Within a week, Lothíriel began to sympathize with Éomer's frustrated confinement to his bed. She consulted the healer— whom Éomer called a physician— and convinced the man to allow the king a few hours each day out of bed, provided he remained more or less still, and did not tax his healing ribs. The bruising had already begun to fade, and Éomer certainly felt strong and alert, but Lothíriel knew better to let him risk further injury with too much activity too quickly.
The past few days had given her more than ample opportunity to utilize her skills of state. She'd refused to allow Éomer's men and advisors to pester him, instead acting as a sort of emissary in his stead, discussing with them their issues and concerns, then relaying all matters to Éomer with lengthy interviews each morning and evening.
"Lord Melveag of Fenmarch sent you four dozen horses and five score head of cattle as part of his annual tribute," Lothíriel relayed, looking at the list of notes she'd taken during the day.
"The horses?" Éomer prompted.
"Three of the four dozen are mares, my lord."
Éomer rested his head back against the headboard satisfactorily. "Excellent," he replied. "There are too few mares in our current stock."
Lothíriel frowned thoughtfully at her list. "It seems an uncommonly high number of horses, sire, in comparison with the other Lords' tributes."
Éomer nodded knowingly. "He will probably send more," he said. "Fenmarch is not the largest of regions, and much of their land is marshy and difficult to inhabit."
"Rohan's portion of the Firien Wood is in Fenmarch, also, is it not?" Lothíriel asked, bringing to mind her memories of the border region, which she'd passed through three times in her journeys to and from Edoras.
"Yes," Éomer said approvingly. "In short, they do not have the space for large herds, as do the plainsmen. Neither is their cropland as expansive, though what little they have is some of the most fertile in Rohan."
"Because of the waterways," Lothíriel reflected.
"Melvaeg's next tribute will be after harvest, and likely consist of many more horses," Éomer said, "to keep their land from becoming too crowded. Also, fruit from their orchards and gardens, the likes of which you'll not enjoy so well anywhere else in Middle Earth, I'd wager. In exchange for all this, Edoras supplies them with a surplus of grain, which is particularly welcome in the harder winters."
"With smaller herds, though," Lothíriel asked, "what contribution does Fenmarch make to Rohan's forces? Surely it must have an effect."
"Very few Fenmarch ride with the eohere," Éomer said. He glanced at her, and seemed surprised at the military nature of her question. "They supply their share of foot soldiers, but their riders were long ago given the special charge to guard Rohan's border along the western road. It is the swiftest and easiest route between Rohan and Gondor. In time of war, they increase their vigilance and patrol, but very rarely leave home to fight."
"And they suffer no condescension from their fellow Rohirrim because of this?"
Éomer looked at her sharply. "Nay, lady. These defenders have seen as much of their share of battle. Without their diligence, much of the Eastfold, even Edoras itself would have been in very significant danger when the rest of the country was not so well manned."
"I see," Lothíriel replied, nodding. She coughed slightly, trying to clear her awkwardness, realizing with overwhelming consciousness how ignorant she still was of this country's ways. She hoped Éomer had not judged her question to be condescending. "In addition," she went on, resuming her report, "Lord Melvaeg requests your blessing in the betrothal to his daughter to Lord Delm's son, of the Eastfold."
Éomer set his lips together and seemed exasperated. "Why does he think I should care, so long as he believes it is for the best?" he complained. He glanced at Lothíriel. "These sorts of requests and petitions seem the most trivial of any I have to deal with," he said impatiently.
Lothíriel smiled a little. "But they do help ensure peace," she pointed out. "As redundant as they may seem, at times. Remember the story of Freca and Helm Hammerhand."
"That incident led to war, not peace," Éomer pointed out. "And I see you have been talking history with Emeí again, for I do not believe I told you that story."
"Well, you are not always available," she pointed out. "Besides, Emeí tells stories so much more colorfully than you do, Éomer."
The king looked stern and disapproving. "I fear she would embellish our history and sacrifice accuracy."
