Here I am, my guys and gals and non-binary pals! ;)
Long time no fucking read, huh?
Sorry, but I promise more regularity from now on.
Shoutout to the YoungSkywalker for gently persuading me to pursue the Déor-storyline.
Also shoutout to R2_D2106 for bringing up "The Joys of Sex Middle Earth Edition" - did you really think I would forget that comment? ;)
Alright, enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!
22. The Shieldmaiden and her Ranger
Summer came and summer went.
Beltane was the beginning of a summer of peace and plenty. From May to August the Riddermark was rejoicing at the masses of new foals they welcomed into the world, which was always considered an omen of long life and luck (as she was repeatedly told). The grain shipments from the South arrived once the Spring storms gave way to the calm summer sea and during the summer months they were well sated and content. And with the warmth of the summer sun, the restlessness that had plagued the minds of many a man in the hard heart of winter seemed to have passed, making the lawlessness of the months before a mere rumour from the outer regions of Rohan. Life, again, was good in the Mark.
For the king and queen it seemed as if all that hard labour of the hard months before had come to fruition. The troubles that had plagued the early months of their marriage had seemed to shrink and cower in the shadow of the trust and affection they had for each other, because, most importantly of all, they had learned to understand that they were stronger together. Where she provided insight, he provided strength; where she questioned the impossible, he answered with possible solutions; where she exercised caution, he acted with resolve. They balanced each other out, they tempered their weaknesses with each other's strength, and they made each other better. Together they took their roles as rulers in a stride and truly lived up to their titles.
But this summer brought on more than just two rulers growing into their crowns; this summer turned husband and wife into lovers and confidants and partners, in every sense of the word. They learned from each other and learned to rely on each other; thanks to his guidance her riding had much improved, turning her into a very able horsewoman, and thanks to her advice her lord and husband had become quite the decent king, one that chose to listen rather than talk, and when he did talk, there was patience in his words now and understanding where before there had only been grim determination and an even grimmer outlook on the nature of ruling.
However, the change in them was not just a show for the people that watched their every move in public, it was a change within them as well, tied to the trust they had in each other, the attachment they had developed for each other. And even in the dead of night that trust and that affection persevered, because when the old fears and nightmares returned (though that too had lessened much of late), when the burden of the crown became too heavy, when doubts and insecurities weighed down on them, they held on to each other, would whisper of their secret fears only to each other and speak quiet words of soothing in the dark.
Truly, it had been only a few months that had passed and yet between the beginning of summer and its end much had changed. The newly crafted second seat of power next to her king's horse throne had been only one novelty; it was a little smaller in stature, with a little more filigree carvings and a rich polish to it, with the swan wings at the back of it being a detail made of her own design, but it was cut from the same wood, even if perhaps not cast in the same mould. And, as the sun rose higher and higher in her warmth, and the weeks after Beltane saw a great wave of new foals being birthed, her popularity seemed to have risen as well. She had experienced it first hand when they had embarked on their tour across the Mark, when her king had showed her the great landmarks of his great country, from the first great city of Aldburg, her husband's home to the mighty fortress of the Hornburg with its breathtaking Glittering Caves, and while they were going from major settlement to major settlement, paying their respects to the noble families and taking a quick peek at the bureaucratic undergrowth, they had chosen to visit some of the smaller towns and villages too, to make time for the people of less noble blood and less haughty concerns.
And that had done the trick for her. As they rode through those little settlements, with children laughing as they followed their procession, young girls handing her summer flowers, the queen had realised that for these people seeing was truly believing; to be their queen they had to know her and for them to know her they had to see her with their own eyes. And she had realised that she wanted that, too: to be close to them, to be surrounded by them, to be touched by their lives and their hopes and dreams – she didn't want to be a lofty regent from the far away South, with a nose so high she would stumble if she cared to leave the safety of her chambers behind; she wanted to become their queen. And perhaps she thought that even if she were never to become mother to a child, she could be a mother to her people – although, even on that front progress had been made, though, perhaps, not in the way one would have thought.
The queen still remembered that day the king and queen of the Mark had sneakily stolen away from their capital, forgoing even an escort and telling no one but their friend Déor of their trip who, of course, had joked that the royal couple apparently needed some more "honeymoon time". Although technically speaking that hadn't been too far off the mark either, given that they had chosen a spring stream on their way back as a spot to "refresh themselves" before they returned to the watchful eyes and ears of Edoras. But fooling around with her husband in a grassy field next to a crystal clear mountain stream actually hadn't been the main motivation for their trip.
Indeed, the real reason for their clandestine trip was to be found in a little village by the name of Hurstborough, just a few hours from Edoras, and even though her king had been hesitant about it all, he still went along with the meeting she had arranged between him and his bastard son. However, he left it to her to hold the baby boy in her arms while the child's mother and father – strangers, really – looked on, ever so often stealing awkward and sheepish glances at each other, probably wondering how both of them could so easily have fallen for the charm of this Southern lady. But despite his reservations she did not miss the way his eyes softened and the way the corners of his mouth curled up ever so lightly into a small smile as he watched her holding his son, and she could tell the idea of her with a child in her arms was a lot more appealing to him than he had initially let on, though whether it was only because he now begrudgingly got along with their contingency plan or because it was not another woman's child that he imagined in her arms then and there, she could not say.
However, her king had not been the only one having reservations regarding their contingency plan – Éowyn, to say the least, had been possibly horrified at the very idea of it. Citing any and all reasons why it would be a bad idea – from the inversion of their traditions to the legal issues all the way other to the scandal it would cause, to say nothing of the uproar it might incite when it became known to the South that the king of the Mark would disrespect his own queen (as it would undoubtedly come to be seen) by naming a bastard son from a common woman as his heir – the shieldmaiden had talked herself into a veritable frenzy. And of course, the queen could understand her new sister's misgivings – she had grown up at the Southern courts, after all; no one understood the domestic and diplomatic implications better than her. But still, even if it was only a problematic solution at best, and even if it never came into play, it was still good to have a contingency plan ready, because the alternative of a king without an heir and a kingdom rocked by dynastic strife … well, they could all agree, at least, that no one wanted that. But perhaps, not all of her motivation was as noble as she would have liked it to be, because she felt a wicked sort of glee amuse her whenever she imagined how seriously humiliated her dear lord father would be if it all became known, and maybe, for that alone, it would be all worth it.
