It was not until three days later that Éomer remembered the cedar chest he had brought with him from Rohan. They were just moseying back to their chambers after a luncheon with her brothers and father when they passed the woman servant who had walked in on them the morning after their wedding, and he was struck with remembrance.

But rather than admit his mistake, he pretended that was what he meant all along—in the slanting afternoon light, he gave to his wife a silver key from his saddlebags and said solemnly, "This is my wedding gift to you."

Lothíriel's eyes widened at this, and her fingers curled around the key. "But what is it?" she asked.

"Well—" He had to be honest. "I am not entirely sure. Éowyn chose it for you."

"Éowyn chose it?" There was laughter threatening her lips, and he grinned.

"She and Faramir know—ahem, knew you better than I. I did my best, all things considered."

"Indeed, all things considered."

Lazily he leaned back in a chair as Lothíriel knelt beside the chest, pushing open the lid eagerly. He enjoyed watching the plays of emotion on her face; when she was uninhibited by social strictures or chaperones, she wore her feelings openly and passionately. Her lips parted in astonishment as she slowly lifted a soft linen package, setting it upon her lap. She glanced up at him.

"I am as excited as you," Éomer drawled. She stuck her tongue out at him, making him smile, before untying the knotted string.

"Ohhh…" Her breathy cry was utterly endearing. Folds of fine white wool fell across her lap, and reverently she buried her fingers into the fabric.

"It's a dress," he said, surprised.

Lothíriel blinked, and seized the folds to lift it upwards. The frock was in the style of Rohan; with a low neckline, loose sleeves, and a bodice that would not require a corset. Silver and gold threads were shot through at the neckline and sleeves, and a gold belt fell from the package as Lothíriel shook out the skirt.

"Try it on," Éomer advised, as his wife appeared to be speechless. At once she stood, scattering the wrappings everywhere, and the dress slung over one arm she began to tear at the buttons of her frock. Alarmed at her haste as one button popped off and fell to the floor, he stood, and gently pushing her fingers away to take care of the frock himself.

It was quickly discarded, as well as the underskirt, bustle and at Éomer's prompting, the corset. Lothíriel's color was high as he assisted her in lifting the white dress over her head, and it slid over her slender body as if it was made to do so.

Which, of course, it was. Éomer would have to remind himself to thank his sister for such a gift. How had she known that Lothíriel would welcome the freedom of such clothing? No doubt Faramir had had a say.

His wife was laughing, smoothing the fine wool with her hands as she spun around. "Oh! I can move!" she cried exultantly. "Look, Éomer! I can lift my arms!" She did so in demonstration, her smile full of such joy that Éomer joined her in laughter. "And I can run!" Lothíriel leapt around a chair, twirling gracefully as the skirts flowed around her. "Is this what all women wear? In Rohan?" she asked when she was a mite calmer, her eyes bright as she gazed up at him.

Éomer took her hand in his, admiring the way the white wool made her skin flush and glow. "It is, indeed," he assured her. "I am glad you like the style."

"Like is a mild word!" Lothíriel said in a singsong voice, spinning around again. "I have never worn such a forgiving weave of fabric before! And it is so airy—I shan't sweat buckets in the summer any longer!"

"It appears as though Éowyn has outfitted you with many such dresses," Éomer said absently, peering into the trunk. "And proper riding clothes, and boots, and—well, you shall have to open the rest."

"Why?" she asked mulishly, turning 'round from where she had been slouching, very unladylike with one leg hooked over the armrest, in a chair by the empty hearth. Éomer smiled, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you not wish to see the rest of your gift?" he asked.

"I am perfectly content with what I already have. This dress has made me happier than any other clothing I have own in my life."

He straightened, folding his arms across his chest. "Come and admire the work my sister has done to please you, and I shall tell you a secret."

Lothíriel's eyes snapped back to him, glittering with interest. "A secret?"

"Come on, then." Éomer beckoned her over, and meekly she obeyed. When she was standing in front of him, her gaze expectant, he pursed his lips sternly for a moment, and then reached over to pluck out a pin from her hairnet.

