Chapter 3
The day of wedding was met with bright sunshine and in the air, there was the smell of summer. Even the shadow in the east seemed diminished on such a beautiful day. Altogether it was oddly in contradiction with the heavy mood that would not leave the Third Marshal of the Mark.
The last day's so called introductions had been uncomfortable and uneasy. The Princess had appeared determined not to meet his eyes again if she could help that, and Éomer had felt equally unwilling to do so – he tried to tell himself it was because of her reaction. His harsh words of the previous night had come to him as an unwelcome reminder and he had felt intensely embarrassed. His sense of right and wrong had told him to apologise, but there had not been even one private moment when he could have done so. Furthermore, he had a feeling that even if there had been, she'd just have escaped as fast as possible. And so the Marshal had been left with his chagrin and regret, and the prospect of wedding had made him feel even more reluctant than before.
How he had endured through the day, Éomer was not so sure. The formal meals and socialising had called for patience and strength of character he had not known he possessed. It was not made much better when his men, all of them looking most appreciative, said he was lucky to be wedded to a beauty such as her.
Well, she was beautiful, he supposed. Her colouring, dark and pale and grey, was of course foreign compared to the fair-haired women of the Mark. And it was easy to see that she was a princess, from her mannerisms and the way she moved and carried herself. Her bearing was graceful and made her look taller than she was, and in her gestures there was the kind of delicateness he had never seen on a woman. She had the same slender build as her brothers, though her curves very clearly marked her as a member of the fairer sex. However, it was in her expressions, in her movements, in her eyes that which captured his attention. Éomer couldn't tell why it was and how she did it, but she was mesmerising. When she thought no one saw, she revealed herself with such genuineness that he couldn't help but stare.
But then she'd turn to look at him, that look would disappear, and the expression in her eyes would discourage him and make him feel like he was watching something very private. He'd remember that though she might be beautiful, she was also so against marrying him that she had almost run away. That was a matter he had yet to speak of with her. What their confrontation in the stables made her feel, Éomer could not tell... but he could guess, and he was certain it was not a happy memory for her.
On the night before the wedding, he managed to catch very little sleep. In half it was because his men insisted on a bachelor party, and half because the Marshal was too restless for rest. So he had lain in his bunk, listening to his riders snore away their intoxication. At least he had been able to make them understand that no excessive drunkenness would be tolerated. The last thing he wanted was putting off his new wife and her family with a bunch of riders suffering from hangover.
The morning had come all too soon. He had gone out for a ride as the wedding would take place in the afternoon, and flying over the plains towards west he had almost been able to forget what was going to take place. When he had returned, Éothain tried to make him eat some breakfast and the captain had sounded like some overly stubborn wife while doing that. A bit of bread and cheese was all Éomer could make himself swallow, and then a servant had come to announce that his bath was ready. It had been prepared in one of the guest rooms, and the Marshal had let himself be escorted into a light chamber where a large tub filled with steaming hot water was waiting. He had scrubbed himself furiously to the point where his skin was red and raw, and still the stench of horses and chain-mail seemed to fill his nose. He had washed his long hair too, though he knew it would take a while to dry. But he'd be damned if he'd be presented to his bride today stinking of horses.
After bath, he had dressed slowly, as if that would somehow have helped in postponing the things that were due to happen today. He had decided his beard could use some trimming, and he was just about to start with that task when Éothain had more or less barged in and informed he'd take care of that. It was probably a good thing because concentrating on something which required a precise hand did not seem too good idea at the moment. And a man whose face was covered in bandages was probably another thing he should spare his wife-to-be from seeing on her wedding day.
As most of his time was spent in waging war, armour was what Éomer usually wore. Sometimes he'd wear his heavy gear so long that he'd start to forget how it felt without the layers of armour on him. As such, he didn't own a large or varied garderobe: most of his clothing consisted of things that he could easily wear under the hauberk, the leaf mail and red-brown plates. And they were not as a rule things one would put on one's wedding day.
