When Éowyn had advised Lothíriel that life in Edoras might offer more than she was accustomed to in physical labor, she had not been exaggerating. All things being said, neither the city nor the Golden Hall was a prime example of high and mighty grandeur. It had been almost two months since her wedding, and Lothíriel had done more washing, cooking, sewing, and tending than ever before in the whole course of her life. In addition, she had her duties as queen— managing household stores and accounts, overseeing what little staff Éomer kept on hand, and acting as a quiet and supportive advisor to the king when she felt her opinion appropriate. It had been very difficult to adjust.
At least her muscles seemed at last to be catching up to her new lifestyle. She wondered how long it would take for her hands to similarly adapt. The other women, she noticed, had very tough hands— thick, callused, well-worn. Lothíriel's hands were usually dry and cracked, though she did her best to alleviate them with various kind of salves when she got the chance. In addition, they ached and often bled, and she found herself wishing for either her old, soft, white hands or the leather-tough hands of the other women. This in-between phase was most troublesome. But it seemed only time would make the transition.
Lothíriel knew she could perhaps have gotten away with less work than she heaped upon herself, but she was always acutely aware of how many Rohirrim still viewed her as an outsider. For that matter, she still viewed herself as an outsider. The best way she could think of to earn her new people's respect and acceptance was to prove that she was not above doing everything required for their way of life.
Today, Lothíriel was grateful for a break from spinning— a task for which she seemed hopelessly inept, and which seemed to be a kind of constant no matter the time of year. Instead, she had been surprised after breakfast by the men bringing several large bundles of stripped tree-bark and depositing them in the hall, where they left crumbling flakes of bark and dirt all over the floor. The bark, Gaerwyn explained in her usual begrudging manner, was a critical element in the process of tanning leather. The women had all donned large aprons, and had spent the day with knife, mortar, and pestle, chopping, pounding, and finely grinding the bark into powder, a process that was very hard on Lothíriel's shoulders, but was blissfully free of the necessary precision she hadn't been able to master in spinning.
The long, narrow solar on the Eastern side of the Golden Hall served many purposes. In the winter, Lothíriel was told, it was the warmest room in the Hall, having the best fireplace and capturing the most sunshine. In the summer, the large, wide windows could be thrown open, allowing the brisk winds of Medueselde to offer respite from the heat. Here the ladies spent most of their daytime hours. The room also served as a bedchamber for several of the household servants. A large bed that would accommodate many was situated at the far end, underneath which were stuffed pallets and bedclothes for additional sleeping places, pulled out each night and put neatly away each morning.
It was here they worked now, while Lothíriel let Emeí chatter away in her usual vivacious manner. Despite her youth, the girl had become Lothíriel's friend and mainstay. Open, bright, accepting-she was eager to be helpful and welcoming. She was an orphan-her only family her older brother who was presently training to be a Rider with Erkenbrand's troops in the Westmark. Lothíriel noticed after her first few days in Edoras that Emeí seemed to command an unusual level of respect from all members of Éomer's household, a point she found most curious until she learned that the girl's father had been one Hama, former bodyguard to King Théoden, and the most revered of the fallen men at Helm's Deep. Emeí had been living at the Golden Hall since that time, and Éomer had assigned her as Lothíriel's chief companion.
In the corner of the room, Froilas chewed and slobbered away on a particularly stubby branch that Lothíriel had procured to placate her, while Emeí explained to Lothíriel the long and painstaking process of making leather. There were many steps, and it took over a year for the animal hides to be acceptable for use, meaning that several cycles of the process were ongoing at any given time, in various stages. When the butchering was done in the autumn or the spring, the hides from the animals would be flayed and soaked in salt and water, until they were clean enough for tanning. This involved further soaking for many days in a solution made from the tree bark and various herbs that were gathered and prepared during the year. There were many further steps of washing, drying, and softening that followed, and when it was finally done, the leather was turned over to the loving hands of the saddle makers and leather craftsmen. Lothíriel marveled at the intricacy of the process. She'd never really stopped to consider how many things the leather was used for. She supposed her father's household used similar methods, but she had never witnessed them.
As soon as the women had wrapped up their work for the day— she estimated that grinding all the bark would probably take the better part of a week— Lothíriel's curiosity led her to Éomer's chambers before beginning her supper preparations. His riding armor was perched in the corner on a wooden stand designed to support the heavy gear. She paused hesitantly in the doorway, looking around to ensure she was alone. She had learned to be comfortable in all corners of the Golden Hall except this place. Here, she still felt as though she were intruding.
