A/N Sorry this took so long, there were a few changes that had to take
place. I hope you liked the last chapter though, I was really nervous about
it. Come to think of it, I'm really nervous about this one too... Erm,
also, the 'Caves under Edoras thing' yeah, I know there are none, but just
imagine that Edoras sits atop a great maze of catacombs like at Helm's
Deep. Oh, just to let you know, I'm all ready planning a sequel! My
brilliant beta, rabid cow, has agreed to beta that as well! Isn't that
cool? Any way, enjoy!
DRIFTWOOD
Breathlessly, Lothiriel pulled away from Eowine. She looked away from his hopeful eyes. How could she be doing this to Eomer? He did not love the man, never would she love him; but this felt so wrong. She was no more than Tangwystl, a whore. But at least Tangwystl had preyed upon money, power, and good looks. Lothiriel was selling herself cheaply, to a horse-guard. No, he was not even that. He was practically a stable-boy! Eowyn's ancient taunt once again haunted her – Black as is sin... It echoed around her head.
"Lothiriel?" Eowine stirred her from her musings with his perpetually nervous voice. It was rather high pitched and tremulous, and sounded rather squeaky and nasal.
"Mhmmm?" she turned back to him. He was so wonderful, and there was love and passion behind those eyes, but... NO! She would not succumb to the temptations of the flesh, whether she wanted to or not. That's all he was, a good lay. Is what she would have though, but Eowine was gawky, squeaky, and had, even by Rohirric standards, an extremely strange name.
"You don't wish for... We should leave it?" he asked, in his shaking tremor. All the while she had been looking away from him, he had stared at her, and seen the same love and passion and even... want? All behind those eyes, eyes so dark that midnight could drown within their abyss.
"We should..." Lothiriel trailed off. They should, yes, but what one should do and what one does are two entirely different things. "We should, yes. But whether we will or not has not yet been decided." She smiled coquettishly.
"Perchance, My Lady, it has been decided," he breathed, and she giggled as he swept her up in his arms, as they ventured deep down into the cavernous hall that was beneath the hill of Edoras.
Eowine awoke early the next morning. Lothiriel lay sleeping beside him, and he didn't have the heart to wake, her, she looked so peaceful as she slept. He briefly contemplated waiting until she woke up before leaving, but Eomer had scheduled another council for today, and Eowine took war a lot more seriously than women, even this one, on whom he had gambled so much for, just to spend one night with.
Still tired, he dressed quickly, in the clothes he had worn before. Was it right to leave her so, cold and alone in the unrelenting darkness of the caverns? Of course, it mattered little, country and king before whores and wine, but all the same... Touching Lothiriel's dark hair tentatively one last time before he left, he sped out of the cavern.
A while later, Lothiriel herself awoke. In the deep caverns, day melded into night for her, as she, unlike Eowine, had a terrible perception of the passage of time. Blinking, she heaved herself upright. Around her were her clothes, and she lay wrapped in her cloak.
"Eowine?" she called, wrapping the cloak ever closer, trying to protect herself from the chill. Even for deep, dripping caverns, these were cold. Of course, she'd never slept naked in a deep, dripping cavern before.
"Eowine, I'm not in the mood. Come here!" she called, getting irritated. There was no answer but the echo of her voice reverberating around the cavern. Bad-temperedly, she collected her clothes together, and threw them on. Men were all the same, she decided. Pushing away these thoughts, she attempted to fortify her failing heterosexuality, and made for the Hall. She wondered vaguely whether that was a good idea, to gallivanting into the hall badly dressed, with messy hair, at any time of the day or night. It probably wasn't, but right then, she didn't particularly care.
Eomer awoke to the unmistakeable sounds of a full tavern. Startled, he shot up in bed. What the hell was he doing in a tavern? He had been drunk again last night, but he certainly didn't recall a tavern. He could definitely hear one though. He looked around wildly, looking with distaste at the pile of putridly coloured vomit staining his rushes. His room, normally tidy, was covered in broken glass, feathers (?), his clothes, and reeked of gin and vomit. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he cast around for a drink of water, and saw none. Shrugging, he stood, to go and see just why he could hear a tavern outside his house.
