Chapter 12
Late August 3018, Aldburg
"Would you fancy a ride today, Lothíriel?"
Éomer made the question on a early, bright morning of late August. Busy braiding her hair, Lothíriel looked up at him and saw the hopeful expression on his features. As it had been some time since she had last had a chance to go out riding – not to mention she had yet to do so with him – she quickly agreed. The Rohir smiled and promised to inform Athilda that Lothíriel would be unavailable for the morning. The chatelaine was unlikely to appreciate that, but she had been keeping her opinions to herself ever since the incident with the necklace.
So, after breakfast, Lothíriel made her way to the stables of the Hall. She had changed into a tunic and breeches borrowed from Saethryd – the other girl had readily lent them to her, grinning as she pushed the piece of clothing into her hands.
"Yes, riding is very important. Go and gallop hard!" Saethryd had brightly said; Lothíriel felt her cheeks were still burning when she got outside, though she also wondered how it was even possible for her friend to make sound like half the things she said were some dirty joke.
The horses were already saddled when she got into the stables: there was her fiend's magnificent grey stallion, tossing his great head impatiently. Éomer flashed her a smile as he offered her the reins of a beautiful dappled mare with lively dark eyes. The princess felt secretly flattered; she knew this animal was a spirited one and he would not have chosen her for an unused rider. Though no words were spoken, to her it was a compliment that a horseman such as the Third Marshal of the Riddermark would have trust in her skills.
Once they were outside the walls of the town, Lothíriel threw a mischievous glance at the man riding by her side. He had tied back his hair and he was arrayed in a simple tunic and trousers, and he looked more handsome than he had any right. The way he occupied the saddle was unlike anything she had ever seen back in Dol Amroth – even her father's knights, trained to fight horseback, could not claim such natural grace. The man and the horse seemed to be so in tune, it was like Firefoot was following rather his master's thought than any gesture. Yet she knew how much control and experience went into it, as stallions were hardly the easiest steeds to handle.
"Can we race?" she asked him eagerly, itching to urge the mare into a fast gallop.
A smirk appeared on his face, making her mouth suddenly run dry – she had not seen such an expression before on those grave features. It made him look positively dangerous in a fashion that any female might recognise.
"I would love to, princess", he told her, unaware of her thoughts. Lothíriel shook her head and fixed her eyes ahead. The only reason her heart was racing so was the anticipation for a wild, hard gallop.
"On three?" he asked her, but she grinned at him.
"Catch me if you can!" she exclaimed, dug her heels into the sides of her mare, and shot ahead.
Sweet Elbereth and the numberless stars! Was there anything like flying across the plains, with wind in her face and hair, and feeling like her steed might just step into the sky, what with the intoxicating speed they were travelling? Laughter was bubbling up in her stomach and erupting from her lips just for the joy of living and of feeling so free. Had she ever ridden like this back in her home by the sea? Or shared this delight with someone like Éomer? When she glanced at him, following relentlessly, she could see he was enjoying this just as much as she did.
Eventually, her steed began to wear down and she let the mare slow her pace. She may be smaller and faster than Firefoot, but the Marshal's stallion had more stamina, and quickly he reached Lothíriel's side.
"Do you surrender?" he asked, smiling as he spoke. She couldn't remember ever seeing him looking as happy as he did now.
"Never!" she shot back with a grin as she reached to pat the neck of her mare as thanks for a wonderful ride.
Once they had cooled off their steeds, they found a small stream where to water the horses; there was also rich green grass growing, and they decided to let the animals rest for a bit before heading back to Aldburg. In fact, Lothíriel felt like she never wanted to return to the Hall. Couldn't they stay here under the bright sun, and sleep under the stars in some sheltered glade, and live on nothing but clear spring water and light?
In companionable silence they wandered the side of the stream, and she picked up some flowers that still lingered at this time, weaving some of them in her hair. Occasionally she'd glance at Éomer and smile slightly, wishing she might have told him how much she appreciated this. It was good to get away from Aldburg for a while and just forget the everyday cares of their lives.
"Does your father know about your prowess in riding?" her friend asked eventually, standing on a small mound as she crouched down to wash her hands in the stream.
"Well, he knows I'm fond of riding. But he did not approve at first when I started to train with a real saddle. It took some time to convince him, and I had to promise I would use a side-saddle in the public", she answered, cupping some water in her hands and drinking it. It was cool and fresh, as though the snow glimmering on the tops of the White Mountains.
