Well, it's been a huge gap, so I guess I'd better do a quick "the story so far". Eomer and Lothiriel have been skirting round each other for quite some time, neither prepared to admit to being really rather interested in the other. Meanwhile, Amrothos and Eothain have struck up a firm friendship, each unaware of the fact that they are both dallying with the same (married) woman. We've just had another ball, at which Eomer has danced with Lothiriel twice, leaving her feeling rather delightfully fluttery. But the end of the evening has been marred by Lothiriel seeing Amrothos arguing with his friend Eothain...
~o~O~o~
The public scene had been averted, in part because whatever the cause of the unholy row, by the time Ivriniel, closely followed by Lothiriel, reached the place where Amrothos and Éothain had been arguing, the two men had gone their separate ways. Angry words had clearly been exchanged, and there was no sign of any rapprochement having taken place, but much to Lothíriel's relief, they had stopped short of exchanging blows, and no-one else seemed to have noticed the set-to.
The row had however damped Lothíriel's spirits considerably, and she retired to bed soon after, her mood deflated. Despite her tiredness, or perhaps because of it, she found sleep elusive, and tossed and turned on the low bed for some time before finally drifting into a fitful simulacrum of rest. She woke early next morning in the grey half light before dawn and lay staring at the canopy above her head.
Damn 'Rothos and his blasted friend. Her wonderful evening of dancing with Éomer – then they had to spoil the mood. Still, Lothíriel was not one to give in to fits of the megrims, so she turned her attention to plotting a suitably humorous revenge on her brother. Perhaps she could turn Rustroviel loose in his tent. A dish best served cold – she would wait till next time he had been in his cups. Or perhaps (though this one might have been better carried out back when she was nine, rather than nineteen) she could put couch grass clippings inside all his shirts. Preferably just before an occasion when decorum demanded that Amrothos be on his best behaviour. It did occur to her to worry what could have caused such a fall-out between friends, but she was inclined to put it down to some sort of strange issue of male pride, the sort of thing she found more foolish than comprehensible.
She was just wondering whether a slow-worm in Amrothos' boots would do the trick when she heard a scrabbling sound by the skirt of the tent. Clutching the covers about her, she sat up and turned her head in the direction of the noise, only to see, of all people, Merilwen wriggle under the edge of the canvass. Her face was screwed up with emotion, her eyes and the tip of her nose red.
"Lothíriel, something just too dreadful has happened. Siliveth turns out to have been dallying with both your brother and Lord Éothain."
"Ah, so that is what last night's unseemly performance was about. Silly boys. I do hope they can behave with more decorum in future." Lothíriel snorted with irritation at the vagaries of the male sex, then got up and pulled a day-robe about her shoulders.
"No, it is far, far worse than you imagine. Now they are to fight a duel..."
Now Lothíriel was startled out of her world-weary complacency. "What! Where?"
"On the lower meadow, by the swimming reach."
The princess's mouth dropped open in shock. For a moment she sat frozen, before realising that the circumstances called for immediate action. Rapidly she pulled her boots on, not even bothering with hose, grabbed her cloak and ducked out of the tent, setting off at a sprint, her skirts held high round her knees. Merilwen started to stumble after her.
~o~O~o~
Éomer had awoken with the first light of the sun on the canvas, despite the previous night's exertions. He sat at a camp table, drinking a cup of the dark Haradrim brew Imrahil had introduced him to, thumbing through the sheets of parchment with details of the trading agreements, and the advance shipments of grain promised by the Principality of Dol Amroth in exchange for future shipments of wool and horses when stocks returned to more sustainable levels. He took another gulp of his drink, reflecting that it was the only thing that stood between him and a return to deep slumber, induced by the excitement of trade policy.
He was just about to turn his attention to the thrilling prospect of barrels of salted fish when Edric burst through the canvas tent flaps, seemingly only realising at the last minute that he should perhaps have stood more upon ceremony. The boy awkwardly doffed his cap and tugged at his forelock, before he spoke in a breathless tone, the stress making his voice jump up and down in the way teenage boys seem fated to endure at the most inopportune of moments.
