a/n: I don't know what I'm doing, and I'm really terrified. My writing is a bit rusty, and I hope it'll get better as I progress.
Anyway, this is a new story I've been working on over the past couple of months. I have a rough outline of what I want to do, and a few chapters written thus far...but it's still a work in progress. I am guessing you could classify this as AU as well, as Gondor doesn't really have a court as the one I have written here. But I figured for this part of the story, wherein Éomer is in search of a wife, it would have been needed. Anyway, Tolkien purists please don't murder me. I'm trying really hard. Hah.
CHAPTER ONE:
Lothíriel found it odd she now stood within the King's chambers. Her shared chambers on the nights she were to spend with him. She stood in no more than her shift, long gone now the servants she had shooed out of the room, wishing to remain alone in her last few moments of being a maiden. Candles flickered all around the room, though they did nothing for the icy chill which wrapped around her aching heart.
This day changed everything, in more ways than she could count on one hand. Just hours prior she stood beside her now husband before his people, declaring emotionless words of love and fealty. She swore herself to a man she knew no more than a few months, allowed their wrists to be bound together, the feeling of her pulse radiating against his. He whispered the same words in his language, words she could not understand, yet did not care to question what they meant. To her, the meaning meant little. She had been bought and bartered for, like a prized horse to be gawked at - a young girl with a crown on her head; a young girl with a crown too heavy to bare.
With his free hand he had touched the nape of her neck and drew her forward for a kiss. The final tie in the alliance between Gondor and Rohan. The final straw aligned with the rest, each one more final than the one which came before. No longer was she the Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth...a thought which never brought her joy in the least even before her coronation, but now she begged to return to. Simpler were the times she remained in her gilded cage along the shores of Balfalas. Days where she could hike up her skirts against her Father's protests and dash through the waves. Days where the sound of her brother's laughter filled the halls of her home and the crevices of her heart. Days where the only pain she knew were the prick of a needle as she sewed away in her bedchamber little gifts for her nieces and nephews.
She breathed a sigh at the memory of his bearded face against hers, so coarse and calculated. His lips were softer than she had imagined or expected, and yet he pressed them against her's with a firmness which made her heart ache. She knew Éomer to be a man of honor, and expected him to treat her with the kindness her Father promised her he would, yet it did little for the pounding of her nervous heartbeat deep within the cage which confined it.
Trembling, she stepped in front of the mirror in his bedchamber, inspecting her form in the orange glow of the fire which burned in the distance. The shadow of her silhouette caught her eye, each curve outlined through her shift. No longer did she hold the curves of a young girl. The woman standing before her matured, developed...held beauty foreign to her knowledge. Fear clawed at her stomach the longer she stared at her form, recognition of the fact she would be expected to carry a child within her womb - recognition of how the child would take root in her.
What if he does not like me? What if he is repulsed by me and I cannot fulfill my job to provide an heir? What will they do if I cannot give him a son?
The girl brushed her hand across her face, frustrated tears hitting the floor below. Her new husband's armor sat on a chair nearer to the fire, a beautiful red cloak nestled beside it. Her fingers brushed over the neck of the garment, so perfectly tailored to the broad width of her husband's form. She had seen him wear it earlier that evening, looking like the proud King he was. She lifted it in front of her, admiring the way the fabric shone in the light, and pulled it over her shoulders. Fur tickled at the back of her neck and ears, though she found it to block out the sheer cold of the winter, and leaned her head against the collar.
Curious, she brushed her nose against the fur and inhaled, taking in the scent of her horse lord. It smelled of burning wood and the outdoors, of grass, dirt, and a hint of something else. Something more delicate, perhaps? Lothíriel swayed in the middle of the room, the cloak still round about her shoulders, to the sound of the music still playing down in the hall. The festivities would be expected to continue until the certainty of consummation presented itself. She laughed at the thought: while the guests of the King partied until the sun shed its morning light, she would be expected to perform a duty which filled her heart and soul with dread.
There was no peace to be found, even with knowing her life had prepared her for such a time as this. Princesses were wed to noble men, of this she had been reminded often throughout her life. Thankfully, her husband was still young and kind. He loved Father and her brothers considered him brother long before they were wed. Other situations might have been different; she could have been married to someone old enough to be her father, or to someone who would treat her poorly, to someone who smelled of dung...the outcomes were endless. Even her maidservants reminded her of how handsome her husband was, and how many women would love to share a bed with the King. Despite all this, she found little comfort in their useless words.