Be that as it may be – Éowyn, however, remained staunchly sceptical towards her back-up plan, painting a vivid and overly dramatic picture of what might be put in motion once the boy would be legitimised and his position as heir presumptive made public. Lothíriel still raised her brows when she thought about the image of her sister-in-law walking pacing to and fro, hands that wildly gestured, lips that mumbled ferociously that there could not be three people in a marriage. And it was odd, to say the least, to the shieldmaiden so worked up about this, when usually she was a lot more cool and collected, calm even, at times, but the queen suspected that the change in her had a lot less to do with her brother's marriage and settling the question of succession and a lot more to do with her upcoming wedding.
After Beltane, and then with every passing week and month, the shieldmaiden had grown … restless. She was a lot more quiet than usual – her face, which would normally ever so often smooth out into a cheeky grin or wicked wink, now more often than not twisted into deep lines as she frowned, thinking, always thinking – and when she did talk, she always seemed ready to snap at the slightest tease, the lightest remark towards the wedding. She just seemed … on edge, seemingly tired of waiting and yet apprehensive of the thing that would be there at the end of her waiting.
Lothíriel suspected wedding jitters.
Oh, sure, the shieldmaiden had been nervous about this whole marriage thing before, but all those months ago it still had been far away enough to push it to the back of her mind, and rather than think of all the implications that marriage into another house, a Southern house, would bring, Éowyn had daydreamed of all the pleasurable experiences she would finally be able to share with the man she loved. Now, however, in the heart of September, with the Autumn Equinox just around the corner, the Lady of the Shield-Arm had pushed that mental and emotional displacement almost to the limit. Her impatience for the wedding to be here and done, and for her to be an officially married woman with an official husband had reached almost painfully unbearable heights, and it was only rivalled by her rising panic at the thought of soon being a wife to a Southern lord at a Southern court – a panic she still tried to process through her impatience, ready to snap at anyone who tried to tell her that it was okay for a bride to be nervous and afraid, ready to snap at anyone who stood in her very determined way to get this wedding done and over with.
And so, that's how they found themselves here, at the eve before the wedding, just a few miles outside of Minas Tirith, with Lothíriel watching with quite a bit of amusement as the king and his sister were at each other's throats again, fighting with each other over the decision to ride the last miles through the nigh to get to the White City or rather to stop for the night and camp and then to the enter the city in the morning. They had been fighting ever since the king had given the sign for their entourage to halt and make camp, and they had continued to fight even as the horses were watered and fed, as the tents had been put up, as dinner had been prepared, and at the rate they were going, the queen mused, the two would be fighting still when the first light of the day would shine through the cracks of the royal tent they were currently standing in, or at least, the two stubborn siblings were standing and arguing – she was lazily lounging on a divan, snacking a grape or two while watching the thunderous spectacle unfold before her.
'We've been other this, again and again, Éowyn.', the king said with no little amount of annoyance as she closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before he continued to make the same point he had been making for half and hour now, 'We've been riding all day – the men and more importantly the horses are tired and need rest. You'll see your … betrothed soon enough.'
In a way he was right, Lothíriel thought, they were all in need of rest, for the road from Edoras to Minas Tirith had been a long and arduous one. The distance between the two cities was great, almost 350 miles long, and it had taken them almost two weeks to make the journey from the Mark to here. Of course, usually, it would have taken no more than a week at most for a fast and sure rider to make that journey but given their entourage and more importantly the bride's surprisingly large amount of luggage it had taken them a lot longer than that. Although, the queen mused, it might as well have been the not so subtle delay tactics of one very overprotective older brother who just happened to be a king.
'Spare me your sensible talk of men and horses!', the shieldmaiden spat back at her brother, eyes tightened to thin slits barely containing her anger and impatience over having to wait yet another night before she could be reunited with her betrothed, 'You would carry me all the way back to the Golden Hall of Meduseld, and all on foot, without a horse or food or drink, if it meant I wouldn't get married tomorrow – and that is the truth of it, brother.'
'Quite on the contrary, dear sister, you know how happy I am for you.', he began and he smiled, though that smile didn't reach his eyes, eyes that were squeezed together so tightly by annoyance and aggravation that Lothíriel feared he would lunge at her at any moment now, like a stallion in rebellion of the halter, 'In fact, I have longed for this day to arrive … so I would be rid of your sisterly care and advice at long last – so, trust me, when I tell you that no one has longed for this day more than me.', he concluded, still with that angry smile on his lips, before it vanished and changed into the serious expression of a man tired of discussions and arguments and audacious little sisters, 'But men and horses are tired, and that is the truth of it, no more, no less. This discussion is over now.'
Lothíriel held her breath in the moments that passed the king's statement and truly she would have been terrified to be at the receiving end of the stare the shieldmaiden threw at her lord brother; the way her eyes burned with fury, the way her lips quivered with barely contained rage – surely, anyone who would have been faced with such a sight would have tuck tail and run, but not the king. Éomer only held his sister's gaze with unwavering confidence – the confidence of an older brother towards a younger sister, the confidence of a king towards his subject, the confidence of a man who believed to have won a fight, thinking that all secret weapons and all hidden advantages had been used up already … and so he didn't see the trick coming she still had up her sleeve.
'You're just on edge because your best friend is better at wooing your own wife than you are!'
