4. Drowning
The banquet hall was well-lit and bustling with people, perhaps more than it was meant to hold. It seemed that every citizen that could be had been crammed into the hall, and still more besides. The feast was well underway, which mean that upon Lothíriel's entrance, no one turned a head. At the furthest point of the room, Aragorn sat at a high table with several other lords. To his right was Éomer, and to Éomer's side was her father. Lothíriel swallowed. Of course Éomer was here. She was not exactly surprised, but she wished she had thought to warn him. If only she had told him who she was when he had asked her, and not have fled like a startled deer.
Lothíriel was not allowed to wallow in her regret, however, as upon setting foot in the hall she was swept up immediately by two nearly identical Swan Knights and spun around with a glad cry.
Once she was on her feet, she looked sternly at her two brothers for their lack of decorum, but she found she could could not hold the pretense at the glad sight of their faces, alive and whole, and she burst out laughing. The sensation of laughter felt strange upon her lips and ears as if she had not laughed in many weeks, though she was certain she had.
"Lothíriel, where have you been?" asked Amrothos, who was her closest brother in age. He looked her up and down, then up at her face. "You look very… odd." Erchírion elbowed him in the ribs.
"She has been quite busy," said her most serious and sensitive brother, "And you shall not tease her, Amrothos, or comment on her attire, as we are all at the mercy of our hosts."
Lothíriel shot him a thankful glance, and embraced both her brothers tightly in turn. "Thank the Valar you are well. And Elphir? Is he here?"
"There he is," gestured Amrothos to their eldest sibling. Elphir, who was many years their senior, was deep in conversation with an elderly nobleman, but when he glanced over at them, his face lit up and he gestured to his partner that he would return.
"Dear sister," Elphir said, approaching her as quickly as decorum would allow. "You look well," he said, and embraced her formally, kissing both her cheeks. "Thank goodness you are here. We were waiting for you and thought you would not come."
"I am sorry," stammered Lothíriel at his chiding tone, "I was with a patient who needed great care," she explained, but Elphir had already looked away as if he was searching for something, or someone.
"Come, Lothíriel," he said, taking her arm. "You must be presented at the high table. Lord Aragorn shall be King, and you must go before him so that he can receive you and welcome you to the banquet."
"Oh no, Elphir," protested Lothíriel, dread flooding her heart, for to appear before Aragorn was also to be presented before Éomer, and surely it would seem to him as if she had been mysterious about her identity on purpose, as if she had meant to reveal it in such a shameless way. "Must I? Can I not pass unnoticed?"
"Yes, Lothíriel," said Elphir, not heeding her, "Why else would you be here? You are the lady of Dol Amroth, and our king must know you."
Lothíriel's heart pounded in her ears as her brother escorted her between the long banquet tables and before the high table. She could feel the eyes of the whole hall collectively turn toward her, and she kept her gaze firmly on the ground, hoping to pass as demure rather than terrified. She had never relished being the center of attention, but knowing that Éomer was about to be apprised of her identity in the most unfortunate way caused a knot to tighten in the pit of her stomach. What would he think, or worse, what might he say?
"Great lords of the west, I present my sister, the Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," announced Elphir, bringing her forward and stepping back so that she was on her own.
Lothíriel swallowed and swept a deep curtsy, the most formal she could muster, her eyes fixed on the floor respectfully. "My lords, I am honored."
"Arise, my lady," said the rich and musical voice she recognized as Aragorn's, and at his kind command she did as she was told. She could not help but raise her gaze to his, but her eyes instinctively sought Éomer as she did so. He - resplendent in green and gold, his hair braided formally - was watching her with an unreadable mask of expression - what was the feeling in his eyes? Was it shock? Anger? Bemusement?
But she could not bear to look at him long enough to tell, and she turned her gaze to Aragorn, who smiled down at her kindly. "I remember your face," he said, "You were in the healing houses."
"Yes, my lord," she said, astonished that so great a man would remember her. He had scarcely seemed to notice her, so consumed he had been by healing Éowyn, and yet it appeared that he had taken more notice than she had thought.
"My thanks to you for your work and sacrifice," Aragorn said, "You also deserve to be honored, alongside those who have fought. You have served your lords and country well. "
She blushed and shook her head, saying, "My lord, I only did what was needed — I do not deserve more honor than any other, and I only did what I was told by those with more knowledge than I."
"Nay, my lady, you deserve all the honor in the world," spoke up another voice, and it was Éomer's. She looked at him in astonishment. He stood abruptly. "Please, my lady, be seated in my place," he stated, gesturing before him, "Beside your father and your future king is your rightful seat."