"Oh!" she blinked. He took another, and another and another until Lothíriel grabbed her mass of hair to keep from falling her eyes wide. Éomer shook his head, and gently pried the hairnet from her fingers. Her tresses tumbled down in a sweet-smelling cascade, and with ornaments discarded on the floor where he decided they belonged, he sunk his fingers into her hair and tilted her face upwards.

Lothíriel responded eagerly to his kiss, apparently nonplussed at his actions. He pulled away a moment later, and told her solemnly, "Women of Rohan do not wear hairnets."

A surprised moment, and then a smile beamed on her face.

"You can do so, if you wish," Éomer added, to be fair. "But it is unnecessary. Why keep something so beautiful hidden from the world?"

Her arms, bare where the loose sleeves were falling upwards, wrapped around his neck as a mischievous smile grew on her lips. "I am going to like Rohan," Lothíriel declared.

"Rohan is going to like you, too."

At last she calmed enough to examine and sigh over the reminder of the gifts, her smile never fading. Three new frocks, including the white one, with undergarments, riding trousers and tunics, a cloak and both riding boots and half-boots which were generally worn outside. Lothíriel took her time, almost to Éomer's dismay, to try on everything—he assisted as patiently as he could, admiring how well these new clothes set off her figure.

"I love them!" she chattered happily, twirling around in a pale-blue dress. "Oh, I have never been so happy! I must write Éowyn and thank her at once."

"If you like," Éomer said.

"And afterwards, we should go sailing before sunset," Lothíriel added. Her face betrayed nothing as she swept elegantly into the chair at a writing desk.

"Eh—what?"

She cast him a look. "I am a kinder sailor than my brothers, I promise," she told him. "It would be remiss of me to allow you to leave Dol Amroth without truly enjoying the sea, and it is at its best at sunset."

Too enamored of his wife to fight it, Éomer gave his unhappy assent. "Very well, then. But while you're writing, I am going to see that all is in readiness for our departure to Rohan."

Lothíriel turned up her cheek for a parting kiss, which he gave. His walk to the stables to find his men had him wondering just why he could deny his wife nothing.

The sun dappled yellow and gold on the surface of the silver sea, and Éomer grudgingly admitted the scenery to be fine and the sailing not unpleasant. It was fortunate Lothíriel had a steadier hand when sailing her little boat, and they stayed close to the rocky shore beneath the vast white cliffs where the sea was calmer.

She was dressed in her new riding clothes, reveling in the freedom of movement as she secured the boom, lashed the tiller and tightened the mainstay. This boat was smaller than the one her brothers had taken him out in, and she managed the sailing of it smoothly, as if she had done so many times before. Which Éomer did not doubt.

"I used to come sail whenever I managed to distract my nurse with something—a false report of maidservants squabbling, or I would pretend to be sick and send her to the market to fetch me some remedy." Lothíriel had the grace to smile ruefully. "I would run down to the beach and shove my horrible frock in the boat." She motioned towards the bow, where there was a latched storage compartment.

"You would sail in your undergarments," Éomer said.

"Oh, yes. Less chance of getting tangled in the rigging."

He was suitably impressed, but not surprised. The more he knew his wife, the less he thought himself capable of being surprised. So he stretched out upon a few planks of wood, throwing his arm over his eyes to shield him from the sun, peeking out only every so often to watch whatever Lothíriel was doing.

As soon as the boat was secure, she, too, laid out on the bottom of the boat. Her boots propped up on the plank beside Éomer's head, and he cast her a wary glance. But she was looking away, her arm hanging carelessly over the side of the boat as her fingers streamed in the water.

"I wonder sometimes if I could have been a better princess," Lothíriel said, likely referring to her earlier tale of lying to her nurse and stowing away her dress.

"Perhaps," Éomer allowed, feeling lazy as he closed his eyes. "But I like you just the way you are."

Silence.

"You like me?" she asked, her voice small. He did not know if she was simply repeating it, or was wishing an answer—but a moment later she spoke again, even more quietly, "No one has ever liked me before."