In the silence that followed Éowyn's taunt, the malicious grin playing around the edges of her mouth slowly ebbed away as she sobered to realise her foolishness, even though she tried to appear untouched by her realisation, tried to hold on to that anger and impatience that had made her careless and less respectful or sensitive than she probably should have been in the presence of her brother and king. But what had been done, could now not be undone. Lothíriel, for her part, closed her eyes, with her heart sinking beneath the very earth under her feet, sinking below to the halls of Mandos, sinking even further, and the queen cursed the shieldmaiden for her big mouth and coarse tongue.
Indeed, much had changed since the night of Beltane, and even though most of it had been cause for joy, some of it had been cause for much irritation and even strife. In the weeks that had followed Beltane, Déor, son of Féor, leader of an éored of the Westmark and closest and oldest friend of the king, had not grown tired of performing his very own clumsy version of courtly love. Whether he presented her with wild flowers, picked from the green fields, or recited besotted poems in the golden hall, the knight, apparently, had come under the impression that he was in love with his queen. It had been amusing in the beginning, the queen mused, especially considering how much it had annoyed her king and husband, but soon enough this act of love had lost its charm and instead had become quite the nuisance to them all. Of course, the queen doubted very much that the knight's intentions were less than honourable or that his feelings went past anything other than a mere infatuation, but the whole business had been messy, to say the least, in particular when one considered that of late the knight had busied himself by taking care of her mare, Cwén, which, as she was repeatedly told, was a very sure and very noble and very public way of courting a woman in the Mark.
Éomer, throughout all of this, had remained suspiciously tight-lipped and reserved, and she had to give him credit for that, because for all his strengths and virtues, her dear husband was not a man known to remain calm for long or who was known to keep a cool head in the face of provocation – he was a man with a quick temper, after all, a man that quickly overreacted. So, naturally, when he had told her one morning that he would have "words" with Déor, she'd had that feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her it would be more than just "words", and sure enough, that afternoon, when she had crossed paths with the rider in the stables, he had sported a very mean-looking black eye, though he had winked at her all the same and she could not deny that, in that moment, his audacity had been quite charming, even breathtakingly so.
Of course, Lothíriel had no doubt in her mind whatsoever that she would remain loyal to her husband, even though for her, as a lady of the Southern courts, loyalty to one's husband was not necessarily equivalent to faithfulness. Why, she knew that in the South many spouses, though remaining loyal to one another, sought company and pleasures in other people's arms, often but not exclusively to curry favour, extract information or to gain the upper hand in that eternal struggle of the courtiers for wealth, titles and positions. So, yes, naturally, she mused, being loyal to her king did not necessarily mean being faithful to her husband, though the queen had the good sense not to educate her dear lord and husband on that fairly Southern distinction.
Because even though he smiled through it all, appearing like a man who swallowed his certain anger, ignoring it with the good humour of a man who seemed to be above such petty feelings of jealousy or the sting of rumours, she knew her husband better than that. When he smiled, it was not the charming smile of the kind-hearted man with love and devotion in his eyes, it was the smile of a man that was roused to passion by his jealousy, the smile of a man that was equally excited and inflamed with rage at the very idea of another man coveting his wife. And when he smiled, it always reminded her of those wild beasts with golden furs and black eyes, sharp claws and even sharper teeth, that she had seen as a child in an exhibition – those predators had smiled, too, but when they flashed their smile, they only did so to bare their teeth … before savaging their prey.
Éomer was smiling now, too, she noticed, and the way his lips curled up in that wry manner, with his eyes burning with barely veiled anger and his nostrils flaring, it made her shiver with alarm as goosebumps spread out across her skin and the thin hairs in her neck stood up. Lothíriel watched as the king made a step towards his sister, the move small but no less threatening, and – she had to do give it to the shieldmaiden – Éowyn had the good sense to take a step back as her instincts kicked in, realising that she had crossed a line here that she, perhaps, should not have crossed. For a moment the queen wondered then if the two siblings would actually come to blows. Of course, arguments were nothing new or unusual about this brother and his sister; in a sense it was their way of expressing their love for one another – a very explosive, taunting form of love between siblings, apparently. But still, this here was unlike their usual fights, because unlike their usual fights, this one right here was not about who was the fastest rider (Éowyn) or the more skilful swordsman (Éomer) or even the better drinker (none of them, they both couldn't hold their liquor), this fight here concerned the topic of the king's wife, and when it came to his wife, the king was quite prickly and quite unforgiving. So damn straight, the shieldmaiden had good reason to be wary of her brother's murderous smile.
'We will enter the city tomorrow.', the king said then, breathing hard through his nostrils as he pressed out the words between clenched teeth, trying to keep his anger contained with iron control which, however, only served to make his unspoken warning towards her, not to push her luck any further, all the more menacing, 'Now, I would suggest you retire, Éowyn – you would not want your betrothed to marry a bride with dark rings under her eyes who yawns through her marriage vows and falls asleep on her wedding night, now, would you?'
'Oh, fear not, dearest brother, I shall make good use of this night.', Éowyn crooned then with saccharine sarcasm, after she had recovered from the shock of being at the receiving end of her king's wrath, and one would have thought that, after putting her foot so deeply in her mouth before, the shieldmaiden would be more cautious and more considerate now, but far from it – winking at her brother like a mad woman with a death wish, the king's sister proceeded to poke the wild bear she had just torn from his winter sleep, and laughing while she did so, 'I know it might well be the last night of simple sleep I shall have for the rest of my days.'
At that the shieldmaiden smiled triumphantly and performed quite an exaggerated curtsey before turning and leaving the tent with the flair and swing of a joker that had just landed the gutsiest of punchlines. Éomer, for his part, was growling and already taking the first steps to take off after her, unable to accept the stalemate that they had just scored – because while he had managed to put his foot down with regards to their delayed entrance into the city, she had succeeded in winning her own, personal victory by setting his kingly teeth on edge – but Lothíriel was already there to hold him back. Putting her arms around him, the queen managed to pull her lord and husband down to the divan, even though she was having quite some difficulties not to burst out laughing at her sister-in-law's bawdy and improper, and very funny, allusion towards her older brother's weakest point.