A soft murmur swept through the banquet hall. Éomer's tone was sincere, and Lothíriel bowed her head in shocked acceptance. What else could she do? Éomer came down the steps and extended a hand, and after the barest hesitation, she placed her hand in his, meeting his gaze with eyes that she hoped were contrite.
His hand was strong beneath hers, but he did not give any indication of acknowledging her sheepishness and escorted her up the steps to the raised table, and seated her in his spot, to a smattering of applause. She wondered what he planned to do, but it became clear as he stepped down the steps and seated himself at a table full of Rohirrim.
A servant came and replaced Éomer's plate with a clean one, and poured her wine. She thanked her and took a drink gratefully, her cheeks feeling impossibly warm.
"Father," she greeted, finally remembering that her father was at her left. He put a hand on hers.
"That was quite a reception," was her father's remark, "You have been granted a high honor."
She nodded, glancing down at where Éomer had seated. He made no indication that he had given her a second thought and she wondered desperately what he was thinking. "I do not feel deserving, father, of such a seat," she said after a moment.
"You must have made quite an impression, or perhaps King Éomer was merely eager for an escape from this table. He is a fine and honorable man, this Lord of the Riddermark, but I confess I think him more at home on the back of a horse than at a banquet table." Her father's tone was of fond amusement as he spoke of Éomer.
"He has chosen to sit with his men," remarked Lothíriel, unable to tear her eyes off of Éomer as he sat and toasted his comrades, looking strong and proud and somehow majestic even as he laughed with them. "I think he appears more at home with them than on display up here."
Her father chuckled, "And not a soul could fault him for that. We owe Éomer much, my daughter. And he is indebted to us in turn. I am proud to have found a friend in such a man."
Lothíriel swallowed. "What do you mean, he is indebted to us?"
Her father lowered his voice, "When he found his sister's body on the battlefield lying cold and still, he rightly assumed her to be dead. But I saw there was life in her, and so she was brought to the healing houses to be healed, and it was Aragorn who healed her."
"I knew that part," remarked Lothíriel quickly, "For I was there in the room when he did it, and assisted as best I could. I did very little, Father, I had only been there a few hours - I only fetched water and herbs"
"I did not know that," her father said in surprise. He shook his head as if in disbelief. "Then that explains how Aragorn knew your face."
"It does." Lothíriel took a thoughtful bite of the food that had been laid out before her, thinking back to that day in the healing houses, of the calm quiet of that room, the sweet fresh scent of the athelas, of Aragorn's words to Éowyn as he had called her back. All darkness is washed clean.
Perhaps it was true, she thought, but if it were so, why did so many still suffer? She squirmed in her seat, suddenly feeling quite uncomfortable in her borrowed gown, its stiff heavy fabric so unfamiliar to her. All she had known for weeks now was the simple linen and cotton of her healer's habit, and she found she yearned for its freedom, for the simple dress had become a comfort to her. In a way, she was anonymous in it, merely a symbol of the vocation of healing, and an instrument to be used for good. The heavy gown she now wore was anything but anonymous and anything but freeing. She glanced at her father, feeling his gaze had grown scrutinizing, and tried to smile.
"I am proud of you for your bravery and your commitment," her father said after a moment, patting her hand. "You have done Dol Amroth proud, my dearest daughter."
She looked at him, surprised, and smiled a more true smile. It was nice to hear his praise, when that afternoon he had seemed so indifferent to her efforts. She glanced to Aragorn at her right, wondering if he had heard any part of this conversation, but it appeared that the great lord was otherwise occupied, watching a dwarf and a fair-haired elf engaging in some sort of friendly competition. A space upon the floor had been cleared and music had been struck up in joyful chords, signaling the onset of dancing.
It was not long after the music began that Lothíriel was invited to dance, and although she wished to escape, she could not refuse an invitation without risking being thought improper, so she set out onto the floor with her partner, a well-attired knight of Minas Tirith, and half-heartedly joined in the dance, responding politely to her partner's queries, but wishing for a quick escape.
The music had been lively, when they had joined the dance, but it quickly turned, this time to an old favorite. It was a popular slow-paced dance whose steps required that the dancers rotate partners throughout. Lothíriel did not mind this one, and she knew the steps by heart, and she found herself caught up in the lilting melody and the vibrant blur of the dancers, even enjoying herself.
It was easy to forget all else, but when she rotated partners and found herself face to face with Éomer, reality crept in. She looked up at him in clear surprise and he met her gaze steadily, a question in his brown eyes.