Lothíriel spun about on the tips of her toes, humming a tune her and her husband had danced to at the beginning of their celebrations, the hem of her shift dancing about her calves. It was then the chamber doors opened. Startled, she paused in her movements and eyed the form in the mirror. Éomer stood there in his own nightclothes, a long linen which covered him enough but left very little to the imagination. He still held aloft the wine he had been drinking throughout the party, paired with another goblet she knew he'd brought for her. Realizing she still wore his cloak, she tugged it off her shoulders and draped it back over the chair and bowed before her husband, flinching when she heard him slide the door bolt into place. An unfamiliar intensity filled his eyes as he approached her, her goblet extended before her face.
She took it with an appreciative nod and forced a grim smile upon her lips. "You said you would be some time yet...I did not expect you so soon." Her heart raced in her chest, the sound drowning out the world around her. His lips quirked upward briefly, before he settled himself down on the bed. "I am sorry about your cloak, it was just so very beautiful I wanted to try it on."
"I do not mind, Lothíriel. We are wed now."
The way he said it twisted her gut. Swallowing thickly, she sat down beside him and took a sip of her wine. "I am not sure what I am expected to do. Do you wish for me to lay down while you...get on with it?"
"You make it seem as though it were the worst thing," he said, forcing a laugh, though it never reached his eyes. "I am hopeful we can both find happiness in this marriage."
"Please, can we just..."
"We do not have to go through with this tonight. I don't expect this from you -"
"Please." Though she wanted anything but this, if she delayed she might never accept her marriage duty.
She placed the goblet down on the top of the trunk before the bed, then scooted backward and laid herself against the furs. He cleared his throat and placed his drink beside hers, before laying beside her. At the first brush of his fingers through her hair, she felt her teeth bite down against her bottom lip. He withdrew for a moment at her reaction, then returned, his fingers moving to undo the pins which held her hair in place. Once freed and rolling in tumbles across his palms and her shoulders, he twisted a strand around his finger, watching her. Frightened, she lifted his palm and pressed it against her chest, knowing she needed to get this over with and quick.
"You do not have to fear me, Lothíriel," he whispered, before his lips descended onto the skin of her cheek. His palm curled tighter over her breast, the erratic thump of her heart against the curve of his own flesh.
She thanked Elbereth he did not kiss her mouth again, and instead turned her head so he could continue to kiss down the planes of her cheek and downward against her neck. The desire some of the looser ladies in court spoke of did not come, instead with each press of his lips against her skin she felt herself sink further and further into the bed, her wish to be elsewhere so great she might drown in it. And as his lips ventured further, his hand tugging her shift downward to reveal more of her chest, she choked out a whimper. If he took it as pleasure and not fear, she was uncertain.
She knew his ministrations were merely to get himself ready, though it did nothing to settle her own nerves.
"I am sorry..."
His words were more a plea than an apology, and she forced her eyes shut as his hands moved to pull the shift up around her hips. He whispered sorry again when his fingers trailed along the inside of her thigh, and again when they ventured to her innermost point. She nodded with every plea, his words a mantra in her ears.
Sorry as he kissed over her breasts, her knowing fully well that this needed to be done. This was her duty, she needed to submit to him.
Sorry as he tugged the remainder of his clothing from his body...as he settled himself down atop her.
Sorry as she felt the first hint of him against her.
Sorry as he moved his hips in one fluid motion and took her maidenhead.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
She cried silent tears, her face turned away from his as he moved against her, the fullness of him bringing her more pain than she thought she could bare. No one warned her of the absolute pain of it all, of the way it felt like she was filled to the brim and might run over from it. The burn settled into a deep ache, and despite the vows they declared before a congregation just hours before, something felt wrong. This act went against all her father protected her from her whole life, and now her life as Queen required it.
A low grunt sounded from her husband's throat then, his hand moving to curl around the back of her hips, bringing her even closer against him. A strangled cry slipped through parted lips, frantic hands moving to cradle her face gently. Éomer searched her eyes for a moment, his torturous movements of his hips stilling. Slowly, she raised her palm and pressed it over his chest, over his heart. His fingers moved to cover hers, a kiss pressed against her temple.
"You must know I didn't wish to hurt you..."
No words were shared, instead she did the unimaginable and brought his mouth down to hers, silencing any further conversation. She really wanted no more than to scream at him to get off of her, to remove himself from her presence and never show himself again.