'Don't get into a fret, my lord.', she purred then as she embraced him from behind, her legs flanking him while the palms of her hands drew lazy circles across his chest to slowly ease away the tension he still tried to hold on to, 'Your sister is young, let her be young.'
'My sister is older than you, Lothíriel – and yet you act the woman and she acts the child.', he grunted as he leant forward to brace his elbows on his legs and to let his face fall into his hands – she could tell that he was tired, but not yet ready to relax. For a moment, the queen wondered if she should hum a little tune to sing her husband to sleep, something he seemed to have grown particularly fond of these last few weeks, but no, she mused, sensing his misgivings, his concerns even while he tried to hide them, a less serious, less subtle approach would be more prudent here.
'My cousin is a very good man, Éomer. Honest and kind and honourable … for a Southerner at least.', she spoke quietly then and oh so sweetly, the smile on her lips just audible enough in her voice – and she could sense it then, that sigh, that head left hanging, the release, the tell-tale signs of a man who realised he had been seen right through.
'Am I that transparent, huh?', the king chuckled then, all that pent-up anger vented through a little bit of laughter, 'Yeah, perhaps you're right. Perhaps I should be glad. Knowing Éowyn, it could have been worse. Probably could have been a lot worse.'
'Like what?'
'You know.', he added, the chuckles slowly fading into silence and when he spoke again, there was a lot more severity in his voice, 'She was never – she never seemed the kind of girl who wanted to marry … and that would have been fine, except, she was the niece and ward of a king – '
' – and now the sister of a king.'
'Yeah.', he sighed, and the grave sound was only made graver by his gaze staring into something far off, something that only he could see, a memory perhaps, something from his past that she had no part of, a connection, perhaps, that could only ever exist between brother and sister, a bond made up of shared loss and love and pain and pride, and had she been honest with herself, she would have had to admit that she did envy the two of them for that. Such a deep bond between siblings was not something she had ever experienced, certainly not with her brothers, not even with Amrothos, because even though the two of them had always been close, there had always been that wall between them, a wall that was more like a hole, a hole left by the death of their mother, and while Amrothos had managed to run away from that hole, she had been straight up swallowed whole by it.
' – never thought she would actually ever get married, you know? And just the thought of making her do something she didn't want to – well, not that I actually could have ever gotten her do something she didn't want to do – I mean, that woman is just … beyond stubborn.', her king continued meanwhile and she was grateful for the distraction he provided, managing to pull her out of her increasingly sombre thoughts and putting her firmly back into the here and now, 'So, yeah, I guess I should be glad. And I am happy for her, I really am, but still … here I am: the cliché of the overprotective older brother.'
'Don't be too hard on yourself, my lord. Trust me, as far as jealous, overprotective older brothers go, you're in good company.', she said slowly, her voice mimicking the cat-like grin on her face and when he turned around and looked at quizzically, she gave him a mischievous wink before she explained, 'You should have seen my brothers during the days before my wedding – do you know what my beloved stupid brothers gave me as gifts for my wedding?'
And when he shook his head, he gave off all the signs of a man wanting to know more, and the wariness in his eyes made way to a hesitant smile, growing ever stronger – and he smiled because she smiled at him. And so it was that she moved up on the divan, to give him some space to stretch out next to her, and once they were face to face, with her elbow propped up on the upholstery and her head resting on one hand and with him mimicking her posture – only then did she continue.
'Well, let's see: Elphir, my oldest brother, promised to have a marriage contract drawn up that would have left me the whole of your kingdom within a year.', she said, smiling mischievously as she did so, and smiling even harder at the sight of her king's jaw dropping quite literally in stunned surprise.
'Erchirion promised to leave a garde of the finest Swan Knights with me – day and night, ready to fight and die and serve and kill … at my command.', she continued then, and by this point she was smiling so hard her cheeks burned from the strain, and she had to stifle her laughter at the sight of her lord and husband's eyes widening in shock, because, surely, he understood the implication.
'And Amrothos? What did he give me?', she threw in then, leaving an intentionally long pause, enjoying the apprehensive presentiments written across her king's face, with him probably torn between finding out and fearful to actually find out, and only when she was sure that she had milked that dramatic pause for the greatest effect possible, only then did she continue, as she fell flat on her back and closed her eyes and sighed with a dreamy smile on her lips, 'A dagger.'
And then her king laughed, and he laughed hard, laughed as hard as he probably hadn't done in all in his life, with the laugh reaching up to his eyes, shaking the whole of his body, coming straight from his heart, and she couldn't help but giggle then too, the sudden carefree atmosphere too infectious to withstand it, and so the king and queen of the Mark lay there then on their divan in their tent laughing like two children with not a care in the world.
'A man after my own heart – all of them, actually.', he managed to say at long last then, after the laughter had subsided enough for him to breathe and get some air back into his lungs again, 'Remind me to bring that up when we'll run into them at the wedding tomorrow.'
Lothíriel froze then, the smile on her lips turning to stone, and she was glad that her lord and husband was caught in the last fits of his chuckles, or else he would have noticed her immediate reaction straight away. Now she had at least a fraction of a moment to consider how best to distract him from the fallout of the uncomfortable news she was about to drop on him now.
'I'm sorry, my lord, but my brothers will not be at the wedding. No one of my family will attend.'
'Why?', he simply asked then, quietly, the smile on his lips slowly vanishing as he played around with a lock of her raven hair, and she could tell then that he was a lot more alert than he really let on. Of course, he wasn't sure of it yet, but she could see that he had a feeling that there was more to this than she was about to disclose, and she could actually see the thoughts processing in his head, the questions, though unspoken, clear as day vibrating off of him – why she had withheld such information from him until now or whether her family not-attending the wedding was an intentional slight – and she had to give him credit for that. A few months ago he would not have picked up on something as subtle as this, rather he would have shrugged it off, but she had taught him too well and now she was actually scrambling to try and divert his attention before he could voice his suspicions or before she could inadvertently confirm them.