"Sire, come quickly. Lord Éothain is fighting with Prince Amrothos!"
"What the farkin' hell?" Éomer's first thought was to wonder how the hell two such firm friends could have come to blows. He leapt up from behind the table, scattering scrolls of parchment – as one with the seal of Dol Amroth fluttered to the floor he was hit by a second thought: this could cause a diplomatic crisis with repercussions which could starve his people. Dammit, why hadn't he brought Elfhelm and left Éothain to fight off the threat from the north?
"Where's this happening, lad?"
"Down by the long reach, on the water meadow," Edric blurted out.
Grabbing his sword from the stand by the entrance, he charged out into the early morning sunshine, strapping the scabbard round his waist as he strode rapidly down hill. Curse Éothain for the ocker bastard he was. And that Gondy bastard 'Rothos. He'd bang their farkin' heads together when he got hold of them.
His long legs carried him across the turf at a fair pace, Edric having to trot at his heels to keep up. As he cut through the brush hedge beyond the Rohirrim encampment, he glimpsed the two figures in the far distance, swords gleaming in the sun light. Béma's balls, it was worse than he'd thought. They weren't having a punch-up, they'd drawn steel. Farkin' hell, they'd completely lost their senses. He broke into a run.
Then he saw a sight which made his blood run cold. Cutting diagonally across his path, maybe four score paces ahead of him, was Lothíriel. She too was heading for the fight as fast as she could. He was seized with a sudden gut-clenching fear. He knew how headstrong she was – what on earth was she likely to do to try to stop the fight? And he knew the tunnel vision that came with fights, and how hard it was to break up two men intent on causing each other mortal injury. What was the risk of the two men, blood-lust roaring in their ears, not noticing her till it was too late?
"No, Lothíriel, stop." In his panic, Éomer called the princess by her given name, without a thought for protocol. But to no avail. The princess ran headlong across the dew-damp grass, towards the two men in the distance.
Had the situation not been so dire, they would have cut fine figures. Clad in riding breeches, loose shirts and boots, they danced to and fro, swords glinting in the early morning sun. Tendrils of mist, not yet burned away by the heat of the day, added a romantic edge to the sight. But this was no practice bout. The blades flashed and parried in earnest. First one fighter would surge forward, then dance back out of range as the other offered his riposte. Éothain sliced and stabbed with his cavalry sabre. Amrothos was using his favoured duelling weapon: a rapier. The rapier appeared to give Amrothos a slight edge but not by much. As yet, neither man had drawn blood.
Éomer was a much faster runner than Lothíriel, but she had a considerable head start. By the time she reached the duellists, Éomer had made up all but half a dozen yards. He heard her shout, in a very clear voice.
"Stop acting like blithering idiots. I am going to step between your blades, and I would be most obliged if you would desist from this ridiculous display of male posturing and cease waving your swords around. I have no particular desire to be run through."
"No!" yelled Éomer in desperation. He tried to get to her in time to grab her, but he was still too far away. To his horror, Lothíriel stepped coolly between the two fighters, just as she had threatened to.
Amrothos was in mid lunge. Éomer could not comprehend how on earth he managed to stop in time, but stop he did, pausing as if suspended in the air, then raising his blade in mock salute.
"Well, dear sister, you have done many foolish things in your time, but this is damn near the most foolish of all. I nearly ran you through just now. Now, if you wouldn't mind stepping aside, I should be grateful for the chance to run the correct person through instead."
"Certainly not, you idiot. Look, the two of you were best of friends until a couple of days ago. What on earth has got into the pair of you?" said Lothíriel, in a tone of extreme exasperation.
"It is a matter of honour which does not concern you, sister. Please stand aside." Amrothos was nothing if not stubborn. Stubborn as a farkin' mule, Éomer thought to himself. The king decided the time had come to provide Lothíriel with some support.
"Éothain, put your bloody sabre down, you stupid bugger."
"I can't."
"You can't? You're forgetting I'm your bloody king!"
