Chapter Sixteen
Over Me
Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.
—Maya Angelou
The city was quieter without the Rohirrim and visiting nobility. With the wedding more than a week past, there was no longer any reason to linger in the White City. The contingent from Dol Amroth, sans Lothíriel and Glîrion, returned to the seaside while the other nobles returned to their own homes. The house was eerily quiet without her family to fill it. Some mornings she found it peaceful while it grated her last nerve on others as she prepared to uproot her entire life. The princess sought distractions and quickly found almost every waking minute was taken by some engagement or another with a lesson to be had in each.
She spent her mornings with the queen in her office and sewing circles before standing behind her while the monarchs heard complaints in the early afternoon. Arwen's aim was to teach her the duties of a queen, impressing upon the young woman just how many hats she was expected to wear in the role.
"It's something I didn't have the benefit of," the queen told the princess early one morning. The young woman's jaw cracked in a yawn while she and the elf reviewed the accounts. "Running your father's household is good preparation, but it is difficult to learn these new duties in such a public way."
"What was the hardest thing to learn after you were crowned?" Lothí asked through another yawn. Bright morning sunlight streamed through the windows, but she'd slept poorly the night before. Even kaffé wasn't helping.
"That I am an unofficial advisor with far more sway than the men on his council—and how to temper that power. Estel comes to me every evening to discuss the meetings I was not in, mostly to talk but he also wants my input." Arwen smiled at the young woman's bleary eyes. "Éomer will do the same—he may even want you to have a seat on his council—and he will give your word more weight than any other's. It's the sort of thing you should use sparingly; ask questions, prod him in the direction he knows is right. Too liberal an application and his other advisors will balk. You'll both be happier for it."
"He had me advising him at the summit and drafting agreements," the princess told the queen. "Do you do that sort of work?"
"In a way." Arwen closed the heavy ledger and pulled the palace's store logs before her, pencil held easily in her elegant hand, and began planning the next week's menus. "It's far less overt. He relies on me to bring him word of who is in favor of certain policies, to listen to the gossip and understand the far-reaching effects simple rumors may have. It helps to quickly learn who the biggest gossips are and coax your way into their favor."
"I did that for my father after I returned to Dol Amroth." Lothí's brow puckered over her own account book as she hesitated with her next question. "Do you—how is it living so publicly? Everyone knows your business and sees your affairs as their own. I've only had a taste of that, and it nearly drove me mad!"
"It is maddening," the queen agreed, head bent over her work. "It helps to have a few trusted confidantes that you can lean on. They'll help you through the hardest days. Your title will also be a boon: A single frosty look and control over invitations will have that first impertinent busybody handled in a trice."
"And make the others think twice." Lothí nodded slowly as she processed the advice. "So… social consequences instead of hard ones. That's the queen's trade."
Arwen rang a little bell on her desk and a manservant quickly appeared with a soft rap at the door. "Please see these to the cook. Thank you."
The man scurried back out with a bow, and Lothí could see the small smile on his lips. It seemed a kind word really did easily earn favor. She finished her own budget—there was a lot she had to do to prepare for her impending marriage—and tucked the ledger into the basket under her seat.
"The household is yours to arrange and command as you see fit," the queen was saying as they both tidied up their things. "That includes the social calendar, showing favor to those you trust and admire, and enforcing the hierarchy that is natural in any royal home."
She gestured for the princess to follow her as it was now time for the queen's sewing circle. They usually worked with other women in the queen's solar or in the gardens if the weather was favorable. The array of ladies was constantly shifting though there were a few regulars. Ladies in waiting—daughters and sisters of noblemen in the king's favor—attended to the queen, and her few trusted friends were a constant fixture at these gatherings. The rest were a steady rotation of other noblewomen and merchant's wives, changed enough to keep things from getting stale while still ensuring the queen made herself available to everyone at court.
They talked and fluttered like a colorful bevy of birds, circling and tittering as their hands worked. Lothí would exchange a few quiet words at these events though she mostly kept to herself. She knew a few of these women, but she still stung from the close call with the examination. The queen's favor had done wonders to repair her reputation, but she could still feel the eyes on her. Or, more specifically, on her belly. The courtiers believed she'd lain with Éomer and were all alert for the slightest indications that she bore his bastard child.
It was grating, but she quickly learned to ignore it.
It the afternoons, the princess and Glîrion met with Éowyn. The White Lady was teaching them about the Riddermark so they were prepared for its customs and simpler ways. She taught the pair the formal addresses and greetings, worked to teach them the songs commonly sung in the Mark—which Glîrion picked up with more ease than the princess did—while driving home the importance of hearth and home, and a healthy respect for the land.
"We're an agrarian people, those of use that aren't nomads following the herds," Éowyn was explaining one day while she and the princess met with the queen's dressmaker for the younger woman's trousseau. "The Eastemnet is full of these nomads while the Westemnet is home to our farmers."
Lothí furrowed her brow as she flipped through a few sketches of everyday gowns the dressmaker had. The designs were all far too ornate or cumbersome for her taste. "Can you show me something simpler, please?"
"Your highness, of course though these designs are fit for a queen," the woman simpered, shoving the pictures in question back towards the princess.
"Perhaps a different sort of queen," Lothí said, shaking her head. "I prefer things I can lace myself and that won't hinder gardening or counting inventory. Can you show me something like that, please?"
"And we'll need to see fabric samples," Éowyn added, her sharp gaze pinning the seamstress in place. "The Mark requires far warmer materials than are used here."
"Very well, my ladies." The woman bobbed a shallow curtsy and bustled behind a curtain separating the front of her shop from her inventory and workspace.
Éowyn stayed by the counter, fingers tapping an absent rhythm on the worn wood, while the princess wandered about, fingering bits of ribbons and examining the various buttons and buckles lying about.
"Will a simpler wardrobe be alright? I don't want to presume or give offense," Lothí said, shooting her new cousin a curious glance. She hadn't even thought of that when making her request.
"For everyday wear, it will be fine. But you should still have more elaborate gowns for feast days and state events—some in lighter materials, others in velvets, brocades, and wool." She watched the younger woman with a smile that grew as she talked about her homeland, bordering on dreamy. "It does get cold, and the snows get deep after Yule. It's beautiful."
Lothí shot her an alarmed look. She'd never seen snow heavier than a light dusting in Lossarnach. What was she supposed to do when it grew heavy and deep? She hadn't the faintest idea how she would manage with something so foreign.
