so sorry I haven't updated for AGES. replie to reviewers first:
Blue Eyes At Night -She jumps on him now. Thank you for your review of my Draco fic, as well, I'm glad you liked it I was worried it ended on a crap note. Still not sure it's one of my best. Xxx
Chocolate Trinkit –Yeah, another reviewer told me that they were older but by the time I knew, hey, the damage was done. Hopefully that's not too huge a mistake? It's quite important that they're all roughly the same age (Lothi, Faramir and Éomer) as it helps them relate to each other. I'd say that in my fic Éomer and Faramir are both older than Lothi, but not by too much –five years max? I didn't think Lothi had other sisters but I put them in so she has some little things to love. All sisters need little sisters. Also for the awww factor. Lol. Glad you're enjoying it! Xxx
lady scribe of avandell -Yes I am much happier with my Éomer now and hoping everyone likes Faramir because he is a great character to mess with. Um that's all… ah except that I'm afraid it may take Lothíriel longer to come round to Éomer than it does for him to appreciate her. (in the less 'animalistic' sense) xxx
Lometari -Thanks so much! Very glad most people think story is improving. I think it is too. Updates may not be so frequent as it's my birthday on tues and then we partAY all week! Hooray! But this is nearly over, maybe I should be dragging it out more. I'd say 3-4 chapters and it's done. Xxx Read your own Lothi/Éomer fic by the way, it was v good!
MexicanDevil-RoadCrew-Lol I hope I'm not having too much trouble anymore. Your review reminded me that I haven't updated for ages –I'm trying to get down to it! Thanks your review was really unexpected cuz I'd kinda put this fic on the backburner for a while. Please keep reading! Xxx
harry potter sucks- Thanks for the nice comments. I haven't updated partly due to laziness and partly to writers' block –ok mainly the lazy factor. Also life V hectic atm. I drool over Éomer!
disclaimer-i do not own any part of LOTR.
On with the show. sorry it's months overdue!
The Tale of Éomer and Lothíriel.
PART EIGHT.
Lothíriel crouched in the shadow of a large tree at the edge of the woods. Faintly she could hear the stir of hundreds of horses and their riders, lying in wait for her signal. Then, they would attack. They had to wait for the foot and artillery of the Three Companies to have distracted the massing force against them. There was a tumultuous clash of battle beyond their hiding place, across the plain, as the foot soldiers took the second wave of the ambush, giving support to the artillery who had attacked first. The orcs now had to alter their fighting strategy to accommodate two ways of using force. Lothíriel glanced up through the dark branches swirling over her head and spied the moon. When it was shining directly down into her space, then she would give the signal.
She shifted, snapping a twig that no one but the next scout could hear. She felt too hot here, the waiting was making her sweat and she didn't like it. Being on the edge of a battle you're about to get dragged into, seeing men dying and being forced to do nothing because strategy was dictating their moves, was a very oppressing feeling. The moon glimmered on the point of her silver and blue shield, and the outline of the ship glowed like a spirit. Lothíriel glanced sideways at the scout to her right, who nodded and gripped his own spear tighter. She offered him a grim smile that he could barely see because of her helmet.
She stood up, a lone and obvious target in the bushes. Her sword came up and pointed at a upward slant towards the battle. 'Onward,' was the message. Behind her she heard the horn of Rohan sound and Éomer's loud call sounding the third wave of ambush. The riders of Dol Amroth and Rohan began to advance. Lothíriel led the other scouts as they scrambled to the side of the forest, which would within five minutes have a host of horsemen swarming out of it. She saw Éomer ride past without noticing her, alert and confident at the front of the onslaught. When the last rider had past, her heart leapt in her mouth, knowing that she would be facing her largest ever battle, and that this night was nowhere near done.
"Attack!" she shouted impulsively, stirring her scouts to take the last advance, "ATTACK! By all that you hold dear, if you would ever live by the fair sea, in her salt airs and her lapping peace: attack now for Dol Amroth and the Swan and Ship you sail by!"
The battle was long and intense. Adrenaline alone was feeding the shattered body of Lothíriel as she ducked and swayed. Never in practice had she ever encountered anything like this that she was caught up in the middle of, her temple a bloody mess from an insufficient knock to the head, her hands cut and bleeding, her heart pounding all over her body. She could only think 'I must live, I must live!' There was no glory resounding in her heart, no courage for her people. On this most bloodiest of nights, all men fought for was their lives. It was half an hour before dawn when the orcs began to retreat. There was the uncertain pause. She knew she must order her troops, but could not yell.
"Retreat! Retreat to Dol Amroth!" Thank the Gods for Benadil. He suddenly appeared out of the noise, at her side. In that hour he gave her strength, when she remembered that she was just a woman, but all these warriors were just men.
"Retreat Eorlingas!" Éomer! Lothíriel spun around, desperate for the source of that calm and commanding voice. That battle-worn voice. A man she now thought worthy of respect. But in the turmoil she could not find his face.
Lothíriel did not get sleep. She stood on the balcony of the council room, caked with blood and gore, her hair sticky with it, watching her father and his swan knights march out to the already tattered battle plain, with the Gondorian army behind him, ready for the second ambush, the one that would finish this. There would be bloodshed all day. A red sun was rising. She felt the door stir behind her and turned to face her second in command.
Benadil had seen better days, though his appearance was more aesthetically pleasing. Having just been to the healers he was not encrusted with brown, stale scabs, grime and trails of sweat. He smelled freshly bathed, bandages curling up his arm, around his left leg, and a clotted blood dried on the large scratch over the bridge of his nose. He offered her a brotherly smile: appropriate, as she now had no one. "You need to rest. There will be no news until the end."