"Yeah, you're my king. But this bugger's been shagging my bird."
"How dare you impugn a lady's honour publicly, you scoundrel?" Amrothos interrupted angrily. "Quite to the contrary, it is you who has been taking liberties with the lady who has sworn her heart to me."
The two men glared at one another over the top of Lothíriel's head. Lothíriel decided she had had quite enough of their ridiculous performance.
"The lady who has sworn her heart to you? What a ridiculous farrago. Is this lady your wife? Of course she is not, for she is already married to another. And as for you..." Lothíriel turned a positively glacial gaze on Éothain. "The last time I looked at the dictionary definition, birds had feathers. The lady in question (who, incidentally, is not your wife either) has no feathers, although I will conceded her behaviour has perhaps been somewhat fly."
"Just a faaarkin' moment..." Éomer was now thoroughly confused and more than a bit shocked. "You mean both of these two have been carrying on with some other bloke's sheila?" Recollection surfaced, and Éomer added, "It's that Lady Siliveth, isn't it?" Then he threw back his head and started to laugh. "Strewth, she must have some staying power. And if she's that happy to shag around, she's hardly worth fighting a duel over."
"Well, quite," said Lothíriel. "Though in fairness to the lady in question, her husband's a philandering bastard, so arguably she is only paying him back in his own coin." Éomer's eyebrows shot up at Lothíriel's choice words. He wouldn't have expected her to say anything so blunt. Though then he remembered her words down at the river. Lothíriel frowned at his look of surprise, before continuing, "If ever a man deserved to be cuckolded, it was Lord Bronaer. Though I don't think the lady initially intended to go as far as she has. I think she started the flirtation... flirtations simply to make him jealous, then had her head turned by the attention."
"Bronaer?" Éomer's laugh turned into a guffaw. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer bloke."
"So, now we've established that there is no honour to be defended here – for it seems to me that none of you have behaved honourably, neither the lady nor the two gentlemen – I suggest you sheathe your blades and shake hands."
Amrothos and Éothain still glared at one another darkly.
"Oh, for heavens sakes, can you not declare it a draw? I refuse to believe either of you has fallen in love with the Lady Siliveth. Both of you have, I would imagine, had your moment of pleasure, and incidentally (for she is the sort of woman who tells tales out of school) so has she..." Lothíriel smirked. Éomer felt his jaw drop in surprise. He certainly wouldn't have imagined Lothíriel to know about such things. He felt a bubble of laughter well up inside him. Somehow, far from diminishing her in his eyes (as he presumed a Gondorian would react) he found himself filled with a sense of admiration at her forthright summing up of the situation.
"In fact," Lothíriel continued, "you may both congratulate yourselves on being considerably more accomplished in that department than Bronaer, who, despite his years of whoring around, seems to have been too selfish to learn how to bring pleasure to a woman."
Éomer by this time had completely lost the ability to speak, tears coursing down his cheeks, belly aching from laughing. It took him several moments to get himself back under control. Eventually he spoke (albeit in a considerably less commanding tone than he might have been hoping for).
"Now you two, for the last time, sheathe your swords as the princess has very sensibly asked you to, and shake hands before I bang your heads together. And don't think," Éomer almost growled at this point, drawing himself up to his full and very impressive height, "I couldn't do that if I needed to."
Reluctantly, the two men returned their blades to their scabbards and (as briefly and reluctantly as possible) patted their hands together. Éothain sketched a half-ironic bow to his king and said "If you'll excuse me, sire...", then marched off across the meadow, back stiff as a pikestaff.
"I beg your leave, your highness," said Amrothos with slightly better grace (which, in fairness to Éothain, Éomer was prepared to interpret as signifying nothing more than that Amrothos, being a Gondy bastard, was possessed of reserves of hypocrisy Éothain did not have).
"Well, that was most entertaining," said Lothíriel. She affected a light tone of voice and a wry smile, but Eomer was sure that he detected a slight tremor. She was more shaken by events than she was prepared to admit. He watched her tilt her chin upwards, carrying herself like a queen. Blardy hell, that was a woman… she'd face down the black hosts and half the forces of Haradrim and not let them know she felt fear, if circumstances demanded it.