Éowyn saw the panic on the younger woman's face and laughed, the rich sound filling the small but elegant shop. "Don't worry, I'll help you. And then you'll have my brother to keep you warm."
She laughed again at the princess's flush. "Don't tease, Éowyn, or I'll point out that lovely little cherry stain on your neck."
The blonde's hand flew up to the side of her neck as her cheeks burned with a rosy heat. "Minx."
"I prefer 'impertinent,'" Lothí replied archly. The two shared a grin and the princess's heart swelled with affection for her new friend. No matter their relation by marriage, she was endlessly glad to have actually forged a friendship with the Shieldmaiden. "What am I supposed to wear in the cold? And the snow?"
"Layers," Éowyn said. "Wool undergarments and chemises so that any sweat doesn't wet the fabric and linger—that will just make you colder and sick—and then layers from there. Thick stockings, thick socks, fur-lined boots, scarves, gloves. And cloaks; you should always have a wide selection of cloaks."
Lothíriel shook her head at that, in awe that anyone would miss that sort of weather. She shivered just thinking about it. Her home on the coast never received snow; it was always warm, sometimes unbearably so. She didn't imagine she'd ever fully adjust to living somewhere that became frozen and impassable for months at a time.
The seamstress bustled back out with a large array of fabrics for the women to examine, as well as some new sketches. "I drew these up for you, your highness. Is this more to your taste?"
Lothí examined the sketches while her new cousin felt every fabric, her face unreadable as she critically examined each sample before placing them in one of two piles. The seamstress shifted at the White Lady's intense scrutiny, but the princess paid it no mind. She knew that Éowyn was just trying to help, and it was help she was glad to have.
The drawings were much more to her taste—simple cotehardies that she could don on her own over fitted gowns or chemises, more elegant everyday dresses that were all clean lines and exposed shoulders, and fine detailing around the hems.
"I included a few more adventurous gowns for occasions of state," the seamstress added, directing the princess's attention to the bolder designs. "I understand that you're a bit of a fashion maven and wanted to incorporate that into your new trousseau."
She eyed those sketches with a curious slant. Fitted bodices, rich colors, and exposed backs filled those pages, and Lothí couldn't help how much she loved them. The designs were bold and still regal—they were daring without compromising her modesty. While they wouldn't be out of place in the White City, she wasn't sure if it fit the bill for the Golden Hall.
"Éowyn, what do you think?" The princess couldn't bring herself to admit aloud how much she loved them if they were only going to be vetoed.
The White Lady took the drawings and flipped through them, tapping a few down with an approving nod. "Those will allow you to run the hall and the council chambers whenever my brother is away. And these—" She placed Lothí's favorite down, a daring red number with black details and a fitted silhouette "—would certainly leave any visiting dignitaries at your mercy. I'm sure Éomer will love it too."
The seamstress practically beamed at that, her hands already working to pull her preferred fabrics for her designs. They passed a few more hours in the shop selecting materials, taking measurements, and ordering all of the accompanying garments that the princess would need. The seamstress had been scandalized by their insistence on including breeches in the riding habits instead of skirts, though she ultimately gave in under the White Lady's unwavering frown and cool reminder that she was dressing a future queen of the horse lords.
The sun was dipping lower in the sky when she returned to the townhouse. The princess collapsed atop her bed at the first opportunity, her muscles heavy with exhaustion. She only moved when something crinkled beneath her cheek, a sharp corner jutting uncomfortably into her soft skin.
With a sigh, Lothí righted herself to find the offending item to be a letter. Her heart leapt when familiar slanted writing peered up at her from the ivory parchment. She couldn't believe that it had been two weeks since she last saw Éomer, their goodbyes still a bittersweet memory that she couldn't help but relive every night as she waited for sleep to come.
The hurried kisses that they stole in a shaded alcove and his murmured words of love still had the ability to make her stomach clench with longing. Later that same morning, he'd bowed over her hand and pressed a courtly kiss to her fingers. He promised to write her, his eyes full of promise. Lothí wanted nothing more than to cast propriety to the wind and launch herself into his arms. Instead, she'd dipped a curtsy and squeezed his hand in a final, desperate bid to tell him just how much she wished he could stay.
She couldn't believe how much she missed him throughout each day. She longed to hear his thoughts on her lessons and his wry observations about the other courtiers. She was hungry for the way he could ignite her passions and challenge her at every turn. When had she become so accustomed to the feel of his hand in hers, or the heat of his skin against the small of her back? It was a strange thing to realize how quickly she'd adjusted to his presence. Shaking those melancholy thoughts away, she carefully broke his seal and began to read.
Lothí,
I'm back in Meduseld now, and, Bema, how I miss you! The entire ride back, Éothain insisted on babbling on and on about how he knew something would happen between us. He wouldn't shut up about his matchmaking, even taking credit for every development in our relationship. We were on horseback, but I swear he found a way to strut. I couldn't stop wishing that you were there to deliver some scathing retort to take him down a peg. He's only going to get worse as the wedding draws closer.
Gledhild, the housekeeper, has already begun arrangements for your arrival. She's had men dusting the beams of the Golden Hall and serving girls polishing the chandeliers. If anyone could be trusted to command an army in my stead, it's her. She's also requested that I discover your wedding plans and relay them to her so that she can make the necessary preparations. If you have any questions, swete, do not hesitate to ask Éowyn. Under her tough façade, she is very much a romantic.
I am already counting down the days until you arrive. Maybe this will make me sound an utter fool, but do you know how many times I've turned to share some thought or joke only to find you aren't there? I will be a blissful man when I can finally begin and end my days with you.
Council meetings are dreadfully dull without you. So many perished in the war that there is more land unaccounted for than ever before. Thanes must be elected to hear the woes of the villagers and collect taxes, and reeves must be selected to oversee the thanes and report to the Aldor of the Eastemnet or myself—but the villages have changed after raids, and so many men fell in battle that there is no one to track these boundaries or vote for new thanes. And the books are a fright (I can tell you this now without fear of scaring you off). I don't know where to begin. I could use your level head, swete, and a firm rebuke for being foolhardy, for that's what I fear I am.
