21. Turning Tables

Dawn came swiftly the next morning, too swiftly, Éomer thought, as he lay awake in bed, Lothíriel settled in the curve of his arm. She slept soundly on, stirring only briefly to nestle closer to him. Éomer thought back to the night before with longing, half-wanting to wake her with a rousing kiss but reluctant to disturb her sleep. In the end, he was content to study her there before him and feel her body against his.

And now I must leave you, he thought silently. He knew the hour had come when he needed to make ready to depart. Still he lingered, unwilling to leave the warmth of his bed and the supple softness of the woman beside him. His wife.

But was this well? He wondered at his calmness regarding the new turn their relationship had taken. All he knew was this moment, this way she felt right in his arms, the memory of her touch, her body, her voice the night before. He felt that he should struggle against it, but somehow he could not bring himself to care. He would have it that he did not have to leave so quickly. that he could wake up with Lothíriel and pull her into his arms to make love to her once again...

But the pale light in the window grew warmer, taunting him with the knowledge that he must go. At long last, unwilling to disturb Lothíriel's sleep, Éomer forced himself away into the morning light to make ready for his journey.

Lothíriel woke in a sleepy haze, her body warm with the memory of the night before. A smile on her lips, she turned her head to gaze upon her husband –

Who was not there.

She sighed, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. What time was it? He had left already, unwilling to face her, perhaps. Any progress she had thought they had found was perhaps an illusion. Damn you, Éomer, she whispered, throwing off the covers and stumbling out of bed to find him. This was the last time he would creep out of bed without her. She would give him a piece of her mind – or scold him before his men. Or perhaps she would kiss him.

She bumped into Isemay in the corridor, who until that moment had been carrying a pile of neatly folded linens almost bigger than she was, but which was promptly scattered on the floor. "Has my lord left already?" she demanded the girl after hurriedly apologizing, bending to help her gather the pile.

"I believe he is before the steps of Edoras, about to make way," Isemay said, tucking her chin over the pile of now rumpled linens. "Will you be needing to dress, milady Queen?" she asked sweetly with a pointed look. Lothíriel looked down at herself and swore. She was wearing nothing but the sleeveless chemise she had thrown on in the night. She flushed. "Of course," she said. Isemay followed her into the room to help her.

"Is he leaving now?" Lothíriel asked impatiently, rummaging through her trunk of clothes trying to find a gown that did not require lacing. The one that had been laid out was a horror to get into.

"I do not know, majesty," Isemay said, heading towards her head with a comb.

"Then I will go find out," she said, abandoning her search for clothes and waving away isemay's futilel efforts to tame her hair. She grabbed her cloak from the chest and threw it around her shoulders. She would wrap it close around her, and to hell with those who cared.

"Majesty?" Isemay asked uncertainly. "What are you doing?"

"I am going to bid my lord farewell," Lothíriel said determinedly, pulling over bare legs her soft leather boots that were lined with fur. "It is customary for the lady to see off her lord, is it not?" she asked as she rushed out the door.

"Yes, majesty," replied Isemay, clearly shocked. "But seldom dressed like that." Lothíriel laughed at her own folly and ran her fingers through her hair as she rushed out the door.

Éomer was kneeling, checking one last time the nails that held the metal shoes to Firefoot's hooves, when the sound of rustling fabric that indicated men rushing to kneel caused him to turn his head. Lothíriel was walking with intention down the steps of Edoras towards him, her blue cloak white against the snow dusting the steps and her head held high.

"Were you planning to creep away in the night, Éomer King?" she asked in a voice that carried, causing a chuckle to ripple through his men.

Éomer stood with a sheepish smile. "It is hardly night, Lothíriel Queen," he replied to her jape with a very broad gesture to the skies.

She looked at him with reproach as she came to a standstill before him. "And you are hardly a true knight of Rohan," she said, her mouth twitching at her own wit, "To leave your lady without a proper farewell."

"Would a true knight disturb such peaceful sleep?" Éomer asked sweetly, looking her over and fighting back a laugh. She was quite a sight with dishelved hair and cheeks rosy from the cold. Her cloak, where it blew open around her knees, revealed only boots, no gown. Curious.

Lothíriel paused and stepped closer to him in the pretense of straightening his cloak so that she was looking up into his face. "I do not recall much sleep," she said, her voice low and her eyes flickering to the side. "Do you?"

"No," he murmured, catching her wrist in his hand and kissing her palm. He was aware of the eyes of his men, but did not particularly care. "But I could not bear to wake you," he admitted. "Do not be angry," he said.

"I am not angry," she retorted in his ear. "Not for such a gentle gesture. But angry that you would go away before I could do this," she whispered firmly, freeing her arms from her cloak and sliding them around his neck. Bare arms. Éomer looked down as her cloak fell way from her body She was wearing nothing but her nightdress, he realized. As their bodies met, he noted that she wore nothing underneath. That, coupled with the fire her eyes, caused a fire of his own to reignite within him.

"Are you not cold?" he asked very calmly in her ear to hide the fact that his blood was racing. He bit back a laugh. This was something he had never thought to see, and he could be certain that his people would be talking about their queen's appearance for months.