You belong to none, Lothíriel, she whispered in her mind, holding onto his shoulders as he rode out the waves of his pleasure and dropped down against her chest, his breathing ragged pants upon her collar bone. They parted soon after, her form curled on the far end of the bed, her husband on the other. No touching, no hands reached out into darkness to draw one another closer. Two people, so distanced not only physically but emotionally. And as she heard her husband begin to drift off into sleep, she tugged her shift down her legs and winced at the feeling of blood and something else gliding down the inside of her thigh. She felt cheap and disgusted, and she questioned how she found herself in this situation.
There were so many other ladies he might have picked, and yet he called her name that fateful evening.
I choose Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth to be my wife. Do you take me to be your husband?
Even though it were an offer, not a demand, the shackle had already been locked around her ankle. How could she deny the man when her father looked at her like he were the most happy of all men in Gondor? How could she deny her brothers, the way their eyes widened in excitement at the prospect of calling Éomer 'brother' in blood, instead of friendship? She knew Gondor needed a solid alliance with Rohan, and the good it would bring to both parties. She closed her eyes again and pictured the events which seemed so long ago now, of all the balls and sweet words. Of the last moments of freedom, before they slipped from her fingers and scattered in the wind.
Yes, I will marry you, Éomer King.
-xx-
Earlier that year...
The stays on her gown were dangerously tight, of that she realized a bit too late. Each breath felt forced. Choked. She glanced out the corner of her eye to be sure no one was watching and tugged at the front of her gown, wincing when the stays budged but only enough to alleviate some of the strain on her chest. Her head lifted, her long neck accentuated by the ornate necklace her father had given her. A family heirloom of sorts, with some of the finest gems coming straight from Erebor. The gown resembled the color of gold, accentuated by darker fabrics, the bodice pushing what little chest she inherited upward. She looked the role her father intended her.
Gondor's true Princess, a beautiful, virtuous, dutiful woman of noble upbringing who excelled in the maintenance of an estate, as well as exceeded the other ladies in court with her needlework. Things which were meant to impress the King, and yet made Lothíriel wish for no more than to shrink further and further into the ground in hopes they would forget about her. Other, more excited noble Gondorian ladies giggled as the King passed, their cheeks a bright scarlet. Their hands all hidden behind their palms, trying always to uphold their perfect exterior. Lothíriel scoffed at the notion and peered down the line, counting another three ladies before he reached her.
Branniel, her dearest friend and lady stood beside her brother, Amrothos. The two mingled by a white pillar. Every so often the two would point out a lady, or comment on the whole affair. Lothíriel whimpered under her breath at the thought of her sadness supplying their joy - however indirectly. The girl passed her a comforting smile and waved her to focus on the duty at hand. 'You are doing wonderful, Lothy.' Lothíriel's chest heaved at Branniel's words.
The sound of footfalls met her ears, and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth squeezed his daughter's hand. She need not upturn her head to know who would be standing there. Though as she did, her breath whooshed from her lungs. The stays felt like a weight on top of her chest as she looked upon his face. Shoulder length hair, pale and so very unlike the typical dark hair Gondorian's inherited. His eyes were those of a cats, angled and beautiful, like gleaming topaz. The hardened jaw captured her attention next, the sculpted curve of his face, the way his nose, though asymmetrical, had a small indent at the bridge which spoke of many breaks after battling -
"My daughter, Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. The loveliest in all of Gondor, though I do admit I am biased."
Lothíriel dropped into a bow at her father's words, finding herself pulled upright by a hand around her own. Éomer looked up at her and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, then returned the gesture, his body bending at the waist. The other ladies around her groaned at the sight of the King and the Princess, and she wanted no more than to shout that they could keep him. She did not want him. She would have screamed it from the battlements were her father not so serious about how great the alliance would be for both Gondor and Rohan. So, that firmly placed within her mind, she smiled prettily up at the King and felt his gaze follow hers until he continued down the line to the other ladies in court.
Lothíriel held her position in line up until he reached the very last lady, then joined Branniel, their arms hooked at the elbow. She prattled on endlessly about the way the King looked at her, how even from their short interaction Éomer had never seen a woman so lovely. The Princess groaned at the very thought; she would have preferred Éomer King found her orcish - an ugly creature he could not bare to behold everyday for the rest of his life. Still, she continued side by side with her dear friend and settled down at one of the many tables littering the room. Amrothos joined shortly after, his eyes settling on Branniel. Lips spread wide, like the sly, devious man he took pleasure in being.
"Branniel, you should have been in line with the other ladies. The King would lose his wits were he to be graced with your presence," he said, his voice holding a teasing lilt.
"Ignore him," Lothíriel said, "I have been ignoring him my whole life, and I am much better for it."