'My father has some business to attend to concerning my aunt Ivriniel.', she started slowly then, careful to have her voice sound even, inconspicuous, unsuspicious, honest, and judging from the way his shoulders remained tensed, she decided it was best to stick closer to the truth this time, 'And Elphir? Well, there always has to be a man of Dol Amroth … at Dol Amroth. Erchirion – as far as I know he is on a manoeuvre on the island of Tolfalas; Corsair ships have been spotted there again these past few weeks and as Commander of the High Naval Fleet he is expected to be there.', she made another pause here and used it to judge his posture and based on what she deduced from it, she could tell that he was starting to believe her explanation and thus she decided that now was as good as any moment to try and use her other tactics of diversion, 'And Amrothos? Well, I just don't think my sweet brother would be so well received in the White City.'
'Why not?', she heard him asking, and she could tell from the sound of his voice that genuine curiosity was speaking out of him now, and biting her lower lip to keep herself from smiling, she continued then.
'Let's just say he has gotten on the bad side of a lot of important people – very pious, important people. People that do not like their acolytes to be deflowered or their sacred wine to be drunk or their holy water to be … well, defiled.', she explained, choosing her words carefully, vague and subtle enough to at least give off the impression that she didn't want to talk about it, and seeing the way his eyes lit up told her that she had managed to entice and intrigue him with just enough details to prompt him to catch the bait before she went in for the kill that would ensure the maximum pay-off for her scheme, 'But I think that's a story for another time – '
'Ah, no, no, I think now is quite the right for that kind of story.', her king threw in with a wide-eyed expression and an excited grin, demanding to hear the rest of the tale – just as she had planned for him to do.
'Very well then. Where to start? Oh, I know.', she complied then, with just enough playfully overcome unwillingness for him to believe her act. Stretching out next to her husband and seeing the way his lips spread into that well-known grin of excitement, with all other thoughts of stubborn sisters and suspicious in-laws nagging him long forgotten, she smiled, complimenting herself on her rediscovered skills of distracting even the grimmest of men, thinking to herself that it was nice to know that even after all this time she still hadn't lost her Southerly edge, and thus she settled in and started her tale, comfortable and fully in her own element now, 'It all started with a very foolish boy and a very stupid bet … '
Lothíriel relaxed her shoulders, rolling them backwards and then forwards, before straightening them again, doing her best to look noble and regal while simultaneously stifling a yawn and trying to cover up the fact that she was quite tired – indeed, too tired to stand in the front row of a royal wedding.
Last night she had wasted my hours talking with her king; first, she had told him the ridiculous tale of how her sweet brother Amrothos became an infamous man in Minas Tirith, and after that, he had spoken of all the pranks and mischief he and his sister had gotten themselves into and she had told him of the many summers she and her siblings had spent with the Steward's sons. Of how her brothers had trained and fought and played and went on adventures with Boromir, while Faramir had always stayed behind to read to her and listen to her songs or even execute one of their latest shenanigans.
Of course, her lord husband had been pretty astounded to find out that her cousin Faramir was quite the cheeky rascal and a prankster at that, given that nowadays the prince of Ithilien presented a more honourable and kind-hearted image and so, naturally, Éomer had bombarded her with question after question until she relented and disclosed some of the more outrageous escapades the two of them had gotten themselves into as children. There was that one time when they had given the dance instructor ink for drinking instead of tea (one of the reasons her cousin's dancing was barely more than rudimentary). Or that other time when they had glued her father's chess pieces to the game board (one of the reasons Faramir became quite the skilled craftsman, given that he'd had to manufacture a whole new board and a whole new set of chess pieces for her father as punishment). Or even that time they had sneaked aboard one of the vessels of the Naval fleet, thinking they could command that ship as a pair but that only left the massive boat grounded on a sneaky little coral reef just off the coast of Dol Amroth (just one of the reasons her father had forbidden her from spending any time anymore behind the helm of a ship).
It was safe to say that most of the times Faramir had played the gentleman and taken the blame for their shenanigans, which was one of the reasons, as she assured Éomer fervently and repeatedly, she had complete faith in her cousin being the right man for the shieldmaiden. Éomer, of course, had remained fairly unimpressed with her passionate plea, though he had grudgingly and grimly agreed not to be too hard on her cousin at the wedding the next day. After that, he had demanded more stories and she had been only too willing to provide more distractions for him and when she had lulled him to sleep at long last with her stories and her tales, the first light of the new morning had already shone through the sides of their tent and even though she had been deathly tired, she could not find sleep then and there. Instead she had watched her husband lying next to her, and, seeing the way his chest rose in a deep rhythm, the way his face was bereft of all that usual tension, his forehead smoothed out instead of lined with frowns, she had wondered then when the exact moment had been that she had lost herself in him, musing that she was already in way too deep for her own good.
So, yeah, she was tired, but little sleep and lots of thinking usually had that effect on people, Lothíriel mused as she caught the eye of the queen Arwen, and standing opposite her across the aisle the rows of people had formed and, remembering her manners, she inclined her head deeply to show her respect and responded in kind when the queen smiled graciously at her. Of course, for some people there were other reasons, too, for a sleepless night, she thought, and looking other to her cousin Faramir she could not but smile at the image he presented.
Smiling over at her now and again, winking at her in that elated manner, Captain Faramir, newly-minted prince of Ithilien, stood at the top of the walls, and while waiting the groom passed the time by catching the eyes of several people, grinning at them from ear to ear before looking at the clear-blue sky or the breathtaking view, clearly overjoyed with the good weather and this most perfect wedding venue, before eventually looking back at the far end of the aisle, hoping to the see the first glimpses of the arrival of his bride. The image of him was a thing so sweet to behold that Lothíriel was torn between laughing alongside him or crying tears of joy or even even throwing up in her mouth a little from all that cute sweetness. But the queen composed herself, remembering that, at the moment, without her husband and king at her side, she was representing the Mark and thus had to show some more countenance here, and so she directed her thoughts to more appropriate topics.