"Hmm. A talent like yours is wasted with a side-saddle", Éomer stated and looked ahead over the stream.
"You must tell him that some time", Lothíriel said and looked down in the bubbling waters. What it would be like, going back home and telling her family about her time in Rohan? What would they say when they'd hear how she had made friends among the serving girls of the Marshal's Hall? And most of all, what would they think about Éomer? Surely they would want to meet him – she at least would love to introduce him to her father and brothers. With a smile, she thought of showing him around in Dol Amroth, introducing him to the more exotic foods the city had to offer, perhaps taking him sailing... she bit back a small giggle when she imagined how lost he would be on a ship. Then her mind turned to her father, and she wondered if he'd be very sad to hear about Éomund's death. A thought of her sire and family threatened to grow, but she wished it away. A day as beautiful as this one was not meant for sad thoughts.
"Tell him that his daughter rides like a madwoman?" Éomer asked innocently, his eyes wide while a smile tugged at his lips.
"If that's the standard in Rohan, then yes", she quipped back. Idly she dug her fingers through the bottom of the stream and picked up small stones, smoothed and polished by the ever-running waters. There were a few grey stones and one lovely red one; Aengifu loved to collect them and she already had a rather impressive amount.
"Dear princess, you exist in a standard of your own altogether", he teased her, giving her that infuriatingly attractive crooked smile. In a bout of... well, she didn't know what it was really, but she grabbed a handful of sand and minuscule stone in the bottom of the stream and threw a handful of it at him.
The wet heap hit him straight in the middle of his chest. Then the Rohir dropped on the ground as though one struck dead with a single blow.
"Éomer!" she exclaimed in alarm, shot up and ran to him. What had she done? She hadn't meant to harm him!
She fell on her knees next to him – he lay on his back, quiet and still. She reached for his shoulders to shake him... but then he moved, faster than one would ever have guessed when considering his sheer size. His hands, warm and large and unyielding, captured her wrists, and then she was pinned down to the grass. In a mixture of breathless shock and astonishment, she stared at the golden-haired man above her. She had never felt more vulnerable... or more excited.
"Caught you", he growled under his breath, his dark eyes holding her captive just as his body did. She couldn't answer, not even to tell him she was not amused by him startling her in such a way. For one reason or the other, words had got stuck in her throat. The only thing Lothíriel could do was lay still and gaze up at the man on the top of her, and she saw the exact moment the look in his eyes changed. The way he was staring at her... it was strange and intense and she thought she was going to start gasping any moment now. And she couldn't turn her eyes away or move. So she just waited for him to do something.
Suddenly Éomer leaned closer still, his breath brushing against her face, against her lips, hot and shallow; and for one second she was convinced he was going to kiss her – that he would make her his mistress for real, right here in this glen. And she did not even know if she would want to stop him.
Then he blinked, as though one waking up from a dream. He pulled back as quickly as he had captured her, releasing her hands and withdrawing the weight of his body from hers. She blinked as well, only now becoming aware of how erratic her breathing had grown. What had just happened?
"Forgive me. I didn't mean to..." he muttered, looking away from her. He hadn't meant what? To make her feel like he wanted her? Elbereth! Damn all the confusing males in the world! Not that she had much experience on them, but Lothíriel was convinced he was the most frustrating one to ever walk the earth.
"It's fine", she managed, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm down her racing heart. And there it was again, that peculiar feeling deep in her stomach, demanding for... well, she didn't exactly dare to think of that. She just knew it had a tendency of appearing whenever Éomer got too close. Just now, he had been dangerously so.
Lothíriel cleared her throat and clumsily got up on her feet. When had her knees become so wobbly?
"Shall we head back?" she asked him, not daring to look at him directly. He didn't seem keen on meeting her eyes, either, but he did grunt in what sounded like an agreement.
In silence they got back to their horses, which were now ready for another race. But as they galloped back towards Aldburg, the earlier abandon was entirely gone. She did not laugh anymore, and he was not smiling the way he had before. As a troubled feeling grew in Lothíriel's heart, she wondered if she had done something wrong, and if he were angry with her. But even if she would have liked to ask these questions out loud, something held her tongue, and she remained silent all the way back to Aldburg.
My dear friend, what is happening to us?
He was such a hopeless idiot.
