Again, I'm very sorry for not updating this as much as I ought to. But for those of you that have been patiently waiting, here is the 6th chapter of this story.
Chapter 6: Domestic Battles
Lothíriel stepped back into the room slowly. Éomer was sitting on her bed, his arms crossed, looking as if he belonged there. The half smile he wore was so enticingly handsome that it made her grind her teeth in frustration. Of all the men she had met in her life, he was truly the only one that could make her want to smile and stomp her foot at the same time.
"Who was that?" he asked as he stood and strode over to her. She could feel his power in his every stride, and it made her heart pound.
She clenched her fist. Since when has a charming face made you so inept, Lothíriel? "My brother, Elphir. He was just checking to see if I found my chambers to my liking."
Éomer raised his eyebrows. "I see. And though it is incredibly discourteous, I must admit I overheard some of your conversation."
Lothíriel swallowed hard. "Oh, did you?" she asked, keeping her tone light.
The man smiled knowingly. "Yes. Something about love."
Her heart pounded uncomfortably in her chest and she tried to match his smile. "You must have misheard."
The king's smile widened. "Oh? Then what was it really about?"
Lothíriel opened her mouth to come up with some fabrication, but the king only laughed. "Did you know that every time you lie, your mouth twitches?" he asked. At her glower, he smiled again. "It is very subtle, but the right corner of your mouth moves ever so slightly every time you do not tell the truth."
"I am not lying!" she cried indignantly.
"Ah, there it is again," he said, his tone smug, as his eyes pierced through her once again. How she wanted to put the man in his place! "The Rohirrim do not lie, and so we can almost always detect it in others."
When she did not respond, but crossed her arms once again, he continued, "But since you do not seem to want to answer my question, I can only posit that your conversation was about your undying love for me."
Lothiriel narrowed her eyes as she opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind. The egotistical, arrogant, high-handed –
"Oh," he said, still smiling and feigning disappointment. "Your expression begs to differ. And since I have no more guesses as to what your conversation was about, I assume you wish for me to pose the reason why I am here."
She could only bite down hard and glare at him. She hated how he so deftly put words in her mouth with his jests, not even allowing her to counter. It made her feel stupid and slow.
"I wanted to ask you why you agreed to marry me."
She blinked. Her mouth suddenly went dry, and she struggled to work her jaw as the annoyance that had been building up within her dissipated. "I…" How did the man do that? How was he able to bring her to the edge of exasperation and then completely dispel it?
And most importantly, how was she supposed to answer him? Why, what a coincidence. I was going to ask you the same question. But now that you mention it, I would like to let you know that I do not really wish to marry you. Can we stop the wedding, or at least wait until we know each other better? She let out a breath. That would certainly end well. "I was going to ask you the same thing."
The man did not move. Amusement, however, came back into his eyes. "Wonderful," he answered. "That must mean you have prepared a complete and detailed explanation on your part." He smiled now. "So what was is? My good looks? My inescapable charm?"
Lothíriel brought her hand up to her temples as she felt her annoyance build up again. "Well, I can tell you what it is not," she answered. "And that is the size of your head. Do your shoulders ever get tired?"
The king let out a booming laugh, and it was only then that Lothíriel realized they had slowly been inching toward each other. Now, they were standing toe to toe, only a few strides away from touching. "There is nothing wrong with a little confidence, my lady," he answered, now positively towering above her.
"There is confidence, and then there is you," Lothíriel shot back, before even realizing what she was saying.
Éomer continued to smirk, the fire dancing in his brown eyes. He really was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Handsome, arrogant, and somehow completely knowledgeable about every way to grate her nerves. "Do all the women in Gondor speak as you do?"
"Only when they meet a man such as you," she said, becoming a little angry.
"A man such as I?" he asked. "And pray, what would that be?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you going to analyze me again when I answer?"
Éomer's eyebrows shot up in feigned innocence. "Analyze you?" he said, his tone light, almost as if he was toying with her, but she could catch a hint of annoyance building up within him. "Nay, only a loremaster could do that. I have trouble just reading you, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."
Lothíriel realized she now possessed the upper hand, and to her horror, she delighted in his annoyance. She wanted to repay him for the exasperation he had caused her. "Perhaps you should spend more time in the libraries and less on your horse."
Éomer did not laugh but made a buzzing noise with his teeth. "Bzzzzz…"
She looked at him questioningly. "Come, my lord, I do not speak the language of the bees. What is the meaning of this?"
The king laughed now, realizing again that he had regained his advantage. "It is a wonder you do not, since you are so waspish."
Lothíriel's eyes flashed, unable to contain her anger. She was infinitely patient when it came to affairs of state, but for some reason, Éomer could dissolve all of her patience in just one conversation. "If I be waspish, best beware my sting."