Oh, indeed, the weather and view were extraordinary, especially considering the deeper meaning that hid behind it. Both bride and groom had chosen to be married on top of the walls overlooking the city, because it had been here that the shieldmaiden, and more importantly her heart, had been healed, and love had found her again, as they had found each other here – for them it was a place of hope and a bright future, and it was theirs and theirs alone. So it had been for the date, too. Usually, for weddings in the South, Midsummer's Day was the traditional date for weddings and such celebrations, but both bride and groom had chosen the Autumn Equinox as their date for their most auspicious day, because for them it was, at long last, time to reap what had been sown in their hearts all this time ago.
Lothíriel smiled as she saw Faramir dance from one foot to the other while winking at her again. Indeed he seemed positively giddy as a schoolboy, and it was clear as day to her that her cousin surely must have wasted the whole night fantasising about this moment, but only those closest to him and knew him best, could see just how nervous, excited and impatient the Captain really must have been in that moment. King Elessar, who was one of those people, and who was indeed the person that would wed them, understood only too well the eager anticipation of his dear friend, and between exchanging little understanding smiles with his wife and queen, the king nodded to his friend in that good-natured manner, assuring him that, indeed, he would be getting married today to the woman he loved.
It was in that precise moment that the bride arrived and Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, Lady of the Shield-Arm, marched up the aisle quite as you would expect from her. Accompanied by none other than her brother, Éomer, king of the Riddermark, who had to keep a visibly firm grip on that hand in the crook of his elbow because that beloved sister of his was ready to prance like a wild filly and bolt straight towards her husband-to-be. The shieldmaiden practically bounced in her steps as she strode forward, gaze firmly fixed on her Captain as she smiled and winked at him shamelessly and at one point even stuck out her tongue towards him – which earned her quite some shocked gasps from the people around her but only a mild chuckle from the groom himself who then proceeded to reciprocate her gesture in kind.
Lothíriel, for her part, had to bite her lip to keep herself from bursting out laughing, reminding herself that it just would not do for a queen to do so. But it was hard though, especially considering that she would not have guessed such childish romantic gestures based on the nature of their meeting in the morning. Because when they had met this morning, upon the Northern party's entrance to the city, after months and months of not seeing each other, the couple had not kissed or flung themselves into each other's open arms, in fact they had not even embraced, instead they had only stood before each other, staring into each other's eyes, smiling, and nothing more – and yet, to Lothíriel, it had felt more intimate and more romantic than all the songs the poets and bards could have sung to praise love and romance itself.
When brother and sister at long last reached the groom and Master of Ceremonies waiting at the head of the aisle, Éomer kissed his sister on the cheek (who seemed to have eyes only for her lover) before releasing her, literally and figuratively speaking, from his hand and care into that of her husband-to-be, before he nodded to both the king and the prince and then simply returned to the side of his wife and queen, to watch the ceremony in blessed silence, even if not in complete content. And as King Elessar began his speech, the fingers of the bridal couple intertwined as they smiled at each other, and, likewise, the fingers of the King and Queen of the Mark intertwined as well.
Wind for Manwë …
Fire for Varda …
Water for Ulmo …
Metal for Aulë …
Fruits for Yavanna …
A horse ride for Béma …
Freeing a bird for Vána …
A dance for Nessa …
A champion's fight for Tulkas …
A wish for Irmo …
A smile for Estë …
Tears for Nienna …
A spindle and a thread for Vaire …
A judgement for Mandos …
As Lothíriel watched the ceremony proceed, she recalled that, naturally, for a happy and successful marriage it was tradition to invoke the blessings of all of the Valar, though it was rare indeed to see all of them called upon in their entirety. Usually, couples limited themselves to the deities they truly worshipped, as it had been with her and Éomer at their wedding, and even though the captain and his shieldmaiden would focus on the traditions of Béma, patron of the Mark, and Varda, Lady of Stars and patron of Ithilien, they still honoured the whole of the pantheon – they were in Minas Tirith, after all, and the White City was embracing the faiths of all of the Valar.
After king Elessar had finished his speech on the importance of loyalty and trust in a marriage, of how love could bridge even the widest of gaps, of how North and South would be conjoined in this couple on this day, bride and groom then turned to each other, hands still intertwined as they began to say their very own vows. And Lothíriel listened to the words of love and loyalty, trust and hope they spoke to one another, with both of them chuckling every now and then (only low under their breaths, of course) at the – at times – ridiculous and exaggerated words and phrases they used to encompass all the ways in which they would bind themselves to each other, on the one hand, making fun of the solemnity of the occasion, but on the other hand, being very much committed to every promise they made in their vows. Well, the queen could not help but feel the sting of joyful tears in her eyes at the image of the sheer love they embodied – and it were not just the words that touched her heart then, but also the picture the they presented, the picture of a couple so completely in tune with each other that even their wardrobe seemed to complete each other.
Seeing them standing there before each other, looking into each other's eyes, Lothíriel marvelled at the white dress her sister-in-law was wearing. It was a white fabric of such richness that it seemed to rival the very sun in its radiance, and throughout it, threads of silver had been spun, making it seem like she was wearing stars on her arms and skirt and bodice and at her back, and truly, around her shoulders a night-blue mantle with silver threads for stars was draped (and not only the Captain and his shieldmaiden knew of the emotional value that this piece of clothing held to both of them), and upon her head a wreath of autumn flowers had been placed, making it appears as though she were truly queen for one day, as all brides were considered to be.
