Chapter 11
… and Letter-Writers
The letter that you'll never send is the truest one you'll ever pen.
- Old Gondorian proverb
Before she knew what she was doing, Lothíriel was wheeling through the maze-like halls of Meduseld, seemingly pulled along by the sheer will of Éowyn. She wondered, not for the last time, how she would ever find her way about, but that thought was occluded by the thousands of others floating around in her mind.
Éomer is in love with me! For some reason, that made her wildly happy, and each time she thought that, she could feel blood rise to her cheeks.
You fool. Stop being a schoolgirl. Yes, that was it. She was not happy because she returned Éomer's favor; it was merely the affirmation, that someone, anyone, found her desirable. It was nice to feel wanted—this was how she had felt in her teens whenever a man in court smiled at her, was it not?
What about those notes? Yes, what had Éowyn meant when she said Éomer had taken hours to write her letters? The ones she had received must not have taken more than a few moments to pen. So what really was going on?
And what in the world are you going to do with Éowyn? The woman was incredibly astute and seemed to have learned more about Lothíriel than Lothíriel knew about herself. What more was she hiding from her? If she did end up marrying into their family, she knew she would never be able to keep any secrets from this woman.
Before she could start to answer any of these questions, Lothíriel found that Éowyn had stopped; the two of them were standing before a large, finely-made wooden door. Lothíriel had the sense to look about her, and she realized that she was not so far away from her own room, by the look of the tapestries.
Indeed, she was sure her own room was only just down the hall, but before she could make sure, Éowyn grabbed her by the hand and jerked her attention to the door again. The Rohirrim woman rummaged through her skirts before coming up with a small, silver key.
"Um…" Lothíriel was afraid to ask anything of the woman. "Where are we?"
Éowyn gave her an impatient look before putting the key into small keyhole at the right-hand side of the door and turning it. "The king's chambers, of course. Where else?"
Lothíriel's breath came short, and Éowyn saw the change in her expression. "We are not breaking in, silly. Éomer always allows me into his chambers. It is why I have a key."
Of course.
Despite their striking similarity, Lothíriel still found it a bit hard to believe that the two were related and most likely had a close relationship. She found herself wondering how sibling conversations went between Éowyn and Éomer before she realized once again how close Éomer's chambers were to her own.
It made sense, now, how he had been able to slip into her room without anyone noticing his absence—he had only had to walk a few paces. The next thought jarred her completely: The reason your room is so close is because you were given the Queen's chambers.
She was not able to dwell on that thought, however, because Éowyn had pushed open the door and was now pulling her in with her. Lothíriel did not resist, realizing that she was more than a little curious as to what Éowyn held in store for her. Once they stood in the middle of the chamber, however, Éowyn left her side and began to rummage at the large, oaken desk that was placed at the corner of the room.
Lothíriel glanced around her and found herself in a room that was much larger than her own. The centerpiece was a giant, four-poster bed with deep, forest green curtains that were currently drawn. Directly across from the door were large windows that also served as doors; beyond was a small balcony that overlooked the courtyard beneath. They, too, had forest green curtains, but these were thrown open to allow the sunlight in.
The wall to the left of the balcony contained a large fireplace. Two chairs sat before it, along with a small table that could be used to hold a beverage or simply to put one's feet up when sitting before the fire.
Éowyn was in the corner, now, between the balcony and the fireplace, pulling open drawers and leafing through pages. Lothíriel immediately felt uncomfortable; she was close to her brothers, but she could never imagine herself going through any of their desks, looking at their notes and letters.
But before she could say anything, the other woman gave a cry of triumph. "Ha! Here they are. I knew he kept them!"
After a brief moment of indecision, Lothíriel found that her curiosity overwhelmed her sense of propriety, and she moved closer to Éowyn. "What? What is it?"
The woman handed a thick stack of parchment to her. All the pages had been scrawled over with a rounded hand, written neatly but in such a way that they left no margins. In more than one place, there were large, blacked out places where the writer had decided whatever he had written was unfit to be read. Here and there, Lothíriel could also see cramped versions of the same hand adding a comment or two.
Éowyn looked at her with a glow in her grey eyes. "These are Éomer's real letters."
He needed to ride.
He had to be in the open field, for within Meduseld, he was feeling suffocated, not only by the walls, but by the people within. Why was it that Gondorians always insisted on crowding?
It was a habit he had observed in Imrahil and many others of the Gondorian court when he had been in Minas Tirith. They liked to walk too close to each other, stand too close to each other, but they hardly ever made any real contact.
There was no comfort from the act of one man touching another. Instead, there was just crowding.
Éomer burst through the back doors of the great hall, startling the guards without. He was breathing hard, he realized, but he paid no attention to the doorwarden that came up to ask about his wellbeing.
He needed to get to the stables.
He made the short trek even shorter by almost running to the familiar doors that he pushed open with one hand. The already ajar doors to the stables swung outward with a bang, but Éomer also ignored the few protesting neighs that rose up from the horses.
He stormed towards Firefoot's stall, only to find his normal position before the horse's stall already occupied. He gave a silent curse that included Bema, his wife, his bow, and would possibly have included all the Mark if the occupant had not spoken.