The king put his hands on his hips again. "I have learned that in the past few minutes, my lady." His eyes, however, turned serious. "But come, come. You avoided my question."
She gulped. "Being a gentleman, you should volunteer your answer first," she countered. He moved even closer, and again, she was aware of how large he was. He could have easily quashed the answer out of her with one hand.
"Gladly," he promptly answered. "At first, I must admit I was marrying you because of political correctness. My messengers told me you were beautiful, intelligent, and tactful when dealing with diplomatic matters. What better match than a princess of Gondor for the throne of Rohan?" Lothíriel bristled at this abrupt numbering of her qualities; she again felt like a prized stallion being described at an auction, as she did all those months ago when she was first discussing the marriage with her father. What right did even he, the King of Rohan, have in degrading her like this?
But Éomer was not finished. "I was prepared for a dutiful marriage that would benefit my kingdom, but then I received your letters." He hesitated, and Lothíriel realized he was becoming embarrassed. "And I found a witty, charming young woman that I fell in love with." He stepped even closer to her. "I have read your letters countless times and always looked forward to the next." He laid his hands on her upper arms, almost holding her. "You cannot understand how well I feel I know you."
She looked to the floor. She was pleased that the Rohirrim king had looked forward to her letters, even when she was sure that what she wrote would only be briefly glanced over and tossed aside for more pressing matters. She then immediately felt ashamed for feeling this way.
Éomer leaned down, his hands ready beneath her chin, and before she could move, he kissed her. It was a gentle kiss, but tinted with an urgency and need that shocked her. His lips were warm, and the sensation sent shivers down her spine, making every place on her body more sensitive to the man before her. No man had ever touched her like this; no man had ever dared. She was shocked but also aroused that this man that she barely knew was so forward.
She was filled with an urge to kiss him back and cupped his face in her hands, unable to move away from his lips. Now, his lips met hers hungrily, as his hands caressed her face and moved up to touch her hair.
For a moment, she was lost. Her hands moved to his chest, wanting him to come closer. It was easy to get lost in his arms, which held her almost possessively.
Her mind returned to her, however, and Lothíriel suddenly realized she was still in her room, alone with Éomer. They were going to be married in three days, and if he continued to kiss her like this, she would never tell him about her doubts.
Stop! the rational side of her head cried.
She pulled back from their embrace, though her body obeyed with much reluctance. Her heart pounded at the back of her throat, and she felt like a scared rabbit, desperate to get away from the hound, and yet, strangely fascinated by it too. Éomer opened his eyes, the embers from the fireplace dancing there.
"If I cannot have that for the rest of my life, I do not know the purpose for living," he said.
Lothíriel closed her eyes and her mind conjured up a myriad of curse words. Of all the romantic things he could have said! her head cried. And yet, despite the cliché, there was sincerity in his voice. Though she did not want to admit it, she was moved, and her face warmed.
But she had to stay in a business frame of mind. This was no time to lose her head, as she knew what question was coming. She had to deflect it. "Why the short note in return?" she asked. "Why did you never pen longer letters, even when I tried to reach you?"
The man's eyes narrowed. Other women that he had wooed when he was younger had nearly fallen over with joy when he spoke of love to them. This was not what he had expected. "Did you want a novel from me, professing my love for you?" he asked. His tone hardened, and Lothíriel bit her lip. He had not even raised his voice with her, but she suddenly felt all of his power and strength bent against her. "After your two-lined acceptance letter?"
Valar curse it, she thought. She knew the note would come back to haunt her. But could he not understand? The messenger had had to leave the next morning, and she had been pressured by her father and brothers to write the letter quickly. So how could she have taken the time to explain? Besides, he would think her crazy if she mentioned the three-paged letter she had balled up and thrown away. But in all the other letters, she had never once explained her doubts about the marriage.
"I… I…" she could not find any other words but the ones already in her head. She fumbled for more, but they would not come. "I do not wish for the wedding to take place." As the words left her mouth, she realized how terrible they sounded and nearly clamped her hands across her teeth. "Yet." She managed to save herself a little.
You are an idiot! her mind cried. What happened to the tact he so praised you of? She thought of even more colorful words and wanted to spit them out at her own stupidity.
He stepped forward until he was almost touching her. "Why not?" he asked. He did not seem angry.
The words poured forth. "I am not ready for marriage," she suddenly said, floundering for an explanation. She had rehearsed this speech many times on the journey to Edoras, and she thought that she could be eloquent. But her mind was blank, and she could only present a bounty of blather. "I would not know what to do as queen. We do not know enough about each other. The only time I have seen you was when we first met, years ago. We have been apart longer than we have been together, and frankly, I do not yet know if I can spend the rest of my life with you."