Lothíriel spun back to look over the busy city, which was waking up. Market vendors were setting up stalls as usual, as though their husbands and sons were not out dying. Some of them were wearing black. Some of them had already lost their loved ones last night. Lothíriel trembled and glanced at her thin fingers. Fingers that could catch an arrow. Fingers that looked so easily breakable. "I can't."
Goodbye clever conceited princess Lothíriel, commander of the Three Companies. Hello, nervous wreck.
"If you will not, you'd better borrow this," said Benadil, offering her his pipe. She laughed piteously and accepted it.
Lothíriel had never been so busy. All day she never once saw Éomer. She did not give herself pause to wonder how badly damaged he was. She did not go to the healers- in the end they came to her, and hid any concern. She steeped herself in paperwork, finishing all the reports and financial business stacked up in her father's rooms. She worked like a manic servant, determined to distract herself from the battlefield that lay halfway out to Gondor. By the time night fell, however, there had still been no word.
Éomer found himself of two minds. He knew of the princess' condition, but was hesitant to seek her company. Now that his part of the war for Dol Amroth was complete, he could see no reason not to admit to himself the obvious attraction he felt for her. But she had not sent for him, and he would not upset any of her customs by offering his dubious companionship. Instead he had not rested, for fear of reflecting too keenly on the woman. Instead, he packed out his day without pause, personally checking the men and horses, visiting the wounded, identifying and noting the names and number of the dead, who seemed less than he had anticipated when leaving the field. It was dusk by the time Hama grabbed him almost roughly and flat out demanded that his liege go back to the city and to bed.
The house on the sea seemed deserted when he reached it, devoid of the usual hustle and bustle. The servants were quiet, though not lacking in the deference due to a king. Éomer declined the polite offer of dinner, knowing that it was likely he would be alone for it, and only took a large glass of wine up to his room. The room was swathed in darkness. He set the glass down on an ornate chest of drawers and stripped off his armour, throwing the unworn helmet on the bed, where it bounced slightly. He glanced to the left and halted, drawing his sword. "Who's there?"
Éomer's heart did a funny pirouette and fell over. He sheathed his sword quickly and tried to keep a respectable difference between the intruder and himself. "Has there been news?" A shake of the head: no. "What are you… doing here?"
"Sleepwalking," said Lothíriel, unconvincingly.
"Lothíriel…"
"What is Faramir like in battle, my Lord? Is he going to die? Will my father die too? All my friends…w-what was it like for you? Did you feel this much? I'm weak, a weak woman, not even that, I'm a horrible little girl!"
Éomer moved forward on impulse and gently grasped her arms. If Lothíriel was going to be hysterical he didn't know what he could do. "You are… a beautiful, courageous woman. I have never seen such valour, such perseverance, such love," he said vehemently, without noticing that what was spilling out of his mouth was true. Pain flashed across both of their features, as Lothíriel visualised her solitude if all the ruling powers of her city were dead, leaving her alone. Éomer suffered flashbacks of all the deaths of all the men in his family, of the men who should have been privy to the power he held.
"Beautiful? Oh, don't you hate me Éomer?" Lothíriel could not cry. She was too inexperienced at it.
"If you let me, 'warrior princess', I will love you," said Éomer. Then he kissed her, at last.
Their first kisses were not romantic. They were scared, pained and frantic. They were not how real lovers should act.
They awoke only four hours after falling asleep; it was not yet daybreak. They had been reckless to sleep in Éomer's bed –if anyone had come in without knocking they could have had some explaining to do. Éomer felt a soft touch ghost over his cheek and opened his eyes.
"I should go. If we don't get news soon I need to send scouts."
Éomer sat up and looked down at the raven-haired beauty next to him, a bruised yet seemingly perfect body, the blankets bunched up around her rounded stomach, the bandage he had had to be careful not to disturb tightly wrapped around her ribcage. He swallowed. "Are you sorry?"
"No!" said Lothíriel, aghast, curling her fingers into his long golden hair and pulling him down to kiss him again. This was a lovers' kiss. The good kind. The perfect kind. She smiled.
"Good," he whispered into her neck, caressingher soft sqashy breasts,"because I would readily give my entire kingdom, including my horse, just to touch you again." Lothíriel blushed.
When she got to her room she had barely begun finding clean clothes when there was a sudden, incessant hammering at the wooden door. Before she could reach it, it was wrenched open to reveal Benadil, whose face was red and sweaty.
"They're back."
"Father!" exclaimed Lothíriel and rushed out, dashing past him.
"Wait!" shouted Benadil urgently. "Wait! I must prepare you…"
"Father!" Lothíriel crashed into Prince Imrahil's study, not having heeded any more of Benadil's cries. Her father sat frozen, as if waiting for her to do something. She sensed a movement, and turned to her left.
"Oh Oh my! Oh my" Lothíriel was beyond word or greeting. She felt winded. Shaking fingers reached out and tried to grasp all three men at once. Her breathing was erratic and she was swimming with faintness. At last, tears freed and coursed down her cheeks. Three sets of hands leapt to steady her as her knees buckled: somehow, inexplicably, Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos stood before their oldest sister.
ends of cliffhanger. 'aie!' they cry, 'how come those chaps are back?' Aha, you can find out when I get off my lazy arse to update again!
reviews will speed this up.
love rita xxxx