Faramir was matching his bride in her choice of dress, because upon dark blue breeches and a night-blue long-sleeved shirt, he wore a short-sleeved tunic of white and silver colour, shaped at the waist by a black sword belt, and upon his head a silver circlet had been placed (he was a prince now, after all, of his own princedom!). But what really struck Lothíriel – and she reckoned, the other people around her, too – was the night-blue mantle around his shoulders, because it was the very mantle his young bride had fashioned and embroidered for him.
Upon the rich dark fabric of the mantle a sigil had been sewn: in filigree lines of white silver a tree under a crescent moon stood, and it was no idle choice of forms, for 'twas the symbol of Ithilien, fair moon-land to the East, a princedom newly created, by King Elessar himself, in honour of the Captain Faramir's deeds in battle during the War of the Ring. And though a sigil such as this ought to inspire awe and admiration, there were hushed giggles and whispers heard all across the walls of the city, and amused smiles and fingers pointing could be seen, and it was not hard to see what had been the source of amusement for the crowd.
For the mantle hanging from the shoulders of the groom had been embroidered by, partially, unskilled hands – though loving they may have been. With a smile Lothíriel remembered that, again and again, the shieldmaiden had pestered her, in the weeks leading up to the wedding, to help her finish the mantle, which more or less resulted in Lothíriel trying to salvage what she could from the catastrophe that been stitched so far, and though the queen had warned her sister-in-law what this might mean for the ominous bet she and her betrothed had made, the shieldmaiden had insisted and so Lothíriel had relented.
And thus it was that the sigil bound to stand proud and bold, appeared in parts no more than a child's fancy drawing: awry and askew, and it was more thanks to the viewer's imagination than the reality of the sewing that the sigil was recognisable as such. But the loving couple paid no heed to the amusement of the crowd, and the groom in particular seemed far from embarrassed; with his grey eyes fixed upon his bride, the affection and admiration of his gaze was unbroken. With humble gratitude he had received his lover's gift and cherished it as such, and perhaps it was even that very imperfection of the gift itself that made it all the more precious to him.
A growl from her lord and husband next to her managed to pull the queen out of her seemingly endless stream of thoughts now, and it was not hard for her to understood what had been source for his obvious annoyance. Barely waiting for the last words from the Master of Ceremonies to be spoken, just barely waiting for the permission to be granted, the newly-wed couple rushed to seal their newly-forged bond with a kiss. Naturally, Éomer snarled at the sight of the two lovers locked in their loving embrace and fervent kiss, but Lothíriel only laughed, and soon enough her lord and husband could not but smile as well, forgetting his brotherly distrust and apprehension, caving in under the pressure of her infectuous laughter and the joyous mood the newly-wed couple spread, and joined in, at long last, with the thunderous applause of the other wedding guests.
And who would have thought that after so many years of sorrow, darkness and war, a shieldmaiden from the wild North would find happiness and love in a simple Ranger from the South?
The wedding party was in full swing, with couples dancing, guests feasting and drinking, old and new companions laughing and talking – and amidst all this merrymaking, Lothíriel Queen stood, quite thirsty and graciously accepting a cup of sweet Southern wine from her husband's hands. She had just returned from a dance with King Elessar himself, who had accompanied her back to her husband's side to exchange drinks and blessings. Lothíriel could feel the heat and exertion from the dancing as well as the wine already going to her head, but still, she was sober enough yet to be stunned by the jovial, casual manner in which her lord and husband dared to address the King of the Reunited Kingdom. Why, Éomer even joked that his Highness was pretty "spry" for an "older fellow", and while Lothíriel shook her head in wide-eyed shock, King Elessar, however (who still looked rather young for an almost 90-year-old man), only laughed his bark-like laughter, complimenting his brother-in-arms on a well-landed punchline.
Looking over across the hall, Lothíriel spotted Queen Arwen sitting on the Steward's throne, talking to the two little men with peculiar names, who – as Lothíriel had been repeatedly told – were not men at all, but rather Halflings from a country far up North, who had come down to pay their respects to both bride and groom. Earlier on in the evening, Lothíriel herself had been introduced to these two odd characters, and even though their conversation had been brief and spectacularly cut short by an impromptu musical interlude from the two, she had gathered three very important things from the interaction: one, these Halflings liked to talk about the intricacies of their family relations, two, these Halflings liked to eat and drink and smoke pipe-weed, and three, these Halflings loved nothing more than to sing and dance – be it on tables, stools, stone floors or even standing on each other's shoulders like two performing artists. They were indeed a quite memorable and quite amusing acquaintance to make, and thus it surprised Lothíriel only a little to see the fair Elven Queen throw her head in her neck and laugh quite un-Elven-like at the demonstration of a so-called "Buckland somersault".
Nursing the cup of sweet Southern wine in her hands, Lothíriel then thought back to the earlier hours of the night, remembering the parts of the wedding celebration that were dominated by blessings and gift-bearings. Before the banquet had been opened, both bride and groom had been called upon to invoke the blessings of the gods and goddesses for their newly-forged marriage, and though all of the Valar were honoured, extra weight had been put on the traditions of Béma, the great Huntsman, and Varda, Lady of Stars, the faiths they both carried in their hearts. At first, Béma had been honoured with the traditional horse racing contest between the groom and a member of the bride's family, and though the groom was always supposed to win, it had taken Éomer a lot of disciplined restraint to let his new brother-in-law win. After that, both bride and groom had lit a candle in honour of Varda, a candle that was supposed to bring light to their new household when placed in the shrine of its goddess, a candle that from this day forward would never be allowed to extinguish, or else darkness would befall the young union – or at least, that was the saying of the tradition. Of course, most Southern couples were not nearly as ardently following that particular custom's narrow rules, though Lothíriel had tended her own candle, swimming in a bowl filled with seawater, in their bedchamber in Edoras, with dutiful care – and Éowyn it would seem, judging from the nervous fidgeting of her hands with which she had tried to shield the young flame from any gust of wind or other threat, would apparently hold on to the tradition just superstitiously.