Mistress Bierwén, the chatelaine of the Marshal's household, had strictly informed him that he would not get married in his armour or the "rags" (her choice of words) he usually wore when he was not wearing the warlike gear. Nostrils flaring, she had lectured him while she had him stand for the seamstresses to take his measures for a wedding coat: "It is a good thing you're marrying a proper princess. Maybe she can teach you to try and appear more like the King's nephew and less like some wild bear from the forest."
Now he was finally wearing the result of some tremendously unpleasant sessions of endless fittings; though he had tried to tell them otherwise, Bierwén and her pair of formidable seamstresses and other female folk whose purpose he didn't know had spent an endless amount bickering if the coat was right or not. Well, it was not an ugly garment, and grudgingly he wondered if the women had been right to obsess about it. Made of dark green fabric, the coat was knee-length and had elaborate embroidery of golden knot pattern on hems, collar and sleeves. He was fairly sure it was the grandest thing he had ever worn or ever would.
But no matter how much he stared at his reflection in the mirror, he did not turn into a dashing Gondorian nobleman. Instead, the same stern old face stared back at him. Oh, how wild and strange he must have looked like to her! He was no prince for this princess.
"What are you brooding about now?" Éothain asked as he returned to the chamber from his brief visit outside. He was balancing yet another tray of food on his one hand and the cloak on his left arm. Had Éomer not known what steady hands his captain had, he might have feared for the cloak getting soaked with food. The older man continued, "That is no face for anyone to wear on their wedding day."
"Shut it, Éothain", said the Marshal and turned to pour himself some wine (some helpful soul had provided him with an entire pitcher). It wasn't really the same thing as the ale and mead they made back in his home, but it would have to do.
"Is it about the Princess? Éothain asked and placed the tray on a table nearby. "Don't you like her? I thought she's very pretty."
"She's beautiful, yes", he sighed quietly. "Even more so than I imagined. But she doesn't seem to be too willing to marry me... and I feel like I'm forcing her to do something she abhors."
"Don't be foolish, old friend", said the captain calmly and sat down to watch the Marshal. "Have you even stopped to consider that you are in this with her? She's an ally, not your enemy. If I should guess, she expected this marriage to happen as little as you did."
He picked up an apple from the tray and took a bite of it. Mouth full of fruit, he continued, "Gife hef a chanfe, Éofer."
"And you shouldn't speak while you're eating. I thought Scýne had already uprooted that trait from you", said the Marshal and sat down across his friend.
"What, are you going to tell her when we get home?" Éothain asked once he had swallowed his mouth empty.
"I just might", Éomer said and rolled his eyes, taking a mouthful of his wine.
"You know, you'd do well if you tried to eat something. You don't want to end up fainting in the middle of the ceremony, like the poor Silfbár did in his", said his captain, and then the older man gave him a pointed look, "Or drunk."
"Hmph. You know it takes a lot of ale to make me drunk. A glass of wine is hardly going to do anything", snorted the Marshal. Nonetheless, he picked up some bread and took a bite, if just to humour the older man. "And you know very well why Silfbár fainted in his wedding. It was because of all the mead you made him drink the previous night."
"I seem to recall that you had part in making him drink as well, my valiant Marshal. In fact, I'm pretty sure you earn at least half the blame for the whole incident", Éothain grinned.
"You remember wrong. And no wonder that you do, considering how drunk you were", said the younger man unaffectedly. His friend chuckled.
"Still, maybe it's a good thing Silfbár stayed in Aldburg. He would probably have tried to get payback had he been here last night", Éothain said lightly.
"Hmm. Yes. The last thing the Princess needs is a sick, stinking ruin of a man", Éomer muttered, wrinkling his nose at the mere idea.
The thought of her turned his thoughts dark again and he sighed, pouring himself more wine. He looked at the captain, not even trying to hide his distress. "What am I supposed to do with her, Éothain?"
The captain nibbled at his apple, his face turning thoughtful. He gave the Marshal an encouraging smile.
"Well, she's a princess. Be respectful of her, but remember that she is also a young woman. She's probably even more scared than you are, and for a good reason. For one, she's expected to let a strange man in her bed this very night, and who knows what these Gondorians tell their maidens about that thing? It'll be up to you to guide her and take care of her until she gets used to everything. Be kind to her, Éomer."