"Cold? No," she said simply, a grin passing over her face. But there was a sudden furrow between those raven brows. "Still..."

"Still?" he asked, a hand instinctively coming up to her cup her face.

"I fear I will be cold these coming weeks," she said softly, her hands tracing a pattern on his chest. "What do you think?" she asked lightly, "The weather will be harsh?"

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers, unable to answer the implied question. "Come here," he said lightly to hide the ache, "You know that the men will be talking the entirety of our journey about the moment you appeared before all of Edoras in a nightgown and a pair of boots?"

She smiled and tossed her head, the uncertainty fading from her eyes. "Let them," she said, and drew his mouth firmly down to hers. She kissed him deeply, a hand trailing down his torso, pulling him toward her before she abruptly drew away. Éomer fought to control the fresh pool of heat that gesture caused. Did she know how she was taunting him? He thought the answer might be yes.

"Go, Éomer King," Lothíriel said, "Help forge the bonds of peace that will protect this land. Guard yourself on the road," she added softly, only for him, "And come back to me whole."

"I will." Éomer reached out to cup her cheek, brushing a thumb along that soft skin, so rosy in the cold. He lingered there a moment, then cleared his throat and swung up on his horse. He looked down at her for a moment. "Don't freeze." Then he forced his eyes away and left without another glance, his men falling in behind him. The horses' hooves fell softly in the light blanket of fresh snow.

""You have patched things up with my brother," Éowyn said later, her eyes twinkling at Lothíriel, as they sat with Brithwyn and Isemay shelling nuts beside one of the fire braziers in the great hall of Meduseld. With Éomer and many of his men gone, the Golden Hall was quiet, with only a few habitants talking softly in the corners. Still, fires burned brightly in the torches and the braziers, casting a cheerful glow around the room, flickering off the ornate patterns on the pillars. Lothíriel was taking a much needed pause from the piles of accounts and paperwork that had been left for her on Éomer's desk.

Lothíriel flushed bright red and said nothing. Éowyn laughed. "I was there this morning."

"Things are more civil between us," Lothíriel replied, arching an eyebrow, "If that is what you meant to imply."

"Civil," said Éowyn with a mock-thoughtful look, studying Lothíriel through knowing eyes. "If that is a civil treaty I fear for a time when you move beyond civility. I believe it would be very uncomfortable for those around you." She caught Isemay's eye and winked, and the girl began to giggle.

Amused in spite of herself and giddy with the coming realization that life held new prospect, Lothíriel joined in. Even Brithwyn laughed, lifting her head from where it had been bowed over her work and allowing her mask of sadness to slip away.

Lothíriel sighed and let her head fall onto her arm on the back of the chair in contentment. "If I had known the pleasures of marriage could be as they are, I would never have been so reluctant to wed the King. I shall miss him these coming nights." She laughed out loud, surprised at her own admission.

"I did not need to know such things!" said Éowyn, a disgusted look on her face. "He is my brother!"

Lothíriel grinned at her. "You will soon be able to inform me about Faramir's prowess and even the score."

Éowyn did not even blush as she met Lothíriel's eyes. "There are things I could tell you now." At Lothíriel's intake of breath, she quickly held up a hand. "Not – we have not crossed that boundary although I confess I often question to myself the point. Who would know, or care? Still," she smiled, hiding her mouth in her hands. "He has given me enough to look forward to."

A throat clearing interrupted Lothíriel's reply, and Brithwyn stood abruptly, her face turned away. "Excuse me, my ladies," she said. "For the interruption. But I would prefer it if my sister should not hear such things. If it please you, might I take her along with me to help sort through linens?"

"Sister," protested Isemay. "I'm a woman same as you. I'm fifteen. I want to stay."

"Isemay," warned Brithwyn, her jaw set. "Don't argue. Mama would have my head if she knew - "

"We need not speak of these things anymore," interjected Lothíriel, wondering if there was another underlying cause for Brithwyn's discomfort. "Forgive us, Brithwyn. Perhaps we forgot ourselves." She caught Éowyn's eye, wondering if the same thought had passed through her sister-in-law's.

Isemay stood too, ignoring Lothíriel's interruption, her hands on her hips and her flaxen hair flying as she tossed her head. "Mama would be overjoyed if she knew I was a maid to the queen of Rohan. She wouldn't care what I heard."

"She would be overjoyed to know you had a roof over your head and were provided for. She would be thrilled if she knew that I was raising you to be modest and well-behaved," replied Brithwyn, her voice level. "But you forget yourselves in front of these women, your betters, who are kind enough to provide for you - "

"They don't treat us like we are beneath them! They don't look down at you as a peasant. They don't treat me like a child!" Isemay shot back, clearly furious. She stamped her foot. "Not like you. Ever since Hunfred died, you have kept me from everything I want because you cannot bear that I might be happy - "

Brithwyn slapped her across the cheek. Isemay stumbled backward, clearly stunned. Brithwyn turned away, her jaw tightly clenched, and left the space without another word.

Lothíriel had been biting her cheek and trying to pretend that she was not in the room. Across from her, Éowyn looked equally distressed.