When Princess Lothíriel had first revealed her identity to Éomer, he had been sure it was both possible to keep her secret and retain a degree of propriety in their relationship. He had not foreseen a friendship blossoming between them, and he certainly had not guessed that she might catch his eye in a wholly improper fashion. Altogether he had thought – he had hoped – that her high status would be a protection enough against his baser urges. Not to mention, the young woman was quite different from the lasses he usually dallied with; she was soft-spoken and sophisticated, her hair dark and straight instead of a wild mass of golden curls, and her skin fairer than the glowing tan of Rohirric maidens. She did not possess a foul mouth or loud voice, and most likely she had been taught to fear and reject the earthy desires of mortal Men.
And yet, when he had so shortsightedly grabbed her wrists and pinned her to the ground, he had seen how her eyes had darkened, just as his own must have. Whatever she had been taught back in Gondor, her body seemed to know what was what. Lothíriel had not been afraid of him, though his playful gesture had become something else entirely in a matter of seconds. That moment he had wanted her so badly that he nearly kissed her... and a stubborn little voice at the back of his head kept telling him she would have liked it. That vision of her, laying under him on the ground, dark strands of hair that had escaped from her braid and spread around in green blades of grass, and her lips parted invitingly as she waited for him to make the move... he knew it would haunt him mercilessly.
But desire was just desire, and he had to keep himself in line. She was a princess and she deserved his respect, and damn whatever urges his wilder nature came up with. Prince Imrahil had trusted him – well, his father, really – with her well-being, and to compromise that would be terribly unwise. He would do well to keep his distance from her.
Yet this proved to be even more difficult than he could ever have guessed. After their ill-fated ride, Éomer grew to think that stupid move he had made had awakened something, almost as though some veil had been lifted from his eyes. Now his eyes followed her in a way unlike ever before, always craving for more. Deep inside, there was a writhing sensation when he'd see her seated on the edge of his bed, and she hummed under her breath as she combed her long, shiny hair. There was the way she would tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, or how she'd absent-mindedly roll her lips over her teeth when she was focused on something. Béma, how he wanted to go and claim those damned lips in a kiss! Even something as innocent as her toying with the end of her braid had him transfixed, staring at her nimble fingers and imagining how their caress might feel like. It was maddening, like a sickness gnawing at his insides. But he had known lust before, and though it had a way of leaving a man frustrated and needy, or even drive him to reckless actions, he could bend it to his will.
After all, Lothíriel was his friend, and his wish for her well-being was much more powerful than any bodily craving. And he would never compromise her future for the sake of his own pleasure.
Late September 3018, East Emnet
Nights on the plains could be so quiet, one might have thought no other living thing existed in the world. The wind had died and the land was in slumber, peaceful as though there was no such thing as war. Éomer liked the clearer nights when the moon made all things luminous, but the warrior in him preferred the dark and overcast weather. That made it easier for his éored to blend into the landscape. Being attacked during the night was not the way he wanted to go.
He and his men had been riding for almost a week now, patrolling the lands and chasing after a rumour of some orcs, though they had yet to find any. Those beasts had been quiet as of late, but Éomer did not trust this silence. The thing about orcs was they always came back, sooner or later. And if he knew anything, a moment of quiet usually predicted some sort of onslaught of violence. He just hoped he could be there when it happened, and show the enemy what he thought about it.
As so often these days, he was not feeling particularly sociable or talkative, and so he did not join a group of his riders by the small fire. Even so, he did not exactly miss their conversations, though he was seated some feet away from the company, honing his dagger. They were talking about their sweethearts back in Aldburg; clearly this bunch had been too long on the road and were missing their lady loves. Not that Éomer did not understand this – he knew all too well how riding patrols for many days would impact the workings of a male mind. And honestly he could not say he was immune to it.
"What about you, Marshal? How's your little serving maid?" he was suddenly asked, and Éomer looked up with some surprise. He couldn't remember the last time the lads had actually made these sort of questions to him, and especially not while he was with Brithwen – probably because they had thought she would have his balls if he shared anything private. Well, maybe this had been inevitable, now that Brithwen was gone. Lothíriel – or Daerien – was rather different from the Shieldmaiden.
"Does she keep you happy?" came another question, which was followed by a low rumble of laughter. He had to hold back his snort: if these buggers knew most there had been was cuddling...!