I cannot wait for the day when you are beside me again in these meetings and hearing complaints—at least then the world will understand my distraction. They'll take one look at my pretty wife and know exactly why I don't give two figs about who owns this sheep or that. With a woman like you, they'll be grateful that I was able to drag myself away from our bed where I intend to keep you sated without a stitch of clothing in sight. Even when the winters are cold and fires don't burn hot enough, I fully plan to keep you warm with nothing more than my body and a few furs. It will be a miracle if I ever let you dress again once I have you in my bed.
I need to end this now before I tell you all the ways I plan to make your toes curl.
Yours,
Éomer
Lothí pressed the letter to her heart, face burning with his shameless promises of marital bliss. How could such inexplicit words leave her so flushed and giddy? Her stomach swooped when she reread the letter and heat coiled low in her belly as she wondered exactly how he intended to fulfill those words. It reinvigorated her, so much so that she was quivering with pent up need when she settled in to write her response.
Arod cynig,
You really are a shameless flirt. Now that I see what Éothain had to tolerate the entire journey back, I fully endorse his smug teasing. In fact, I think he should strut and preen some more simply to ground you—you desperately need it, melethel.
Please tell Gledhild that I think it would best to marry in the hall and save everyone from frostbite. I know my southern kin simply will not be able to endure the cold for more than a few moments at a time (though I doubt I'll feel it between nerves and the excitement of finally marrying you). I'll have to talk with Éowyn about the rest. I don't know the first thing about Rohirric wedding traditions, and I don't want to do anything wrong or offend your people. Your sister will help me start on the right foot.
There are a few of my family's traditions that I would like to incorporate: My mother commissioned a wedding band for adar that he still wears to this day. I'd like to do the same for you. Another tradition from my mother's people involves wearing anklets with bells to chase away bad spirits. I plan to wear these as well. It's the one way I have of feeling close to her on our wedding day. Do you think anyone would be put off if we include those?
On a more serious note, I've thought a bit about your quandary. Have you considered having the women included in the election of new thanes? They live in these communities and know their neighbors as well as any man would—they may know their neighbors better than the men do. Besides, with so few men returned from war, it will fall to more than one woman to pay her family's taxes and take over every duty that used to be her husband's. Trust them with this and you may be pleasantly surprised by the results. Have them work with your reeves and tax collectors to map out the new locations and village boundaries too—involve the people in the country's recovery and they'll be that much more invested in it, and that much more hopeful. I doubt some of your advisors will take well to this idea, but Wermund can suck an egg for all I care. If the majority do not agree, we can always return to the drawing board.
My days have been full of lessons and preparations for the future; Arwen has been teaching me about being a queen and Éowyn has been teaching Glîrion and I about the Mark. It seems like I'll never be able to learn it all in time, but I'm doing my best. The last thing I want is to cause either of us embarrassment.
As for the rest of your letter… Melethel, I don't know where to begin, but rest assured that you made me blush! All I can say is that you aren't the only one who's distracted. I miss you. The words don't do the feeling justice, but it's true all the same. It's strange how quickly I grew used to having you beside me and seeing you almost every day, and stranger still how empty my days feel without you. I miss holding your hand, kissing you, and exploring the other aspects of our relationship. I cannot wait to be yours and wake up each morning beside you.
I love you,
Lothí
She waited for the ink to dry before giving it a faint spritz of perfume—a little something special, just for him—and prepared it for the morning post. The months flew by after that in a flurry of preparations and lessons and letters, but there were still moments when time seemed to stand still for her.
Every day that passed gave her a new, fond memory of her homeland; a street vendor selling the fresh, coastal fruits that Éowyn always remarked over, the bustling marketplace in the heart of the White City so full of color and familiar sights and smells. The soaring walls and statues of ancient kings and queens stared down at her as she passed beneath the carvings were things Éowyn assured her she wouldn't see in the Mark. The white stone giving way to flowering parks and bubbling ponds where children laughed under the careful eyes of mothers and nurses was also something so intrinsically Gondorian that she hadn't realized she would miss until the scene wrenched her heart.
With every week that passed, new letters arrived from Éomer, and she sent new ones off to him. Their wedding plans were coming along, with the White Lady's help, and he found new ways of making her blush with nothing but his words. She learned more about him with each letter: Tales of childhood antics, talk of his daily life, and mentions of how he passed his rare idle hours rounded out the man she'd fallen hopelessly in love with. With one letter he sent her a simple wooden bangle that he'd whittled himself, complete with a horse galloping towards the sun and a swan in flight under a crescent moon, all contained within the scrollwork she'd so often spied on his clothes. In return, she sent him a scarf she'd knitted and embroidered for him. It was meant to be given with the cloak she was working on, but it didn't sit well with the princess to accept a gift without sending anything in return.
In the rare moments where their schedules aligned, she would join her cousin for an afternoon in the palace library. The dusty tomes and seemingly endless room let her get lost, somehow separate from her rapidly shifting world. They would laugh at the other when dust made them sneeze or when she was lectured by the strict bookkeeper for making too much noise after cobweb affixed itself to her hand. The pair snuck into the kitchens after that to sweet talk a few treats from the cooks before disappearing into the old astronomy tower, like they had as children.
The brisk wind cooled the tower and teased the hems of her skirts as she sat on a stack of crates near the window where a telescope once stood. The sky was gray and heavy with clouds, though no rain fell, a sure sign that autumn was swiftly melting into winter. The princess ate her pilfered tart, watching her cousin animatedly tell her about the progress in Ithilien. Faramir's face was bright with his smile, his eyes crinkling with mirth as he told her all about the house he was building for Éowyn. It twisted her heart so suddenly that tears sprang into her eyes.
"Gwanur, what is it?" he asked, all sweet concern.
"It's nothing, Fara." Lothí dashed the tears away with frustration. "Honestly, I'm fine."
He shot her a stubborn glance, lips pursed. "You don't cry over nothing."
"I just… Everything is about to change." She shrugged, doing her best to appear nonchalant. "Sometimes the silliest things make me realize how much I'm going to miss it here. Spending today with you, or chatting with Arwen and Éowyn, or seeing the city come to life on market day—we leave for the Mark in a few days, and everything is changing."
Faramir's gray eyes softened with understanding. "Do you regret agreeing to this?"
"No. I think… however much I'll miss Gondor, I love Éomer more." She looked out the window towards the distant line where the sky met the earth, steely gray clouds a stark contrast to the dried grass. "But this is the only home I've ever known. I think it's normal to be a little frightened of the unknown."