Lothíriel laughed. "Perhaps you're right," she confessed. "However, her embellishments make it easier to remember things. And don't worry, I can read your historical accounts any time I please, and have often done so. Anyway, I will always have you to keep me straight, will I not?"
He grunted in reply, still clearly displeased with Emeí's passionate method of storytelling. "And what did that girl say of Freca and Helm?"
"She draws such an evil picture of Freca," Lothíriel said, laughing, "that in her belief he must have once seen Helm's daughter, and been so overcome by her beauty that he desired to have her as his daughter-in-law because he wished to eventually possess her for himself."
Éomer seemed scandalized. "There is certainly no record of Freca ever having met Helm's daughter," he insisted, "nor is it likely. Add to that, any fool knows that his ambition was influence over Rohan, not the face of a woman."
"I know that," Lothíriel replied patiently. "As does Emeí," she added with another small laugh as Éomer began to protest once more. "She just has a very healthy and… speculative imagination. But that aside," Lothíriel said more seriously, "surely you can see that even had Helm agreed to the union, it likely would have led to war anyway."
Éomer nodded. "I have dwelt long upon this period of our history since I became king," he said, his eyes distant. "There are many questions I would ask of Frealaf, for his situation was very similar to mine."
"Nephew to the king, assuming the throne when he did not expect it, rebuilding the country after a period of great hardship," Lothíriel observed knowingly. "I have drawn these parallels as well." She hesitated, then added, "I think you should not waste very much time in self-doubt, my lord. Your people's love for you speaks more than enough about the success of your rule."
He looked at her wryly. "It is not over yet. It is hardly even begun."
"Nevertheless," she replied, "what I have said is true. As for myself," she added thoughtfully, "I would ask questions of your grandmother, Morwen. Her situation was very similar to mine."
"There were some who resented her presence at first," Éomer agreed, nodding. "But in time she came to be much beloved. For the most part, commoners accept such unions as part of the way between nobles. I only wish our people could understand how much Théodred loved you. I think they would be swifter to accept you thus."
At the mention of Théodred, Lothíriel gave a start. While she and Éomer talked of him often, they very rarely spoke directly of the love that had been lost. "Sometimes even I don't understand why Théodred loved me," she finally confessed in a small voice. "We were so very different. In age, in heritage, in knowledge." She sighed. "Even when I was a child we had a special connection. I have long failed to comprehend it." Her thoughts were wistful as she spoke.
"I fear I cannot give you the insight you seek," Éomer replied, studying her face. "I was not aware of how long you had been close."
"He brought me gifts when I was young," she said, smiling longingly, "and always treated me like a lady, for I was always frustrated at being treated like a child. Even though I was a child," she added, causing Éomer to chuckle. "He was always laughing and smiling. Such a great foreign prince taking time to pay me particular attention… it made me feel very special."
Éomer seemed to ponder her words for a long time. "Théodred was not often around children," he said at last. "True, my sister and I grew up here in Edoras, but we were the only ones, and already the perils of our childhoods had robbed us of our innocence. In this both Théodred and I always grieved for Éowyn, for she seemed to feel it most keenly. I cannot venture to guess his thoughts, Lothíriel, but perhaps Théodred saw you as a manifestation of all he fought to protect—and wished to see in his own country. He always spoke with wonder of your lightness of heart."
"So he fell in love with a mere manifestation?" she asked appraisingly.
Éomer seemed embarrassed. "Nay, as time went on he loved you for yourself and yourself alone. This I know with complete certainty. I only meant to offer a possibility why he would have formed a partial fondness for a foreign girl-child."
Lothíriel smiled sadly and rose to her feet. "It is high time you rested, my lord. The evening has grown old since I came here, and I still have much to attend to before I retire."
"Lothíriel," said Éomer softly as she turned to leave.
She turned back around expectantly. "Yes, my lord?"
"I hope I have not discomforted you."
"No, my lord. Your observations are indeed insightful."
"You know I admire the sacrifices you've made since you came here, particularly your efforts these past few days. Truly you have proven a fine queen for our people."
"Thank you, my lord. Your appreciation does me much good." She gave a soft smile and blew out the candles—all but one. "Now get some rest."