After that, the gift-bearing had commenced, and given that both bride and groom had already exchanged their personal gifts to each other (one elegant cloak passed down through many generations, and another half-clumsily and half-skilfully embroidered cloak), quickly enough, it had then been the in-laws' turn next. Éomer had gifted Faramir with a fierce stallion, a steed truly worthy for his new brother-in-law, though Éomer King had seemed rather sullen and almost hesitant to place the reins into the other man's hands, and one could not miss the underlying symbolism of this gesture or the King's hesitation. For 'twas as though the older brother had now finally given his little sister over to this other man completely, and his unwillingness to do so had inspired many a suppressed giggle and smile in the feasting hall.
In contrast to that, Lothíriel's gift to the bride had not been nearly as grand or ignited such an amusing spectacle, but it was a thing so dear and precious to her, she had felt its emotional weight bear hard and heavy down on her. Her sister-in-law's face, however, though she had fought to hide it, had showed her obvious surprise, confusion and barely veiled disappointment; for there had been no steed gifted to her, no fine sword laid in her hands or shield painted with an overly detailed depiction of her victory over the Lord of the Nazgûl. Instead Lothíriel had presented her with a book, and one could neither called it fancy nor new: the old leather-bound tome so worn-out and repaired so often, it seemed hard to determine where the original fabric ended and the mended parts began. Éowyn had weighed the old booklet gingerly in her hands as though unsure what to do with it – what did a warrior at heart have need for such idle goods?
The dazzled bride had shot a glance sidewards at her husband who had only cocked an eyebrow, apparently more than amused at her gift-situation; his lips had widened in a crooked grin and she had known that she could not expect any help from her husband in this moment – far too great had been his amusement at her helpless cluelessness. Lothíriel, being well aware of the shieldmaiden's confusion, had moved to explain herself to her sister-in-law. She had remembered well her own confusion as her new sister-in-law had presented her on her own wedding day with a gift of similar modest appearance: an old, worn-out leather belt in the colours of green and silver, with a buckle so worn down over generations that the horse's head was all but a shadow of imagination. But despite its lack of splendour, the gift had lacked nothing in warmth and well-meant blessings; and indeed, bound about her slender waist was said leather belt, and did she not wear it with pride now, where once she had scoffed at the simpleness of the gesture? For in time she had come to realise the emotional value of this gift – in fact, she had come to learn that the belt had indeed been one of the last memorabilia the shieldmaiden had had of her mother, and yet she had given it to her new sister – and thus her reservation had turned to gratitude.
So, using the same words her own mother had used all those years ago, when placing the very same booklet in her hands, the Queen of the Riddermark had spoken then and if unshed tears had filled her voice, they had not been tears of woe: 'This belonged to my mother, and to her mother before her, and to her mother's mother before that, handed down from woman to woman. All women of our family have been given this book and each of us has imparted a tale of our own in it. Tales of joy and laughter, tales of loss and sorrow, tales to amuse and tales to learn from – why, my own tale speaks of a shieldmaiden that sought out to serve her country with the ultimate sacrifice and then ended up winning her own happiness instead.', she had said, and waiting for the chuckles to subside after her last words, Lothíriel had smiled at her new sister, and then the tears had no longer been unshed but had flowed freely, and just as freely she continued then, 'Now I am giving it to you with a piece of advice: Do not miss to write your own tale in your own words, do not forget to follow wherever this tale might lead you, and remember that you yourself hold the pen – the pen that might be mightier than sword.'
And upon her heartfelt words even the tough shieldmaiden from the North had been swayed to tears then and thus both women had fallen into each other's arms, embracing one another so tightly one could have sworn that they were sisters by blood, never to be parted again – and among fresh tears laugher of joy had erupted then, as it so often happened at weddings. Even thinking about it now, several hours later, new tears of happiness already formed in the corners of her eyes, though she could not but smile now too.
Another growl from her left, however, and Lothíriel was torn out of her reminiscing thoughts again and catapulted back into the here and now where Éomer's thoughts seemed to have returned to his sister and her new husband and the wedding night after one of the wedding guests made another jovial remark regarding the "taming of a wild filly". Now, ever since the bedding ceremony, when they had put both bride and groom to bed (a custom thoroughly unobserved in the North, but on the other hand very much celebrated in the South, with crude jokes and pranks and sometimes even the shedding of quite a few layers of clothing before the newly-wed couple even entered the chamber for the wedding night), her king had gone in and out of a sour mood, and she had worked hard to put his mind off these thoughts for the better part of the night now.
And so it was not too surprising that she would lean over to her king and purred into his ear: 'My lord, have I ever told you that for my wedding my aunt Ivriniel gifted me with a very special and very different book as well? A book, she assured me, any young wife should have. A book, she assured me, could be used to rouse a husband to passion … in many a different way?'
With a self-satisfied smile she watched her husband turn to her almost in slow-motion, his eyes fixed on her while his brain was still working on processing her words, and when understood at last, his lips form into that familiar wry grin, mimicking her own salacious smile, as he whispered back to her, winking mischievously, 'Now we're talking.'
And then she couldn't hold on to her laughter anymore as she threw her head back and laughed loud enough to draw quite a few pairs of eyes, and soon enough her husband and king was laughing with her and all thoughts of brotherly concerns were long forgotten as he was, for the first time, truly able to enjoy his little sister's wedding day.
Indeed, life was good.
FUN FACT #1: Alright, so now that school's out for 2 weeks, I intend on getting a whole lotta writing done and to not fall behind like I did this time. Cross my heart (hope to not die of Corona at least!).
FUN FACT #2: Okay, soooo ... I've given you 2 chapters full of fluff - you know what that means, right? Exactly - return of the ANGST! T_T
FUN FACT #3: We'll be staying in the South for a while at least and that means: a) the resurgance of buried traunas, b) dealing with the fucking in-laws, and c) the discussion, obviously of the different sanitary installations in the South ... Did you really think that toilet comment was a joke? You were wrong.