Walking towards the noise, he became increasingly aware of a splitting headache. With each step, another shot of white-hot pain lanced through his head. He felt rather dizzy, too. Opening the door of the keep, he nearly collapsed. Those unmistakeable sounds he had heard before were definitely coming from here. Maids ran around, laughing or screaming, depending on the looks of those who were chasing them. The men who weren't following the giggling cleaners were sitting drinking ale at the tables. Eomer choked.
"STOP!" he screamed. A blanket of silence slowly descended upon the room. A tipsy maid or two let out a nervous giggle. Eomer sent them looks of pure poison. The tension in the room was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Eomer slowly looked at each of his nobles in turn, the headache gone, replaced with pure, unbridled anger.
"What has been going on here, could someone please tell me?" his voice was deceptively calm, but so cold it would have melted in the arctic. Many of the older nobles knew to keep quiet, but some of the younger, drunker members of the aristocracy did not know when to hold their tongues.
"We found the beer, sir!" one yelled, displaying his tankard, and all of his friends roared with laughter at the man, whose wit wouldn't have cut butter. However, when drunk, along with common sense, morality and shame, a normal sense of humour is thrown out of the window.
"You did, did you? And who, on this day of council, permitted you to partake of our usually well guarded ale?" he asked, his voice still calm and sibilant. Now, however, even the drunken youth had caught on, and the whole hall remained stubbornly silent.
"Well. You do not wish to tell me. Are you all such cowards that the one man who voiced the order will not be found?" he asked. Those who hadn't said a word looked around, grim jawed. Some had sincerely thought that drinking the ale would be all right, and that it was relatively normal to turn the keep into a brothel. Most of the nobles knew who it was, but kept a respectful silence. Where was the honour in weaselling favour through treachery?
"You will not say. That is fine. But since you have drunk most of the ale saved for the upcoming feast, I am afraid that there shall be no feast. There is nothing I can do. Sorry, gentlemen," Eomer calmy turned on his heel, and left the keep. Kingly duties were boring.
As he bad temperedly rode away from Edoras, not caring where he went, it never crossed his mind that he'd missed the council.
Lothiriel, approaching the keep, could practically feel the hostility emanating from the building. Concerned, she wondered what could be wrong, as it was nearly a feast day. She shrugged, and pushed the great doors open. Instead of the normal buzz of chatter, there was a feeling of unspoken bitterness hanging in the air. Her footfalls echoing eerily in the silence as she crossed the hall, she became extremely aware that all eyes were focussed on her, and it made her extremely uncomfortable.
Eowine was not among those in the hall, and Lothiriel was extremely grateful. She never wanted to see him again, let alone talk to him. He had played her, and treated her like a common whore. Treated her like... like Tangwystl! Angered by her own thoughts, Lothiriel shot a death glare to the pale-faced youth guarding the antechamber leading off from the hall, and slammed her door behind her. She, heard, as soon as the door closed, normal chatter building up again.
"My Lady, are you well?" asked a frightened Aleneve, who had been tidying Lothiriel's chambers. The reluctant maid had been avoiding her foul- tempered mistress for a long while, especially since the birth of Airan.
"I'm fine, Aleneve. Leave now, I need to do something," said Lothiriel. She didn't think she could take any of Aleneve's incessant moaning right now. She'd forgotten about the pale-faced woman recently, but seeing her again brought back all sorts of unpleasant memories.
"But My Lady..." Aleneve simpered.
"Shut up!" Lothiriel was rather tired, and her witty comebacks were at an all time low right now. Aleneve probably wouldn't notice, though, as she tended to be rather... blonde, for lack of a better word. Lothiriel sighed, as she watched Aleneve leave the chamber quickly.
Thoughts were running through her mind at a tremendous pace. Thoughts about Eowine, about Eomer, about her Father, about everything. Things she had said, replaying in her mind. The look on Eomer's face when he'd heard about Tangwystl, the letters (Or lack of them) from her Father, waking alone in a cold cave...
Lothiriel suddenly felt extremely sick. She was feeling sorry for herself, wallowing in her own self-pity, just as Aleneve did. She was weak, she was stupid and she was feeling pity for it. She didn't need pity! She didn't need sympathy, she needed nothing! Especially not Eomer. Or Eowine. She knew what she wanted, and she would have it.
Even if no one wanted her, she'd show them. It didn't matter if she floated from place to place, unwanted, as driftwood. She could be strong.
