A/N: onward... finally some secrets get told. Thank goodness.
Chapter 10: Names and Nightmares
The fourth day went by in a blur, everything according to plan and strangely uneventful. Lothiriel had only felt the first twinges of vague regret, and then they were already out of the mountains to set up camp at the side of River Ringlo in the humid, warm, inland air. There was a sense of relief, also; for she had not known what trouble they might have met in the mountains, and now there was no cause of worry. Nonetheless, the taste of relief was sharp, suddenly gone as it had arrived; and the tang of regret held long.
She sat the first watch with Eomer, and woke – though not of her own volition – to sit the third with Grimund, who had by now gotten used to her presence, or could ignore it more readily. And in the morning she galloped with these golden-haired strangers deep into the realm of Gondor, past the fields she had known and the roads she had ridden in the days of her youth.
They paused within sight of the city to change, as the guard would surely recognize her, and it would be better if they entered in cleaner clothes than the ones they had on. Lothiriel put aside her travel-stained green gown and drew on the heavy blue-embroidered dress, with the matching slippers that Harah admonished her to bring.
A smile, when she saw that Aldhelm had cleaned his hair and unfurled a small standard of Rohan, which he set atop the long pole that they had used to hold up the horses' canopy. Even Grimund cleaned his face.
The wind brought the smell of the sea, and Lothiriel looked to where the spires of the Seaward Tower and the Princes Castle pierced high into the sky in the distance, and felt – finally felt – her regret burn away in excitement. She could not keep herself from smiling, though she was very, very tired, though the news they bore bode ill.
"Hide the frying pan, if you will, lady," said Eomer with a look of feigned pain, emerging from a nearby copse. He had changed into a fresh green tunic, his few days' growth of beard was trimmed, and he held his ceremonial helm in hand.
She grinned at him.
They galloped into the city, and the guards of the Gate recognized her and gave up a shout – "the King and Queen and Riders of Rohan!"
And on the first day after emerging from the mountains, the sixth since the morning they began their ride the company from Rohan had finally reached Dol Amroth, without pomp, without ceremony, and without warning; and Queen of Rohan or not, Lothiriel was home.
It was early afternoon of the next day when Eomer emerged from his conference with Aragorn.
Couriers were dispatched post-haste this morning to the healers of Lamedon and Lossarnach and of Minas Tirith to make what preparations they can, and to see if any such thing had been seen before. They themselves had scoured the records of Dol Amroth for descriptions and records of past sourges, deep into the night, not wanting to waste time. They found little.
Aragorn mused darkly, around a mouthful of his pipe as dawn crept in through the windows, that they might even inquire of the matter with the Haradrim envoy later that week.
And they had yet to hear from Faramir.
Eomer woke after a short nap, alone in the feathered bed that felt too soft to him, and felt for her beside him only to realize it was afternoon.
A quick meal was brought in, the maid sneaking curious glances at him from under eyelids while Eomer polished off the contents of his plate, feeling restless.
He had gone to look on the sea, after a great climb emerging on top of one of the turrets in the Seaward Tower. It was in a mood today – lightning flashed in the dim clouds in a distance, roaring balefully against the sodden, lichen-edged bedrock that held up the tower and the city, smelling distinctly and pungently of salt and fish and other, less savory denizens of its depths.
When he had his fill of that – which did not take long – Eomer had inquired as to the direction of the gardens, and set off in search of his wife.
One look at the place and he knew he had his work cut out for him. The garden, as they called it, was rather a sprawling, winding arboretum of trees and flowers with patches of vegetables and herbs edged between. He wandered in it, lost after the first fifteen minutes, until the overcast sky grew dim again, and had no luck.
"Lost sight of your wife so soon, Eomer king?"
Eomer turned, and beheld a woman melting out of the shadows from beneath an aged oak. Elven blood, he thought, as she came silently into the light; Morwen Steelsheen was said too to have elven blood.