Lothíriel moved about the rest of her evening duties automatically. When she finally settled herself into the bed she shared with Emeí—the other girl had already collapsed with exhaustion—she found she had some difficulty falling asleep. As she'd told Éomer, their discussion about Théodred had not offended her, but it had left her listless and melancholy. She lay awake a long time, stroking Froilas's soft coat where the dog lay on the floor beside the bed and thought about Théodred longingly. Tonight, she felt the ache of his loss more sharply than she had in a long time. The way Éomer spoke of his cousin's love for her—so assuredly and with no discomfiture—gave her inadvertent echoes of those thrilling feelings she'd felt when Théodred himself had first confessed it.
Year 3016 of the Third Age
As he had requested, Lothíriel played the harp for Théodred that evening, feeling more than simple sadness at his imminent departure for his homeland. Privately, she felt that her performance suffered, for she was distracted by the constant presence of his eyes upon her. She must not have sounded too terrible, however, for more than one member of her uncle's court petitioned that she continue. Whenever she caught Théodred's eye, even after her playing had ended, she was amazed by a strange and mysterious burgeoning within them that did odd things to her stomach and made her blood race faster. She could not comprehend what it all meant.
She did not sleep well that night, but tossed to and fro, staring at the ceiling of her chamber and pondering over and over in her mind the paradoxical feelings roiling within her. How was it possible that one person could make her feel so warm and desperate at the same time? Did the prince have any idea what sort of effect he had upon her? Had she seemed to perceive a returned desire in his eyes because she so longingly wished for it?
At last, the birdsong and the steady paling of the light outside her window let her know that morning light was finding its way into Minas Tirith. She was swift to rise, still uneasy, still confused, longing for resolution in her mind. After dressing, Lothíriel donned her heavy cloak of royal blue and headed with single-minded purpose to the Citadel's walled gardens, hoping to clear her thoughts with exercise and the cold, invigorating chill of morning.
The chill was even greater than she'd anticipated, for it clung possessively to her hands and cheeks in the form of a heavy fog that had enshrouded the city in the night, one that the sun would undoubtedly dispel when it was high enough. For now, Lothíriel welcomed it, as it served to further ensure her solitude.
She was quite mad, she told herself fiercely, to cling to this unreasonable admiration of Théodred of Rohan. He could not possibly perceive her as a woman. The first time he'd ever seen her, she was in a tree! There were so many men in her own country who would be much more appropriate and sensible matches. She'd met and been courted by many in the past three years, yet the mere thought of this one foreign prince had been sufficient to keep her distant and impervious to any of their attentions.
The rational part of her argued that she had carried her infatuation so far that she'd made a paragon of him. Well, perhaps that was true, but it did not mean he wasn't deserving of a woman's love. Why had he never taken a wife? Had he ever loved anyone, and what sort of woman had she been? These were questions she burned to ask him, yet dreaded their answers, doubting she would match such a description. Not to mention that they would be highly inappropriate and embarrassing to ask.
"Lothíriel."
The voice was deep and quiet, and intruded upon her thoughts so unexpectedly that she let out a small cry of surprise, whirling around and squinting through the mist all around her. Even in the more confined space of this garden, it was difficult to see very far. Before she had a chance to reply—or imagine herself going crazy—a broad-shouldered shape congealed from the thick fog, a silhouette she would not have been able to mistake, especially not at this moment.
"Théodred," she breathed in surprise, then covered her mouth in shame, horrified at the ferventness that had slipped through.
"Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you. I observed you crossing the courtyard."
He was fully dressed, and she noted that his clothes were still the fine garments he'd worn at supper the previous evening. She cast about desperately for something with which to occupy her paralyzed tongue. "Did you sleep well?" she finally fumbled.
"I did not sleep, Lothíriel." He paused awkwardly, ran a nervous hand through his loose golden hair, and began pacing, as if he was having trouble looking at her. "I have been walking the city walls all this long night, warring with my own mind, and the struggle has been wearying." He gave an ironic laugh. "I fear this will not make for an easy first day's journey."