All of that was good advice, and he had expected nothing less. Though it was often that Éothain cloaked it with jest and light humour, the Marshal knew there was wisdom under that smiling, bearded face. So far, he had always been able to trust on his captain's instinct, and he felt he could do so now too. Perhaps he'd some day be able to tell the older man how thankful he was.
Now, however, he narrowed his eyes.
"Maybe it should be you marrying her, not me. You at least to understand this much better than anyone else", Éomer said and shook his head. Éothain smiled.
"She may be a princess but I wouldn't exchange my Scýne for anyone. Relax, laddie. Smile a bit and be friendly. I'm sure it will all go well", he reassured his Marshal. Then he got up on his feet. "Now, I think it's almost time. We should get going."
"You got the cloak?" Éomer asked after emptying his glass with one long gulp.
"I'll take care of it, like I promised. No worries, Marshal. I'll guard it with my life", Éothain said solemnly; he knew it was an important thing to the younger man. "Do you have the ring?"
"Yes. Do you think she'd prefer it silver?" asked Éomer after making sure that the piece of jewellery was in his pocket.
"Stop fussing already. She won't care if it's silver or golden and if she does, then she's an idiot. As for you, remember to breathe and smile once in a while. It's a princess you're marrying, not a dragon", Éothain said with a smile.
But, to be honest, Éomer had no idea if that was true.
The morning had passed by in a fog that consisted of varying emotions. From panic to pain and finally to numbness Lothíriel had shifted, until Aredhel had brought her a glass of wine; the sweet golden liquid had helped a bit and got her through the last minute preparations. Before they left her chamber, she had looked upon her reflection and seen a bride looking back at her: light blue went well with her colouring, the flowers in her hair had been arrayed by Fainien's precise and skillful hands, and a jewel inherited from her mother rested on her breast. But on her face there was no colour.
Father had awaited them outside the chamber. He had murmured she looked very beautiful, but she had also seen tears in his eyes he would not let fall. Her brothers had been there as well, all three looking serious, but they had not said anything. In quiet they had made way for the great hall, where the ceremony would take place. They did not enter yet, for the bridgeroom had yet to arrive.
In an antechamber they stopped to wait. Father looked at Lothíriel quietly before he spoke in soft tones: "How do you feel?"
"Don't worry, Father. I'm not going to faint or run away shrieking", she told him and tried to smile even. He leaned over to hug her, though he did it carefully, as he apparently didn't want to wrinkle her gown.
"I am sorry it has to be like this", he said softly, his voice so quiet she knew only she could hear him.
"It's all right", Lothíriel mumbled. She wasn't so certain it convinced him, but there was not really much more she could say now, and in any case she didn't think it really mattered at this point.
Father sighed and reached to touch her shoulder gently.
"My brave daughter... I hope he understands what precious jewel he is about to wed", he murmured.
And then, as though Father's words had summoned him, Marshal Éomer did arrive. He came with few of his men after him, all of them in their finest... golden-haired and tall, and so strange. He strode first, dressed in fine green coat that followed the lines of his tall, strong figure. In his hair there were neat braids, the kind she had never seen any Gondorian man wearing – unfamiliar, but somehow belonging. Despite her doubts and fear and unwillingness she thought: I'm marrying a man of gold.
But then he was on her side and the intense gaze of his dark eyes made her blush. She looked away before that look could pierce her where she stood. Marshal Éomer offered her his arm and he spoke: "Shall we go, my lady?"
Not trusting her voice, Lothíriel just nodded and placed hand on his arm... and for the first time, she was touching a man she would share her life with.
The gathering in the great hall was not large: as it had been discussed before, the attendees consisted of Lothíriel's family, uncle and cousins, and few men from the Steward's council along with their wives. The Rohirric representation was the men of the Marshal's éored. All of them regarded their surroundings and the wedding of their Marshal with keen, curious eyes.
Lord Denethor had insisted on leading the ceremony with an occasional interference from Captain Éothain, who spoke in Rohirric; as it was a foreign tongue for all but the Marshal and his Riders, he could have been talking complete nonsense for all she knew, but apparently he merely recited ancient marital blessings of their people. After the marriage contracts were signed – to the princess, it felt not unlike some business transaction – Uncle made a big speech about things like alliance and how friends were bound by honour and duty to protect and help each other and et cetera, and though most of it went unnoticed by the princess who was too busy trying not to faint where she stood, she did take note that her uncle never mentioned anything that even remotely resembled "love" or "affection".