"Nonsense," he said. "Your father and brothers adore you."

"Well, they love me because they are my family. But…I have never really had a friend. I never cared for the ladies at court, nor they for me, and even my nurse…"

Éomer lifted his arm to glare across the boat. Lothíriel immediately flushed. "Éowyn likes you," he stated. "Or at least intends to. And I can think of about six or seven women off the top of my head in Edoras who will think you are the greatest girl they have ever met, for better or worse."

"Worse?" Her brow pinched.

"It depends how much mischief you plan on getting into."

"Oh…I should not get into any, if I am to be queen." Lothíriel's eyes returned to the cliffs with the slightest dimming of the sparkle in them. "At least, that is what Marta says…"

Éomer held back a laugh. "No burning down stables," he advised. "And I hope you do not wander around with your outer clothes stuffed somewhere out of sight. At least, outside our own chambers."

She quirked a brow at him, and while he fancied that she valued his feelings on the matter, they were not like to change her nature entirely. Bema! How could he feel so fortunate and cursed at the same time?

Lothíriel stood without another word, tearing at the ties on her tunic. It was discarded to the bottom of the boat, and then her trousers, boots, and stockings. Éomer, too astonished to speak straightaway, finally said in a hoarse voice,

"What are you doing?"

"Going for a swim." She was left in the common undergarments of a female rider; linen-bound chest and smallclothes. He was staring at the very attractive slopes of her waist and belly when she turned, carefully climbing the edge of the sloop, and executed a flawless dive into the tranquil sea.

She can be impulsive, Imrahil had told Éomer many months earlier, which he sardonically recalled now. If only Imrahil knew…

A splash at his elbow brought Éomer's attention to the water. Lothíriel's head was poking out of the water, glistening with moisture as she bit her lip, holding back a beaming smile. She was looking more like the naiad he remembered, but even more desirable—for he both knew her and adored her. He grinned, despite himself, and propped his arms up on the rim of the boat.

"You should come swim," she said. "It is warm, I pro—"

"Aha! You blinked!" Éomer pointed a finger at her face, which now flushed. "You must answer me a question."

Lothíriel pursed her lips. "Oh, Éomer, really—"

"I wish to know what you meant last time, that our happiness depends on me."

"I did not think you would remember," she confessed, her blush deepening. "It was foolish of me."

"Explain, little wench."

She stuck her tongue out, and he forced himself not to laugh. Adopting a stern stare, he waited patiently her response. At last Lothíriel sighed, her fingers wrapping on the rim of the boat to hold herself steady.

"I was thinking that I was perfectly willing to make happiness with you in our marriage, despite being strangers. But had you shown no interest in me and no interest in that happiness, then we would not be happy. Joy does not simply happen," she added fiercely, her eyes sparking with passion. "It must be strived for! You asked a silly question. Happiness is a choice available to anyone."

"Then I choose it," Éomer said at once.

"Good. That does make things simpler." Lothíriel pulled herself upwards, pressing her salty lips to his. He was almost surprised, and after a moment grasped her face to keep her from escaping. There was a giggle in her throat, but he didn't care. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and emboldened, Éomer tried to pull her back into the boat—

She broke the kiss, breathing heavily with a most impish smile on her face. At that precise moment it dawned on him what she was going to do—Lothíriel tugged him downward with unnatural strength, and the seawater engulfed him with a horrifically ungraceful splash.

When he surfaced, he was spluttering and gasping for breath, and his bride laughed a short distance away.

"Kick your feet," she advised cheerily. "And wave your arms—like this."

Éomer copied her demonstration, but it did little. She frowned, and dived back below the surface again.

"Wench," he muttered to himself, pushing wet hair away from his face. "I'll get her back—"

A tugging on his foot, and then the other. At once he could float better, and Lothíriel reappeared with his boots in her hand, which she tossed into the now-empty boat.

"Shall I strip away the rest of your outer clothes as well?" she asked innocently. "It will help."

He unclenched his jaw. "Yes! Fine."