In the quietest portions of her heart, Lothíriel knew there was another reason she kept herself so busy. If her mind and body were driven by activity to the point of utter exhaustion, she would have neither the time nor the energy to second-guess her decision now that she was here. And she wouldn't have time to think about the guilt she suffered when she thought of her husband.
The night Lothíriel had gone to Éomer's chambers— the night he'd so chivalrously forgone his husband's rights—had weighed heavily in the back of her thoughts. What she hadn't told him of were the quiet, disapproving whispers that had begun circulating about Edoras concerning her hesitance in this arena . Lothíriel wondered if Éomer was aware of them. Chivalry or no, if she held off on the nighttime aspect of her queenly duties for too long, the people would not think well of her.
Above all, though, her frustration was with herself. In her mind she knew that Éomer was a good man and a good husband. He'd said she had nothing to fear from him, and she knew in her heart that his words were true. In fact, they were becoming more comfortable about interacting with one another on a day-to-day level. King and queen, she knew, worked very well together, but there was still a wall between husband and wife— a wall that Théodred, son of Théoden, was still sitting upon.
Year 3016 of the Third Age
Lothíriel was accustomed to vast expanses, but not made of earth. Her familiarity was with water— the ocean roiling out to the horizon. Looking down from the pinnacle of Minas Tirith, the horizon was not quite so pleasant. It was a long line of dark, brooding mountains, tall and sharp and foreboding. They contrasted sharply with the white stone of the low wall beneath her hand.
"It mesmerizes, does it not?"
The words were accompanied by heavy footfall on the stone walkway behind her. Lothíriel smiled softly at the speaker as she turned, despite the gravity of his question. "Théodred," she greeted.
He nodded a return greeting and stepped up quietly to stand beside her. Then he too turned to consider the vista below and beyond them. Lothíriel glanced nervously down at her hands, which were now clenched more tightly on the edge of the wall, and tried to calm the sudden hastening of her breathing. She'd thought her fancy for Théodred these past few years had been little more than a child's whimsy, but since their unforeseen reunion in the White City, she found herself unable to shake it. It was flustering and unnerving, and she was quite sure he must think her going mad, for his presence seemed to tie her tongue into knots whenever he was near.
And he was near quite often. Lothíriel surely could not comprehend why so great a man favored her company—why he'd ever favored it, even when she was just a child. Yet despite all commonsensical arguments, Théodred of Rohan had sought her company often during the past few days.
"It has been growing very dark, of late," Théodred said at last, nodding at the border in the distance.
Lothíriel shivered. "Is it this matter that holds you all in council so long these days?"
"Yes."
She glanced up. Eight years' time had etched careworn lines in his face that had not always been there, and she grieved at the many unnamed burdens that seemed to have befallen him since their last meeting. "My cousin Boromir has done much riding, these past few months," she said knowingly. "He recruits more and more warriors to my uncle's service. They have even asked support from my father in this regard." She gave a very heavy sigh. "Yet none of this has served to lighten the darkening of their spirits."
"You are very perceptive, lady." He said simply, his voice edged with admiration.
"Théodred," she said, feeling slightly emboldened. "I hope you will not think me intrusive, but…" Then she hesitated.
"What is it?" he asked, concerned.
"Might I ask what it was that brought you all this way to Minas Tirith? We certainly had not been led to expect you." Imrahil, Amrothos, and Lothíriel had been in residence in the White City for almost half the summer now, but Théodred's arrival three days previous had been utterly unforeseen.
"The growing troubles you have noted have not left my country unaffected, either, Lothíriel. Evil seems to be festering and multiplying in all the dark places of the world, not just—" he paused, and glanced back once more towards the line of mountains in the distance. "Not just in Mordor," he concluded, glaring at them as if challenging them to comment on his daring. He did not see Lothíriel's brief shiver. "Orcs come from the mountains. They attack along the river. Their numbers seem unceasing at times. I am becoming increasingly concerned."
"So your father bid you advise Lord Denethor of the situation?"
Théodred's expression became even more grim, and for a moment he gave no reply. At last, he said, "My father did not bid me. I came of my own accord. I will be forced to deal with his consternation upon my return, for, in truth, he was against this course, and I came against his express bidding. In Edoras," he added, hesitatingly, "things are… becoming difficult." Théodred's eyes were very sad as he spoke.
She wished he would elaborate, but she did not push her curiosity. But when he broke his transfixed stare on the distant menace of Mordor and turned to look at her again, his eyes sparked with an ember of their former life and he smiled. Lothíriel smiled back, certain that no amount of worry could ever completely kill his merry nature. "Let us speak of it no more," he then said. "What has drawn you out here today, my lady?"
