AN – This chapter took me a while to get out, mostly because I wanted to make sure I did the wedding scene justice. I didn't want to just vaguely mention it, or skip it altogether. Being a huge fan of Rohan, I really wanted to do justice to their culture and come up with a believable ceremony. Hopefully I managed. If not . . . oh well. LOL

Special thanks to Dannie Foley, my roommate, who has become obsessed with this fanfiction and has "taken up the whips" so to speak, demanding that I finish this story. So to all you rabid readers, you can thank her for my continued interest.

Chapter Nine

Rohirrim Wedding

Lothíriel started a little at the hand that gently shook her arm. Her bleary eyes opened to see Freda hovering over her, her young face lit with ill-contained excitement.

"Come my lady," she called in her breathy, sing-song voice, "it is time to start getting ready!"

Still groggy from sleep, for a moment Lothíriel just stared blankly at the child, wondering what it was time to get ready for. Then dawning hit, and she gasped, immediately feeling her heart begin to race. With excitement or dread, she wasn't entirely sure. Maybe both.

Today was the day of her wedding to Eomer, Horse-Lord and King of the Riddermark.

Freda turned away to fetch the light breakfast that she'd brought with her while Lothíriel slowly sat up and did her best to shake free of the last vestiges of her dreams. She nibbled on the warm sweet cakes and fresh milk while Freda flitted here or there, gathering all the things she would need to see her lady properly made up for the occasion.

A few moments later, mistress Frecca entered, bidding her a cheerful good morning—which Lothíriel did her best to return. The older woman soon turned to help her daughter with the preparations.

Not long after that Lady Eowyn suddenly entered the chamber. She was already dressed in a fine pale green satin gown with her blonde hair pulled back, an intricate circlet of golden flowers across her brow, each with gleaming emerald jewels as their center. Then Riana, garbed in resplendent indigo silk overlain with silver netting, her brilliant red hair pulled back into several coils and held there with silver pins, and a matching, intricate woven band of the same around her brow.

Their near-breathless excitement and giddy anticipation was infectious, so that much of her fear was soon forgotten, at least for now. Instead Lothíriel found herself gently bullied out of bed and then helped into one of her finer snow-white chemises. Yet when Freda suddenly produced the mithril gown, she shook her head.

"Ah, no Freda. I have changed my mind. I think I will wear the silver velvet one instead."

"Lothí!" Riana protested immediately, face aghast. "I thought you wanted desperately to wear your mother's gown at your own wedding! You spent months and months altering it!" Lothíriel blanched, then sighed.

"I did wish to wear it, Riana, but . . . I am afraid it will be seen as too much. The Rohirrim have suffered much this past year, and I do not wish to appear so pretentious. The silver velvet will be fine."

Eowyn and Riana shared a knowing glance, then the blonde stepped closer and seemed to consider the gown hanging from the young maid's fingers with serious eyes. She suddenly turned back after several moments.

"No Lothí, I think that it must be this gown that you wear today," the White Lady pronounced, tone firm and brooking no argument. "This gown is too fine a treasure to be kept hidden away, and your father and brothers will be fair bursting with pride to see you so well-garbed in the colors and emblem of your homeland. It will help ease the sting of losing you to another man and kingdom. That, and the love and consideration you put into altering such a beloved heirloom is apparent in every fold of this fabric. I think that that will be more telling than any misgivings anyone might have as to it's costliness." Eowyn tapped a nail to her lower lip for a moment in thought, then brightened. "And I have just the thing to keep your appearance from seeming too elaborate or conspicuous, if that is your wish. We will dress your hair in the Rohirrim way, instead of the Gondorian coils and netting. I think that will be just the thing to soften your look, to help you appear more approachable and less haughty."

Lothíriel remained dubious, but the others were quick and eager to agree, so she finally bowed to their combined desires and went along with it. Freda and Frecca helped her into the glimmering white-silver gown—which felt as light as a breeze despite its many embellishments—fastening the row of tiny catches at her back beneath the cape and train. The neckline swooped low across her breast, the edges not quite covering the top of her slim white shoulders, the under-sleeves long and fitted until the heel of her palms, the false sleeves over them wide and hanging well to the ground. The brocaded bodice of the gown hugged her slim figure closely, all the way down well past her hips before the fabric finally loosened to drape in a glistening tide to the floor at her slippered feet.

At Eowyn's urging, her dark hair was completely unbound and brushed until it too gleamed as brilliantly as any jewel in the firelight, the faintly curled tips brushing the backs of her knees. The only adornment they put in was a beautiful headpiece that held back her hair and outlined the sides of her face with what appeared to be delicate silver, feathery wings unfurled—the longest of the feathers framing her pale cheeks near to the corner of her lips. Strands of glittering silver beads and teardrop sapphires draped from it onto her brow and down into her ink colored hair.