A closer look told of a tan, wide face, around middle-age, lines marking the sides of mouth and eyes – a warm, woflish grey – an aquiline nose met a thin, wide mouth above a strong chin. She was garbed in work clothes, a gown of faded blue reminiscent of the thing Lothiriel wore whenever she was in the gardens.
"Lady," he sketched a bow.
"I am no Lady," the woman's laugh made Eomer felt a little foolish, a little young, "and there's no need for a great king such as yourself to bow to me. You are looking for Riel, yes?"
Many names his wife had among her people – I dslike nicknames, he remembered her saying.
Eomer nodded.
"I am looking for Lothiriel."
"Well, you won't find her here."
Eomer, who had thought she meant to offer information – and who as not used to being spoken like this – was taken aback.
"I see," he said, still looking at her.
She gazed back at him, her head tilted at a curious angle as if she too, were taking his measure.
"Tell me, does she still have nightmares?"
Eomer frowned, "I'm sorry?"
"Nightmares," the woman repeated patiently in Westron, as if to a slow pupil, "bad dreams. She's had them since last year, when Amrien died. Does she still have them now?"
Eomer was at a loss, and heard himself saying, haltingly, "I – I don't know," and upon reflection, "she wakes every day before the dawn."
"As I'd thought," said the woman, frowning, "and she doesn't take anything for it?"
"I'm afraid," Eomer said, confounded by the strange turn of the conversation, "that I still do not understand you – we are speaking of the same Lothiriel, my wife, who was Princess of Dol Amroth?"
Some new understanding dawned in her eyes seemed not altogether pleasant, for she looked at him anew with a sharp lift of her neck, grey eyes flashing narrowly over him in displeasure. But beholding his confusion, she gave a frustrated sigh, and muttered to herself.
"I see I may have spoken too soon," she said, quite calmly, brushing the dirt off her palms, "though I had thought that half a year was plenty of time, if you have treated her well enough."
The thinly-veiled accusation in her words sank in and Eomer felt his temper flare.
"She does well enough, as Queen of Rohan."
And he crushed the small guilt at that half-lie.
Her low laughter – genuine this time – disarmed him.
"I mean no offense," she said, a looking at him with sudden affection, which, after everything, bewildered him even more, "Riel takes things hard, and had always been too slow to speak what bothered her. I had only thought that some time among plain-spoken folk would induce her to open up."
"Say further on this," he demanded, and then, "if you will please."
She gave another smile at his belated courtesy, but this one did not fully reach her eyes.
"She lost a very dear friend, in the war – Amrien. We all lost Amrien, but Riel was closest to her – they were friends almost from birth; you know the type, closer than siblings. And Riel took it very hard, as she was the one who found her, you see."
"Found her?" Eomer echoed, a little hollowly.
"Oh, of course, you fought in the war," the woman said, half to herself, "but Amrien was not a victim of battle, Eomer King; she died of her own hand."
He blinked.
"The poor girl had lost her baby to a fever, and news just came back that her husband was dead – but she was always so strong; she took everything and more. And we thought that in time, she could take this – but we were wrong. Riel was the one who found her."
She sighed, "Stubborn thing – Riel, I mean – blamed herself, naturally, said she should have seen the signs, and without a word to anyone she took herself off into the mountains. Only a few of us knew – and some thought she was dead, or at least gone mad, but after a week she came back – told me straight off she'd thought through it, and got through it, and that's when the nightmares started."
A little silence fell.
"You did not know of this?" said the woman.
Eomer could only shake his head.
"I hope you do not think less of her, for any of it. This sort of thing," she said, looking at him again, sorrow and regret in her face, "it's just as hard to take as battle; harder, for a young girl."
"I know," he said.
Eomer thought of his sister, lying as dead in the chaos of Pelennor, and of splintered banners, grazed with blood, stuck where they were fallen. But his sister was alive; she was married, she was happy – she was pregnant, for Eorl's sake.
"I know," he said, heavily, "I'm going to find Lothiriel, do you know where she is?"
The matron shrugged.
"Her usual place of hiding is in one of the lower nooks of the Seaward Tower."