A/N: Same warning as the last chapter. Thank-you to my very special readers for sticking with my infrequent updates, as the demands of life soar on! . . . :)smiles to you!
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Lothiriel walked to the tall windows, surveying the cold grounds of Eowyn and Faramir's new home. She held Queen Arwen and King Elessar's wedding gift for her soon to be cousin-in-law, the long pearl encrusted veil . . . which felt like precious liquid in her bare hands. Eowyn was shifting restlessly behind her, the last buttons of her wedding dress being cinctured by Aniawen along her spine. Eowyn hadn't wanted much fuss; so she only allowed these two women in the wardrobe room . . . Lothiriel supposed she should feel grateful to behold the fair Eorling princess, her dear friend, before anybody else . . . but she had a tight feeling of wistfulness, almost a pain, when Eowyn told her to turn around, to look.
Eowyn was so pure, such a bride, in this sweeping gown, that Lothiriel was astounded by the distance she felt from it. She wanted nothing to do with weddings even if there was a grand prospective wedding in the works for her own future. Betrothals were bad enough, and she had only just begun to mend the bridge of cool distance between herself and Eomer. She wished fleetingly that they weren't involved in government so that they could interact the way they chose. Then again she wouldn't be standing here, witnessing history with his sister.
"Beautiful in every way," she murmured, beaming upon Eowyn's doubtful, expectant face. Eowyn smiled, breaking the contrast. She blew through her upturned lips.
"I'm really surprised by this nervousness, Lothiriel."
Lothiriel tilted her head beneath her heavy cornet. Really? "Well dearest Eowyn, you have no need to be nervous of your apparel. The color is such a lovely wash, it reminds me of bluebells against a snow-peaked meadow."
Eowyn strode carefully across the hard floor, the silver straps of her shoes just showing as she approached Lothiriel. Eowyn's gown was ivory damask, cutaway over gauzy blue, belted in silver over her waist. The embroidered collar was a portrait about her face, softened by the crimped curls of her long hair, tamed by pins above each of her temples so as not to obstruct her dreamy countenance. All that was missing in this bride picture was the veil.
Eowyn reached out, her Rohirric armbands jangling softly, her lips and eyes rounding with a sudden guttural laugh that belied her former countenance."All this preparation, all this lead-up, but now I have to be ready," said Eowyn in that firm, matter of fact way Lothiriel had come to love.
"Not too soon for my cousin." Lothiriel laughed.
"Not too soon for Faramir." Eowyn brushed back a tickly strand of hair, and then clenched it tight against her skirt.
Lothiriel lifted the long veil, attached the intricate pins, and watched the effect of its gauziness drift down in waves to the floor over Eowyn's body.
"Its perfect, Lady Eowyn," breathed Aniawen, her strong Rohirric accent taking Lothiriel back to her brief time spent in Edoras.
"Is she ready?" the deep voice chimed, making Lothiriel jump even as she had expected it.
"Come in, Brother," Eowyn directed to the carved door.
Eomer king came in swiftly, the threads of his surcoat glittering. He gave a hint of a smile, glancing tightly, almost nervously between Aniawen and Lothiriel. How come? The words came fleetingly to Lothiriel but then she shrugged it off. He was a king of Arda, Eowyn's brother, a potential friend, not yet hers, nothing more.
When Eomer came to behold his sister his jaw dropped, his face suddenly emotive. He spoke to Eowyn in a flurry of words Lothiriel took to mean 'beautiful', no doubt, for the White Lady was absolutely all those things whispered, said of her on this special day.
Lothiriel and Aniawen took prudent leave, as their work was done. After their words spoken in Rohirric, Eomer took Eowyn's hand, preparing to lead her down to the large assembled company in the lavishly arrayed Hall, sheltered from the cold of the December day. "Wait, Eomer, give me one moment alone," Eowyn said quietly, slipping from his grasp. His brow creased, but he nodded seriously and ducked out of the wardrobe chamber.
