Some wondered why Éomer did not shed any tears for his late wife. As he stood with the backdrop of gray behind him, his flaxen hair tangling in the wind, one must think he looked quite apathetic knowing that he stood at the side of Lothíriel's tomb. His wife lay inside, her curls of black framing her pale face, her pure white dress cascading in pools of silk about her frail body. Even in death, she was beautiful.
In a surge of rage, Éomer clenched his fists.
"I am sorry for your loss, brother."
Éomer looked up and saw his sister's face, the black veil looking odd against her pale skin. Mourning clothes did not suit Éowyn at all, yet she had worn them often during her lifetime.
"You know nothing of my loss, Éowyn," her brother replied bitterly.
"I loved her as well, Éomer. Everyone loved Lothíriel. She was so charming and accomplished. The perfect Queen of the Riddermark, if only her life had been longer. I suppose the gods could not wait to snatch her up, so heavenly a person she was," Éowyn sighed here, her blue eyes filling with unshed tears.
Éomer could not bear to tell Éowyn the truth of his late wife.
"She would not have wanted you to mourn her, sister."
Éowyn nodded. "It is one of the reasons why I do mourn her. She was so selfless. It seems the whole world mourns her and it is raining as though Middle Earth is crying." In a sudden surge of emotions, Éomer placed his hand to his temple, trying to block out the memories that piled upon his shoulders like heavy armor before an impending battle.
Of course, Éowyn noticed. "Come, brother," she said softly, taking hold of his elbow, "allow me to walk you to the sitting room. This has been a hard day upon you."
Éomer nodded and silently allowed his sister to take command over him. When she had placed him in his large wing chair, he heaved a heavy sigh. A server threw some logs into the fireplace, feeding the waning flames to their original height. Éomer knew he had other things to do rather than sit and be idle. His countrymen deserved to hear their king speak after the abrupt knowledge of the death of their Queen. Éothain had spoken of a letter from – was it Dunland? In truth, Éomer could hardly remember what he had eaten for breakfast. He knew Imrahil would be there soon with all three brothers in tow. He knew Aragorn and Arwen were not far behind. His children –
"Elfwinë…Freawaru–"
"Uncle Faramir is tending the children, Éomer. You need not worry."
Éomer nodded, slouching back into the warm and comfortable chair. He had been expecting a sea of questions from Éowyn about whether he was alright or not. Quite the contrary, however; Éowyn merely picked up a book and began reading silently. She gave her brother time to himself, without making him fend the demons alone. And Éomer greatly appreciated his sister's consideration, thanking Béma she knew him so well.
For Éomer had many demons left behind by Lothíriel and the biggest two were outside, accompanied by their Uncle.
It was nine years ago – but it feels like so much longer – when the union between Rohan and Dol Amroth was crafted. Éomer had been told, by letter, that his prospective bride was beautiful, intelligent, charming, and quite able to provide for a kingdom having practically grown up in council at Dol Amroth. His advisors urged him to agree with such a profitable marriage. No one could have dreamt of a better solution to their king's bachelorhood.
Closer friends, especially Éothain who had been very much against his king marrying a foreigner, questioned the lady's chastity. He had heard how the middle son, Erchirion, had taken many women of the court as mistresses. One of the ladies birthed his bastard son. The lady, after learning of her condition, had been banished from the court of Dol Amroth and the royal family did not recognize the birth of the child. Éothain did not agree with such society and he was afraid that making someone so unfamiliar to the Rohirrim way of life to be Queen was suicidal.
Éomer dismissed his friend's concerns with a small wave and married his bride during that summer.
When the wedding began, Éomer felt slightly apprehensive about the union, but, as Éowyn reminded him carefully, even a man and woman who are completely smitten may find last minute jitters. It is natural, she told her brother with a smile at his bashfulness, I have met your bride-to-be and am impressed. You will find life easier with someone to love.
This strung a chord on Éomer's heart. He had been completely alone without Éowyn.
As the Third Marshall of the Riddermark, many of the tavern wenches would cling to him, some even shared a bed with him, warming him on those cold nights. He enjoyed their company during the times of darkness. The thought that something so real and wonderful could still remain in the world was a comfort. He remembered one girl in particular, after the death of Théodred, who had kept him sane by lying in bed with him beside the crackling fireplace.
Perhaps it would be nice to have someone to call his wife, his love, and his only…
Éomer nodded firmly, thanking Éowyn with an embrace.