"You won't be alone. Éomer will be there to help you every step of the way, as will Glîrion. And you already have friends there." He reached out to give her arm a fond squeeze. "I don't think it would take much to convince Éowyn to visit either. She doesn't say it, but she misses the Mark as you'll miss Dol Amroth. And you know I'll follow where she goes."
Tears flowed freely then as she launched herself into her favorite cousin's arms. It was the first time she'd truly allowed herself to mourn all that she was leaving behind. The comfort of family, her familiar bed in her familiar home with its familiar noises and smells—it was going to be a huge upheaval. But she knew it was a necessary one. It was the cost of marrying a man she truly loved.
Time flew by as she spent more of her days with Arwen and Éowyn in an attempt to learn everything the two women had to teach her. Packing and preparing supplies for the journey dominated her evenings to the point that even Glîrion offered his assistance if it meant she could sleep for more than a few hours at a time. Mere weeks later, she was amidst her family once more (sans Elphir and Gonwen) as they set out for Edoras. Lothí would take the week before the rest of the party arrived to meet the household and settle in to oversee the final wedding preparations. It was so long a journey that the carriages and carts toting her aunt, the other Gondorian guests, and her trunks had set out several days earlier in a bid to reach the Golden Hall before Yule.
The rest of the Gondorian contingent set out from Osgiliath by boat, all in high spirits until seasickness swept over half of them. Éowyn, unused to boat travel, spent much of the journey down the Anduin in her cabin or emptying her stomach into the river below. It only became worse as they reached the Bay of Tolfalas where the river's current met the sea. Gimli was a frequent companion in her misery. The usually stout dwarf looked a little green beneath his beard and quickly disappeared whenever the waters grew rocky. For their parts, Arwen and Legolas remained below deck for the hours spent in the bay, having grown more wistful the closer they came to the sea. Elessar stayed with his wife for that leg of the journey, and everyone politely pretended not to notice their absence. They all seemed almost grateful when they began sailing up the Gilrain River.
Lothí was abuzz with impatience. The seemingly glacial pace chafed at her nerves as she yearned to see her betrothed once more. The familiar waters didn't change, and the dun grasses waving upon the riverbanks did little to improve her mood. The scenery did little to change once they alit in Linhir on the second day. The distant mountains still seemed impossibly far away, a looming reminder of the distance still between her and her future.
Her brothers teased her relentlessly for her obvious eagerness, though only Amrothos's jests held any real bite. She'd watched as he studiously avoided looking for the lyrist, even immediately and obviously changing the topic at the mere mention of Glîrion. The young man bristled from being so on guard at all hours. He seemed to know where the musician was at all times and would situate himself as far from the other man as he could manage.
"You know he's unhappy, right?" Lothí said in a rare moment alone with Amrothos. She watched as his expression shuttered with the mere allusion to the lyrist. "He misses you."
"I don't know what you mean," her brother replied woodenly. His unseeing gaze locked onto the vast emptiness around them.
"Yes, you do, and I know his side of things." She dropped her voice to make sure no one could happen to overhear. "He loves you, Roth, whether you want to hear it or not."
"Butt out, Lothí," he growled. Scathing gray eyes cut through her then. "This isn't your concern—just focus on having your perfect wedding to your perfect king, and leave my affairs be."
"That's a funny choice of words," she volleyed back, unfazed by her brother's ire. She knew he still cared just by the strength of his reaction. "I'm sure adar's ambition will be sated once he has a king for a son-in-law, so you should be free to do as you please."
"As if ada's ambition has ever stopped me from doing anything," the prince scoffed.
"Isn't fear of his ambition the reason you ended things with him?"
Amrothos didn't bother replying. He just sent his sister another withering look before spurring his mount further up the column to ride with their father and the King of Gondor.
She shook her head at his stubbornness. Only Amrothos had the ability to overcome his fears and seek happiness. The princess could only hope he would do so before it was too late.
After being on horseback for two days, they finally reached the foothills of the White Mountains. It was then Lothíriel became endlessly grateful that Éowyn had advised her on what to pack for the journey. The air grew colder as they trekked through the sear plains and into the rolling foothills of the Morthond Vale. Chill winds nipped at exposed skin and left the travelers shivering. The three women in the party were all well-prepared, layers of wool undergarments and fur-lined boots, gloves, and cloaks kept them pleasantly warm even as several of the less prepared men added layer upon layer to combat the cold. Legolas and Gimli seemed wholly unaffected by the weather at all, something that earned them more than one envious glance.
Lothí, for her part, tried to distract herself with thoughts of her reunion with Éomer. It had been months of nothing but letters and dreams of being with him again, and she wanted nothing more than to rush into his arms and never leave. It was pathetic, she knew, and a part of her sneered at that urge. It was the same part that balked at leaving her homeland behind and wailed with the knowledge that she would go years without seeing her family. This was the price of marrying the man she loved, and she did love him. That knowledge made it a little easier to walk away from all she'd ever known—it still tore at her to do so, but at least she knew Éomer was worth it.
The princess's muscles ached, screaming every time she pulled herself in and out of the saddle. She wasn't alone in her discomfort. Glîrion and her cousin shifted uncomfortably as well. If her father or brothers felt the bite of the cold in their aching muscles, they didn't let on. Still, she suspected she saw some tightness around their eyes at the start of the fourth day. It was that day as the sun was setting that they reached the Stone of Erech.
A quartet of Rohirrim already had fires going and tents pitched. They were chatting softly with men bearing the colors of the Morthond Vale. Her stomach sank when she realized he was there, and that she would have to sleep in the same camp as the man. She'd known that Lord Duinhir and his men were to join them for this leg of the journey, but that didn't mean she had to like it.
Lothí dismounted with a wince, eyes immediately drawn to the great black stone protruding from a dunny hillock. She stood with Éowyn and Faramir as they tended to their mounts, conversing quietly while all three stole glances at the piece of legend. It was a massive black stain on the scene and seemed to loom in the corner of her eye no matter where she stood. The hairs on the back of Lothí's neck stood on end, though she wasn't sure whether that was due to their company or the stone. The late evening mist only added to the eeriness of the place.
