire. And she wanted more.

Éomer started to move his kisses down her neck, and on her collarbone, and then lower between her breasts down to her abdomen, slightly below her navel. When his kisses ceased, Lothíriel, who had been conscious of everything while having her eyes closed, opened them and looked at him, face slightly flushed at the sight of having him so near her private parts.

“Allow me?” he asked gruffly.

“Anything,” she breathed.

Without breaking their gaze into one another’s eyes, Éomer parted her legs slowly, first placing his hands on her knees then moving up her thighs from the inside. Lothíriel could not tear her gaze away; to feel his hands on her skin, but to see them as well, made her heart go up into her throat where she felt the painful sensation of waiting. 

Éomer’s hand reached and touched at her nether lips, eliciting a shaky moan from the Gondorian princess who felt both pleasure and shock at this act. To say she was mortified would be saying less; but she would not be questioning her lord husband’s intentions, especially when she understood he was nothing but considerate. 

She felt his fingers deftly rubbing over the sensitive regions of that part of her body, going over them in circles at some times and back and forth at others. When one of his fingers was easily sunk into the wetness of her folds, Lothíriel let out a small gasp of pain. But it soon subsided after the first initial shock, and then she began to find it quite dizzying as he started on a perfect rhythm of thrusting it in and out. 

 It became hard for her to keep a level head, and she sank back onto the softness of the mattress beneath as she felt the steady pleasure travel through her body, making her weak. However, Lothíriel had sealed her eyes and mouth close shut, determined that no improper noise should escape her now, lest she became too loud and those waiting nearby the rooms should hear her indiscretion.

But, as said before, it was hard to keep a level head.

She turned her head this way and that, hands clasped tightly onto the sheets as something of a new sensation built up inside of her. All the while, Éomer had taken several notches up the stage, and was kissing those nether lips of hers, as yet untouched in any way even by herself. He was surprising her at every twist and turn; and she was responding to his administrations with hardly suppressed moans and whimpers as he flicked his tongue over her sensitive pearl.

“Are you quite all right?” he asked, pausing to look up at her from below, and found that he enjoyed this view of her just as well. 

“Yes. I do not know what you are doing, but I would like you to keep doing it,” she replied, eyes still shut, and need dripping in every syllable of her usual sultry accent. 

“As my queen wishes.”

He continued whatever he was doing before, and Lothíriel returned to it with a stronger sense of gratitude and relief and she sighed shakily as she felt his finger enter her again. Soon, he was pacing it faster and faster, and Lothíriel’s grip on the sheets tightened and her knuckles grew white in need of a release. Her back was arched barely from the bed, her breathing shallow and everything seemed to be mounting into something great and fragile, until she felt the long-awaited for release overcoming her body in a rush of ecstasy, the tightening knot in her stomach gradually easing as it seemed to flow out of her, leaving her a mess, but a happy mess. 

Her eyes were blurry as they opened up to the wooden ceiling above, her breaths heavier now and panting for more air, when she felt Éomer’s lips kiss her down there and she realised the fire hadn’t been extinguished. 

“Was that it?” was what Lothíriel found herself asking despite all her internal remonstrations. She tried to keep away from her eyes whatever thoughts could betray her, but knowing she probably failed this time.

“No,” was the subtly amused answer her husband gave her, and a smile. “If you wish.” He paused, and came up towards her and brushed aside some strands of her hair soaked in sweat, and asked, “But tell me. How . . . was that?” 

She could only look up at him, blushing furiously but unable to contain her smile. “I— um, it was . . . it was invigorating.” She saw, at the approximity of their faces, that his lips and a few hairs around were still glistening with the wetness between her thighs.

“I am happy to hear that,” he said, staring into her eyes, and she chuckled nervously, absolutely in love with the way he had said it so genuinely like a young boy who was just as nervous as she. 

He bent down to kiss her cheek, and then a little nib at her ear, asking her with a soft growl, “Are you ready then for the rest?” 

Lothíriel eyed at him shyly and answered, “Surely, you do not need my answer to know.”