"She's a whole lot better company than you trolls", he informed them wryly, rolling his eyes. "And that's all you need to know about Daerien."
Each of the young riders looked like they were deliberating how to persuade him to talk, until Folcred spoke up, "At least tell us what she's like. One doesn't get to meet lasses of the West very often."
That was something he could answer. Éomer thought for a moment how to put into words all that was her, the soft-hearted princess who also had bravery to rival the most courageous Riders, and had endured so much since coming to the Mark without complaining. But there was something pure about her as well, something good and untainted. And yet... he knew there was vulnerability and sadness: only the other night he had woken up to her crying in her sleep, and when he had shaken her awake, she had stammered something about her father. Her sobs had only died when he had pulled her close and rubbed her back, mumbling comforting things until she fell asleep again. Really, how could one person hold so much and be so much?
"She's bright and innocent and wise. And stronger than you could ever guess", he simply said at last, turning his eyes away from the curious faces. He had a feeling they might see something on his features he did not wish to show.
"So she does keep you rather happy. Good to know", Folcred said, grinning shamelessly. Éomer decided his words did not warrant other answer than a scoff.
But to himself, he felt everything but light-hearted. There, he had put it in words, the way he had not until now. And it's lot more than you would expect from someone in lust, isn't it? asked an annoying little voice at the back of his head.
Sometimes he just hated that little voice.
October 3018, Aldburg
The Marshal and his riders were speeding for home once more.
They had been away for almost three weeks: first riding patrols in north-eastern parts, and then a few days in Edoras so that Éomer could take part in his uncle's councils. In vain, he had tried to talk to his uncle of hiswishes of either sending more men to guard the perilous borderlands or evacuating the villages more exposed to the orc attacks. However, much to his bitter resentment, Wormtongue had thwarted most of Éomer's arguments with sly and cunning words. Somehow, the hateful man had convinced not only the King but also rest of the council with the exception of Théodred that Éomer's demands were merely rantings of a paranoid warmonger.
Only due to Éowyn's numerous warnings had he been able to keep calm at the face of such ridiculous statements, and upon his departure, he had been on a foul mood. His men had sensed it and so left him alone for the journey home. Yet even though the meeting in Edoras had caused him considerable headache and anger, Éomer still felt the slight lifting of his mood when his éored began to approach Aldburg.
So he let Firefoot set the space, and the stallion raced ahead, bringing his master closer to the seat of Eofor. For all the dangers of the road, and all the helpless fury caused by Wormtongue, there was at least one thing waiting for him that was entirely without dark doubts. When he thought of seeing Lothíriel, and how happily she always welcomed him back, he could not help but smile to himself. His smile spread ever so slightly when he thought of what was neatly wrapped in his saddlebag, ready to be presented to his Amrothian friend. He rather liked it when he could make her smile with some pleasant surprise. So he made a point of giving her small gifts every now and then – nothing like the necklace, as he had seen how uncomfortable she had felt receiving it – but simpler things that he hoped would bring comfort to her daily life. A new pair of stockings to keep her feet warm, a bar of fine soap that smelled of flowers, a night shift with green embroideries... this time, he had found her a lovely wooden comb, a beautiful piece decorated with carved flowers. He hoped it would please her, though she must have much more lavish things back in her home by the sea. Then again, she had been very modest from the start, and he had never heard her complain after the luxuries she must have left behind in coming to the Riddermark.
The company passed through the town, greeting friends and family as they headed for the Marshal's Hall. In the courtyard, all was ready for their arrival: the guards had seen them approaching for afar, and stablemen and servants of the household were standing by, like a well-oiled machine about to spring to action. Éomer glanced around, his eyes scanning the courtyard and taking in much at once as a warrior would, but he did not see Lothíriel anywhere. Usually, when he had been away, she would come to at least greet him briefly before they both went on to their separate tasks. He did not know what had been her reason to start with the habit of welcoming him back, but he rather liked it.
Perhaps Athilda has her busy with something, Éomer thought to himself as he dismounted and left Firefoot in the hands of his esquire, a young lad of the name of Leohtir. When his men had their orders, the Marshal turned for the Hall, thinking of all the duties he still had to take care of before the day was done.
As he was striding for the twin doors of his hall, his eyes fell on the face of a serving maid – one of the girls Lothíriel had befriended, and he remembered her name was Aengifu. The troubled expression on her face instantly caught his attention. She was staring right at him and looking like she desperately wanted to speak to him.