Imrahil gestured the trio to his side as he spoke with Duinhir, Elessar, and Arwen, the two lords looking far too merry for such a strange spot. She joined her father obediently, grateful when her cousin stood between her and the Lord of the Morthond Vale. Éowyn noticed, but tactfully said nothing. Even the king and queen raised a brow at Faramir's overt protectiveness.
"Lady Éowyn, I'm not sure you've had the pleasure of meeting my dear friend," Imrahil said with an almost fatherly smile at the flaxen haired woman. "Duinhir, surely you know of the deeds of the White Lady. I'm proud to call her my niece."
The man bowed over her ivory hand, dark eyes glittering as he pressed a kiss there. "It's truly an honor, my lady. Not many can boast of achieving greatness so young, or so honorably."
Éowyn's smile was tight as she withdrew her hand. "Thank you, though I could not have done so alone. The hobbit, Master Meriadoc, is the true hero in that tale. His barrow-blade and sheer nerve struck the first blow, not me."
"And modest, too!" the lord laughed, clapping a hand to Faramir's shoulder. "Best treat such a rare woman right lest you lose her to a worthier man."
"I can think of none worthier than Faramir," Elessar said, his soft voice cutting through the sudden tension. "And Éowyn is such a woman to demand nothing less than the best in all walks of life."
Lothí glowered at the barb as the White Lady fell frighteningly still, even with the king's attempt to rectify the situation. A glance at her friend told the princess that she was ready to strangle the rude man with her scarf. If she'd had a blade, she was certain that her new cousin would have already run him through. She grasped Éowyn's gloved hand, squeezing tightly in an attempt at reassurance. The returned pressure had her breathing easier.
The motion drew Duinhir's gaze to the princess, as if he'd forgotten she was there altogether. "Ah, Little Lothí," he purred. "It seems you couldn't avoid the northerners after all. What a pity."
"Forgive me, my lord, but I don't understand." She cocked her head at him, the picture of innocence, though the stubborn set of her chin screamed of the underlying challenge. "Why would I wish to avoid the man I love?"
"I only mean that it will be a rough awakening after your sheltered life in Dol Amroth—unless you feel fully prepared for what to expect." His eyes glittered at her like a snake's scales. "Forgive my bluntness, but we've all heard the rumors of your well-rounded education on the horse men's ways."
Her grip on Éowyn's hand became crushing, but the White Lady didn't protest in the slightest. If anything, her grasp mirrored the princess's. Her lips were white and her muscles quivered with suppressed rage where Lothí grew still and icy. She narrowed her eyes at the smug man as her focus narrowed to the singular urge to rip the smirk from his face and force it down his throat until he choked.
"Pardon my bluntness, but you're a fool to lend such credence to mere rumor and speculation." Where she wanted nothing more than to glower at him until he withered away, Lothí forced herself to smile. "Were there any impropriety, we wouldn't be here as I'd already be the Queen of the Riddermark. That his majesty didn't simply carry me away this summer should be ample evidence to our adherence to Gondorian customs and propriety."
"Lothíriel," her father hissed. His face had turned a rather magnificent shade of puce at her impolite talk, though the king and queen did little more than try to hide their smiles at her statement.
"The old ways are still respected in the Mark," Éowyn added with a wolfish grin. She seemed to enjoy the stunned and embarrassed silence from the older men. "It's how my uncle and his wife were wed. It is still celebrated as one of the more romantic tales of that generation, and none batted an eye at crowning a king and queen who'd married in such a manner."
Faramir covered his bark of laughter with a weak cough even as he nodded in agreement. "Éomer is an honorable man, and stubborn to boot. He certainly would have stolen Lothí away if she'd allowed him even the mildest liberty, so I can easily imagine him doing the same if there were any truth to these rumors."
She flushed at that, knowing all too well that she'd granted Éomer far more than 'mild liberties.' She only hoped the others took it as a sign of her pleasure at her cousin's support.
"I consider Éomer a brother," Elessar started, his gray eyes twinkling with mirth at the spirited defense of his dear friend, "and I must agree with their assessment of him. I can't imagine anything could stand between him and something he truly wanted, even something as rigid as Gondorian propriety."
For all his failings, Duinhir was a clever enough man to realize when a battle was futile though he was never one to willingly admit defeat. Lothí knew it and watched, unsurprised, as he made a final joke and changed tack. He peppered the king with questions about the path under the mountain and the ghosts that haunted it. Elessar, for his part, solemnly answered each query. Yes, he'd walked through the path in oppressive darkness; no, it was no longer home to the spirits of old.
Arwen drifted over to join the other women as the men talked, her farseeing gaze locked on the black stone in the distance. All three of them stared, marveling, at the strange artifact from millennia before.
"My father knew him," the queen said, her voice barely a whisper. "Isildur brought the stone with him, a final relic of Númenor. Oaths sworn here have great power—can you feel it?"
Lothí shivered at her words, her eyes never wavering from the stone. The air seemed to hum, and the mist hung heavier than before. But still, she could see the stone. White fog swirled through the valley without ever touching it and she remained keenly aware of it even when she'd turned her back.
"I don't like this place," Éowyn groused, a frown marring her delicate features. "It's eerie."
"Places of power usually feel that way, as do places of tragedy. This is both." Arwen shook herself then and rolled her shoulders back. "Come, let us sit by the fire and speak of happier tidings."
No one seemed able to speak above a whisper that night, even as the three women tried to coax their companions into a merrier mood than any of them felt. Even the horses didn't dare to whicker. The evening meal was almost entirely silent, and the usually ribald Rohirrim were cowed into silence by the looming weight of the black stone. The fires crackling were the loudest noises in their camp.
Food, already a chore in the tense quiet, turned to ash in Lothíriel's mouth when she caught Duinhir staring unabashedly at her. She fought to suppress a shudder at the look in his eyes. Something lurked there, akin to the way Éomer had looked at her in the gardens on loëndë when he'd emerged from beneath her skirts with his lips still shining with her juices. But this look didn't send bolts of desire to coil in her belly; it had her blood turning to ice in her veins. When he grinned at her, deliberately wetting his lower lip, bile rose in her throat and she had to look away.
She didn't really know what to make of the silent exchange, but it left her skin crawling. Lothí wasn't eager to retire alone in her tent, certain that she wouldn't sleep a wink, and now she was even less eager. Some instinct was screaming at her to flee the place or, at least, watch her back at all times. Duinhir's presence and the way he stared at her did nothing to ease her worries.