"My lady," was all he said, taking her hand and bringing her to his side as the steps dictated. Her heart fluttered uncontrollably inside her chest at his nearness. He was a splendid sight, imposing and majestic, in these clothes of a king, and she found herself overcome, foolish as it was. How strange to think that she had held him in her arms not even a full day before, bearing his sorrow, that she knew the man inside those clothes, and yet that she knew him not at at all — and that he knew her, and yet, not at all.
"My lord." She let him lead her through the steps of dance, feeling sheepish and warm. "I owe you an explanation," she stammered and he made a noise of quiet acknowledgement.
"Perhaps," was his reply, "But I think it best we not speak of that now."
She nodded and fell silent, looking at him sidelong as they danced, anxious to know what he was thinking. He did not seem angry, at least, but there was a thought or a feeling behind his eyes she could not place.
She did not get a chance to inquire, for the music signaled that the dancers rotate partners and she found herself with a new set of all too curious eyes. At last, the music ended, each set of partners from the beginning of the dance returned to one another. She did her best to smile and applaud with the rest of the dancers, and politely allowed her Gondorian knight to escort her from the floor.
"May I fetch you a refreshment, princess?" asked the knight, and she nodded gratefully, if nothing else to be relieved of his presence for a few moments.
"Wine, or something else?"
"Whatever you may please," she said with a gracious, if strained, smile. She looked around, seeking a familiar face - anything but Éomer's, for she was all too aware that he stood not ten yards from her. Her father was deep in conversation with Aragorn, her brothers — there was Amrothos, looking inebriated, arm in arm with another swan knight, singing raucously, and not far from him, Elphir, looking considerably less serious and restrained than usual, and even as if he was enjoying himself - but none were close enough to come rescue her.
She sighed and waited there impatiently for her partner to return, trying to think of an an excuse to abandon him as soon as he returned. It did not occur to her that she might have simply disappeared into the crowd to evade him, that another young woman might have done so without a second thought. So she waited, watching the crowd of fair and dark heads mingle, and tried to ignore the heat of the crowded hall and the sweat that dripped down her back beneath the cotton of her undergown, and under her arms.
She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling as if she might faint.
"Princess," said the knight, pressing a goblet of wine into her hand. "Are you all right?"
"Quite all right," she managed to say, opening her eyes and focusing on his. They were a clear blue, shocking in his handsome face. Too handsome a face, she thought dimly in her hot and flustered state. The face was too unmarked by any sort of feeling or sorrow, with nary a scar from battle to be found. She thought then of Muinor, the boy she had tended in the healing houses who had lost leg, who surely lay alone that very moment frightened and in pain, and looked back at the man before her with somewhat unwarranted disgust in her heart. He had done nothing outright to offend her, and yet his eyes were empty of any sort of proper spark or felling thought. Here he was, unharmed, offering her wine and looking at her with a hopeful, rather cocky expression on his face that told her he would not be easy to shake. He looked her as if she wanted nothing more to be flirted with, and offered wine - and talked at, perhaps.
"Thank you for the dance," was all she said, as dutifully as she could muster.
"It was my honor," her partner said, "Princess - you must be looking forward to…" he began to say, but Lothíriel, suddenly very keenly aware of the the loud peals of laughter that struck her forcefully from all sides, the joyous hum of the crowd, at the dancing and light music, was suddenly overcome by an impassioned feeling of incredulity, even rage.
How could they celebrate - did they not know? Had they forgotten those that lay crippled by wounds, who struggled to breathe, who burned in their beds from fever brought on by infection? She shook her head, finding it difficult to draw enough breath in the heat of the room. "I need fresh air," she managed to say, and fled her partner with scarcely a look in his direction.
"My lady, wait," called t, but she did not heed him, only walked faster, escaping to outside the Great Hall. Once she was outside in the night air, she swayed, and collapsed against the wall. She could not breathe. As tears fell from her eyes she felt herself slide down the wall to the ground, her chest wanting to explode as she sobbed and frantically sought a way to gain control of herself. Her breathing came too fast, and she could not take in enough air, no matter how she tried. Oh, Valar help me.
For a moment it felt as if she was back in the streets of Minas Tirith in the aftermath of the battle, binding wounds, blindly trying to staunch bleeding, but the streets were underwater, and there was no air, and no sound, apart from the rush of blood to her ears.
Hands steadied her, out of seemingly nowhere, supporting her so that she was not lying on the ground, but sitting upright. She could see leather boots and knees crouching in front of her and wasn't sure at first who had caught her, until the person spoke, and even then, she did not know the voice right away, although it was familiar.
"Breathe, Lothíriel. Just breathe. Focus on my voice. In and out," said the voice, which was calm and deep, and she fought to follow the directions, dimly realizing that she knew the voice by heart. It was Éomer who had caught her. He must have followed her, as if he knew she was in need of aid, but how had he known?