Lothíriel sighed, and stood, walking over to Isemay, who stood there in clear shock. She placed her hands on the girl's shoulders. "I think – perhaps we have been insensitive. Isemay, it is true you are quite of an age to be curious of relations between men and women but we should respect your sister's wishes. Are you all right?"

Isemay nodded, her eyes lowered, a trembling hand pressed to her reddened cheek. "I'm sorry, your - your majesty."

"I am not offended," Lothíriel replied. "But you should be kinder to your sister. She has led a hard life."

"So have I, my lady, meaning no disrespect," Isemay interjected.

"I know," sighed Lothíriel, "But Brithwyn is only trying to give you a better one. Surely you can see that."

"By keeping me a child?" asked Isemay skeptically.

"By keeping you modest," Lothíriel replied after a moment, deciding to be frank. "You must guard yourself against getting pregnant with a bastard child, with no father to provide for you."

"I know that," retorted Isemay and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. "Your majesty, I beg your pardon," she added quickly, dropping into another curtsy. "I need to learn to control my tongue."

"I like your tongue, Isemay," Lothíriel said. "You have many things to say and I hope you guard your spirit. Fifteen is not an easy age, above all for a girl."

"I must marry," Isemay said softly. "I have a place in Meduseld, perhaps, but nothing is certain for a maid. If I have no one to provide for me, I could very well end up as my mother did. I know that."

"You will always have a place in Meduseld as long as I am queen," said Lothíriel, "If you want it."

"I thank you, milady."

"Is that what you want?" asked Lothíriel after a moment, "To marry?"

"I want – " Isemay broke off and shook her head. "I should not say it."

"You can speak freely to me, Isemay," Lothíriel said, ushering her over to the settee. "Here, come sit beside me. We are not so different in age. My former maid, Nee, was more my companion than my servant." She sighed, a pang of sadness washing over her. Oh, Nee. I must write to you.

"I want to do much more than marry. Much more than sort through linens and wait on other women," Isemay said abruptly. "Begging your pardon. But I do not have the means to go beyond my station, nor am I a man."

"What would you do, Isemay, if you were free?" Lothíriel asked. "Tell me."

"My sister had simple dreams, of a plot of land, a husband, a home full of children. I would like more than that. I don't know what I would do, if I could, but – " Isemay looked at her with those big blue eyes brimming with a passion that Lothíriel had never seen in the girl before.

"I would like to learn," Isemay admitted finally. "To study, to become a master of knowledge. To read books upon books. But – it could never be possible. Not for me."

Lothíriel smiled and took the girl's hand, filled with an idea. "Do you know how to read, Isemay?"

Isemay, startled, shook her head. "No. I'm a peasant. Very few have the opportunity to learn to read."

"We will have to change that, then," Lothíriel said firmly. "I will teach you. And then you will be able to teach others."

Isemay's face lit up and she threw her arms around Lothíriel in a gesture more sweet and spontaneous than Lothíriel had experienced in years. She laughed and embraced the girl back. Another task to work towards.

It was not until late that night when she returned to an empty bedchamber that Lothíriel allowed herself to think seriously about the night before. With a sigh of weary despair she slumped down upon the chair before the fireplace and leaned her head upon her arm.

Running the country alone for a day had been taxing, even with the help of her council, for it was Éomer who knew Rohan in a way that she, try as she might make up for it in poring over history and geography books, could not.

And she already missed him by her side. His steady presence in the court was reassuring, his humor, when it came out, a source of light. Lothíriel bit her lip, suddenly frightened. Until he had left this morning, she had not realized how she had grown to depend upon Éomer in a way that frightened her. Would she lose herself if she let herself go further?

Perhaps she should be glad that they would have time apart. She could occupy herself with running the kingdom in his absence – really learning about this strange country that still felt in many ways so inaccessible to her, the stranger queen enclosed in Meduseld. In doing so, she could forget about her own confused feelings for a while, until they sorted themselves out. Éomer's absence would likely be a blessing, she assured herself. Perhaps she was even now with child and could surprise him with good news when he returned, and they would have something else to think about. What was more, the hope of an heir would surely gladden the hearts of his – their – people as well.

However, in her husband's absence, she would not be surprised if the rejection he had bestowed upon her just days before would resurface. Fool that she was, she had almost forgotten herself. If they were now lovers as well as husband and wife, perhaps they were still no closer in reality than they had been before, though Éomer might be trying.

She could never lay a true claim to him, though she alone could take him to her bed. Well, that was not true, either, she thought. He could easily find another if he liked, though what would be the point if she provided enough to satisfy his wants, and clearly she did. Moreover, she had little fear that he would visit another woman's bed, even while away. He had too much of a sense of honor for that. And he truly did seem to care for her and to want her – but to what end, now?

At last, when her eyes began to close, Lothíriel pulled herself from the fireside and went to make ready for bed. Isemay was there to help her unlace her gown and would sleep in bed with her that night, for the air was too cold to sleep alone.

[A/N: I'm a horrible, horrible author. I leave you hanging for six months at a time. You are beautiful, beautiful reviewers. Love, GB]