"To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves."
― Federico García Lorca
Lothíriel couldn't remember the exact moment she had fallen in love with Éomer. She felt as though she were living someone else's life bereft of memory and time, standing in the remnants of a story she could scarcely put together in a coherent fashion. She had hated him in one instance and had loved him in another. There had been no in-between. It had been this way from the moment they had first laid eyes upon one another and it was impossible to contradict the reality of their relationship. For some reason their feelings tarried too often and too quickly, a combination of elation and boredom, as though they had grown tired of one another. Apprehension lingered in the absence of certainty. When she looked at herself she often envisioned Éomer's face staring back at her, peering into the depths of her soul in search of something she had grown too tired to name. If it was love she had become numb to it. Love wouldn't have felt so icy, so white, or so pale. It wouldn't have made her skin feel as brittle as burned bread, hot like an unwanted caress. These things made no sense so she had ceased telling herself otherwise.
Loving him had grown too difficult to handle. If love was like fire, she had never felt its warmth. Their feelings were like ice, cold and indifferent, numbing her skin and freezing her breath. This arrangement had become too precarious and she wanted to dissolve it. Like a pool of water, Éomer had delved too deep, embezzling all rights to her heart. This was what they had become and she had learned to hate it. Lothíriel felt as though she had been used, but in truth they had used each other. She had grown accustomed to his mouth and the feeling of his hands on her hips. They were callused and strong, wide in width, swooping out at an elegant angle. Every touch had felt unfeeling and for a while she had feigned ignorance, living within her own delusion. She had grown detached, focusing on his hands and their intent, his name a silent prayer on her lips.
When she thought of this, her heart would still. As much as she wanted to believe that his feelings ran as deep as her own, she didn't. She had grown too afraid of his hands and the resolve behind his grip. As long as he remained in her life, he would harbor the entirety of her heart. He had taken every piece of her for himself. Lothíriel yearned for his warmth, his sincerity, something more than arches and lines and calloused fingertips. Éomer had left her with little and she required much more. This feeling had made its home in her chest, blooming between her legs and in the spaces where his lips met her own. For her, love had begun to feel painful, a weapon constructed from heat. Drinking in his warmth had become addicting.
Éomer had learned to guard his heart and she had not. When she looked into his eyes, uncertainty reigned in the absence of clarity. She had grown tired of waiting for things to change, for his mouth to melt her insecurities and for their relationship to become far more enduring than they had made it out to be. It had become impossible to deny that something was wrong and that they were living their lives devoid of honesty. Loving him had never been enough, not when it went unrequited and not when her love had become as transparent as a sheet of glass. It had grown paper thin, saturated with the weight of words left unsaid, unanswered, and unwanted. As much as she had grown to love him, his warmth hadn't melted her heart. Love wouldn't have felt so desperate, so frenzied, or so urgent. It wouldn't have made her feel as blunt as an overused sword, belonging to him in name only.
Falling out of love had become more memorable.
A/N: I don't know what this is. I had an awful day and I kind of took it out on Lothíriel and Éomer.
Valēte,
TeaAndWarmSocks