Chapter Text
Love, Rohirrim Style
Prologue
In the Cold of the Night
He waited until night fell, until it was quiet and he was alone. Patience was not his strong point; it never had been and the waiting taxed him sorely.
He looked around his small living area, well aware (and reminded often by his Marshal’s Lady wife) that his true rooms – the King’s Rooms - were more spacious, more accommodating to someone of his prestige, his station. He had his reasons for not moving into them just as of yet. He told his Marshal, the man’s beloved, his people that he waited for the right time, for when She arrived, to take up residence there.
Truth be told, he was afraid his uncle’s ghost still wandered there or worse, his uncle’s wife’s ghost. He had a reoccurring nightmare that on his own wedding night, the two would be floating in the curtains, telling him he was doing it wrong.
Bah.
For the umpteenth time, he circled the room, laid his ear to the door, making sure all was quiet outside. He double-checked the drop bar, establishing it was secure. With a silence not normally seen in a man his size and stature, he made his way to the window, determining no one could see into his chambers, even at the great height. It was cold and he reached out, bringing the latches closed, ensuring his privacy. He then lit all the candles around the bed, bathing the room in a gentle, flickering light.
There was a chill in his rooms, one that lingered even after the shutters were bolted tightly, so he knelt by the hearth, starting and stoking the fire. He made sure the flue was opened – he made the mistake of leaving it blocked once years ago and not only smoked up his room, but left himself and the wench he was with coughing for dear life.
Only when he had everything safe, locked, secure, the fire now gently crackling, only then did he sit in the chair, close to the hearth and relax. He reached inside his vest and removed the rolled parchment from its secured place, over his heart. With the air of long suffering, he drew the scroll beneath his nostrils, savoring the scent… her scent… from the delicate outer lining. Looking over his shoulder, as if afraid someone had managed to get past the barrier, seeing what illicit thing he was up to, he watched, listened as two serving women went down the hall, the sounds of their mirthful chatter echoing beyond the door, down the passageway. Only when the gentle din died away, did he then break the seal and unroll it, savoring each word and line of the delicate handwriting as they became visible. A gentle smile stole across battle – hardened features as he read the first line…
My dearest, darling Éomer…
It registered to the King of the Horselords that the letter was in Rohirrim, the language of his people. At least, she was attempting to use Westron symbols to ‘sound out’ Rohirric words, as the Rohirrim had no written language. The gentle smile turned mischievous, almost feral and a growl of impatience rumbled through out the room.
This was going to be good…
‘I miss you so. I cannot wait until this infernal drudgery of royal contracts and marital agreements between yours and my father’s kingdom…
With a yip, Éomer laid the scroll to the side, peeled his clothing from his body, and with the giddiness of a young Rider on his first orc hunt, ran to his sleeping chamber, before remembering he had left his treasure on the small chair table, ran back to retrieve it and then leapt into his bed and stretched out over the furs.
‘I miss you so. I cannot wait until this infernal drudgery of royal contracts and marital agreements between yours and my father’s kingdom are done and signed so I can get my hands on you...’
Oh yes. It was going to be very, very good, indeed.
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