At the altar, as he faced his wife for the first time, Éomer thought his situation could not have worked out better. She was gorgeous. Her hair was as black as a raven, curling down her back in thick waves. Her skin was pale against the completely white gown that clung to her hourglass shape. Her eyes were a smoky gray against thick black lashes. Her lips parted in a slight smile, making Éomer have to hold himself back from kissing her silly in front of the precession.
In bed, she had been better than any of the tavern wenches. Each night she lay beside him, tangling her smooth, long, legs with his, massaging his shoulders with lithe fingers, kissing his neck with supple lips. She wished to fulfill his every desire and she did so with ease.
In council, she was soft-spoken, yet quick of the mind, able to produce ideas for little but important things, like storage issues. In the bigger issues she stayed out, for she did know a woman's place.
In all, she was exactly what Éomer wanted in a wife.
For the first two years of their marriage, that is.
During the third year of their marriage, Éomer got hold of a horrifying idea, that his wife grew bored of him. He knew quite certainly that she did not love him as much as he had thought. One instant in particular attested to this, which has ever since played itself in his mind like an ongoing nightmare.
It had felt like a normal morning. Éomer dressed to go to an early council while Lothíriel lounged in bed, her eyes lazily roaming to the window. Outside it looked like it was about to snow. Lothíriel shivered, curling her lip up in disgust.
"I hate the snow," she said quietly. "I much prefer the weather of Dol Amroth or even Gondor is better than this constant cold."
Éomer knew how much his wife disliked being chilly, so as he buttoned his tunic he said, "Perhaps you could stay in bed all day? Or you could vacation to your hometown whenever you wish it."
Lothíriel did not seem to listen. "You know, I often thought that living anywhere but Dol Amroth would be horrible. When I was betrothed to Boromir, I had nightmares at the mere thought of being away from home. But now, I do not think Gondor would be such a bad place to live."
Éomer caught the underlying tone and paused in his dressing but remained silent.
"I often wonder where I would be today had Boromir not died. I loved him, don't you know? More than anyone else, I loved him. I remember one night while he was in Dol Amroth visiting me he took me on one of my father's fastest sailboats. He showed me the stars and said that they were shining for me, only me. He said for my wedding ring he would mount a star on a band of gold. Everyday he told me I was beautiful, but it didn't matter you see. Our love was more than skin deep."
Do you love him the same now? Éomer was afraid to ask. Afraid to know. For as his wife's eyes glazed over apathetically, he knew he did not want to know the answer.
"Of course I was devastated when I heard of his death," Lothíriel spoke in a far-away voice, as though her husband was neither present nor listening. "It did not matter that he died for a good cause to me. I wanted to hold him in my arms forever. His death will always be the worst occurrence in my life. Never have I been so heart-broken – but I can still love him, even though he is dead. Death doesn't really end anything concerning the heart, does it Éomer?"
The distance growing between the couple mounted during the next few months of winter. Lothíriel spent most of her time away from Éomer and they barely said a word when they were together. Éomer was desperately afraid that the union had not been as successful as he thought, that his people would notice the tension between the king and queen, that the love would turn estranged and they would life forever in a meaningless binding…
Still, Lothíriel gazed through listless eyes at a world she displayed no passion for.
And then, she became pregnant.
And with that, even more detached.
One day, two months before the baby was due, Éothain caught Éomer in privacy.
"May I have the privilege to speak to you as a friend, sire?" asked Éothain nervously. Éomer eyed his closest friend in an odd way.
"I have always thought of you as close as a brother, Éothain, of course you may. What is it you need to tell me?" asked the king cautiously. A part of him new what Éothain was about to say, but his heart refused to admit it as more than a fallacy.
"Rumors are flooding the courts that the Queen has become quite close to Lord Hengest."
"And?"
"I question… her fidelity to you, milord." Éothain's eyes darted downward immediately. Éomer felt his temper tighten like a string on a lute.
"There is more, then?"
"Éomer, as your friend," Éothain began, his eyes desperately searching those of his king, "I must reveal to you that your kinsmen are questioning the legitimacy of this child as your wife runs wild in your very--"
"That is quite enough," Éomer said in a voice more calm than he actually felt. "I trust my wife. I know the child she bears is of my blood." Éothain nodded and tried to put the idea to rest.
When the babe was born that September, his hair was black and his eyes blue, his skin a glowing tan. Elfwinë.