At least her uncle had a very clear idea of what this marriage was supposed to be, and it had very little to do with personal chemistry or fond feelings between the two.
Like with Captain Éothain's blessings, traditions from both countries were followed, if only to give it a sense of being a proper wedding between people who actually wanted to marry one another. It was common in Gondor, especially among the high-born, to provide one's betrothed with a ring upon their wedding. Apparently someone had informed the Marshal of this custom as he produced a golden ring for her, and she gave him silver. The ring he slipped in her finger had two tiny horse heads as a decoration, with green gems as their eyes. Horses. Always horses.
As for the ring she gave him, it took a moment for her to get it on its place as her hands trembled. But she did take note that though his hand was calloused, it was also warm, and she could feel the strength in it. And yet he had been nothing but gentle when he had slipped the horse-head ring in her finger.
After exchanging the rings, Captain Éothain stepped again forwards and offered a long green cloak to the bridegroom. Though Lothíriel could tell it was an old garment, it had been looked after with love and care. It was made of fine green wool, and its hood and its rims had been embroidered with yellow knotwork entwining with light green leaves. The Marshal received it as if he were given some relic of sacred old times, and gently he draped the cloak around her shoulders. His eyes sought hers when he fastened the golden brooch, but she looked down on his large warrior's hands. Fainien, who knew some of Rohirric customs from the books she had read, had said that in their eyes a marriage was valid as soon as the man draped his intended in a cloak before witnesses: no other ceremony was required, and the act itself was seen as a proclamation of protection and loyalty.
So, when the weight of the cloak was lowered on her shoulders, Lothíriel felt also something like the weight of the fate that had brought them here... and the uncertainty of what it would come to mean in times to come. And then he spoke: "Béma biþ min æwdan: þes mægþ ic wīfie, swá min hlæfdige, swá min geselda, and swá min lufestre."
She knew not what it was he said, but it sounded important, and the way he looked at her when he spoke those words made her tremble. With that, she was married to the Third Marshal of the Mark. Carefully, he picked up one of her hands and gave a kiss to her knuckles, yet still she would not meet his eyes – Lothíriel had no idea of what he might be thinking.
By the right of his rank, Lord Denethor was the first one to approach them and congratulate them as a husband and a wife. What he said largely repeated his speech, and by the end of it Lothíriel was fairly sure the smile she had forced on her face had turned into a grimace. When Uncle moved along, Boromir and Faramir followed, and then her father and her brothers along with their wives. Aredhel hugged her tight for a long moment, and then she turned to look at the Marshal who stood beside the Princess. Though he was much taller than her – the top of her head would just have barely reached his shoulder – she somehow managed to make herself look like a worthy opponent.
"I know what are the conditions of this marriage, and I know it is a foreign country for the both of you. You don't know it yet but you have been blessed with one of the brightest jewels in all of Gondor. I expect you to carry your role with honour and respect towards your wife. And if I ever hear that you have not treated our Lothíriel with the love and care she deserves, there are three fierce princes I'm going to send after you. Congratulations, my lord, and I hope your road together is blessed", she said, and before the Marshal could answer anything, she had already turned around and strode away.
Lothíriel did not dare to look at her husband, but neither could she help a small smile, a real one this time, from entering her face. That moment, she loved her sister-in-law more than she ever had.
The banquet that followed the ceremony was long and exhausting. Lothíriel was sat beside her new husband, but they never exchanged a word and glances were sparse as well. Lothíriel sat silent for the most of it, staring down at her plate or her hands folded in her lap. Though courses of food came and went, she was only able to take a bite or two; the knot in her stomach grew so tight that she couldn't even think of eating anything.
