Théoden lingers in the doorway, enjoying the view of his new bride kneeling in the garden, her hands dark with the wet earth. Elfhild may be a Queen now but she refused to give up her gardening, no matter how the ladies of the Hall may scoff at her behavior.
He watches as she carefully tends the small flowers that serve as a division between the path and her roses. She finishes her task and sits back on her heels, brushing back golden strands that have escaped her braid. She catches his gaze and smiles, leaving him breathless and wanting.