Eowyn opened up a chest and touched the sheathed sword lying stoically amid the folded linens, for she liked the sharp chill against her finger, yet had to remind herself that she needed no weapons on her wedding day. For her life had jumped from embers to flame.
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Eowyn knew that only the most important things would stand out in her memory . . . the cheers of felicity from the broadly assembled company; the warmth in the grey of Faramir's eyes; his fingers upon her brow as he lifted her sheer veil to fasten the sapphire hairpin; the exchanging of their silver-gilt rings and braided hair (human and horse); their walk around an open fire in a mahogany brazier to the beautiful humming and singing of that most ancient song . . . she walked at the center of the moment, at the pivot of life, with a man of Numenor, a man of Minas Tirith, the prince of Ithilien, the man whom she had given her heart and body . . .
She joined herself to him in the fashions and traditions of both Gondor and Rohan, yet also ones personal, decisions she'd made internally. Faramir was her husband, perhaps born for this moment, for was there any other man she would have submitted to so fully in the laws of men? So daringly, as Eowyn thought once she had only been marked for bitter ends, dramatic tragedy, for the Halls and Paths of the Dead.
Yet the Halls of the living were indeed loud tonight . . .
There was a lot of toasts between the merriment and courses of food, and every so often Eowyn would catch Lothiriel's smiles of encouragement over the cheers of the mass assembly. "Marriages can be tiresome affairs when you're not simply enjoying yourself," Lothiriel had noted earlier. Eowyn had to agree, as she had been expected to speak on more than one occasion, and this was not her strong suite. She figured rousing people to battle with a Rohirric marching song might not be appropriate today, and while her brother may have enjoyed it, she spoke in the way she had learned in Gondor, slow and refined as marked her dignity and the honor of the wedding.
Eomer had been rather grim all day, looking uncomfortable, and without the sunny lightness of previous weeks. Eowyn chocked it up to his imminent departure. They wouldn't see each other for many months, something that would pain both of them in the coming days, Eowyn reflected, tearing her eyes from his gloomy form, heavy with thought.
Eowyn tried not to glance at the Lady Deradel, even if it was obvious the older woman was staring at her. She was the keeper of traditions at the Gondorian court, a stickler for protocol, and while Eowyn genuinely liked the woman, Lady Deradel's edicts and pronouncements annoyed her. The lady had told her it wasn't good luck to touch Faramir before nightfall on their wedding day, (with the clear exception of the marriage ceremony) so Eowyn and Faramir had avoided this, and Eowyn suspected that this was as torturous to Faramir as it was to her. Unfortunately, Deradel seemed to be making sure she didn't stray, which made Eowyn want to take Faramir's hand right now. Yes, it made Eowyn think back to the woman's inspection of her wedding dress to assure its 'modesty'. No wonder she had wanted to jump in Faramir's arms last night! Yes this was something her brother had warned her of, these were the kind of old timers that would check their mattress for virgin blood.
While she and Queen Arwen had heartily laughed the night before over Lady Deradel's attitude that her blood-red dress from the Queen was a tad sinful, Eowyn couldn't help but think that red was more appropriate to weddings in a way.
Eowyn didn't regret bedding Faramir; they had said their plight-troths in Edoras where her uncle had been laid to rest four months previously, and she liked the power she'd taken for herself. She was different, as strong and tested as any Eorling should be by life and her unique experiences. And she had a plan . . . well maybe one too many plans for tonight . . .
If only she didn't have this splitting headache, Eowyn reflected crossly over their wedding dinner, as the music was quite cheerful and reverberated a little too rhythmically throughout her skull. She almost looked forward to the masquerade of their nighttime sendoff, as then she and Faramir could be alone afterwards . . . in their suite for a long time . . . Faramir looked a little restless too she noted . . . she smiled as his fingers met hers under the table.