Her new husband had lost his appetite as well as far she could tell, since he too barely touched his food. At some point Boromir engaged him in a conversation that mostly had to do with horses and cavalry tactics from what she could gather, but her father, who was sat beside her, seemed to sense Lothíriel was not in the mood for talk. After some time, he lay a hand on hers, and when she turned to look at him there was a gentle but sorrowing look on his face. Her father's blue-grey eyes seemed to speak I'm sorry, but she smiled at him. She knew it was not his fault that this had come to pass. After that moment, the Princess tried to smile and even eat, as she did not want her dear father thinking she was walking into a fate completely unwanted. Perhaps she could not have peace of mind but at least she'd give it to her family if she could.
Yet still after a while Lothíriel decided she couldn't stand it anymore – not unless she got a moment to herself. Some fresh air seemed more than necessary, and so she excused herself. Her husband gave her a look that she could not really decipher, but she did not stand to ponder on it. She had to get out, now. Otherwise, Lothíriel thought she'd go into hysterics.
Fortunately, a way out to the royal gardens was brief, and soon she was there in the falling evening. She knew it was full summer in Dol Amroth already, but here the last breath of spring still seemed to remain. She could only imagine how it was in north... in Aldburg. That was how they had called his home town. And she had no idea of what it would be like. Even as she tried to picture it her mind's eye remained blank.
The Princess sighed and cast down her eyes. If the celebrations felt uncomfortable now, she could only imagine how it would be later. For the fact was that the marriage would only be considered abiding when they had... well. If a sheet stained with blood would not be found on the morrow, who knew what would happen? One thing she knew was that she did not want to have that conversation with her uncle.
But how was she supposed to do what was expected of her? Lothíriel had not let herself think of it before, but perhaps that had not been so wise in the end. Maybe she should have thought about it and prepared herself. Technically, she knew what would take place, and it sounded not only uncomfortable but also embarrassing. How should she let someone she didn't even know so close to her?
On the other hand, maybe she should just follow Fainien's advice. Her readings of Rohirric culture had implied that the Rohirrim treated the whole matter differently. Apparently it was not so unusual for men and women to have partners before they married. In other words, Fainien had said, there was a good chance the Marshal already knew all there was to know about relations between a man and a woman. Lothíriel knew her sister-in-law meant it as a comfort but she had hard time thinking so, especially when the idea of him having good time with other women and then finding himself disappointed with her made her feel so intensely awkward. She did not even want to think of what would happen if he was displeased with his marital bed. For if he was, and chose to seek the company of other females... she knew her pride would never suffer it.
Fainien had said Rohirrim treated these things different. But surely a nephew to the king would not seek pleasure from another bed than hers? Really, it was crazy. On one hand, she was worried of the whole marital relations thing... yet on the other, she also feared whether he'd find her a disappointment as a lover. Either way, Lothíriel knew she would not be happy.
Her thoughts were interrupted then as she heard steps from behind, and a man of Rohan came to stand behind her. Captain Éothain was his name, as she recalled from the ceremony. He wasn't as imposingly tall as the Marshal was, but he shared her husband's strong build. He sported long hair as well, but his colouring was darker than that of Lord Éomer, and his eyes were bright blue. His smiles were ready and friendly when she turned to look at her.
"My lady", he greeted her with a bow of his head. "May I join you for a bit?"
"Of course", she allowed, though she'd rather have told him she'd have preferred solitude. But before he could read that wish form her face, Lothíriel turned her face to look over the city.
"You are very beautiful tonight, my lady", he commented after a moment of silence.
"Thank you, Master Éothain", she said softly, briefly glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
"It's Captain, Princess. I mean, I'm your lord husband's second in command", he said then, at it seemed to her that he took much pride in that fact. "Have been ever since Théoden King made him the Third Marshal."
"Of course", she answered softly, lowering her eyes to the ground.
"He's a good man, my lady. He'd probably be horrified to hear me blathering in this way, but... give him a chance. He may yet surprise both you and himself. I've known him for a long time and I'm convinced he'll be a good husband if you just let him."
"Thank you, Captain Éothain", she said, her voice sharper than she had intended. He seemed to notice that as he fell silent then, and he did not speak until another moment of silence had passed between them.
"It's his mother's cloak you're wearing, by the way", he said.
"What?" Lothíriel asked in surprise. Now she turned to look at the man properly. He gave her a small smile.