"What is it, lass? Is something amiss?" Éomer asked her, stopping to regard her.
"My lord, it's Daerien. She... she's very sick", Aengifu said, and the impact of her words was immediate: he felt like someone had punched him in the guts.
"What's wrong with her?" he demanded to know, his voice sharp and stern despite the ill sensation inside him.
"She has fever, my lord", said the serving maid, sounding like she did not exactly know what was ailing her friend.
Éomer was alraedy striding inside, and he was heading for his own chambers, where he expected her to be. But before he had even entered the Hall, Aengifu was grabbing his hand.
"She's in our room, my lord. Derehild is with her... she said I need to get a healer, but Athilda was -" the girl explained, but he did not allow her to finish.
"I will take care of it", he simply said and changed his course, now hurrying for the servants' quarters. The maid came running by his heels, but for the moment Éomer was solely concentrated on getting to Lothíriel.
He burst into the small chamber Lothiriel shared with three other girls. Air was stuffy there, hitting against his face like a wall after the fresh autumn winds from the plains. Next to the wall, where was his princess' bedroll, Derehild was leaning over a shape hidden beneath blankets. However, at his arrival, the girl let out a startled gasp and fell to sit on the floor.
"My lord!" she said in alarm, but he paid her no heed, not beyond pushing her gently aside to make himself space next to the bedroll.
The sudden commotion had not caused the faintest shift in the young woman who lay on the bedroll, or at least Eomer could not see any such thing. Her face was aglow with fever, her hair was damp with sweat and glued against her head, and her lips were flaked. When Eomer touched his slightly trembling hand to her cheek, he could feel her skin was burning up.
"When did she get sick?" he asked, and somehow, even to his own surprise, he was able to speak calmly and steadily.
"She has been coughing for days... but yesterday she started to feel weak and light-headed. Athilda said she was just trying to get a pass from work, but when Daerien collapsed this morning, even that old witch could not deny she's sick", Aengifu answered in a low voice.
"And what does the healer say?" he demanded, carefully snaking his arms under the limp form of the princess. She did not react to being lifted from the bedroll, and her head slumped against his shoulder.
"Athilda said it was a waste of time", Derehild muttered, making Éomer growl under his breath. Would the chatelaine ever stop testing his patience? Hadn't he told her clearly and seriously to leave Lothíriel alone?
"Her nonsense is a waste of time", he said angrily, lifting himself and Lothíriel up. He threw a glare at Aengifu. "Go and get that damn healer now! If there is any more complaining, tell them it's my orders."
"Right away, lord", said the serving maid, and she left the chamber running. Meanwhile, Éomer was securing his precious burden in his lap, and then he strode out – Derehild helpfully held the door open for him. Lothíriel's head lolled on his shoulder and she appeared to have no clue about being moved. Béma, just how sick was she?
With his fast pace, it did not take long to get to his own chambers, where he told Derehild to get back to work. In the bedchamber Éomer brought the princess to his bed and wrapped blankets around her, to keep her warm. Fortunately, someone had left a pitcher of water by the basin, and he quickly found a handkerchief – hers, forgotten here at some point – which he watered and then placed against her burning skin to relieve the temperature. Lothíriel remained still and quiet.
The healer of his household, a man named Master Heregils arrived in less than ten minutes, trailed by the worried-looking Aengifu, but though the time was moderately brief, it still felt unbearably long. Éomer was even less pleased when Heregils ushered him and the serving maid outside the bedchamber. He desperately wanted to do something and his hands twitched, as though he could somehow have used his fighting skills to aid his princess. But how helpless was even the strongest warrior against something like this!
"I'm sure she'll be fine, my lord", Aengifu said tentatively, having sensed his mood. Well, one would have to be blind and deaf not to notice his unease.
"If she will, it won't be thanks to Athilda", he said grimly, turning his eyes away. Or thanks to me.
The girl looked unsurely at him, biting her lip. He wondered what caused that hesitation... surely he was not such an intimidating master? Éomer lifted his eyebrows and looked inquisitively at her, and she picked up his meaning right away.
"She misses her home and family very much. Maybe that's why she got sick", Aengifu offered carefully. He frowned at her, and seeing his reaction she flinched, taking a step back. "Forgive me, my lord. It is not my place to say these things."