Lothíriel stood and stared at her reflection in the polished silver looking-glass, somewhat stunned at what a difference this gown and the hairstyle made. The cut of the fine dress was very feminine and provocative without being blatant, hugging her curves and showing them off at their best, but still appearing stately while doing so. And with her hair loose, it suddenly gave more substance to her small frame, so that she didn't seem quite so rail-thin and waif-like. Instead she looked . . . older somehow, less of an awkward girl-child and more a woman-in-the-making.

The others stood behind her, admiring and excited.

"You look a vision, Lothí," Riana whispered, standing behind her. "Your father and brothers will scarce recognize you, I think. You have grown up while none of us were looking." The redhead gripped her shoulders in a comforting squeeze, her green eyes becoming glassy with unshed tears. "I shall miss you terribly, little sister."

Lothíriel turned and buried her face in Riana's shoulder, suddenly fighting tears of her own. "And I you," the younger girl whimpered. They stayed that way for a moment, until someone was suddenly tugging on her hair.

"Alright, enough of that," Eowyn suddenly muttered somewhat brusquely. Yet when Lothíriel lifted up it was to see the White Lady struggling with the moisture gathering in her own eyes, though stubbornly attempting to keep them at bay. "No more sad tears, or you will have me blubbering right along with the rest of you. I cannot be held accountable due to my delicate condition," the proud female announced then, chin lifting stubbornly and ignoring the others' smiles and chuckles. "Babes make overly-emotional harpies out of the best of us."

It seemed an eternity and an instant, all rolled into one, before someone was knocking on the door and saying that the ceremony was soon to begin. Lothíriel tried her best to smile, accepting Eowyn and Riana's last minute hugs and well wishes before they slipped out of the door. Then she took a deep breath, shored up what little there was to be had of her courage and then left the room as well. It was to find her father standing in the hall ready to escort her, dressed in a fine black-blue sapphire and silver velvet tunic emblazoned with the silver swan of Dol Amroth and the white tree and seven stars of Gondor.

Imrahil's expression was one of stunned awe as she stepped out to meet him. Her father reached up with a faintly trembling hand, his fingers carefully tracing a string of silver beads that hung across her cheek, curving around the line of her jaw until he reached her chin. He gently forced her to lift her head and meet his stare. Then he seemed to force a small smile, though his eyes were conflicting between great sadness and painful pride.

"You look just like your mother," he whispered hoarsely then, "and so very beautiful."

And suddenly Lothíriel wanted to cry again. Her father was a very warm and affectionate man compared to most, but he had never once likened her to her mother—Princess Aerberethiel—before, a woman who was said to rival the beauty of the elves for which she was named. She swallowed with some difficulty, giving her own wobbly smile through her tears, her hands lifting to touch his own.

"Thank-you, Papa," she whispered back, her voice just as choked with emotion as his had been.

They shared another silent moment before Imrahil finally shook himself and recovered his equilibrium. He held out his arm. "Come, daughter," he murmured softly. "It is time."

Lothíriel took a deep, trembling breath for fortification, then hooked her hand into the crook of his elbow. The Prince of Dol Amroth began leading her down the corridors of Meduseld then, and Lothíriel suddenly noticed through her nerves that it had been decorated well for the occasion. Huge green, red and gold banners hung in great festoons, held in place by bouquets of white flowers and matching satin ribbons—with the massive white horse of Rohan blazoned across many of their fronts.

The halls were completely empty, with no one else wandering about. No doubt everyone was waiting for them in the main hall. When they reached a side door, her father suddenly hesitated. Imrahil turned to her, his expression troubled.

"Lothíriel," he murmured, reaching over with his free hand to cover her smaller one resting on his arm. "Are you certain that you will be happy here?" he questioned then.

Lothíriel opened her mouth to answer, yet at that moment her mind suddenly drifted back to last night. Back to the moment when she had begun to truly believe that marriage to the powerful King of the Mark would not be such a burden after all. And instead of her polite affirmation, she ended up blurting out, "his kisses are very nice."

And then her eyes widened and her cheeks stung with mortification, not even daring to believe she had just said that out loud to her father, of all men. Yet instead of become upset, Imrahil merely blinked down at her in surprise. Then he very slowly started to smile. He patted her hand, letting out a soft chuckle.

"I am glad to hear it, Lothí. Very glad indeed."