"My head is full of thoughts I cannot sort through," she said truthfully as they turned from the wall and began walking back towards the main part of the courtyard. In the distance, she spied the figure of her father conferring with her uncle the Lord Denethor, her cousin Boromir, and other councilors of Gondor. "I sought solitude, exercise, and fresh air to try and clear it."
"The former of which I have just spoiled, haven't I?" he asked, suddenly chuckling. "My apologies. And of what nature are these thoughts, might I ask?"
Lothíriel flushed slightly. She could hardly own to him that he was the source of her consternation. "I fear, my Lord, that it is a private matter."
"In that case," he continued, "it must be some fine fellow of Dol Amroth with whom you have become enraptured."
"My Lord!" she cried, looking up at him in shock, appalled at his forthrightness.
Théodred only laughed harder. "No? Of Minas Tirith, then."
Still blushing profusely, Lothíriel only ducked her head and shook it emphatically. "You have no business to ask me such a thing, Théodred of Rohan," she said, trying to scold, but only succeeding in letting a traitorous smile of amusement past her guard.
"Perhaps not," he said, still grinning. "Perhaps I should apologize, but I would not be completely honest if I said I was sorry. It is amusing to see you so out of sorts, my Lady."
"You are incorrigible," Lothíriel managed at last, still shaking her head.
"But I'm not far wrong, am I?" he asked, stepping back. He crossed his arms and scrutinized her.
"What an impertinent thing to ask a lady, Théodred," she said huffily, putting her hands on her hips. Her exasperation was taking the edge off her formality. "I refuse to participate any further in this line of conversation."
"You are absolutely right, my lady," he said, giving a small half-bow. "I will stop at once, but might I ask a favor in return?"
"And what is that?" she asked warily.
"That you favor Lord Denethor's court this evening with your harp. You have not played since my arrival. I have found myself longing for the privilege of hearing you. And tomorrow I must take my leave."
Instantly, Lothíriel's face betrayed her disappointment. "Why so, my lord?"
He smiled sadly. "My business here is completed, Lothíriel. I dare not linger long away from my home and my father."
Lothíriel curtseyed low. "It will be my honor to play for you this evening, my Lord, if that is your wish."
A noiseless tear dropped from Lothíriel's cheek as the memory faded. She made no effort to wipe it away. Instead, she reached out and lightly ran her fingers over the surface of Éomer's armor, which she now stood before. Her fingers grazed an imperfection in it— a nick about the thickness of her thumb, carefully patched, and she wondered what sort of battle had been its author. Had it been during the recent victory over Sauron and the forces of Mordor? Or had it been those increasing clashes and skirmishes in the dark, looming evil that Théodred had spoken of with such concern that day on the wall of the city? The arrow— as she guessed it'd been—hadn't seemed to have pierced the leather completely.
It was clear the armor was the work of a master artisan. Each piece was expertly cut, shaped, and sewn in perfect compliment to its neighbors. Lothíriel was fascinated that something so strong and practical could still be so beautiful.
"Lothíriel?"
Éomer's puzzled voice behind her caused her to leap several inches in shock. She turned in haste, flushing deeply in mortification. What a picture she must have made!
"My Lord," she fumbled helplessly, "my apologies, I did not mean to disturb you in any—"
"It is all right, Lothíriel," he said, holding up a hand. He still looked confused. "Was there something you needed?" The question almost made her smile. How was she supposed to explain a curiosity about his armor? He probably thought she'd come her for some other purpose and had only been studying it to occupy herself.
"This is beautiful," she said after a moment's dumb pause, fumbling a bit in her embarrassment. She held her fingertips out once more towards the armor. "Emeí was teaching me about tanning today, and I wanted a closer look."
He took an interested step closer. "An interesting pursuit for a woman," he commented.
"Why should I not be inquisitive?" Lothíriel put forth, not sure whether or not she should take offense at this. "I have always been interested in all forms of craftsmanship. Today I discovered one that I have taken for granted." She eyed him cautiously.
He nodded to where her hand was still resting. "Armor leather is very thick and difficult for a woman to work with. I know a little of the trade— a soldier is encouraged to be familiar with all of his gear and how to care for it. You never know what sort of repairs might be called for at brief notice."
Almost automatically, Lothíriel's eyes sought the nick she'd seen earlier. "Did you repair this one yourself?" she wondered.
"Yes."
