The Dying of the Light
!Tissue Warning!
(Not an HEA, just warning now)
Eomer held the hand in his tighter, as though by his will alone he could awaken the woman before him. He wished she did but sleep, that the trials of birth had worn her to the bone and she merely rested. It was a fallacy he wished to hold onto for a while longer.
Heedless of those in his chambers, he crawled into the bed beside his wife. His arms wrapped around her quickly cooling body and pressed it against his chest. If he could but pour his heat into her, by Bema he would. Still her body remained unresponsive. She didn't move when he pressed his forehead against hers, she didn't press up into him when he laid his lips against her cold ones. His tears came then, his whole being shaking with the force of it as he held his wife.
Imrahil watched on as his friend and son clung to his daughter. He wanted to scream out his pain. This was supposed to be a glorious day, instead the world of man would grieve the passing of a queen. Quietly he bid the midwives and chambers maids to leave, shutting the door tightly when their skirts passed the frame. When only the sounds of the King's weeping could be heard, Imrahil allowed himself to sink to the floor in his own grief.
The sun had long set before Eomer released Lothiriel. He felt as though half of him had been left there on the bed with her as he rose to his feet. The touch on his shoulder was barely felt, for he was beyond numb. He wanted to rage against the world for taking his wife from him, from them. With a blink Eomer thought of the small bundle Lothiriel had held just before her passing. He turned to Imrahil, his mouth open to speak words he couldn't produce.
"He is with Eowyn. Go to him, he will need you just as much as you will need him." Imrahil half carried the King to the door, passing him off to the man that stood guard outside the chamber door. He knew the emptiness the man felt, but he also knew how much of a healing presence a child could be.
Eowyn watched as her brother was practically dragged into the room, his eyes distant. She wished she knew what to say; what to do. Instead of words she simply handed the small infant to Eomer, placing the boy in him arms. The look he gave the child was enough to bring her tears anew. He looked down at his son as though his whole world existed in that small body; as though he had placed all his hope into his child.
"Elfwine… Loth… his name is Elfwine." He didn't understand why he couldn't even say her name, but his whole body felt on the verge of collapsing when he tried.
"A strong name, one that will carry him to greatness." Eowyn wrapped her arms around her brother and his son, holding them tightly against her. There was little else she could do, for in this she was helpless.
"Would you tend to her? I don't want… she thought of you as her own sister, she would want it to be you." Perhaps he was being foolish, but the thought of strangers touching her, cleaning her, preparing her made him ill. Not one of those women had known her, not really. It should be family, and as neither he nor her brothers could do it that left Eowyn.
"Of course, Brother. She was a sister to me as well." Pulling back from Eomer, she swallowed back the tears she felt welling up. It was an honor to tend to a loved on, to prepare them for the burial mound. And still it hurt to think about. "Go now, take Elfwine and get some sleep. Take my chambers, I shall spend the night with my sister."
Eowyn sat at the head of the bed, a wet cloth in her hand. Slowly she cleaned Lothiriel, washing away the sweat she had given in labor. The once milky skin was molted blue with the chill of death, but the Queen was still a beauty.
In only a few days time Lothiriel would be laid to rest among the kin of Rohan. The whole of their kingdom would mourn her passing. Songs would be song of her greatness as she was carried into her tomb.
Unlike the kingdom of the Queen's birth, Eowyn's people honored the women who died in childbirth the same as those who died in war. The blood spilled in birth was equal to that shed on the battlefield, and so Queen Lothiriel would forever be remembered in song and poem.
Still, it was little consolation to those she left behind.
Author's Note: Um… sorry? I had an idea, I was not going to be evil, then I was urged on (not that it took much convincing, I'm weak and evil) Anyway, I can't remember if it was the Vikings I had read that women who died in childbirth were honored the same as warriors killed in battle, I read that somewhere. Anyway, I like the idea that the Rohirrim would be the same. So Lothiriel would be given a warrior's funereal and for generations she would be sung about.
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