Then her father was opening the smaller door and pulling her out of it, onto the broad stone terrace outside. As they circled around to the front of the hall, the guards watched her pass—some unseasoned enough to let their eyes widen and their mouths open with shock, though she wasn't entirely certain where that reaction stemmed from. When they reached the front, she was confronted with what seemed to be a sea of expectant faces; all those who could not find room or admittance inside the Great Hall itself she would imagine. As the bright mid-morning sunlight hit her gown—setting the brilliant mithril on fire and the sapphires in her hair to gleaming like tiny pinpoints of blue starlight—audible gasps and murmurings of awe went up throughout the press.

Lothíriel wasn't given much time to bask in their reaction, as her father was soon pulling her toward the main double-doors. The guards standing point there stepped forward and then threw them wide with a loud, groaning flair. As one, the press of bodies inside stood up and then turned back to face her. Lothíriel felt a brief moment of panic at so many people suddenly staring at her, most of them Rohirrim that she did not recognize.

Though she was a Princess, Belfalas and the city of Dol Amroth was somewhat sheltered compared to most fiefs of Gondor, and she had never been one to enjoy being the center of attention anyhow. Yet she was soon to be a Queen, Lothíriel reminded herself sternly, she would have to get used to this somehow. Then she willed her knees to stop shaking so badly, though she wasn't very successful at it.

Imrahil's hand, still atop hers, gently squeezed her trembling fingers for comfort before he began leading them inside the Great Hall. Her father led her down the small aisle between rows and rows of benches, toward the back of the hall where Mithrandir and the King of Rohan awaited them. Her widened eyes flickered here or there, catching familiar visages in the sea of faces around her. She saw her brothers first, Amrothos and Erchirion, both looking uncommonly solemn as she passed. She even thought she detected a hint of glassy moisture Amro's blue-gray eyes, but she couldn't be certain, as they were all too quickly past.

Riana was next, standing next to her husband. The former was holding Finuviel and crying openly, though her smile was wide and cheery just the same. Elphir stood tall and proudly at her side, holding little Alphros in his arms. His face was unreadable, but Lothíriel could see the tenderness and pride in his pewter eyes that he couldn't bring himself to show openly. Her nephew craned his dark-haired head around to see her pass, then suddenly grinned and waved at her, as if only just recognizing her. The innocent exuberance of the action eased some of her terrible tension, allowing a small smile to form on her otherwise pale and drawn face.

Then she saw her cousin Faramir, standing beside his wife Eowyn, who was doing her best to hide the tear drops that kept trying to fall out of her eyes. The White Lady gave her a broad smile instead. Faramir's smile was softer, more subtle, but he nodded to her as well—as if to give her courage. Lothíriel was very grateful for it.

Next were the two little Hobbits, Merry and Pippin, who looked so out of place among the Rohirrim in their silk waistcoats and knee breeches. Yet they stood comfortably beside King Aragorn and Queen Arwen, eyes bright and smiles genuine. The King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor was also smiling, his gray eyes gentle. And the Queen, almost painfully beautiful, caught her eyes and held them as she passed. Lothíriel couldn't be certain, but she could almost swear she heard a voice in her mind while those powerful blue orbs locked with her own.

Take heart, sea-maiden, and you will find your courage.

And then her father was leading them beyond the press, up onto the front dais where her soon-to-be husband awaited her. Lothíriel hadn't noticed much about Eomer until now, too caught up in her own nerves. Yet suddenly her eyes were filled with him and she gasped a little, caught somewhat off guard.

By the Valar, he is so handsome, was her first, dazed thought.

The young King looked every inch the part today, dressed from head to toe in fine velvets and linen rather than the plainer wool he normally wore. His overtunic was a very dark—nearly black—green velvet, the sleeves ending at his shoulders and the hem falling well past his knees, the hems of both edged in the intricate white and gold knot work brocade that the Rohirrim culture fancied. The longer sleeves of his under tunic were a crisp white linen, clasped tightly at his wrists but otherwise loose around his thick arms. Both were girded at his narrow waist with a thin brown belt, with the King's sword—Guthwine—hanging from it's scabbard on his right hip. His trousers were the same blackish green as the overtunic, fitted into highly polished black boots. A rich forest green cloak bordered in white and gold—of which she remembered him wearing from the first day she met him—was fastened around his shoulders. This time the voluminous material was held in place by two large golden studs in the shape of curled horse heads, held together by a thick rope of the same that spanned the front of his chest. And finally, what was perhaps the most striking about him now, was that his blonde hair was brushed back and tamed by a thick golden crown that sat low on his brow, wrought in ornate carvings and gleaming blood-red jewels.