As she was wallowing in her self-pity, the thought that there were people much better off than her comforted her a little. Also, she found she took a sort of twisted comfort in the thought that she could have people beheaded, although she wasn't a big fan of the whole decapitation thing. She preferred strangulation.
A/N Do you know how long that took! I'm nearly dying... I hope you like it... You'd better...
DRIFTWOOD
Breathlessly, Lothiriel pulled away from Eowine. She looked away from his hopeful eyes. How could she be doing this to Eomer? He did not love the man, never would she love him; but this felt so wrong. She was no more than Tangwystl, a whore. But at least Tangwystl had preyed upon money, power, and good looks. Lothiriel was selling herself cheaply, to a horse-guard. No, he was not even that. He was practically a stable-boy! Eowyn's ancient taunt once again haunted her – Black as is sin... It echoed around her head.
"Lothiriel?" Eowine stirred her from her musings with his perpetually nervous voice. It was rather high pitched and tremulous, and sounded rather squeaky and nasal.
"Mhmmm?" she turned back to him. He was so wonderful, and there was love and passion behind those eyes, but... NO! She would not succumb to the temptations of the flesh, whether she wanted to or not. That's all he was, a good lay. Is what she would have though, but Eowine was gawky, squeaky, and had, even by Rohirric standards, an extremely strange name.
"You don't wish for... We should leave it?" he asked, in his shaking tremor. All the while she had been looking away from him, he had stared at her, and seen the same love and passion and even... want? All behind those eyes, eyes so dark that midnight could drown within their abyss.
"We should..." Lothiriel trailed off. They should, yes, but what one should do and what one does are two entirely different things. "We should, yes. But whether we will or not has not yet been decided." She smiled coquettishly.
"Perchance, My Lady, it has been decided," he breathed, and she giggled as he swept her up in his arms, as they ventured deep down into the cavernous hall that was beneath the hill of Edoras.
Eowine awoke early the next morning. Lothiriel lay sleeping beside him, and he didn't have the heart to wake, her, she looked so peaceful as she slept. He briefly contemplated waiting until she woke up before leaving, but Eomer had scheduled another council for today, and Eowine took war a lot more seriously than women, even this one, on whom he had gambled so much for, just to spend one night with.
Still tired, he dressed quickly, in the clothes he had worn before. Was it right to leave her so, cold and alone in the unrelenting darkness of the caverns? Of course, it mattered little, country and king before whores and wine, but all the same... Touching Lothiriel's dark hair tentatively one last time before he left, he sped out of the cavern.
A while later, Lothiriel herself awoke. In the deep caverns, day melded into night for her, as she, unlike Eowine, had a terrible perception of the passage of time. Blinking, she heaved herself upright. Around her were her clothes, and she lay wrapped in her cloak.
"Eowine?" she called, wrapping the cloak ever closer, trying to protect herself from the chill. Even for deep, dripping caverns, these were cold. Of course, she'd never slept naked in a deep, dripping cavern before.
"Eowine, I'm not in the mood. Come here!" she called, getting irritated. There was no answer but the echo of her voice reverberating around the cavern. Bad-temperedly, she collected her clothes together, and threw them on. Men were all the same, she decided. Pushing away these thoughts, she attempted to fortify her failing heterosexuality, and made for the Hall. She wondered vaguely whether that was a good idea, to gallivanting into the hall badly dressed, with messy hair, at any time of the day or night. It probably wasn't, but right then, she didn't particularly care.
Eomer awoke to the unmistakeable sounds of a full tavern. Startled, he shot up in bed. What the hell was he doing in a tavern? He had been drunk again last night, but he certainly didn't recall a tavern. He could definitely hear one though. He looked around wildly, looking with distaste at the pile of putridly coloured vomit staining his rushes. His room, normally tidy, was covered in broken glass, feathers (?), his clothes, and reeked of gin and vomit. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he cast around for a drink of water, and saw none. Shrugging, he stood, to go and see just why he could hear a tavern outside his house.
Walking towards the noise, he became increasingly aware of a splitting headache. With each step, another shot of white-hot pain lanced through his head. He felt rather dizzy, too. Opening the door of the keep, he nearly collapsed. Those unmistakeable sounds he had heard before were definitely coming from here. Maids ran around, laughing or screaming, depending on the looks of those who were chasing them. The men who weren't following the giggling cleaners were sitting drinking ale at the tables. Eomer choked.