He turned to face her, and stopped his pacing. Lothíriel felt as if there was magic at work, though the world outside this nature's shroud did not exist, as though some great, majestic power mesmerized the air between them. "I did not sleep, lady," he repeated lowly, "for I cannot get your face nor your song out of my mind."
Lothíriel swallowed, her heart beating very fast. She averted her gaze, and cast her eyes about frantically, at a loss for words. At last she closed her traitorous eyes altogether, and mustered enough courage to whisper, "I did not sleep well, either, my lord."
Her quick breathing was making her head feel light, and she could sense his nearness as the soft fall of his footsteps drew nearer. Then she felt strong fingers gentled with tenderness upon her chin, and she dared to open her eyes. Théodred stood before her, gazing at her wondrously. Lothíriel could only return the gaze, for she had been rendered utterly inert by foreign forces raging in her blood and body, and suddenly everything that she'd tried to tell herself was an obstacle between herself and this man seemed to matter not at all.
"Lothíriel," he breathed longingly, and her only coherent thought as he leaned down to kiss her was that surely, surely she must be dreaming. What strange power had brought them to this place?
Théodred's hands were rough from labor and war as they touched first her face, then trailed down her shoulders, then rested on her back. The kiss was uncertain at first, tentative, until both man and woman finally let their uncertainties drop and surrendered to their feelings. Lothíriel soon reached up to encircle his neck with her arms, feeling almost brazen, but she found she didn't care. He was so strong, and the feel of his arms tightening about her body made her feel more warm and safe than she'd ever felt before. Her stomach and spine were dancing with shivering excitement. His beard teased her skin. She wondered if anyone else was alive in the world.
The kissed ended as slowly as it had begun, as though its participants were reluctant to belittle the moment with haste. Lothíriel stared at the prince for a few seconds, breathing hard, then closed her eyes and pressed her face into his shoulder, not wanting to shatter the enchantment of the moment with words. Théodred put a soft hand on the back of her hair, stroking it gently, and thus they stood for many long, immeasurable moments.
At last he released her, and she pulled away reluctantly. Théodred put both hands on her shoulders and gazed at her with earnestness. "Forgive me if you think me forward, my lady. Certainly you must find my desire highly inappropriate, but what I have come to feel for you…" he floundered, then began again. "Lothíriel, I could not master my struggle any longer."
"Any longer?" she repeated dumbly.
"Since last summer," he replied. "When you turned sixteen years of age."
"You gave me your aunt's harp," she said knowingly.
"Yes, and you played, and you sang, and I knew I had never seen anything so fair, nor could possibly find anything to rival you, not if I dwelt in the halls of the high elves themselves. I am certain you must find me old and withered, Lothíriel, but despite everything, I could not depart without telling you—"
Lothíriel reached up and stopped his words with a hand. Slowly, she said, "Yesterday, you asked me if my distraction was born from thoughts of a man. And so they were," she went on, "but not any man of Minas Tirith or of my countrymen. Now I may freely tell you, Théodred of Rohan, how long you have held my favor."
He seemed unable to find words to reply, only looked at her in astonishment before pulling her against his chest once more. She let out a small, contented sigh and closed her eyes, breathing his scent and his strength. "And now you must leave," she finally said sadly.
"Yes, I must," he agreed reluctantly. He pulled away and held her at arms length once more. "But I promise you, before the first winter snowfall I will come to you in your city. If you are still of a like mind, I will speak with your father."
Lothíriel gasped softly, a new, glowing warmth adding itself to her already very flushed body. "Of course I will still be of a like mind," she finally said softly. "And I will eagerly await your coming with all my heart."
"I cannot delay any longer," Théodred added. He grasped her hands within his own and kissed them fervently. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small golden ring, set with a dark red jewel, almost black, and pressed it into Lothíriel's hand. "In the meantime," he said, "this was my mother's. Now it shall be yours, for if the powers of this world allow me my desire, you shall take her place in my hall. I love you, Lothíriel. I always will."