Eomer King stood tall and confident before the assembled, dark eyes strangely intent, with an unshakable aura of power and authority that seemed to ooze from his every pore. No one who gazed at him now could ever doubt that this man was indeed the rightful Lord of the Riddermark.

Lothíriel allowed her father to lead her up the three steps of the dais in somewhat of a daze. She searched the face of this King of Men in front of her, desperately trying to find anything familiar in him to ease her nervous fear. Yet she saw nothing that soothed her.

Imrahil bowed his head slightly, then lifted her nearly numb hand away from his elbow and presented it to Eomer. The horse-lord nodded in return, then took her hand in his much larger, darker one. As soon as his grip closed around her fingers she tensed a little, stunned by how much warmer his skin was than hers, almost hot in comparison. It immediately began chasing away the icy numbness that had besieged her ever since stepping into the Great Hall. The King used his grip on her to very gently tug her forward until she stood at his side, then he tucked her hand in his elbow instead.

And then—just before he turned forward to face the White Wizard—the man winked at her. Actually winked at her!

Just like that, the spell was broken. The stranger in King's finery suddenly became the man that she knew, right before her eyes; the man who had kissed her senseless the night before as they sat tucked away in a hidden garden, then playfully teased her about it afterward.

Lothíriel felt her cheeks heat, yet was suddenly hard pressed not to smile.

Mithrandir motioned, and those behind them all sat down again. The tall man, garbed from head to toe in painful white, let his eyes drift across the assembled in the moment of silence that followed. Then he glanced at Eomer, and then to her. When his eyes fell on her, his mouth curved into another one of those small, knowing smiles. And suddenly Lothíriel didn't feel near so nervous or afraid.

After a moment he raised his arms high, and began speaking the traditional words of a Rohirrim wedding ceremony, which was spoken entirely in Rohirric. While she might have begun to pick up more and more words and phrases this past week, Lothíriel still hadn't learned enough to understand all of what was said. Yet she had studied the ceremony enough to know the general idea of what was going on. Therefore she wasn't surprised when Elfhelm approached from one side, holding a large golden goblet carved in the likeness of several animals, currently filled with red wine. With the White Wizard murmuring the proper benediction throughout, the goblet was given first to Eomer—who took a small sip—then to her, to symbolize that they would now be 'sharing' in whatever life might bring in the future.

Elfhelm stepped back, and then Erkenbrand appeared from the other side of the hall, holding a long bit of cloth in his hand. The traditional binding ribbon of Eomer's family—and the royalty of Rohan—no doubt. It was obviously very old, and very lovely; a long strip of deep emerald velvet stitched in white and gold, with horses running down its length.

At Mithrandir's instruction, Lothíriel and Eomer turned to face one another. Eomer held out his right hand, palm up, and Lothíriel immediately placed her much smaller one atop it, palm down. And then Erkenbrand approached, carefully winding the velvet ribbon around their clasped hands, three times over, symbolically 'binding' the couple together amidst Mithrandir's Rohirric blessing. Then all grew quiet again, and everyone turned to her.

This had been the part that she'd been dreading. Knowing the traditions, Lothíriel had been practicing her vows for months and praying that she wouldn't shame herself by murdering the pronunciation during the ceremony. At her small hesitation, Eomer's strong fingers gently rubbed across the inside of her wrist, as if to comfort her. Drawing on his strength, she took a deep breath, opened her mouth and then forced the words out. Surprisingly her voice shook only a little, though she couldn't bring herself to lift her eyes any higher than his sun-kissed throat.

"Nú ðá án heorte, á licfæt, á ingemynd. Ær æðeltungol ástyntan glowende, ic neo gæðed."

Gandalf smiled, nodding slightly and Lothíriel visibly loosened with relief, now that the hardest part of this was behind her. Then the White Wizard turned to Eomer. As the powerful horse-lord repeated the vows, Lothíriel thought about what they really meant, and felt a small shiver race down her spine. Especially as Eomer's dark eyes were focused on hers and strayed nowhere else, his deep voice rolling over her like a warm caress.

Now of one heart, one body, one mind. Until the stars stop burning, I am sworn.

Mithrandir nodded again, then murmured out a quick prayer of solemnity in elvish before raising his arms high.

"Thus do I now announce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride, Eomer King."

Whatever reservations Lothíriel might have had about kissing him in front of a room full of people were promptly forgotten when the powerful lord used their still-joined hands to tug her forward. His warm mouth settled over hers with a firm surety, the other arm wrapping around her waist and bending her back slightly and causing a thrill of sensation to lance through her belly. Lothíriel was so engrossed into his kiss that she didn't even hear the thunderous roar of cheering that suddenly sounded, which threatened to take the very roof off of the Golden Hall with it's exuberance.