"Indeed", he said and sighed, running a hand through his hair as he turned away from the girl. "Go and get me Athilda. I need to talk to her."
Aengifu curtsied and then exited, leaving Éomer alone to wait for Heregils' assessment. To give himself something to do, he concentrated on undressing his armour, though all through that task his eyes kept glancing towards the door of the bedchamber.
Athilda arrived before the healer was done, knocking at his door and entering as he called her inside. Judging by the expression on her face, she already knew what he had in mind.
Éomer took a deep breath and looked straight at her. He knew he'd have to hold his temper in check, even though he would have loved nothing more than unleash at least some of the storm inside him on this woman. He knew Athilda well enough to understand she would not react well to him shouting his head off at her.
"Do tell, Athilda, what did possess you to think it would be fine to make someone who is obviously very sick to work until she collapses?" he asked her very steadily and calmly, though behind it his anger burned hotly.
"My lord, I believed she was pretending to be sick in order to get a day off", she answered coolly and crossed her arms on her chest.
"Were you blind, then?" he asked, slightly sharper now, and definitely argumentative.
Athilda pursed her lips.
"My lord, you know the duties of the chatelaine keep me quite busy. I have no time to coddle and inspect every case of fever", she simply stated, and he felt the intense urge to shake the stubborn woman. How could she cling to her grudge so tightly?
"Apparently they have made you so busy that you have forgotten the most important one: seeing to the well-being of those under your command!" he snapped, taking a step towards the ill-tempered woman and glaring at her in growing fury. If Lothíriel did not get better... if something happened to her because of Athilda's neglect...
"My apologies, lord", the chatelaine said and fell silent once more.
"I happen to care about her life and welfare a great deal, Athilda. I had thought this was clear to you, even despite your senseless grudge against her. If she does not make it, that is on you. Can you live with yourself, knowing that in your blind hatred, you caused the death of an innocent who never harmed you in any way?" he asked her angrily, hardly noticing how his voice rose in anger. If he were not careful, he would be shouting in a matter of seconds.
It looked like some colour went from Athilda's face, but her expression did not change, and she said nothing. Éomer took yet another deep breath in order to calm down.
"I've had enough of your disobedience, Athilda. If Daerien does not live, you will pack your bags and leave my hall for good, and you may consider yourself lucky to leave here with your life. In fact, even if she gets better, I will not tolerate more of this from you. If I see any more abuse from you towards her, then you may consider your career as my chatelaine finished. Is this understood?" he asked her so coldly that it might even surpass her capability of iciness.
"Absolutely, my lord", Athilda said, still showing no emotion. "Is that all?"
"Aye. You may go", he said to her, feeling weary all of a sudden. Though he now felt Athilda understood exactly what was expected of her, he did not feel particularly pleased or relieved. He may have forced his chatelaine in line for the time being, but he knew it was not likely to make her warm up in regard to Lothíriel... he could only hope this exchange would not result in harm for his princess.
By the time Master Heregils did make appearance again, Éomer was pacing back and forth, all but ready to barge in to demand for answers.
The healer's face was serious when he opened the door, instantly dampening the tiny hopeful thoughts the Marshal had dared to entertain.
"Well? How is she?" he asked, fighting to keep calm.
"She is very ill, my lord, and her fever is high. This should have been treated much earlier... I'm afraid the sickness is trying to take a hold of her lungs, and if that happens, then we must prepare for the worst", came the answer, and it nailed Éomer where he stood. Suddenly, he felt like mountain had fallen on his shoulders and it was nearly too much to bear.
A sickness in the lungs. Wasn't that what had taken the life of his mother? What bitter irony it would have been, to watch yet another woman wither away before his eyes... Lothíriel is not like her, she wants to live, she wouldn't just...
"Can't you give her medicines? Isn't there anything you can do?" he demanded to know, his nails digging into the calloused skin of his palms.
"There are some herbs that may help to bring down the fever, but the rest depends on her now. I will not lie – her condition is very weak. But if she's strong, she may pull through it", Heregils answered, and his words felt like yet another punch that Éomer did not see coming.
He paid no more heed to the man. Instead, the Marshal wandered into the bedchamber and to the side of the bed like a sleepwalker might. Feeling dazed, he pulled himself a chair and more or less collapsed on it to sit next to her. Lothíriel was still dead to the world, her face glowing with the high fever.