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Faramir accepted the brimming cup of mead gratefully from King Elessar, as it signaled this celebration was almost at an end. The kings appearance at Faramir's side had dampened the boisterous songs and pointed jaunts, as Faramir was given a last sendoff from the Hall, but not completely. The only man not taking part was Eomer king, to no surprise, as Faramir knew that he wasn't his wife's bothers favorite person merely for the sake of being a prince and steward of Gondor. No matter how friendly he was with Lord imrahil and King Elessar, Eomer king was still a patriotic Eorling who valued the land and life of his forefathers, and now Eowyn, his only beloved sister, was forever lost to the Riddermark because of her marriage.
The women had already swept Eowyn away in their colorful cloud some time ago, a women's ritual, the same as this rather sorry right of passage. Ah well, at least he could still be amused! Faramir lifted the cup at Beregond's subtle urging, so lost was he in his own thoughts. This was the only substantial alcohol of the night, as he had no wish to become inebriated. The liquid went down better than he'd expected as King Elessar said the ritual words, a slow honey burn sliding down his throat.
When he had drained the cup, he bowed graciously and handed back the goblet. King Elessar kept back the curious throngs of men with a motion of his hand as Faramir turned and ascended the steps out of the Hall, something that relieved Faramir when he thought of Eowyn waiting for him above. Soon the raucous laughter and noise died away and he heard only the fall of his own steps.
Thinking of the unique experience of consummating his marriage early . . . the way Eowyn had appeared to him with his same impatience last night, gave his skin a pleasant tingle of warmth. The memory gave him delicious pause. She was as innocent and passionate as he had imagined, not a traditional virgin but still raw, and only beginning to show him the intricate depths of her feeling, he supposed. Faramir felt relieved that their first time was over; now they could be more comfortable on their first night of marriage, and he had made up his mind to take care of any evidence . . .
The thought died from his mind as soon as he pushed open the door, for Eowyn was there and her lips met his immediately and they tasted like mead . . . sweet and intoxicating. "You took forever," she murmured.
"Only silly protocol," he said around her mouth.
"I guess I could call the lunar wisdom of the women the same thing . . ." He felt her smile as his hands found her shoulders and the sweep of her hair with the touch of an almost deprived man. He broke off only so long to see that she was in a soft silk nightgown.
"Those women took off your dress already!? It was so breathtaking, my love . . ."
"You only wanted to take it off me, Faramir."
"True, maybe I did, but isn't that the right of the bridegroom?" he teased.
"That's what the nightgown's for." Eowyn grinned and unbuttoned his collar adroitly.
"Hmmmmm . . ."
They didn't speak again until Faramir's lips pressed softly against her thighs and she shifted ever so subtly, enough for him to remember a couple things. "Eowyn." He gazed up at her intently. "Are you feeling better from last night?" She nodded sharply, keen eyes meeting his. "Before we go further I was going get a dagger and . . . slice my hand, put blood on the bed if anyone looks you know . . . I don't want any remarks made against your honor . . ."
"No need for that Faramir, I can take care of my own honor." And with that statement and before Faramir could gainsay or stop her, Eowyn had tilted her head and bitten into her own palm, blood seeping over her skin and lips in an instant. She wiped her hand on the sheets, narrowing her eyebrows in concentration. Then she poured a stream of wine from a nearby jar into her open mouth and quickly turned back to a dumbfounded Faramir.
Eowyn then sized his hand and bit down, her ivory teeth flashing. He flinched back and gritted his teeth in surprise at the sensation. Then she dragged his bloodied palm along the same track as her own, and her grey eyes gleamed as she released him. "Now both of our blood essences mingle on this bed," she said proudly, lifting her chin. "Equally."
"I should have known you had already figured this out, Shieldmaiden," Faramir said as he took her quickly in his arms and pressed his mouth to her metallic skin. She rolled into him, flipping back her hair with a laugh as his fingers took in the contours of her body and her eyes softened. "See, I am not afraid," she whispered slowly in his ear.