"It's the same one Marshal Éomund draped on Princess Théodwyn's shoulders some thirty years back. It has been preserved until now, and I suppose Lord Éomer always planned to give it to his wife when he married. They asked if he wanted a new one made, but he said he'd rather give his wife this one. It means a lot to him, my lady, and so you may rest assured he takes this matter with all seriousness imaginable", Éothain said, searching for her eyes as if trying to see what she thought at that.
"I see", she said quietly, turning away once more. She had no idea of what to think or how to feel about the captain's words.
She felt his stare then and she glanced at him. Éothain's face was friendly and even gentle.
"I know you are scared, my lady. I can see it on your face. But I can assure you that you will be received well. It's going to be all right", he said and his voice was most reassuring. And she wanted to believe him.
However, how do you trust someone you don't even know?
She nodded quietly at his words nevertheless and she didn't ask him how he'd know anything at all. When he asked if she'd like to return inside with him, she agreed.
Lothíriel hoped Aredhel would never stop brushing her hair.
After she had returned inside with Captain Éothain, she had once again taken her place beside her husband. He was still deep in conversation with Boromir and he gave her only a quick, wary glance when she sat down. Her father looked at her longer than that, but she had offered him a smile she hoped was consoling. Despite everything, her conversation with the captain had been more comfortable than anything so far this day.
The banquet went on for some time yet. It was around sunset that her husband turned to look at her properly and finally spoke to her: "Shall we retire, my lady?"
Well, what does one answer to that? Lothíriel knew there was no way she could tell him no. So she had just nodded quietly, and they had risen up; that had uncomfortably brought everyone's attentions to them and she had tried to stare at everything except the faces of those present.
As if someone else had moved her body, she had laid her hand on the arm of her husband. She had moved, but she didn't know if that moving force had been herself. And somehow, she had ended up in the bedchamber that was intended for her and her husband.
Aredhel had appeared as if from nowhere, asking her husband to give them a moment. He had nodded quietly and fallen away, and what he was doing now she did not know. Instead, she was sat on the edge of the bed while her sister-in-law brushed her hair, dressed in nothing but a thin nightgown. Aredhel had helped her to undress, picked up flowers from her hair, and even poured her some wine to ease her nerves.
"It's all right, Lothíriel", Aredhel began the talk that she supposed she should have expected, "I know you're scared. But it'll be fine. I promise."
"How do you know that?" asked the princess, and her voice was weak when the words came out.
"I don't know", Aredhel allowed at length, "but I hope."
Lothíriel did not know what to answer to that. So she just sighed and stared down at her hands.
"It's not going to be too nice at first, I imagine", said the older woman then, "but you must give it some time. For now it is probably for the better if you let him take the lead. It can be very enjoyable, if you just give it a chance. The most important part is that you trust him."
"Trust him?" Lothíriel echoed in disbelief.
"I know it sounds hard, sister. But it would be easier for you both if you at least tried", Aredhel said gently, resting a hand on the younger woman's shoulder.
They stayed like that for a moment, and then Elphir's wife sighed.
"It's about time, I think", she said softly. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Aredhel bid her good night and then – too soon – she was gone. Lothíriel almost asked her to stay even if she knew that could not happen, but by then her sister-in-law was outside already and she was left alone. She tried not to think of anything, especially what was bound to happen very soon... but it was hard. She did not know how to keep that all out of her mind.
And then the door opened. Despite herself, Lothíriel looked up, and he stood there. He had relived himself of his dark green coat and wore only a thin shirt and breeches. He lingered at the door, studying her as if he were not quite sure if he should enter or not. She lowered her gaze again, and she did not lift her eyes even when she heard him approaching. Finally, he sat beside her on the bed, close but not touching.
For the longest time, they sat silent. The Princess stared mutely down on her lap, and though she had expected to feel terrified when this moment would arrive... now she was just numb. She couldn't feel, nor think. So she just waited him to say or do something.
"You know what must happen", he said at last, and he did not sound particularly happy. Lothíriel did not know which was worse: the possibility that he'd be precisely the kind of brute that would take pleasure in taking her, or hearing this resignation in his voice that made her understand he did not want this any more than she did.