Her smile broadened slightly and she added, "Perhaps you would be so good as to accompany me back to my father's tent."
With a smile, Éomer offered her his arm, and if she leant on him a little more than he was expecting, he certainly wasn't going to complain.
~o~O~o~
Lothíriel settled herself in the chair outside her family's pavilion, feeling that after the events of the morning that she had earned the rest. She took up the letter that stood waiting for her, recognising her cousin's hand. News from Minas Tirith. She started to read, and before too many sentences had passed, her mouth fell open and she gave a gasp of surprise.
Dearest Lothi,
Well, I have got myself into a right pickle. It's good in some ways – marvellously good, good beyond my wildest imaginings, but could be disastrous in others. You see, I have finally managed to pay suit to the Lady Éowyn, and to my amazement, she has accepted me. The only problem is that I haven't yet asked her brother for permission. Yes, that's right, I asked her to marry me without asking him first. And worse than that, there is no covering up the fact that I've done things in the wrong order, for I kissed her, in public, on the city walls where everyone could see us. Kissed her on the lips.
To say that Lothíriel was stunned would have been an understatement. Faramir, suddenly turning into an accomplished womaniser! Well, maybe that wasn't quite true, as he clearly meant honestly by his love, but by Nienna's mercy! What a turn up for the books. Lothíriel giggled aloud as she tried to picture her bookish cousin, kissing a woman in public. Her attempt failed. No, try as she might, she could not picture Faramir as a romantic hero, wooing fair maid before the face of all opposition. Though it would appear that this was exactly what he had done.
You have no doubt met her brother by now. I hear rumours that he has a very short temper. Is this true? Will he call me out? Or simply punch me in the style of a tavern brawl? What if he denies us his permission? I don't think I can live without her. She is the most wonderful woman in the whole world, and I have felt almost dizzy with joy since the moment she agreed to marry me.
Biting her lip, Lothíriel tried to imagine Éomer's reaction. She was convinced that he would stand up for his sister if circumstances demanded it, but she could not see him suffering jealousy for its own sake. The only question was how deeply he would feel Faramir had impugned his sister's honour – or indeed his own – by neglecting to ask for permission. But then she found herself imagining the scene as her cousin, dashing young swain of six and thirty, swept his warlike lady-love into his arms. Immediately thoughts of a vengeful Éomer were set to one side as she dissolved into giggles. It was indeed a picture of absurdity – her scholarly, thoughtful cousin wooing the wraithsbane. And – here her face lit with a smile – a picture of charming absurdity, for Faramir's love for his lady came through in every slightly untidily penned line of his letter.
She would obviously have to write to him by return to offer her felicitations. And tease him mercilessly. Perhaps she could sketch a picture of a larger-than-life Éomer riding to Minas Tirith, sword in hand, to put the fear of Mandos into Faramir. No, that would be too unkind. And unjust to Éomer, she felt sure. The teasing clearly merited more careful thought; it should indeed be merciless, for she had no doubt that he would offer the same were the circumstances reversed, but it should not be unkind. She smiled once more. She always thought best when she had something else to occupy some of her mind – it was as if the fanciful parts of her brain could wander freely while the more careful parts were busy. With this realisation, she reached for her box of polished pebbles and wooden board, and set them upon the table.
However, her relaxation was short lived; no sooner had she picked up her book of end-game problems than her father's herald announced a visitor, the very last visitor she would have expected to see, and certainly the last visitor she would actually have wanted to see.
"Lord Bronaer," she said, desperately trying for an air of calm. "What an unexpected pleasure." She had not expected him back from Minas Tirith for another day – and coming hard on the heels of Éothain and Amrothos's misadventure at dawn, this was not an encounter she wanted to face. How much, she wondered, did he know of his wife's carry on in his absence?