Branniel blushed and swirled her spoon around in her bowl, her hand cupped over her chest. Even in the pale light the hall provided, she was a sight to behold, and the Princess almost wished she could pretend to be her for some time. Slip away behind the scenery, living a luscious life but never having to get herself into an uncomely situation. Her dark hair curled around her shoulders and bounced when she spoke, her laughter filling the grand hall before long. Lothíriel leaned my head against my brother's shoulder and listened to her tales. Fantastical things, dreamed up machinations of her pretty mind, and she sighed at the comfort she brought whenever near. If Éomer King were to choose the Princess, he would have to tear the curly haired woman away from her in order to leave her behind. And even then she would fight him tooth and nail to keep her by her side.
She needed her almost as much as she needed her own family, and loved her as such. Since her mother had passed away when she was no more than a wisp of a girl, as Lothíriel's own had, the two relied on one another for womanly thought of her brother courting Branniel passed her mind more than once, and though she knew her father would approve of the match were they to make it public, he feared for her heart. Branniel deserved a man who fell at her feet and cherished her every breath, her every smile, her every word. She deserved a man girls spoke of as children, giddy with the idea of a man atop a proud mount, handsome, brave, kind and loving. Things of which the Princess knew were rare, yet held onto in hopes of being one of the lucky ones. Amrothos, through all of those things, held one fault: he enjoyed the pleasures of women. Many women. Branniel deserved a man who refused to stray from their bed; she deserved a man with eyes only reserved for her.
Lothíriel looked over at her brother, his handsome features bright with whatever it was Branniel spoke of. One would have to be a fool to not realize he was smitten with the curly haired woman in front of him, what with the way he stared at her like she was the only woman in a room presently filled with some of the loveliest ladies she had ever seen. Her heart ached for his longing, and to hide her grief she turned her head to take in the rest of the room.
There at the dais were the two Kings, Gondorian and Rohir, hunched low and speaking with one another. Her eyes ghosted Éomer King's face, his beautiful eyes, the chiseled jaw as he spoke. Gone was the proud face many spoke of from far off, replaced by that of a young man excited to be with his dearest friend. Jovial and bright...gleeful even. She imagined what it must have been like to one day be no more than a Marshal, no expectation of ruling, and then have his life come tumbling down before him like the walls holding aloft the hall.
Deciding not to dwell on the matter, Lothíriel turned her focus onto the feast to be had. All around the room women donned in their finest dresses plucked little snacks from endless rows of food prepared to perfection for the arrival of the Rohir. None of which any woman would allow a King to catch her eating. No, the lot here wanted to be the image of perfection. Fine tuned, Gondorian nobles - as prudish and slender as they could appear, despite even knowing what kind of woman Éomer preferred. Unabashed, Lothíriel rose from her seat and made way across the dining hall, aware of the gazes of the other ladies as they settled upon her. Already painted with an arrow on her back, their bows aimed at the ready. With a sly grin, she moved in between Laneth and Roslynne, snatching a piece of bread from a platter overflowing with delicacies.
"I cannot believe she eats like that," Roslynne murmured behind her hand, aghast at the sight of the Princess with her bread in one hand, while searching for more food with the other. "It is almost as if she doesn't wish for Éomer King to notice her. I would not mind one bit. Let her waist grow - then I will be the loveliest lady in Gondor-"
"Roslynne, do not wish ill of the Princess." Laneth cried out, scandalized by her companion's words. Lothíriel arched a brow in curiosity, smirking to herself as she popped a handful of grapes in her mouth.
"She is vying for Éomer King's love just as we are, my foolish friend. And it would do her well to recognize I am sure that the King has no wishes for a fat wife."
"Ladies...Princess, I hope you are enjoying the evening," Éomer called, making his way over to their gathering place.
Lothíriel's half eaten bread tumbled onto a platter, her eyes widening at the thought of another now eating the food she contaminated. With a strangled moan, she whirled around and bowed before the king, watching as Laneth and Roslynne did the same, smiling like two idiots at the sight of the man. Roslynne knew what she desired, and Lothíriel pitied Eomer...almost, upon realization that the woman would not give up until she secured her position as his bride. Laneth, on the other hand, waved her hand in front of her face, recalling a story she heard of Éomer's bravery and prowess.
"I do not wish to speak of war, Ladies."
"Forgive my dear friend, Laneth, Éomer King. She is most excited to have you here in Gondor, and when she gets excited she forgets herself."