Lothíriel sat up in her bed, then as quietly as possible, stepped over her sleeping dog to the trunk on the wall opposite, which held all her personal items. Tucked under several gowns was a medium-sized box for keepsakes— her first doll, a broken harp string from her first and favorite instrument, the brush and comb Théodred had given her, the beautiful jewelry her father had given her as a wedding gift, and the garnet ring of Rohan, among other things. She picked the ring out carefully, which was tricky in the darkness of the room, put everything else away, then sat quietly on the edge of the bed once more. She rubbed the smooth face of the jewel with a fingertip, remembering, until a solitary tear dropped from her eye onto the back of her hand.
"I miss you so greatly," she whispered to the darkness. "And I am here, but you are not." Two more teardrops splattered her hand and wrist before she carefully slid the ring onto her finger. She had not at first wanted to wear it, but now, somehow, it felt appropriate.
I will always love you in return. It was her last thought before she surrendered to sleep.
Replies:
smor- They will talk about Wormtongue, but only at a specific time I have yet to reach. Mwuahaha. katemary77- Actually, my hope is that it will be difficult to pinpoint a turning point for these two. I'm trying to make it so gradual it's imperceptible (well, on Lothíriel's part). I hope I am succeeding.
jadeddiva- Thanks!
Tracey- Yes, poor man. Éomer's perspective, as you say, on the leather element was my laziness going for a generalized 'out.' I would need to do further research into specific technique for embossing, etc. aaaaand… yeah, didn't feel like doing that. :-P
Sadie Elfgirl- As I believe I advised another reader, the formal language isn't that difficult to grasp if you watch/ read enough Jane Austen. I think Lothíriel did a marvelous job caring for him as well.
lsoa- Don't you just love the word fortnight? ;-)
Lady ot Rings- How mysterious are the ways of a man with a maid, eh? LOL Yes, and how admirable of Éomer to accept Lothíriel's assumption of authority so gracefully. ;-)
Peachy Papayas- LOL- Reader replies are the best way I know to show appreciation for all my superb readers over the year. I've earned many a friend through them. :-)
Faerchithiel- That'd be interesting. I'd like to see what you would do with such a story. Thanks for your reply.
dripplip- Thank you. Hope you enjoyed the update.
fsb567- Well, thanks! It was nice to receive your review.
Blue Eyes at Night- That one seems to be quite popular so far, yes. LOL
Eokat- Things have progressed a little, I think? How about you? ;-)
Lirima Tindomiel- LOL- your two Lothíriel extremes there made me laugh. Myself, I get most frustrated with Miss Spoiled Nineties Teenager Firebrand Attitude.
Estel la Roduese- Thank you. I'm doing my best!
wondereye- I think you probably liked this chapter's flashback. LOL
Iluvien- Your gushing makes me blush, my friend. LOL I'm honored. And may I say I greatly enjoyed reading your bio, particularly the line about 'being in good company.' Excellent and encouraging sentiment!
Lometari- I only hope the poor kicked horselord scenario is realistic. He must have been distracted. Perhaps he was thinking of Lothíriel, eh? ;-)
A/N:- I know you are all probably shocked at the speed with which I produced this update. To be perfectly honest, I was myself. I can attribute it to a growing sense of dissatisfaction with the previous chapter.
This middle part of the story, as it progresses, has always been very vague in my mind, and I find that without a clear picture of where I am taking it, it is more difficult to maintain an even tone. I don't want it to drag the story down, so I am attempting to make it more of a series of highlights rather than detailing each and every conversation Éomer and Lothíriel have, etc.
Writing chapter ten felt like pulling eyeteeth (does anybody know the exact origin of that phrase, btw?), and although I liked parts of it, I feel that other parts of it are uninspired, and as a whole it could be stronger. But that's what rewrites are for. Haha. At any rate, I put on the ol' research cap again and started reading notes on the wonderfully rich and very canon history Tolkien gave us to play with, and wrote this chapter based off the inspiration I found in the process.
Now that I've bored you with my author's problems, I hope you remember enough of the chapter itself to leave me one of those reviews I adore so much!
Saché