"The pleasure is all mine, my dear," he said, with a positively wolfish smile. Lothíriel's mind whirled frantically as she tried to gain her bearings in the situation. Smile – probably meant Siliveth was off the hook. Wolfish smile – that meant that the man was up to something.
"How kind of you to call, and so early in the day as well. You can hardly have had a moment to recover from your journey. I'm afraid that, if it is business connected with your trip to Minas Tirith, my father is currently down at the soldiers' encampment, inspecting the Swan Knights. But I'm sure he will be happy to see you as soon as he is informed of your arrival – perhaps I could send a messenger to him and get him to meet you at your pavilion. After all, I'm sure you must want to see Lady Siliveth." Lothíriel looked at him expectantly, thinking that she had played her hand well. Surely this was the most polite of dismissals.
"Oh, but you see, I'm far from sure I do wish to see my lady wife." The edge of sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable. "And I am very sure that she does not want to see me."
Lothíriel swallowed hard. So Bronaer was up to snuff. And yet still in a good humour. Suddenly she felt terrifyingly out of her depth. There was some kind of deep game afoot to which she was not privy. Bronaer must have read her discomfiture, for his smile became, if that were possible, even more dangerous.
"No, I thought that before treating myself to the inevitable tearful scene with my fallen lady, I would take steps to make sure I had my future plans in place." He stretched out a hand and dropped something small and glittering into her lap. "I thought you might be feeling upset that you had lost this charming trinket."
Lothíriel looked down. It was her swan brooch – the one her mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday.
"You thought, did you not, that you had given Mabglor the slip the other day. But, alas for you, he saw you coming back from the soldier's encampment. As did I a few days earlier. Two witnesses to your dalliance with young Lieutenant Arodon…"
Lothíriel opened her mouth to protest, but Bronaer held up a hand to silence her. "Oh yes, I know that you are the mere go-between, and that the foolish young pup fancies himself as my brother-in-law… or perhaps that should be former brother-in-law, since I intend to disencumber myself of my wife 'ere he manages to marry her sister. But I don't think that detail will matter much to society at large. Nor more particularly to your barbarian king. When I make it known at large what you have been up to – leaving exactly the sort of gaps in the tale which, alas, I cannot bear witness to having not actually seen them at first hand, the sort of gaps others' imaginations will be only too hasty to fill – why, then I rather doubt you will still be seen as a suitable future queen, even one where the court, so rumour has it, is held in a thatched barn."
Lothíriel felt her fists clench the silken fabric of her skirts. She tried to keep her face impassive. Bronaer obviously read her silence as weakness, for he continued in a tone of no little menace.
"That is, if you force me to play my hand. If, in contrast, you are sensible enough to fold yours and concede defeat, then I am sure some sort of arrangement can be reached. My initial thought was for Mabglor to marry you – he gets your dowry, I get repayment of his debts of honour, your honour… shall we say... becomes negotiable?" Bronaer took a step to Lothíriel's side. For a moment, she thought he was going to touch her, but he was much too subtle for that. He simply rested his hand on the back of her chair, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from it on the bare skin at the nape of her neck. The gesture made her gorge rise every bit as effectively as if he had actually run his fingers over her skin. "But who knows?" he continued, silkily, "I may find myself tragically divorced, the wronged and therefore innocent party, no stain to my name, free to remarry even a lady of the highest birth."
Abruptly, with a force that took Lothiriel by surprise, hot anger flared up within her. She got to her feet, smoothing her silken skirts, and lifted her chin to face Bronaer.
"You know what they say: 'Publish and be damned'. We'll see who people believe – a princess or a cuckolded minor noble, a nobody clearly intent on trying to exact revenge on the family of the man – sorry, one of the men – who made love to his erring wife."
For a moment, she thought he was going to strike her. Then he spat angry words, "You will regret this, madam." Face white with fury, he swept out of the tent, leaving her shaking with the aftermath of her own anger.
~o~O~o~
Apologies for the huge gap since I last posted - major house repairs over the summer really ate into my writing time. But I'm back, and writing again, and will try to post a bit more frequently.