Had he ever felt such helpless despair? On battlefield, he knew what to do, even in some very tight spots. He could not recall ever being particularly afraid when he was fighting. However in a sickroom, he was entirely useless. And it was not made any easier by the knowledge that he was not faultless in this. True, Athilda perhaps had a part in why Lothíriel was so sick now. But he could not deny he was to be blamed as well: he should have guarded her better, and most of all he should have put an end to the chatelaine's mistreatment the moment she had first spoken against this guiltless young woman, nevermind Lothíriel's objections. He should have been stricter, should have... should have...
Fighting against the bitter taste in his mouth, he reached to bathe her skin with a cool, damp cloth. Yes, he could have ordered someone else to do this, but Éomer found he did not want to. He had promised to protect her and he had partly caused her current ailment – this was the least he could do for her. And what if the healer's worst fears came to pass? What if Lothíriel did die here, not as a victim of some vicious ploy by Wormtongue, but because her guardian was a hapless fool? No doubt Prince Imrahil would declare war on Rohan... the world of Men would burn at the very time they should have been standing together. Perhaps he should seek exile and never return – a shameful excuse of a Marshal who could not even keep safe one life trusted into his care.
And even if she survived now, this all would just add to what could only be a long list of sufferings. Eventually Lothíriel would go home, full of resentful tales of how she had been mistreated and humiliated in this land. Most likely she'd never want to think of Rohan again, or him, and abhor every mention that brought back memories. But when she'd go, and even if she never thought of him again, he would miss her... Béma, he would miss her madly.
It was in that moment, when Éomer sat beside Lothíriel as she lay in feverish slumber, that the long overdue realisation finally hit him: he loved her. That was why he so looked forward to seeing her, why the moments he was with her were those few he could feel unburdened, and why his hands itched to touch and hold her every time she was close. That was the reason he could not take his eyes off of her, and why even her smallest gestures held him bewitched. Oh, how he had tried to deny it, assigning his reactions and thoughts merely to the desire he felt for her, but truth was so much more. Truth was, he had never felt about a woman as he felt about this sick maiden laying in his bed. He loved this poor, brave princess with all his heart and he never wanted her to leave. He wished no more just for her friendship – he wanted to know her as a companion, as a lover, as a wife.
However, he was certain this yearning was not answered on her part at all. How could it be, when day and night she missed her home, her true life as a princess of a great line? He could not possibly pretend he or what he could offer bore any resemblance to the things she knew and desired. He was first a soldier and only then a lord, and even as a lord Éomer knew he was different to noble Gondorian men as day is to night. He could not give her the sea, or a palace by its shore, or a promise of future without war – all he had were windy plains, a pair of hard hands, and a hall that was perhaps adequate to a daughter of the Mark but not to a princess of the race of Westernesse. And if Prince Imrahil knew how he adored this bright maiden... the man would laugh himself silly.
Béma, why had the fates brought her to him and ignited this fire in his chest when it was clear this could never be? Princesses did not love or marry barbarians, and men like him were not meant for happiness. And yet he wanted it – wanted her – so badly that it might drive him insane.
With a weary sigh, he leaned his head against one hand and closed his eyes. What he desired did not matter – only that she got better, that she was safe. If she lived through this and had one good thought for him at the end of it, then that was more than enough.
It had to be enough.
She was dreaming.
It was the strangest dream she had ever had, because it seemed to be straddling a thin line between a nightmare and a vision so sweet only sleep could summon such. A man with golden hair, his face so sad that she ached for him... there was a dull pounding of pain inside her skull, and yet a lovely sound was piercing through the haze about her... someone was singing by her side, their voice soft and low and rich. The tune was a melancholy one, somehow complimenting the sound of Rohirric; it was simple but fair, and it was delivered more sincerely than any flowery, romantic poem she had ever read back in Gondor.
"Black is the colour of my true love's hair
Her lips are like some roses fair
She's the sweetest smile
And the gentlest hands
I love the ground whereon she stands..."
A hand came to rest against her cheek, calloused fingers lovingly tracing her skin. Lothíriel did not dare to move for the fear that the hand's owner might draw it back, though more than anything she wanted to turn her face so that she might plant a kiss against those fingers. She stayed still at any rate, basking in this strange moment when her body was so weak but her thoughts shined so brightly.
And she never wanted him to leave.