Roslynne leaned forward, her hand curled around the crook of the King's. Taking her hint, Éomer smiled at the other two and walked off arm-in-arm with the beautiful brunette, her hips waving in what Lothíriel imagined she thought to be seduction, but really came off as a woman looking as though she had some bowel ailment and needed to relieve herself.
"Laneth, you do know you need not allow her to speak to you like that," Lothíriel said to the other woman, watching as her lip trembled.
Laneth covered her face with her palm, her eyes widened at the sight of the Princess before her. The two, though never overly fond of one another, held one thing in common: a dislike for Roslynne. If there were anything they might forge a bond over, it was the lack of love they shared for the woman. Laneth pushed her braided mane of dark hair over her shoulder, her hazel eyes meeting the Princess' grey ones. She whispered her thanks and gestured toward the center of the room, where Éomer King twirled around to a familiar tune.
"Let us join them!" Lothíriel gripped onto the other woman's shoulders.
"It is highly improper for two noble ladies to dance unaccompanied, Princess."
"It is highly improper that we are forced to spend the night awaiting a beck and call from Himself. I say we take it upon ourselves to make our presence known. After all, he has to choose one of us as his bride." And, hopefully, her display ensured he did not pick her.
Laneth considered this for a moment, a finger to her chin, and wrapped her finger's around the other woman's. Lothíriel giggled at the prospect of doing something frowned upon, watching around the room as many glanced their way, covering their mouths with palms, hiding their deceitful words. She smiled to herself, enthused with the response toward her ruse. The song had changed into something unusual, an up tempo beat which made her heart throb in her chest. She felt her body moving to the music, watching as Laneth struggled to make sense of what she overheard. Some of the Rohirrim Éomer had brought along with him craned their necks toward the center of the room, pointing to the Princess. Whispering, speaking...spreading the word that the Gondorian Princess was no more than a fool of a girl and not fitted for the role of Queen.
Or so she imagined, for when she heard the sound of a man clearing her throat behind her and watched the rounds of Laneth's eyes grow in shock, her stomach plummeted. Roslynne pouted, arms folded across her chest, pushing her already ample bosom upward. No, you are meant to be dancing with her, not me! And yet the man held out a hand, and her father's serious expression on his face alerted her she dared not refuse. Bowing, she walked a little distance away and raised her hands in the air, not touching Éomer's. They moved around the floor to the unfamiliar tune, his movements trained and practiced. She knew then the song was that of his people. The fast, almost barbaric thump of the instruments sending a fiery jolt through her veins.
Their movements were awkward at first. Short, as they tried to get used to how the other moved. Before long she swirled around on the floor with him, kicking her feet and dancing in a way which made her feel like she was doing something wrong. Something dangerous, wild and carefree. The Gondorian nobles around the room looked horrified, their faces drawn and eyes widened at the sight of their once fair Princess hulking around with the foreign king. Yet on the other side of the room, the men of Éomer's Éored clapped to the music and smiled at the display.
As the song ended and they stepped further away from one another, Lothíriel's chest heaving, and Éomer leaned down to press another kiss to the back of her hand. Her head swirled, heart throbbed, and palms - though never having met Éomer's - were slicked with sweat. His eyes met hers - hazel meeting the stormy gaze of his partner. "Thank you for your time, Princess." And he was off, moving to introduce himself to the other families in attendance and their hopeful daughters.
Her father's unamused growl met her ears, and she nearly tripped over her skirts in effort to race after him in apology. "You are meant to be conducting yourself like a lady, and yet here you are dancing in a way that sends the wrong message to those around you -"
"What message would that be, my dearest Father?" Her words were clipped, her face hardened. "You were the one who forced me to parade around in front of him like a prize horse to be ridden."
"Lothíriel." At her suggestion, he tugged her down a side hallway separate from the dining hall and waved a hand in front of his face. His cheeks were brightened a deep scarlet. "You are a Princess. A true Princess of Gondor, and you have been raised for this."
"I do not want this."
"It seems we are at an impasse then, because you know Rohan and Gondor need this alliance."
Lothíriel paused in her pacing. "Then he can pick one of the other ladies. No marriage contract has been written, he is opened to any other eligible woman here."
Her father said nothing, and she feared she had said something irreversible. Though she didn't have long to ponder on it, for her brother, Amrothos, appeared at the end of the corridor, his eyes brightened in unknowing naïveté. Lothíriel flashed her father a scowl and raced over to her brother's side, taking his appearance as a way out of an increasingly stressful situation.
"What did Father want?" Amrothos asked, his voice no more than a whisper.
Lothíriel glanced over her shoulder at the man in question, his shoulders hunched forward, form rigid. "Nothing important."