"I know you're not, " he said, taking her cool face in his hands, running his fingers along the nerve endings of her fragrant skin.
Faramir and Eowyn asked more of each other that night then the last, and Eowyn lost herself more fully to him in their self-created paradise as she learned about her own body and strong, fervent desires. It was almost the kind of rash feeling that made her question whether she had finally and beautifully created a child to her own disbelief, consternation and yes, tiny glimmer of light. Faramir's child . . . Her hands grazed her abdomen as she woke that next morning and she stared at Faramir's sleeping face for a long time.
When his eyes opened he touched her cheek almost as if she wasn't real. "Why do you look at me that way?" she whispered. "I'm here, I haven't left you."
"I can't believe you're mine to hold," Faramir said, finding her hand curled up against her abdomen and squeezing the calloused palm. He kissed her shoulders as Eowyn fit her hand to his battle scars, pressing deeply against his ribs and then the pulse in his throat. "We have each other now," she said against the beat of his heart.
"I think I dreamed of an Eorling woman . . . but I didn't know how you would ride into my life and so thoroughly . . . change me."
"For the better I hope," Eowyn swung her legs over his and looked down into his grey eyes as she kissed him with her tongue.
"Of course." Faramir smiled softly when she reluctantly pulled away. "I was near dead, barely alive, even if I had been saved. I needed something to hold onto at the end of all things that had been wrought before . . . I needed something for the new day."
"Bema knows I needed the same, I needed you, still do."
"Right now I want you." Faramir kissed her firmly, urgently, and pulled her under him as she laughed, the edges of their bodies curving around each other. Somewhere they whispered their love but Eowyn remembered not wanting to stop the waves of her voice as she called out his name.
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Lord Imrahil had talked separately to each of them, but Lothiriel still felt some flicker of surprise alight deep in her body when Eomer king told her in the snow-lit Hall of the Sun Palace that he would plight troth with her in the silver sea towers of Dol Amroth.
A few days after his sister's wedding, Eomer had given orders to his eored not to turn North for home, but South with Imrahil and . . . Lothiriel. Lothiriel wore a warm wool dress of maroon and silver, but she still felt the tingling shiver run down her arms when Eomer looked at her in that resonant way she remembered.
"My Lord Eomer," she trusted her voice not to shake as she spoke.
"Lady Lothiriel . . ." His hand met hers, and his voice sounded unabashed and almost rashly decisive, as if he had practiced her name and agreed to it in the middle of the night. Lothiriel liked this new Eomer, but then again had he ever gone away?
The blood of her moon cycle beneath this dress meant she was a woman, but she was also entitled to her own choices, ones only she could decide. Imrahil hadn't chosen this Eorling man Eomer son of Eomund, she had. She had taken on the risk, the reward, the mystery.
"Have you ever seen the sea, Eomer king?"
"No, only the sea of grass and sky."
"Then you shall see the sea of water and waves and salt, my homeland, my birthplace."
"It has been a long time since you've returned, has it not?"
Lothiriel nodded, the rise and fall of her heart in the flicker of her eyes.
"I shall have to remember."
"Then I will remember with you on our journey together, it can be new again."
"Yes, and remember, you will agree not just to me, but the edicts of the sea. Will you accept this powerful witness?"
"I accept the tides that have changed in my life, so thus I accept betrothing you in sight of any, in the midst of Dol Amroth." He paused and then asked less formally: "Lothiriel, do you accept living in the plains of Edoras, wedding me there?" Eomer's eyes were intent on hers, although his face was quiet, respectful.
She squared her shoulders and touched his brow with her fingertip, just brushing aside his fair hair. It was just a flash of movement but Eomer moved closer to her all the same.
"Lothiriel? My Lady?" He made as if to touch her knuckle but then hesitated, his forehead furrowing.
"Forgive me for you did not know it," she said averting her eyes from his radiant cast, "But in the old ways of my homeland, in my own custom I told you . . . yes."