Éowyn grasped her hand then, drawing the princess back to the present. "Fara and I have agreed that I'll sleep in your tent for the rest of the journey. It should only two more days, but we don't want you riding into Edoras looking like a wraith."
"Thank you," she said, voice thick with words unsaid. Neither of them had to say it to know what the White Lady sought to guard her from.
In their tent that night, Éowyn went a step farther and pulled a little velvet pouch from her saddlebags. She presented it to the princess, saying, "I was planning to give this to you as a wedding gift, but now seems like a more appropriate moment."
Lothí withdrew a set of hairpins, the polished ivory gleaming in the dim light, and she was mindful of the sharp tips. "They're lovely, but why…?"
"See how sharp they are? You can easily drive these through an unwanted hand or into a man's fleshy thigh, even his throat, should you be afraid or at risk." Éowyn coiled her plait into a knot and secured a pin there, moving lightning fast to free it. The carved bone glinted as she demonstrated where to jab. "See? Jam it somewhere vulnerable and fleshy—you can't hesitate, or the blow won't land."
She did her best to mimic the shieldmaiden's movements, practicing until Éowyn was satisfied. That night, she rested easier with the pins tucked beneath her bedroll. The bone pins glinted in the coil of her raven hair the next day as they prepared for the trek under the mountain. The Rohirrim warned them that they would likely spend the entire day in the dark paths and pressed upon the Gondorians the need to stay on the lit path.
Nothing they said prepared Lothíriel for the all-encompassing darkness that descended upon them mere steps from the entrance. It was darker than any night she'd lived through, even at the height of the war when the clouds from Mordor blocked out the moon and stars. Even Hærlith, her steadfast mare, snorted uncomfortably at the pitch black pressing all around them.
She petted the animal's neck to calm her as they carefully plodded deeper into the mountain. A torch flickered up ahead, its bright glow a reassurance that she was on the right track. One of the Rohirrim led the way as the others interspersed the line of travelers and brought up the rear. The princess was happy to fall in the middle of the pack. Riding between Erchirion and Glîrion offered her some sense of peace, though she'd tugged a pin free and clutched it tightly in her gloved hand.
It was eerily quiet in the tunnels. The wind didn't whistle through the paths, leaving the air stagnant and still. Sounds were muffled somehow in the darkness; even though the horses trod on stone, their hoofbeats didn't echo. Conversations took place around her, she could hear her brothers whispering up ahead, but the words were swallowed by the disconcerting mountain. The only way to measure their progress in the unending blackness was to count the torches. Lothí's eyes smarted as she rode by the flickering lights, though she couldn't claim to have adjusted to the dark. She couldn't make out more than the outlines of the riders before her. Each torch they passed reassured her nerves that she hadn't somehow gotten lost in the bowels of the White Mountains.
There was no sense of being watched like she might have expected from the one-time haunt of the dead. That much she was grateful for. However much the darkness disquieted her, Lothí didn't have to fear ghosts.
A dim light eventually shone ahead, quickening the party's steps and filling the horses with a renewed eagerness. When they emerged into the stony pass, the sky was painted with a brilliant sunset. Golden oranges melted into pinks and lilacs while clouds softened the waning glare of the sun. The air was crisp with a wintery chill, but it was fresh and heady with the smell of earth.
The riders exclaimed joyously as they followed their guides through the carved stones littering the pass. The stones loomed ominously over them, but the Rohirrim assured them that it would pass quickly and that camp awaited on the other side. Legolas shifted uneasily at the sight of the familiar outcroppings before bursting into song. His silvery voice had the others joining in and dispelled the remaining apprehension.
She was about to spend her first night in Rohan. The realization left her speechless, like someone had hit her over the head with an oar. It was surreal that she was here after so many months of preparations and work and waiting. Lothí eagerly gazed about, soaking in the first glimpses of her new home and devoting it to memory.
The elven prince's song was a welcome distraction from the ancient disquiet of the pass surrounding them, and it lasted until the stony walls gave way to a bustling campsite. White tents were arrayed in orderly rows, banners bearing a white horse on a green field whipping in the brisk wind. Merry voices called out in greeting when their party appeared, and Lothí could smell delicious things cooking even though she couldn't see the fires.
Their horses were quickly taken under the wings of the waiting horse lords, and she couldn't stop the grin rising when a familiar face dipped a clumsy bow before leading her to her tent. Bertric was all smiles and flashing blue eyes as he led the way.
"I hope the pass wasn't too hard on you, feacwēn," he said as they walked through camp. "His majesty was in a right state when he learned your intended path and clucked about like a mother hen."
"That does sound like him," Lothí laughed. "How is he doing, really? His letters say he's been managing, but I worry."
"The king will almost certainly be happier when he sees you again. You two are a real match, if it's not too bold to say." He shot her an exaggerated wink and glanced behind her questioningly. "Did Amdiris join you, m'lady?"
"She's on her way with the other guests." She watched amused as his cheeks colored and he failed to hide a silly smile at the news. "She said she's looking forward to this new adventure but didn't think a pitch-black trek under a mountain was the best time to learn how to sit a horse."
The young man's brows shot up at that and he squawked in dismay, "She can't ride? That won't do at all. If it pleases you, feacwēn, may I teach her? I promise it won't interfere with her duties in the slightest."
They came to a stop outside a tent, no different from any of the others, and she knew this was the right one. The blue pennant waving atop it was a dead giveaway. "Of course! It would be shameful if I stopped her from learning—I even offered to teach her before leaving Gondor, but she wouldn't hear of it. I think she may be a bit afraid of them, so please be patient with her."
"I wouldn't dare rush her, m'lady," he promised solemnly. It only lasted a beat before his amiable grin was back. "Inside there should be everything you need to clean up before the evening meal."
He gave her quick instructions on how to reach the main campfire before leaving the princess to duck into her tent and lash it shut. Rugs covered the ground to help cut the chill and a merry brazier smoldered in the middle of the space with a cot and washbasin nearby. Lothí eagerly doffed her travelworn clothes to wash herself in the chilly water, even going so far as to wet her comb and run it through her hair in an attempt to get the worst of the grime off. A warm towel quickly soothed her protesting skin, and she rubbed some salve into her aching thighs before dressing in fresh undergarments and a fresh gown. Once her toilette was complete, she wrapped the warm, hunter green cloak about herself once more and set off in search of food.