There was something strangely exhilarating about Lothíriel swimming 'round him like a little fish in the water, peeling away his stockings and trousers. It became even easier to keep his head above the surface, too, and he was feeling far more confident by the time his tunic was removed and thrown into the boat with the rest.

"Isn't it lovely," Lothíriel said with a sigh, floating on her back with her face to the sky.

"Yes, you are." The words were out of Éomer's mouth before he could stop them. Well, it hardly mattered—he grasped one of her slender wrists, and after a brief struggle wrapped her in his arms, keeping them surfaced.

Her color was high, and beautifully so. Her eyes glittered, but he did not know if it was with mischief or something else, and frankly, he did not care. Her fingers clenched on his bare shoulders. A moment of breathing each other's breaths, and Éomer kissed her, nearly forgetting to kick his feet.

Several minutes later it was becoming a significant challenge to kiss and tread water in tandem. He had tugged down Lothíriel's linen wrappings, tasting the salt on her breasts and not really caring (nor did she, for that matter), and Éomer was growing uncomfortable in a way that would be difficult, if not downright impossible to ease in the sea.

"Can we do this in your boat?" he asked his wife hoarsely.

"Oh—the planks would make it difficult—" Her hips were grinding into his, and so he did not think he was imagining her impatience matching his. "We should return," she murmured, her breath hot in his ear. "The sun will be gone soon…"

Laboriously, reluctantly, a bit testily—they clamored back into the boat, and after drying themselves as best they could with a scrap of sail, Lothíriel turned the boat back to the bay. Éomer slung his wet clothes over the beam, hoping the swift sea breeze would at least somewhat dry them before they returned to the palace. He was in no condition to be seen by anyone—except his wife, of course.

He cast a glance over to her, studying the pretty flush in her cheeks as she secured the boomstay. If he was to be completely honest...he had not expected this. He had not expected her. He had not expected a woman he would desire, a woman he could laugh with, a woman that he even wished to spend his days with…and somehow he had gotten all three.

"Lothíriel…" Éomer started to say, and then stopped. She smiled at him, waiting. "Thank you," he finished lamely. "It was a lovely sail."

Her smile grew. "Thank you for humoring me," she said, returning her attention to the ropes. "I would have been sad to leave without a final sail and a last swim."

The sloop began to cut through the waves, urged on by the wind north towards the city. Once it was sailing on its own, Lothíriel took a moment to observe their surroundings. Before Éomer could ask what she was doing (he was beginning to learn the signs of impending recklessness), she unwrapped the linens 'round her chest, letting them fall to the bottom of the boat in a sodden heap. Then her small clothes. He stared.

"Bema, Lothíriel!" he managed to croak. "What in Arda—"

"I am dressing," she said innocently, now tugging her dry tunic over her head. "I cannot very well show up in my underthings, hmm?"

"You are outrageous."

"I am sensible," Lothíriel retorted, rolling up the sleeves above her slender wrists. The tunic was long enough that it looked as though she was merely wearing a very short dress, and Éomer liked it. "I would rather not have wet bindings beneath dry clothes, and I took them off now rather than waiting…" And have every sailor near the docks staring her way. Éomer could hear the implication in her voice, and saw it in the grin she tried to hide. He frowned.

"You are outrageous," he said again. Her shapely legs were disappearing into the trousers, and he withheld a groan of disappointment.

"I hope Father hasn't planned a feast for tonight," she mused, lacing the trousers with quick fingers. "I am bored of feasts."

Éomer privately agreed, but did not wish to appear ungrateful for the hospitality of his host—and his father-in-law. "If there is a feast and you find yourself nodding over the soup, we can plead exhaustion and escape," he said.

Lothíriel glanced at him in surprise. "Really?"

"Of course.

Still she did not appear to believe him, and asked, "Promise?"

"I promise."

She gave one of her laughs; quick and light like a cool sea breeze on a hot day. Leaping onto the bow of the sloop, Éomer watched as she held onto the bowsprit, her face to the sun and her hair rippling in the wind.

He was in love with her, he realized with a jolt. He'd have to tell her, sometime. But for now, he merely watched, and smiled.