It had been a rather perfect day.

A bright late-summer sun was shining over Edoras as the people of Rohan brought in the rich harvest, and in the stables, the King of Rohan had been enjoying a quick roll in the hay with his queen.

Until it happened.

It must’ve been evil magic, or perhaps he’d just got too much sun while he was riding out, and now he was hallucinating? One moment, he was rather thoroughly kissing Lothíriel, and in the next, the soft, lush body of his wife had been replaced by a short, hard-muscled female who was currently pointing a pitchfork at Éomer’s throat.

She looked livid, and he’d have liked to point out that *she’d* been the one who’d held the kiss for a few long, confused moments, before he pushed her back, bewildered. But unfortunately, she didn’t seem to understand a word of what he was saying.
“Where is my wife?” he demanded once more, but the girl just kept talking in the same strange language that she’d been hissing in for the last minutes. Éomer rather suspected that she was swearing, but he really couldn’t blame her.

He took a step forward, and instantly, she shook the pitchfork at him. “Well then. Calm yourself, woman,” he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. She glared at him, but before he could decide on the best course of action to disarm her, there was another burst of light, and the woman was gone.

Lothíriel landed rather hard on her backside as she dropped out of thin air. “Oooh!”

Blinking, he helped her to her feet, appraising her state of undress and her rather swollen lips. “Where did you go?”

Snorting softly, Lothíriel rolled her eyes. “Believe me, husband – you do not wish to know.”