“Yet I would hear it. I love your voice,” he said, making her head toss into a spin, as his hand trailed down her body.

“Yes,” she moaned softly under the drug of his touches. 

He pulled himself up straight, making Lothíriel wonder in half-alarm and half-curiosity, and started undoing the string of his pants. She sat up then, too, and helped him with it, keeping her eyes fixed on his that she would not waver. She got it loose and he let them fall onto the floor in a pile, leaving him as naked as the day he was born. Just as she was.

Lothíriel’s eyes, involuntarily as they were, travelled down to his lower body, to where his manhood lay erected and hard as a rock. She swallowed embarrassedly, not wanting to be rude as she stared, but she could not help doing so; blinking a few times, maybe, but it always ended up on his throbbing member, with its pink tip glistening in the light. 

“May— May I?” she asked timidly, something out of courtesy than curiosity as she thought to make it up to him fairly as how good he had made her feel. Well, perhaps the curiosity was also a large factor. 

Éomer, eyes still intent on her face, took her hand in his and brought it to his crotch. From there she slid down, touching him there for the first time, and taking back her hand in timid surprise initially. Then she placed it firmly against it, bringing her hand around the shaft of it.

“It’s . . . it’s,” she bit her lip, trying to think of something to say but her mind having gone blank. So instead she looked up at Éomer, her mouth perched, as he guided her hand to rub up and down the length of him. She took it up quickly, and started to murmur, “Well, it’s —um, hard but soft at the same time . . .” and he chuckled at that, a deep sound that came from his chest and reverberated throughout his body and to hers. 

She noticed he was losing composure, and his fingers were straying from her breasts, when at one point he grabbed her hand and said gruffly, as he pinned her down onto the bed, “That’ll be enough, my lady.” Then he got down to her thighs again, and spread them gently apart, telling her, “Now this may hurt a bit at first, and you must let me know if you wish for me to stop immediately.”

“Yes . . .” Lothíriel answered nervously, worried now as to what he meant and coming to realisation on her own. 

“I promise I won’t let you be in pain if I can help it,” Éomer said again, visible concern filled in his gruff countenance.

“‘Tis all right,” but she bit her trembling lips, gone pale for fear of standing on the brink of the unknown.

“Just... try and relax....it’s not so much painful as when your body is tensed up.” Then, holding her shoulder gently, Éomer looked into her eyes, golden-brown meeting stormy-grey ones with unspoken words of trust. “Do not be afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” said his queen. “I have never been afraid of anything.”

Men, like her father and brothers, had to fight their way in open warfare to secure their kingdoms. Most women, like her, had to endure painful ordeals in private.

As he placed himself at her entrance, and Lothíriel’s heart beat so loud it deafened her ears, Éomer traced circles on her thighs to ease up her muscles. And when he penetrated slowly inside past her warm folds, she turned her head aside, covered her mouth with her hand to muffle the cry of gradual pain. He then stayed still for a while, and she started to breathe slowly, getting herself adjusted to half of his length being inside her. It was a searing pain, and though he was gentle it still hurt her much; but eventually when it seemed she had gotten used to it, and every vein in her body seemed to be pulsing in rhythm with his, she gave a small nod, signalling him to go on.

He began moving his hips against hers, slowly at first as he inched himself forward with each thrust. As his pace quickened, and Lothíriel grew used to the friction of having him thrust in and out, her body too caved in to the pleasure albeit being painful. Her white-knuckled grip on the sheets loosened, and her hands went to his shoulders as he propped himself above her on his elbows. The knot that was tightening in her stomach grew, and there seemed no other way of satiating the sinful desire in her as she buried her hands in his hair, wanting to pull him down into a kiss, but her conscience was not yet too far gone for this.

At last, her determination gave in to the strong urge and moaned softly his name, “Éomer,” which spurred him on to continue faster and eventually led to both their releases, like waves meeting the shore, crashing onto ocean rocks. He too groaned out her name, over and over, as he filled her with his warm seed, his face buried in the crook of her neck. 