Night had fallen by the time she made her way to the heart of camp, with the sounds of joyful conversation filling the freezing air. It was a relief to stand on grass again, even if it crunched under her feet as she walked, and to have the open sky above her once more. The stars were twinkling down upon them when Lothí joined the rest of the party and she started to make her way towards Éowyn when she froze.
Her heart stopped at the sight before her. Standing beside her friend and cousin was the one man she'd wanted to see more than anything. Lothí's pulse raced as she floated towards him, certain that it was a dream and she'd wake up in Minas Tirith at any moment. He saw her as she rounded the fire and surged towards her.
The next thing she knew, he was spinning her about in his arms and she never wanted to let him go. When he came to a stop, Lothí couldn't stop laughing with the sheer joy of seeing him again. Her feet still hadn't touched the ground, but she didn't care. She wasn't sure who moved first, but their lips came together in a kiss that told her he'd missed her too.
Lothí poured all her longing and joy and yearning and love into that connection, trying to tell him just how simply, radiantly happy she was to see him again. It was a chaste, but firm, kiss, and one of her favorites simply because it meant that he was there.
"I've missed you, swete," he murmured against her lips. When he released her, Éomer still didn't let her step back too far. His gloved fingers tangled with her own as he tugged her into his side.
"I can't believe you're here—no, actually, I can believe it," she whispered back with a wide grin. "This is exactly like you."
Her family and the party from the Morthond Vale watched the scene disapprovingly. Her father's face had turned the color of an eggplant once more and Duinhir just looked smug, as if the kiss were incriminating. Even Erchirion and Amrothos glowered at their friend, though that was probably due to watching a man paw at their little sister more than any real disapproval.
But they were the outliers. Delighted whistles and shouted encouragement rang through the biting cold from the Rohirrim, and Éowyn happily joined in the applause. Lothí flushed at the attention, a wry satisfaction warming her as she saw her father's face shutter to hide his displeasure when he realized his king was among those cheering on the pair. It seemed even his unyielding demands for painful propriety had to bow in the face of Elessar's approval.
"I plan to keep you close all night," Éomer told her with a teasing lift of his brows. "It's been months without you, and I have no intention of letting you out of my sight."
She beamed up at him, unable to even pretend to be put upon at his easy commandeering of her time. "I've been without you too, arod cynig, so don't think that's any real hardship for me."
They quickly made their way to settle around the fire where Éomer fussed over her exactly as Bertric had described. He tucked a thick blanket about her shoulders and ladled a heaping serving of the steaming stew into a bowl that he shared with her (much to the delight of his men). Éomer even went so far as to dip pieces of hearty bread into the soup and feed them to her. The Rohirrim were delighted by this development, and she almost swore their hearts stopped when she returned the king's attentions.
He outright refused to share her attention with anyone else which Lothí found that she didn't mind. She quietly filled him in on the more interesting parts of the journey and mentioned his sister's practical gift. A thunderhead fell over his brow when she told him about the scene Duinhir caused, easing slightly when she detailed everyone's defense of them. She couldn't stop herself from chortling at him when his brows shot up at Aragorn's careful statements about not endangering the alliance with the Mark.
"That's as good as permission to wed and bed you tonight," Éomer murmured with a wolfish grin. "Send my sister back to her husband's tent, and I'll come to you as soon as the camp quiets."
"Absolutely not," she laughed, playfully elbowing him in the ribs. "I want a proper bed for our wedding night, not some cot that's liable to break if we get too enthusiastic."
"There's no such thing as 'too enthusiastic.'" His honey eyes glinted with hunger in the firelight as he stared her down.
That look sent her heart into a gallop, but her only overt reaction was to arch her brows his way. "There is when furniture is destroyed."
Éomer raised her hand to his lips and pressed a bristly kiss to her gloved knuckles. "You'll change your mind on that once you get a taste of our marriage bed, feacwēn, I guarantee it. And I fully plan to take you on a tour of the Mark in the spring. I want to see you sprawled out in the billowing grass with nothing between your skin and the sun."
"That's fine, though I insist on having a real bed the first few times." Her face and neck burned at the picture he painted as she set the empty bowl aside and rose with a groan. Her aching muscles had gone even stiffer in the cold night air, and they protested with each motion. "Do you want to take a walk?"
He grabbed the blankets and led her to the outskirts of camp, happily ignoring the reproachful stares from her father and the elated glances from his countrymen. They were in his homeland now, and it was high time they adhere to his customs. In the Mark, it was more than acceptable to be affectionate with a lover—it was openly encouraged. The more overtly loving a couple were, the happier their union promised to be. Éomer was bent on taking that as far as his betrothed would allow.
The stars glittered overhead in the clear night sky, grown even colder without the cloud cover, and the waning crescent moon cast its weak light over the scene. Harrowdale stretched below them, and, in the distance, he could see the Snowbourn River cutting a dark path through the valley. The mountains continued stretching north, their rolling foothills soon giving way to the vast plains he so desperately loved.
Lothí purred when he draped the blanket about her shoulders once more and tugged her close for a kiss. She heated from within at his touch, warmth coursing through her veins as her lips moved against his. Her gloved fingers grasped at his cloak to pull him closer so that she could melt into him. The world dropped away until they were all that remained. Nothing mattered except the way his mouth seared her skin and the scent of him enveloping her.
She drew back, panting, a small eternity later to simply hold him. Lothí nestled into that familiar spot on his chest where she could hear his heart beating beneath her ear. The weight of his chin atop her head was all the reassurance she needed that this was no dream.
"I can't believe you're finally here," Éomer murmured. The words were for her alone and the icy breeze quickly whisked them away. "I keep reminding myself that it isn't a dream—I'm only sure of that because we're usually alone in my dreams and wearing far less."
Lothíriel snorted at that, grateful he couldn't see her flush at his brazen admission. "I don't know why, but it's different hearing that in person than it is reading it in a letter."
"I'm just glad your aunt wasn't there to screen our letters. Can you imagine her reading some of the things I sent you?"
"Yes, and I can also imagine her throwing those into the fire." She shifted to peer up at him then, eyes narrowing as she watched him under the waning moon. "You've no idea how they made me blush."
"I've some idea," he teased, squeezing her tighter. "I hope that you did more than blush."
She shifted against him and turned to stare pointedly at the valley below as her stomach swooped with excitement. "I don't know what you mean."