"That's it. That's it. There. You are breathing. Keep going, slow. In, out. There's a good lass."
Her breath came more steadily now, and she could see him now, his face a blurry wash of concern. She knew that tears were still streaming endlessly down her face, and there was nothing she could to do stop them. She wished that he would stop looking at her so intently, for it was as if she was naked before him all over again, and yet this time not of her own accord.
"There you are," Éomer said, when at last her breathing had calmed and her eyes had focused fully on him. "I thought I had lost you for a moment - but you are right as rain, my lady."
"Thank you," she murmured, lowering her gaze and taking a shaky sob of a breath, "My lord, I am so sorry —" she started to continue, but her breathing picked up again and she started once more to shudder and sob, and so he shushed her patiently.
"Don't try to speak just yet," he said soothingly, "Slow, steady breaths."
When she was able to stand, he raised her to her feet gently and led her to a marble bench beneath a little cherry tree. They were in a tiny courtyard in the center of which a small fountain bubbled cheerfully, but they were alone.
"Sit," Éomer said, his voice kindly firm, and she complied, for in that moment she could only cling to his directions. "Bend your head down between your knees. You will be alright."
She followed the order, bowing her head down as he instructed. Slowly, she finally felt herself gain control of herself again. Éomer sat beside her and waited quietly, not pressing her for anything, and she wondered again, this time more urgently, how he had known she needed help. Had he been so in tune with her, as she had somehow been aware of his every move during the banquet? She was grateful for it, for without him she might still be struggling to breathe, but she marveled at his being there. And how near he was to her now, and even in her sorrowful state, it seemed to her that every nerve in her body was aglow from his closeness. How his presence affected her, as it had always done so. So much had passed between them, and it struck her then that she would always feel this way when near to him, as if her body was a part of his, tied so intrinsically that she always knew keenly where he was.
She thought it strange that she could know so much about him, having seen him at his most vulnerable, and also at his most high in feeling, and yet at the same time, know very little of the man he really was. Somehow he seemed to her a stranger, here as he was before her. This was a different Éomer than the solemn, shameless one who had taken comfort in her bed the night before battle, and different too from the one who had burst into her chamber upon his victorious return, wild and incoherent with disbelief, who had wept in her arms as he came inside her. This Éomer was calm, cool-headed, and self-possessed. It was his turn to see her brokenness, perhaps, and she wondered if he would shy away. He seemed unfazed, taking her in stride. And somehow he knew exactly what to do.
At last, she was able to speak, and though he had not asked for any explanation, she felt compelled to give it. "I was never fond of crowds or large celebrations. Never. I attended them, of course, but I was always more at home alone on a beach with nothing but my thoughts for company, or with a book. Or on the back of a horse."
Éomer leaned forward on the bench, looking sideways at her with eyes that were free of judgement. "And now… It is overwhelming to be in such a grand feast when all you have known for the past weeks has been the chaos of battle, and then the rigor of the healing houses."
She shook her head, although he was not wrong in his assessment. "It is more than that. It's that people can celebrate like this, after all that has happened. After all the suffering that has gone on, that continues to wreak its havoc within the walls of this city — have they all forgotten so quickly?" She searched Éomer's face for an answer, wondering how he could remain so calm and steady in the face of her distress.
"People deserve to find joy where they can," he answered thoughtfully, "There will be more time to grieve and remember those who are lost, my lady. But tonight they deserve to laugh and be merry, if nothing else, from the memory of all that has happened, they need to escape for a moment and be thankful they have been spared."
"And yet how can they? How can they sing, and dance, and be joyful when I— when I cannot —" and it was here that she began to weep again, this time inconsolably, even childishly, weeping for the first time for all that she had lost, for the careless girl she had once been, for the innocence that never again would be, and Éomer merely sat there and waited until she could speak again. He made no move to comfort her, but somehow his presence alone was enough to calm her, and she was compelled to say more, and give words to that which she had not even let herself dwell on, that despair which she had held too close to her heart to even name. When she spoke, she spoke haltingly, but did not censor herself.
"When I waited alone in the encampment, frightened and unable to do anything, I could hear the battle as clear as if I was in the thick of it. I could hear the clashing of swords, the endless cries, the thundering of the Mûmakil, the shattering of stone - the screams of the Nazgul. All that I loved was in peril, and I felt I would never see my family again. And then when the battle subsided and I rode to Minas Tirith to aid where I could - there was such carnage. I saw men who were nearly cloven in two who somehow still could draw agonizing breath. I assisted as saws cut through bone, I pressed my hands over wounds so grave, trying to staunch bleeding that came so fast I could feel the hearts cease to beat beneath my hands - I —," she broke off, unable to say anymore, and finally met Éomer's gaze, which she had not done since she had begun to speak.