He collapsed beside her, their pantings heavy and fast, the only sounds that were heard in the dimly lit chamber-room. Lothíriel had fixed her eyes on the ceiling above, thinking over to herself what had just been done.

The pain was no worse than she had expected. Her cousin Ariellë had said it was not as bad as falling from a horse, and she had been right. Andrídha, her sister-in-law, had said that it was paradise; but Lothíriel could not imagine how such deep embarrassment and discomfort could add up to bliss—and concluded that Andrídha was exaggerating, as she often did.

But when she turned her head to where Éomer lay, his golden hair sticking in sweat and his body glistening, Lothíriel felt inclined to admit, at least a little bit, that the experience had not been entirely distasteful. He had been kindest, gentlest, and most considerate that any woman in her place could have wished for. 

He caught her looking, and smiled and said, “Yes, my lady?” 

She flushed, but quickly regained herself to correct him, “It is only Lothíriel to you, my lord.”

He let out a deep chuckle, closing his eyes for a moment. “That is right.” Then he turned himself to her and kissed her forehead, saying, “Lothíriel, my queen.” 

He got up, and a thought passed her mind in dismay that he might be leaving. He seemed to catch the alarm in her eyes, and told her gently, “I am only getting a towel.” 

He came back soon with it, soaked in warm water, that he started dabbing over her face to wash away the grime and sweat from their labour. Lothíriel looked on with wonder in her eyes, never failing to be awed by his being such a gentle person despite his stern looks. Both remained in silence, the good kind where words are unnecessary, until he reached down to her lower parts, and she, realising the blood and mess down there, embarrassedly told him, “Oh, I’ll do it.”

But Éomer looked at her with a meaningful look in his dark eyes, saying, “I insist.” She then felt it out of her power to keep arguing, and quietly acceded. It was such a strange matter for her, that he would be touching her even after, well, their duty had been performed. But no, it had been more than that. 

“By the way,” he said, bringing her out of her reverie. “I love what you always say. Won’t you say it again? Say it for me again, my queen, say you are not afraid.” He raised her chin, studying the flawlessness of her face in the candlelight. 

She leaned in, half-giggling into their kiss like a schoolgirl, “I am not afraid of anything, not anymore.”

When morning came, Lothíriel woke up in the arms of her husband, wrapped around her like strong walls of safety and happiness. The warm sunlight streaming in from the window fell onto his face, serene in sleep, softening the stern features and transforming into a picture of all that Lothíriel ever wished to love.

He went away with a small nod, bidding her good-morning and a quick kiss, very much aware of the pink glow in his wife’s cheeks as she avoided his eyes in the first waves of embarrassment renewed by daylight. The men greeted him with cheers outside the door, and marched him in triumph to his own rooms. Lothíriel heard him say, vulgarly, boastfully, “Gentlemen, this night I have been in Dol Amroth,” and heard the yells of laughter that applauded his joke. For a while, she lost her breath imagining everything that would come, and felt distressed by the prospects of having it known and teased by everybody, when it was a special thing she wanted to keep only between the two of them. 

But there would be no avoiding the ceaseless questions and inquiries, she knew, now that she was the queen and her top priority was producing an heir for the House of Eorl. Lothíriel mentally braced herself; she would brave through it. And, well, with Éomer, it didn’t seem so terrible.

Her ladies came in with her gown and heard the men’s boisterous laughter. Lady Saelwen raised her thin eyebrows to heaven at the manners of these Rohirrim.

“I don’t know what your father would say,” Lady Saelwen remarked sullenly.

“He would say that words count less than my happiness, and my happiness has been secured,” Lothíriel said firmly with a smile.

 Sincerely Snow

8 July 2024 — 29 August 2024

tagging : @konartiste @celeluwhenfics

this turned out much better than what was on the previous post … unfortunately, no toads from amrothos.

[emyn-arnens]

Wísfæst-líc Cwǽn

A Rohan Secret Santa gift for @konartiste! I hope you enjoy it! ❤️

Summary: It is said that Éomer was a different man after the war. (Or, of one of the many changes instituted by Éomer, blessed among kings.)