"STOP!" he screamed. A blanket of silence slowly descended upon the room. A tipsy maid or two let out a nervous giggle. Eomer sent them looks of pure poison. The tension in the room was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Eomer slowly looked at each of his nobles in turn, the headache gone, replaced with pure, unbridled anger.
"What has been going on here, could someone please tell me?" his voice was deceptively calm, but so cold it would have melted in the arctic. Many of the older nobles knew to keep quiet, but some of the younger, drunker members of the aristocracy did not know when to hold their tongues.
"We found the beer, sir!" one yelled, displaying his tankard, and all of his friends roared with laughter at the man, whose wit wouldn't have cut butter. However, when drunk, along with common sense, morality and shame, a normal sense of humour is thrown out of the window.
"You did, did you? And who, on this day of council, permitted you to partake of our usually well guarded ale?" he asked, his voice still calm and sibilant. Now, however, even the drunken youth had caught on, and the whole hall remained stubbornly silent.
"Well. You do not wish to tell me. Are you all such cowards that the one man who voiced the order will not be found?" he asked. Those who hadn't said a word looked around, grim jawed. Some had sincerely thought that drinking the ale would be all right, and that it was relatively normal to turn the keep into a brothel. Most of the nobles knew who it was, but kept a respectful silence. Where was the honour in weaselling favour through treachery?
"You will not say. That is fine. But since you have drunk most of the ale saved for the upcoming feast, I am afraid that there shall be no feast. There is nothing I can do. Sorry, gentlemen," Eomer calmy turned on his heel, and left the keep. Kingly duties were boring.
As he bad temperedly rode away from Edoras, not caring where he went, it never crossed his mind that he'd missed the council.
Lothiriel, approaching the keep, could practically feel the hostility emanating from the building. Concerned, she wondered what could be wrong, as it was nearly a feast day. She shrugged, and pushed the great doors open. Instead of the normal buzz of chatter, there was a feeling of unspoken bitterness hanging in the air. Her footfalls echoing eerily in the silence as she crossed the hall, she became extremely aware that all eyes were focussed on her, and it made her extremely uncomfortable.
Eowine was not among those in the hall, and Lothiriel was extremely grateful. She never wanted to see him again, let alone talk to him. He had played her, and treated her like a common whore. Treated her like... like Tangwystl! Angered by her own thoughts, Lothiriel shot a death glare to the pale-faced youth guarding the antechamber leading off from the hall, and slammed her door behind her. She, heard, as soon as the door closed, normal chatter building up again.
"My Lady, are you well?" asked a frightened Aleneve, who had been tidying Lothiriel's chambers. The reluctant maid had been avoiding her foul- tempered mistress for a long while, especially since the birth of Airan.
"I'm fine, Aleneve. Leave now, I need to do something," said Lothiriel. She didn't think she could take any of Aleneve's incessant moaning right now. She'd forgotten about the pale-faced woman recently, but seeing her again brought back all sorts of unpleasant memories.
"But My Lady..." Aleneve simpered.
"Shut up!" Lothiriel was rather tired, and her witty comebacks were at an all time low right now. Aleneve probably wouldn't notice, though, as she tended to be rather... blonde, for lack of a better word. Lothiriel sighed, as she watched Aleneve leave the chamber quickly.
Thoughts were running through her mind at a tremendous pace. Thoughts about Eowine, about Eomer, about her Father, about everything. Things she had said, replaying in her mind. The look on Eomer's face when he'd heard about Tangwystl, the letters (Or lack of them) from her Father, waking alone in a cold cave...
Lothiriel suddenly felt extremely sick. She was feeling sorry for herself, wallowing in her own self-pity, just as Aleneve did. She was weak, she was stupid and she was feeling pity for it. She didn't need pity! She didn't need sympathy, she needed nothing! Especially not Eomer. Or Eowine. She knew what she wanted, and she would have it.
Even if no one wanted her, she'd show them. It didn't matter if she floated from place to place, unwanted, as driftwood. She could be strong.
As she was wallowing in her self-pity, the thought that there were people much better off than her comforted her a little. Also, she found she took a sort of twisted comfort in the thought that she could have people beheaded, although she wasn't a big fan of the whole decapitation thing. She preferred strangulation.
A/N Do you know how long that took! I'm nearly dying... I hope you like it... You'd better...