It was dark when she came around again, and only the dying embers in the fireplace and a candle by the bed gave some illumination to shadows. Lothíriel felt disoriented at first, her head was heavy, and she was seriously tempted to go back to sleep. She had no memory of drifting off, but that didn't seem to matter.
But then her eyes, blinking with the weariness that was still on her, fell on to the side of the bed. There she saw someone slumped, leaning their head against their arms, which rested on the bed. She knew him of course – how many times had her eyes sought for him in the crowd, or perhaps just by the fire, and watched how the light danced and shined in his bright hair? Before coming to Rohan, she had heard tales about people inhabiting these lands, about their wild ways and their golden manes. Yet none of the stories had said how beautiful it could be...
Tiredly she wondered if she should wake him up and tell him to get in the bed. Surely Éomer should not be spending his night in a chair, especially when these were his rooms and she was just a guest here, albeit a sick one. However, he looked so peaceful that she dared not disturb him. She could not deny him his rest, not when she knew how full of care his days were.
So Lothíriel turned on her side to face him, placed her hand on his, and returned to sleep... calm in the knowledge that she could trust him to watch over her.
To be continued.
A/N: Here's a new chapter! I hope you enjoyed it. :)
I admit this was not an easy chapter to write, and I've revised it a few times. Though some parts of it were incredibly entertaining to write, it's still not exactly how I wanted it to be, but this will have to do.
As it often does, the fear of loss is what makes Éomer realise his feelings for Lothíriel. I hope it doesn't seem too abrupt; then again, his feelings for her have been growing for a while now, though for a moment he was convinced it was just desire. He would certainly have liked it to be nothing more than lust, because as you know, Éomer of ALWR doesn't exactly want to fall in love. Maybe we'll see more of his musings on that in the upcoming chapter/s. As for when Lothíriel might come to realise there's more between them than just friendship... well, wait and see. :)
The song Éomer sings by Lothíriel's bedside is called "Black Is the Colour". If you follow me at tumblr, you will know that I've had bit of a thing for this song as of late. It's a traditional folk song and I immediately fell in love with it when I found it online. If you want to listen to the song, I recommend trying the version by Christy Moore, which you can find at least on Youtube.
Thank you for reading and reviewing! It means a lot to me. :)
littlerock77 - If I could write faster, I would! I know how it feels like to be hooked on a story that intrigues you. Anyway, I'm glad you like this! :)
Rubandepluie - That is very right! She hit closer to home than she even realises yet!
Madam X - Thank you! I do my best. :) Hope you liked this chapter and the bit where Éomer realises what he feels for Lothíriel. :)
A - Here comes!
AngusH - Thank you! I'm happy to hear you enjoy this. :) We'll see how things go for them!
Rhiannon A. Christy - Cuddling is always good, accidental or not! Anyway, at least now he knows what is happening to him - we'll see how that will impact their relationship in the coming chapters. :)
Anonymous - *blushes* That is quite the compliment, and I heartily thank you for it! Hopefully this chapter won't disappoint!
Talia119 - Good to have you back again! I hope you like this little headway in this chapter - Éomer being aware of what he feels for Lothíriel should complicate things a little bit. :) At the very least, the touching may be a great deal less innocent now!
Wondereye - That is good to hear! :)
sailor68 - I write as fast as I can!
laure - Thank you! We are getting there - eventually! ;)
Adimari - Thank you for another lovely comment! It is greatly appreciated. :) And it's good to hear I've been able to develop as a writer. I'm sometimes a bit self-conscious about that. Anyway, I hope Éomer's realisation in this chapter doesn't come too abruptly to you, but on the other hand I thought it was high time for that. And I must admit I kind of wanted to get to write about him being lovesick and pining away. ;)
I was indeed working on the Grimm brothers version of the fairy tale - I had not heard about the French one, but it sounds intriguing and quite dark and mature actually. So if you were reminded of that version, I must say it was accidental on my part. But now I will have to check that out! Originally, this story followed the story of "The Goose Girl" more closely, but it was not working out very well, and I ended up changing a lot of things. Anyway, it is the basic idea behind ALWR.
And don't worry about writing a too long review - from my point of view, no review is ever too long!
Rachetg - Éowyn does not really dislike Lothíriel. She's just worried about her brother, and she fears that Lothíriel's presence will cause him harm and trouble. Personally, she has nothing against her.