Lothíriel stepped back, hoping Éomer would not follow her. He did not. Instead, he looked stricken, as if she had slapped him across the face. He will hate you for those last words! Can you possibly stick your foot deeper into your mouth? her mind cried. She had been stupid, she knew. Obviously, she had already taken a page out of the Rohirrim's book. But Gondorian princesses were not supposed to speak so brashly.
"Did you tell Imrahil this?" Éomer asked quietly.
She nodded. "My father did not understand. He—"
"He forced you to accept?"
Lothíriel gasped in horror. "No!" she cried, but the same knowing look came back to Éomer's face. Instead of amusement, she saw sadness. "He did not force me. My brothers—"
It was then that she saw the king's eyes flash with fire. "So that was what you really were speaking of outside with Elphir?" he said, his voice low and dangerous. Lothíriel's heart leaped in her chest uncomfortably. Éomer snarled at the floor as he threw his hands up and began to pace the floor. "So, your father and brothers pushed you into this, did they? And you agreed because of my station?" He laughed a little, a sharp bark that made Lothíriel jump back in fear. "
He broke off, pacing the floors of her room, a lion in rage. He seemed to grow with his anger, and suddenly, he reached out, grabbing a small porcelain ornament from the mantle. With a cry, he threw it into the fireplace, where it shattered.
The flames roared as it consumed its new fodder, and Lothíriel stood rooted to the ground, her heart pounding in her throat. She did not know how it was possible, but this beast, roaring before her, was more frightening than the both Orcs she had met on the plains of Rohan. Her eyes fell on the knotted muscle beneath the sleeves of the king's tunic, and she realized how easily he could use his strength to kill her in his anger.
But just as quickly as his outburst had come, it passed.
He stopped his pacing, and for a moment, he closed his eyes as if gathering himself. The muscles in his arms loosened beneath his tunic, and as they did, he seemed to return to normal size.
But the line of his jaw was still hard as he turned his gaze to her. His dark eyes no longer held the playful look of a confident man. Instead, they were expressionless as he bowed low to her. "Good night, my lady," he said curtly, and turned on his heels to leave the room.
"Wait!" Lothíriel cried, not knowing why a sudden sadness came over her heart. She scrambled to run in front of him and block his exit. Guilt filled her, and she desperately wished she could take back her exchange with Elphir that Éomer had partly heard.
Éomer paused and again raked her with an expressionless look.
"I apologize for what you overheard," she said quickly, looking toward the ground. "And for my words. I did not mean for them to sound the way they did. My father and brother did not force me into this marriage."
"Your lip is twitching," he said gently and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek. His lips were cold and hard. She wondered how the same man could give two such different kisses within the span of a few moments. Involuntarily, tears came to her eyes. He did not see them, however, as he quickly looked away. "It is too late to for us to stop the wedding now, but I will let you know, women are free to do as they choose in this land. I will not stop your actions once you are queen."
He turned to her with a small smile, though his eyes were devoid of humor, and left the room. Lothíriel stood her ground, stunned. All she could muster was the coldness in her chest and the urge to run after the man and explain herself again. Well, what are you waiting for? her mind asked. Go after him!
But her feet were planted to the floor. With a small click, the door closed. His footsteps were barely audible outside.
It was then that her body chose to come unfrozen.
"Curse it!" were the first words out of her mouth as she sat heavily on the bed, wiping a hand over her watering eyes. Why was she crying?
For Valar's sake, she had almost ruined her own life and the hard work her father had put behind his marriage. Of course she was crying! Her lack of tact was unbelievable: she was acting as a commoner, not as a princess. She, of all people, should know better than to spring such words on her future husband like that! She, like any daughter, must do her duty.
Well, she finally put a name to this arranged marriage.
That was the only reason she was marrying Éomer: duty.
And yet, did she really wish to marry because of politics?
It was the only way for her.
Closing her eyes, she spun his last words around her mind. Had he implied that she wanted the throne so she or her family could have power? She had no such intensions, but how could she make him understand?
Unwillingly, her fingers brushed her lips, and her cheeks burned as she remembered Éomer's kiss. The tingling sensation ran down her spine again at the memory, and her face grew even hotter. Frustrated at her own reaction, she threw herself backward onto the bed and stretched her arm over her face.
"Stop being an idiot, Lothíriel," she muttered into her own sleeve. She needed herself to be clear-headed in this mess that she had created, but her body was not cooperating.
"I am sorry, my lady. Did you say something?"
Freya had come back into the room. Sitting up, Lothíriel straightened herself and began braiding her long hair nonchalantly.
"No, Freya, nothing."