Lothíriel hesitated, her other previous thoughts repeating themselves as well. "Éomer," she asked quietly, "how long was it that the concern Théodred carried for his father began?" Her voice was pained. "You said the king was bewitched," she remembered awkwardly. It had been over a year since they'd spoken of it on the journey to Rohan. "I always knew there was something more dismal at work than Théodred would confess. His weariness and burden hung about him like clinging fog, but in this matter alone he would not confide in me. I still wish that he had."
"Do you know why he did not?" Éomer asked quietly.
"He said it was not something he wished to burden me with— that there was nothing I could do to help. But he was wrong. I would have helped him merely by allowing him to share his pain." She sighed. Then she gave a small smile. "But I am certain that you were well-acquainted with his stubbornness."
Éomer chuckled heartily. "Yes, that is certain. No doubt Théodred felt he was doing you a favor."
"Do you agree? I have often feared he thought me weak."
"Never, my lady," Éomer was swift to reply. "Of that I can assure you."
"In his place, would you have done the same?"
"I am not certain. It is less disheartening a story now than it would have been four years ago. In those days, we feared my uncle's mind was gone forever."
"But it proved not to be so," she said knowingly, thinking of the great deeds performed by Théoden King in his last days.
For a long moment, Éomer did not reply. Instead, he studied her thoughtfully. At last, he said, "If you are really interested in learning more of the leatherwork, I would be happy to teach you what I know. As I said, it is not often a pursuit made by our women, but it is not unheard of. Perhaps in that time I might tell you the circumstances of which you wish to know."
Lothíriel's eyes widened. "You have so little time for leisure, my Lord," she argued. "I would not have you squander it on my account."
"On the contrary, lady, I would consider it an investment. A venture worthy of great reward."
She could not look directly at him for a moment. She knew he paid her a very flattering compliment, but she was as yet unable to take them easily. Still, she realized, it was high time she stopped ignoring the man. And his offer was both appealing and relieving—such an industrious means of spending time together would take the edge off of her discomfort.
"Very well," she said slowly, doing her best to make her smile genuine. "When might we begin?"
He cocked his head thoughtfully. "After supper?" Then he laughed. "But not before. I'm afraid priority is quite insistent in this matter."
Lothíriel smiled more easily this time. "I agree, and so I shall attend to it at once."
Replies:
Terreis- I hope you have quite recovered from your Carson-related shock. Abominable characterization should be fined or something. My Thanksgiving was quite lovely, thank you very much!
Blue Eyes at Midnight- I've actually given a lot of pondering to how our wonderful noblemen in LotR would conduct themselves with regard to physical intimacy. While it's true that in medieval times people tended to be very promiscuous (hey, kind of like today! sarcastic), I don't think that everything about the medieval lifestyle needs to be adhered to in the LotR world. Let's face it, these men are just plain larger-than-life characters, and I like to imagine that they have their own moral code about how men and women should be together, including the practice of abstinence before marriage and fidelity afterward.
lsoa- I think this chapter was considerably meatier. I hope it was to your satisfaction. :-)
smor- Yes, perhaps we should all avoid such realms of our imagination. ;-)
Eokat- Sometime soon, we hope, but gradually. LOL
jadeddiva- Thanks for the review! Hope I didn't keep you in suspense too terribly long.
Tracey- Undoubtedly, the principle of fidelity in the Christian faith was an attraction as well. Interesting tidbit of history. I've never heard that before. And it's easy as pie to give good reviews to such interesting feedback! :-)
Lady ot Rings- A writer is always glad to be told they're refreshing. Thanks for dropping by—please stick around!
Aikaze- Hmmn. Indeed. Sometimes I'm afraid I'm writing Éomer a little too good to be true, but I have so much fun doing it that I suppose in the end I don't care. LOL. Thanks for the reply.
Wondereye- Thanks for the compliment and good thought on the argument. It doesn't seem very likely that they can just go on tiptoeing around each other forever, does it?
Spacepirate- Hehe. Éothain's hobbit-request was a favorite moment of mine, as well. I figured it'd be poetic justice upon him, since he was skeptical of them in the book. ;-)
Amariel- Thanks! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!
recollect me darling- whispers Actually, formal dialogue isn't that difficult to get a feel for. You just need to watch and read hours and hours of Jane Austen stories. LOL. Thanks for the review.
Rachel A. Prongs- HEhehe. You and me both, girlfriend. cough Bad Saché!
DesolateAznVamp- Thanks for the review!
A/N: I'd like to thank the Old Hide House for it's wonderfully informative website concerning historical tanning techniques and other general leather-related information. Researching for this chapter was very interesting. Please excuse any un-caught typos—I am updating in a rush and don't have time to properly read through it. Until next time!
Saché