"Ic i hálette Éomer Cyning!" (I hail thee, Éomer King.) Éothain greeted him in their own tongue, his wry smile giving away his sarcasm at the phrase. It was only after the other man spoke that Éomer realized his ears were ringing and his chest was tight.
He stopped to breathe, trying to clear his head. The ringing stopped, but the tightness across his chest persisted. "I have been keeping Firefoot company," Éothain continued. It was a moment before he noticed the stormy expression on the king's face. Trying to keep the mood between them light, he added, "Is the groom getting cold feet?"
After hesitating a moment and stepping up to Firefoot, Éomer decided to confide in his friend. "There can be no groom without a wedding."
A few expressions crossed the other man's face before the light of realization came to him. Firefoot walked up to be petted, but stepped back again at the silence between the two men, tossing his head. "Why is there no wedding?"
Éomer leaned over the frame of the stall, running his hands over his face and through his hair. "The Lady Lothíriel did not think it a good idea for two strangers to be joined in this way."
Now Firefoot did walk up, snuffling at the man's face, his soft mouth and nose a slight comfort to the aching in his chest. He petted the horse's neck, welcoming the gesture, and went to find a carrot, but realized that he was still dressed in the formal attire from this morning and did not have one.
Éothain was quiet for a moment, before putting a hand on the other man's shoulder. "I am sorry, my friend." He was one of the few people who had seen Éomer pour over each letter that the princess had sent and guessed that the king's feelings for the Lady Lothíriel were more than that of a mildly interested suitor who had an eye on her father's purse strings.
If a messenger ever delivered a letter from the princess during court, Éomer always became fidgety, and Éothain knew he wished nothing more than for court to be over so he could be alone. The changes were subtle, and no one that was not close to him would have noticed them, but Éothain could read the frequent chin rubs, the drumming of his fingers.
The man gave a small smile, remembering Éomer from before the War; he had had to change much to become the king he was today. He had always been a passionate man, going where his heart led him and would never have married for political power or money, but the state of the Mark had forced him to propose to Imrahil's daughter.
"I proposed to her for the dowry," Éomer said, as if echoing Éothain's thoughts. At this, the king put his face in his hands again. Firefoot nudged his cheek, but the man did not look up.
Most of the Westemnet had been ravaged by the Urûk-Hai, the abominable creations of Saruman, and even now, were still recovering. The farms had not been able to produce the necessary amount of food to feed his people for the past few years, and he had been supporting them with the grain stores left from Théoden's rule.
Those had been scarce because of mismanagement by Wormtongue, and even with help from Gondor, those stores were nearly empty. If the harvest this fall was still as bad as the past few, his people would starve. Aragorn could not support Rohan as well as Gondor; much of Gondor's own lands had been burned and made inhabitable, and Éomer had hated being a beggar.
It was why he had sprung at the opportunity when Imrahil had hinted that he had an eligible daughter; this marriage would have sealed the friendship between Rohan and Dol Amroth, and Imrahil was throwing in a sizable dowry for the hand of his only daughter. With it, he would have been able to purchase enough grain to last his people at least through the winter.
Then they could continue to rebuild and try again.
"And you still wish to marry her for the money?" Éothain prodded gently.
"No." The answer was automatic, coming out of his mouth before Éomer could control it. The way that Lothíriel had written to him, as if baring her soul, had changed that.
"Have you already stopped the wedding proceedings?" the other man asked.
Éomer gave a groan. Of course. Imrahil and the rest were probably expecting him to deal with all of that mess. "No." He stayed with his hands in his face for a moment more before straightening, knowing his duty.
But Éothain put out his arm to stop him. "Do not just yet," he said. "Have you spoken with the lady since she called off the wedding?"
The king let out a sigh. "No, and I suspect that is a good thing. She could hardly stand me the first time we spoke," he said, remembering how standoffish she had been when they had ridden into Edoras. He had thought that she was just shy, but the way that she had battled him in her room was all he needed to know that she would never be happy with him. He had mistook her tone for banter at first, but when she outright rejected him, he had understood. Was he really so repulsive to her?
The expression on Éothain's expression was grim, but his eyes were kind. "Do not make public that the wedding will not occur just yet," he said. "Wait a day, at least. It is only a few days before the wedding, and perhaps she panicked at the thought of marrying."
Éomer blew out his breath. "This is not just cold feet, Éothain. She cannot bear to even be around me."
The other man shrugged. "All the same, will you not at least wait a day? Everything is already prepared anyway. It is not as if you are stopping anyone from their work."
The king relented, relaxing his shoulders. "If you say so, 'Thain." With a last pat to Firefoot, he turned to leave the stables.
"Where are you going?" Éothain questioned.
"Riding," Éomer replied. "But I can hardly do so in these clothes. I must go to my chambers and change. Keep Firefoot company a bit longer, if you wish."
A/N: Hi everyone! Thank you so much for the reviews, especially those that are helping me improve this story.
A couple of things that I have changed so far:
1) In Chapter 3, I clearly stated that it was March at the beginning of the chapter, but progressed to say that it was summer in the rest of the story. I've changed the timeframe of the story, therefore, back to spring, as it should be!
2) There were a few anachronisms here and there that I have changed (thanks, Deandra!). They include changing things like "cubes of ice" to "chunks of ice," etc.
Once again, please continue to review. I enjoy reading your feedback, and I'm always seeking to improve my writing!