"Yes", she said quietly, keeping her eyes on her hands.
Her husband sighed and fell silent again. Another moment of silence went by and nothing happened.
"My lady", he said at last. "Are you..."
"I'm perfectly well", she snapped quickly, though she was not so sure where that particular reaction came from. Well, she was very uncomfortable and unsure of what to do.
"Of course", said the Marshal quietly.
Another long moment of silence went by, and still she stared at her hands. A part of her acknowledged she should have done or at least said something, yet she could not bring herself to act. So she just sat there mutely, waiting for... well, she didn't know for what.
Then, at last, he moved closer – so close that she could feel the heat of his body.
"My lady, it would be easier for you if you allowed me -" he began tentatively, but she did not let him finish his sentence.
"I'd like us to just get over with it", she announced. Her voice was hard and so unlike herself that even Lothíriel had hard time believing it was actually her who spoke that, and there was something in her that told her to take that back... or at least soften it somehow. But her voice did not obey her now, and so she remained quiet.
"As you wish", he answered. Whatever had been soft about his voice was gone now, and instead there was hardness there that made her tremble.
Marshal Éomer got up on his feet and turned his back to her, and soon she realised it was because he was undressing. That was she started doing as well, though her motions were like someone else was controlling her. She dropped her thin white nightgown on the floor and settled on the bed, to wait for whatever it was that needed to happen. Instinct nearly had her curling up in a ball, to shelter somehow her bare skin... but he was her husband now, and she couldn't hide from him.
When he turned, he was...
He was tall, large, and golden, every inch a warrior – and just as vibrant as he had been yesterday and earlier today in the middle of the dark and light colourlessness of the palace of Minas Tirith. She had never seen a naked man before and the sight of him almost made her loose her courage. So she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself down with a long, heavy breath. Perhaps, in some other situation, she might have found him beautiful. But not here... not now.
"Go ahead", she said and even she could not tell what was the note in her voice then. The mattress dipped and after a moment, he was there. Lothíriel never opened her eyes.
How they were able to do it that night, she did not know. They never exchanged kisses or anything like that, and there was not that closeness or tenderness her sisters-in-law had spoken of. Instead, it was cold and methodical, and his weight was unfamiliar and uncomfortable. In fact, it almost felt like he was doing something he did not particularly like doing. That did nothing to ease her.
And it hurt, just like she had expected it would; she wanted to cry yet somehow she was able not to let her tears fall. She felt no comfort, no happiness at all. What was supposed to be a union of love and trust felt just what it was: two people forced together when it was not what either of them wanted.
When he rolled away, she turned on her side so that her back was to him. She pulled herself into a fetal position, and that was how she remained for the rest of these long, painful hours before the dawn.
How she was able to not cry on that night, Lothíriel did not know. What never occured her then was the question of he didn't weep either.
A/N: Oh my God I can't stop writing. Someone please come and steal my laptop.
I'd like to acknowledge that here I went to a place which is very problematic and difficult for both Lothíriel and Éomer. Neither of them are too willing yet both of them think it's necessary. What is tragic about their union here, I think, is their lack of communication. They both believe this is what is required of them, and it could be so different if they just trusted each other and talked about it... and Lothíriel doesn't even realise what it does to her new husband, because he's actually thinking he took her by force, that he hurt her... and his intense guilt goes unnoticed by her. Just because they don't talk.
I understand if you think this is a problematic chapter. It was meant to be that way. How could it be anything else, if you take a moment to look at what happens?
Thanks for the comments!
1607hannah - Sometimes I just wonder what the heck is wrong with my muse to torment me so in the middle of night! Anyway, it's comforting to know I'm not the only one with that problem. :) Thanks for your kind words!
Lina - I don't think it's much of a lie on his part, really. It's more like he's just so surprised and taken aback by this random woman in the stables that he just blurts out stuff he doesn't really think about. Also, at that point Lothíriel is just some random woman, so there's no really point in him telling her who he is. He probably takes her for some servant or perhaps even a noblewoman, but certainly not the princess he's about to marry - essentially, someone he's not going to meet again. It's a confusing situation for him, really.