His eyes were grave as he regarded her, but still free of judgement or pity. "You have seen much, lady. It is no small thing, what you have done. And it may take a good deal of time, before you can find joy again - but you will find it. Have faith."
"I cannot forget. Not now. Nor can I dance and sing and be merry. Not now." She lowered her gaze and wiped her face furiously, for it was wet with tears and who knew what else. Éomer moved from the bench to crouch before her, taking her hand and covering it carefully between his own - the strong, capable hands that by now she knew so well.
"I understand, Lothíriel. I do. Believe me, I do. Lothíriel…" He laughed a bit and looked up at her with a soft smile, "It is strange to have a name to put to your face."
"I am sorry I did not tell you - It seemed too difficult," she managed to say, wanting to explain everything. "I did not know how to be - or indeed, want to be - anything other than the girl in the healing houses to you. We were never supposed to see one another again, let alone come together at a grand banquet as a King and a Lady."
"I understand," was his refrain. He looked down at her hands in his then as if overcome, and after a moment, he slowly brought the hand he held to his mouth and pressed a deliberate kiss upon her knuckles. "Lothíriel, I —"
She quickly withdrew her hand from his grasp and stood, her face flushing. He was too near, too familiar and tender with her, now, and she did not want it. Somehow she knew that she could care for him in his hour of need, but when the tables were turned - she could not let him near her a moment longer. "I must go, I have patients to attend to, and there is work to be done. I have been away long enough."
"Sit down," he ordered, and she would have protested, and yet something about him had turned fierce and protective, and so she did not, even as she bristled at being ordered about in such a presumptive way. "Tonight, it is you who are the patient… you shall return to your quarters and you shall sleep. I shall summon a guard to escort you to make sure you do so, and I will make your excuses to your father."
"I cannot sleep," she protested, and he turned back to her with an almost amused look in his eyes.
"Of course not, but you shall try. I shall fetch you a small amount of wine, and you shall drink it, and when you return to that little room of yours you shall lay your head upon your pillow and close your eyes. Sleep will claim you, Lothíriel, I promise you. For the mind is not unlike the body and it knows how to heal itself." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Wait here. I shall return shortly."
She thought of fleeing, but his words had wisdom, and so she obeyed, waiting till he returned with a goblet of wine. She drank it dutifully under Éomer's approving gaze and when she had finished, allowed him to raise her to her feet.
"I have told your father that you are unwell and intend to retire, and he is quite concerned and agrees that it is the best course," he said, "I shall bring you to the main entry of the hall, where your brother Erchírion is waiting to escort you back to your quarters."
She nodded, suddenly feeling quite tired, as if it was a great effort to even stand. "Thank you, my lord."
"Éomer," he said then. "I will only ever accept Éomer from you, if we are alone."
"Éomer," she repeated.
"I would kiss you goodnight," he said then, his voice low and gentle as he looked her up and down, and there was a fierce and possessive warmth in his eyes that made her catch her breath, even as the depth of feeling behind that look frightened her. "For to me you are still the girl in the healing houses, and little has changed. However, I am afraid of prying eyes, and would not dishonor you in any way, lady, at least - any way further than I have already done so." His brow furrowed then, and he shook his head and looked down at her hands in his. "But we need not speak of that now. Go now and rest, lass. It will keep."
He escorted her to the entrance of the hall and deposited her in Erchírion's care with scarcely a word more. She looked back at him once as her brother led her away, and saw that his eyes had followed her as she went. She turned away, feeling her heart swell and throb under his regard. If before in her darkest moments she had clung to the memory of him as a desperate escape, now she knew that the extent of her feelings for him had deepened irreversibly. The tender longings of her heart had turned to a fierce and almost painful love.
[A/N: Oof, this chapter was for some reason really hard to write. Navigating these characters I've drawn up and wanting to do the complexities of their situation justice is not easy, and it was a headache in many ways, and I'm still frustrated, but here it is. I wanted to get it out to you, as we all need a distraction! I hope it doesn't disappoint.
Again I hope you're all staying healthy and your loved ones also. As many of you said, reading fanfiction can be a pleasant escape, and hopefully this story and each update alert brings a little bit of joy to you when you see it in your inbox! As always, I love your reviews, and if you sign-in and review I will always try to respond personally to each one (although I'm a bit behind I think). Guest reviews are beloved as well, but it's sad when I can't respond in kind!
Wash your hands and stay home! ~~ all my love, GB ]