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.2k

Lothíriel woke up shivering. She reached instinctively for Éomer, seeking his warmth. Her hand found only the cold expanse of the bed.

She sat up, pulling the coverlet and the furs piled atop it up to her shoulders. The bedchamber was cold, and she no longer heard the crackling of the fire in the hearth nor the popping of coals in the braziers that stood around the bed. 

Even now, after a year in Rohan, she could not adjust to the chill that set in in the evenings in winter. Though Rohan was not much further north than Dol Amroth, there was a coldness to the nights that Dol Amroth did not have, and a decided lack of the warm seaward breeze that had made winters there so temperate. Indeed, the winds that howled around Edoras in the winter were cold to the bone, having come howling down the slopes of the mountains and then set to chasing each other with snapping teeth around the hill the city sat upon.

She drew back the bed curtains. A waft of even colder air greeted her. Éomer sat still at his desk, reading letters by the light of several candles, all burned down to stumps. 

When she had retired earlier in the evening, he had said that he would soon follow her. But from the look of it, he had worked several hours more, as was his wont of late. Though their chamber had no window with which to see the moon or stars, she would venture to guess that it was now past midnight and well into the late watches of the night.

Read the rest on AO3.

[melestasflight]

Hey friends, if you read or write any of these characters and would like to help a PhD student with a research project, check this out. Becca is doing some really cool things!

Haleth (Silmarillion)

Eärien (The Rings of Power)

Lothiriel of Dol Amroth

Aragorn and Arwen’s Daughters

[whiskawaybelf]

Dol Amroth and their Swan Knights will never not be funny to me. Because yes, swans are elegant, of course the famously noble, very Numenorean family would have that as their banner. You know what swans also are? Territorial and absolutely feral if you approach their home and nesting site. (Mute swans are particularly vicious, many swans are just aggressively defensive, mute swans are actively dicks.)

I love the idea of of Imrahil and his family meeting important people and they're so put together and regal, and then you see them in battle and they are... so scary. I love a Lothiriel who seems so smooth and demure and then will absolutely punch the throat of anyone who touches her without permission, no hesitation, you should have known better than to the touch the Princess of Dol Amroth. I love this family of beautiful noble people who defend their home so viciously that they can bring the most troops of the principalities. What? Like it's hard? A family that will not hesitate to cut you but they'll also be the symbol for nobility and honour, with a Prince that even elves know is a pretty impressive person.

Give me the family of Dol Amroth who are loving and calculated and cold and deeply efficient at dealing with threats. Ones who surprise their enemies by being three steps ahead at all times, but 'Elphir could not have done this, he is so noble,' yeah buddy, but you hoarded grain during a siege so I hope you have fun in the Dol Amroth prisons until after Morannon when we can be bothered to deal with you.

Turncoats? Hard to turn a coat without any of the correct information and each and every one of your sources rounded up before you can warn them.

Slimy advisors? Eaten for dinner, Denethor; sad but we planned for this, Mordor and certain death? Sure, not a part of the plan but our knights are renowned for their battle prowess, let's go and tear Sauron a new one.

Give me noble, coldly efficient, wildly territorial and very slightly feral Dol Amarothians. I beg you. Make their swan a symbol of their absolutely unhinged defense of their beautiful, elegant home.

(But like wild oceans and massive mountains? I have a whole post about how this also gives us insight into Imrahil and his kids, or like, my version of them. Water and stone, commanding oceans and navigating massive peaks. The children of Dol Amroth grow up walking uphill both ways, their knees are scarred and bloody from slipping down sharp mountain paths and they are honed to their lands.)

[spruceneedles]

Lothíriel and Amrothos (concept)

[thelien-art]

December; the 19th

Lothiriel

I feel like she´s leaning much towards Rohan´s fashion - also she ends up the queen there soooo... I´m giving her Rohan inspired clothes, with a tiny bit Gondor, and Gondor/Numenor makeup, and then most of the jewels are Rohan except the lowest necklace.