"I want you to have touched yourself, swete. I want to know all the ways you came undone while imagining everything I described." He pressed her closer to him, certain that she would feel his straining arousal against her belly and know exactly what he wanted in that moment. "In fact, someday, I'm going to want to see the way you touch yourself while imagining me."
"You shouldn't talk like that. Someone could overhear," she breathed, though she made no move to draw back from him. There was no real conviction behind her words and they both knew it.
"I don't care."
"We both know that's not true." Lothí snaked one hand down to cup him, smirking when he hissed at the unexpected contact. She pumped him the best she could through his clothes and couldn't hide her smug satisfaction as his hips jerked against her touch. "You and I both know that you're a jealous man who can't stand the notion of another imagining me the way you do."
Éomer gently pried her hand free and entangled their fingers. "I'm jealous, and you're wicked—but only for me."
"Only because I know you like it." She rose onto her toes to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, her cheeks burning with every brush of the cold wind. "Tell me the news of the Mark—I want to know everything."
"I wish you'd waited to ask until tomorrow," he groused, tugging her flush against him once more.
"What's Wermund done now?"
"What hasn't he done?" Éomer groaned into her hair. "He's worked the council into a lather over my decision to help people rebuild their homes without raising taxes, he's swayed several others to protest our marriage, and will not stop in his quest to have the council appoint thanes and reeves instead of holding elections as we've always done."
It seemed that spite alone fueled Wermund, invigorating the man to cause the young king a pounding headache on a near daily basis as he fought tooth and nail to convince Éomer to dispose of his current betrothal in favor of a girl from the Mark. Never mind the generous dowry that had imbued life back into the land or the love Éomer bore her—Wermund never tired of citing Morwen Steelsheen as an example against southern women as a whole. Éomer was, quite simply, tired of the conversation. If the man refused to accept love as a basis for a marriage, he couldn't ignore the effect of such a slight on relations with their closest ally.
Éothain and Gamling happily took up that banner, according to the king. The arguments in favor of strengthening the alliance with Gondor far outweighed any benefit of jilting the princess for a local girl with a bit of land and light hair. But Wermund refused to see reason and had taken to quietly slandering the princess to the other councilors before she'd ever set foot in the Mark. It had so many of them up in arms about the union that Éomer was at his wit's end.
He sounded so exhausted as he rattled off the tiring man's actions that Lothí felt her heart crack. She tightened her arms about his waist and silently resolved to do what she could to bolster her beloved's spirits. If Éomer was this run down from dealing with the man alone, she was glad their wedding was only a few short weeks away. He needed reinforcements.
"And the only way to get rid of him is if he dies, voluntarily retires, or commits treason?" she asked, brow furrowing as she stared unseeing at the sprawling lands below.
"Unfortunately. What do you know of treason law?" His voice was equally quiet, rough with cold and the mental wear of his duties.
"I know that treason is usually the most severe charge one can face, usually for crimes against king, country, or an heir," she started, voice prim and academic. "These can range from plotting the demise of a king or his heir, the violation of a wife or daughter, plotting war, committing overt crimes against the king's land, or aiding or abetting enemies of the state."
"Here, all of those definitions are extended to wives and daughters—it's treason if someone plots against a queen or a princess of the Mark, for example." He absently pressed a kiss to her temple before forcing them to continue their walk. It was too cold to remain still for long. "When we marry, I'd like you to join me in meetings. I need your help charming the councilors and keeping them in line. If they realize he's lying about you, maybe they'll come around on other things."
"Of course, melethel," Lothí agreed. "Anything you need."
Arod Cynig: Bold king
Melethel: My love/my dear
Gwanur: Cousin/generic term for a relative.
High Treason: The definition Lothí gives of high treason is the English one, and it is usually punished gruesomely. The convict will be dragged through the streets to the gallows where he is hanged and cut down while still alive; then his entrails are removed and burned while he's still alive before he's beheaded, drawn, and quartered. The remains are at the king's disposal. The convict's family is also punished, usually with asset forfeiture. Everything they own is forfeit to the crown and the direct line are forbidden from conducting business or owning property again—plot against the crown, and the crown will destroy you and everything you love, basically.
The Anglo-Saxon definition of treason, according to Aethelberht, included unruly conduct before the king and overt interference in royal business. These were punishable by fines, and the laws were highly amended so the definition evolved quite a bit through the years. Later, "petty treason" came to include marauding, raiding, attacking fortified residences all of which were punishable by paying a weregild to the wronged party. Treason, here, is not associated with the king's peace or personal affronts. That's for "high treason," which involves conspiracy against the king's life and aiding or abetting outlaws or traitors. Floyd Seyward Lear, at Rice University, compiled this information in his article: "Treason and Related Offenses in Anglo-Saxon Dooms."
If you look back at everything I included in the definition, I did add a crime against the king's lands as treasonous simply because of how connected to and dependent upon the land the Rohirrim are. They're a nomadic people, an agricultural people, and the stability of their realm is dependent upon the stability of land transference—this is indicated by the coup/usurpation of the throne by the Dunlendings before the Long Winter in the Second Age. There was turmoil and chaos because of the usurpation of the throne and, therefore, control of the land. So I figured the Rohirrim would remember this and include such crimes in their definition of treason.
Also, "overt acts," in the commission of a crime are those acts which clearly provided evidence and from which criminal intent can be inferred. Here, this is necessary to commit treason—there is no thought crime here as an actual act towards the commission of the crime is required. There won't be any flying off the handle or cobbling together circumstantial evidence of intent; there needs to be an act that is open, obvious, and done with the intent of furthering the crime.
We can also see examples of this with inchoate crimes (or crimes undertaken in furtherance of a second crime, or "target offense," or indirect participation in a crime). For an example of a crime undertaken in furtherance of a target offense, take attempted murder: You commit an assault by pointing a gun at another person with the intent to cause fear of harm, and it becomes an attempted murder when you pull the trigger assuming the gun jams, isn't loaded, or the shot misses. For an example of indirect participation in a crime, take conspiracy: If Persons A and B agree to commit a bank heist, Person C can be charged as part of their conspiracy for giving them the schematics of the bank vaults in exchange for a cut of the haul. Any of them can withdraw from the conspiracy by telling the other members that they are no longer participating and alerting the authorities/ taking affirmative steps to stop the conspiracy from moving forward.