"He looks like you but nothing of me," Éomer spoke one day while his wife was nursing her son. "And where did he acquire those brilliant eyes? Yours are gray and mine brown…" He could hardly think of Éothain's words. Lothíriel laughed.
"Most babies have blue eyes, milord. They will most likely turn brown like yours. As for his hair, black is the dominant color. It is only natural he takes after me."
However, even after five months, the baby's eyes were blue.
Lord Hengest was shortly transferred to Aldburg.
Their second child came during the sixth year of their marriage. A baby girl who looked exactly as Éowyn had during her youth. Blonde hair, bright eyes. Freawaru.
Lothíriel laughed. "Here Éomer," she played, "your true child." Her tone was of jest but the words caught Éomer off guard.
The estranged relationship never mended itself.
On Freawaru's third birthday, two months before the death of the queen, Lothíriel made an arrangement that sealed the lid of their marriage's coffin. She, along with a few more radical of his councilmen, met with a council of Dunlendings to arrange the marriage between Freawaru and the king of Dunland's fifteen-year-old son. The idea had been taken so lightly Éomer did not know what to do. Before the arrangements were final, Éomer pulled his wife aside angrily.
"For how long have you negotiated behind my back?" he snapped, remembering a time when she came to him to okay her ideas before presenting them to council. Lothíriel recoiled innocently.
"I merely wish for the feuding to stop. Do you not as well?"
"Of course I do, but not at the expense of my daughter! You will send her away to a man twelve years her senior when she is but fifteen to a land where her kind is hated to the point of murder?"
"If you have forgotten, my husband, our marriage was arranged."
"Between allies, not blood-thirsty foes."
"If you wish to have our men die each year for this hate forevermore, go to them and tell them so by breaking this proposal. But know this, Éomer, while you break this proposal, you are subjecting hundreds of your kinsmen to death. However, I will not stand in your way."
Of course, Éomer did nothing.
The townspeople regarded the arrangement as the saving grace between the two people.
Éomer regarded it as the noose tightening around his infant daughter's neck.
The sickness caught everyone off guard. One moment Lothíriel was fine, and then she began to acquire a slight cough. She waved it off as allergies to the hay – having never loved horses like her husband. However, within a week the coughs turned to hacking up clumps of blood and she remained in bed all day, too weak to lift a finger. Éomer remained faithfully at her side until the last breath, which came not long after.
However, the fate cursed the couple with a last conversation that would finish shattering the relations. During one of Lothíriel's more lucid moments, her servers helped prop her weak torso up upon pillows. When they left the king and queen alone, her voice pierced through the air softer than butter but sharper than a dagger.
"I never loved you, you know."
Éomer stared at her, his mouth agape. "Darling…I…I know you are unwell. I know you love me."
"Only a fool would look at our relationship and think anything to do with love is incorporated." She coughed feebly, her handkerchief revealing even more blood. "How could I love you when my heart has already been given?"
"You are ill, Lothíriel, do not strain--"
"I have been ill for the past twelve years. I have been ill since the tragic news of Boromir's death. I have been ill since my father arranged this marriage with you. I have been ill for a long time, Éomer. It is only visible now, because you have but always turned a blind eye to me. You love me no more than I love you."
"You are my wife, the mother of my--"
"And you are so sure that they are only your children?" Here, Lothíriel laughed. "Do you never listen to your friends, oh wise warrior-king?"
Éomer could not respond; his throat had constricted.
"My only solace, milord, is that I may yet leave this god-forsaken place and join my beloved. Don't you see, Éomer? Since the time you agreed to have me, we have been nothing but star-crossed fools. Fate's playthings. But now, now I am free."
Edoras mourned her, having loved their Queen.
- - -
As the tomb was lowered into the ground, Éomer stood strong against the rain with his children beside him. Elfwinë, now nearing six years of age, did not cry as he stood beside his father. However, tears were in his ever bright blue eyes for his dear 'marmar.' Freawaru was crying to the point of hysteria. Éowyn held the girl in her arms as the infant screamed as torrents of tears cascaded down both cheeks. The townspeople were a mix between the two with tears on their cheeks but their heads held high. Rohirrim were always strong.
Éomer stood silently beside his wife's mound long after the last person had left and the rain had stopped.
"You have won, my dear," he said softly. "You have left me a bastard heir and a condemned daughter. May the gods treat you accordingly."
- - -