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By the Sea.
Chapter Twelve: Child's Play.
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"You were correct in your assumptions, your majesty," Gleawman said softly. "The blows that Éomer-King has sustained to his head are the main cause for his behaviour. Though they may not be the only cause. As you know, fell creatures thrive on pain... And they most assuredly thrived on his pain. It may be that he regressed into his child-hood years to escape the torment that was being inflicted upon him by those beasts. That, coupled with his head injuries and loss of memory, I am not surprised at the outcome."
Lothíriel sagged slightly in her chair. She turned her head away from the tall healer to look at her husband, slumbering peacefully on the bed with no trace of pain upon his face. It was a small relief in the large bundle of problems that seemed to follow her night and day. He had fallen into a deep slumber with a smile on his face, before Gleawman had arrived at the Healing Halls. She had been thankful for this; she did not wish for him to know of his predicament at present. There would be enough time to inform him at a later date. For now, she wished to see her husband carefree and joyful—unburdened by the troubles that seemed to plague their lives constantly.
"Will he recover from this ordeal, Gleawman?" Lothíriel was afraid to ask, but she needed to know. No matter what Gleawman's answer would be, she knew that she would stand by the Rohan King's side. That was never, and had never, been a question in her mind. It would pain her deeply to see her proud, noble husband reduced to the mind-set of a child of six years. But she would maintain her promise to him. She would look after him, as well as their own child.
Gleawman paused briefly before replying. "It is difficult to tell at this precise moment how soon his recovery will be. He has only just risen, but I pray that his memory will return and that with that, his senses."
"It is what we are all praying for," she murmured ruefully.
"I would not worry," Gleawman added quietly. "His Lordship has great strength. I have the utmost faith that he will regain his senses and return to his full strength."
"But there is no guarantee."
"What does your heart tell you, your majesty?"
Lothíriel's brow furrowed as she absently held her husband's hand, "That he will recover... Given time. He will recover."
"Then you have your answer."
She turned to the healer and smiled wearily, "I thank you, Gleawman. Were it not for you and my brother, I would have feared for the King's safety."
Gleawman smiled warmly at her in response before he set about re-wrapping Éomer's bound arm. He then cleaned the cuts and wounds upon the King's torso, observing the lashings upon his body with a frown on his gentle face, "Hmph."
"What is it?" Lothíriel asked worriedly, looking at her husband and then the healer.
"He has indeed suffered greatly at their hands," Gleawman said, almost to himself.
Lothíriel was hard-pressed not to scowl. "Sauron's spawn still haunts Middle-earth!" She spat, feeling an unimaginable fury ignite within her veins.
The healer was clearly surprised by her passionate out-cry. He stopped his motions and regarded her silently, "They do not deserve your thoughts," he began earnestly, "Do not let your anger for those foul creatures hinder your attentions for the King. He shall need you when the time comes for his memory to be returned. All shall be well in the end." With his plea spoken, he resumed his treatment of the slumbering King.
Lothíriel nodded to herself at his wise words, pocketing them away. In many ways, the old healer reminded her of her father. It was a comfort in troubled times.
"Should we tell him? Should I inform him that he is a King and that he is not a child but a great warrior fallen upon hard times?"
Gleawman mulled over her question with, "Nay. It is best to leave him as he is. If he regains his senses and becomes a man, even without his memories, then it would be wise to inform him. But until that day arrives, it would be in his interest to allow him to live out his child-hood years."
"Very well," Lothíriel said thoughtfully, "I shall send word to staff and members of the Golden Hall to treat him as such. But I do not wish for his condition to be known by the people of Edoras, nor of Rohan. The news would only serve to diminish the country's hope about his full recovery. They will be disheartened with the knowledge that their King behaves like a child of six summers."
"A most just and wise decision."
The room fell silent soon after that revelation. Lothíriel sat back in the cushioned chair and placed her hand upon her expanded stomach. She felt as though she would burst at any moment. Her feet were swollen; she was swollen. But she knew that it would only be a matter of days before her child would be born—hers and Éomer's. She wondered what it would be like, if her husband did not recover from his head injuries, to have two children in Meduseld. It would be certainly be quite a sight to behold. She prayed to the Valar for Éomer's swift recovery.
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Two days had passed since the revelation of Éomer's condition.
Lothíriel had informed the people of Meduseld and the King's advisors about the minor set-back in his recovery. Many had been shocked and disturbed by the possibility that their King would remain a child forever. A child's mind in the body of a grown man. Still, she had persuaded them not to give up hope and in the end had managed to alleviate their fears slightly. The advisors had accepted her husband's plight but were eager to believe that he should recover in due time.
Meanwhile, Lothíriel would continue to rule in his stead. She knew that the upcoming birth of the heir had everyone on tenterhooks. Pregnancy and child-birth was dangerous for a woman. But she knew that the mortality rate of pregnant noble women was lower than those who were not born into an aristocratic family. She wondered if it had something to do with the hardships of their lives; she had not done a single day's work of manual labour in her life.
For some reason, Lothíriel felt guilty about this.
Holding her swollen stomach, she slowly made her way to the Healing Halls. It was early in the morning, but she knew that Éomer would be awake, bright-eyed and extremely frustrated at being bound to his room. His injuries prevented him from over-exerting his body and Lothíriel adamantly refused to allow him to go outside and 'play' with the other children. She did not let him, partly because of his injuries and partly because he was not a child. He was a grown man... And besides, there were no young children in Meduseld. There were many in Edoras, of course, but Lothíriel would never allow him to leave the Golden Hall until she was certain that he was fully recovered. Even then, it would be difficult to let him leave the safety of Meduseld, as she had informed the staff to keep silent about their King's condition.
Reaching the doors to her husband's chambers, she slowly opened them and stepped inside.
"Lothíriel!" He cried, struggling to sit up in his bed as she presented herself to him.
She began clucking at his excitement and swiftly aided him in sitting up. She fluffed his pillows and placed her hand upon his forehead to check the heat of his skin. It was normal, much to her relief.
"How long have you been awake, Éomer?" She admonished lightly, dropping a light kiss to his bruised brow in greeting. Lothíriel held back a soft chuckle as he crossed his eyes to look up at her. She withdrew and bumbled her way to the chair beside his bed.
"I haven't been awake long," Éomer replied innocently.
Lothíriel would not believe his words for all the gold in the world, "Indeed?"
He grinned and nodded before pulling a wooden object from beneath the sheets that covered him, "Look!"
She gazed upon the wooden horse in his hands with amusement. "And who gifted you with this beautiful creature?"
Éomer lifted the horse into the air and danced it across invisible plains. "Gleawman gave it to me. It's the best horse in the world!"
The Queen watched him silently as he played with his toy horse. Even now, he was being reminded about his heritage through the aid of children's' toys. The Rohirrim were a remarkable people, she had to give them that. From an incredibly young age, their children were introduced to horses and riding and ere they become adults, their love for horses grew to unimaginable heights. It was as if they were born to love and master their horses. And she understood; it was their birth-right. And ultimately, it would be their unborn child's birth-right... If only her husband would recover soon! She knew that he would have basked in the joy of teaching his child about the Rohirrim culture and his people. He would have schooled the heir with a kindness and love that would have been unparalleled. Instead, Éomer himself was being taught about his culture... And that thought tore at her heart.
"Lothíriel?" Éomer lowered his horse and looked at her shyly.
"Yes, Éomer?" She blinked, forcing herself to smile at the innocent eyes that gazed at her with such trust and admiration.
"Can I you something?"
"You may," Lothíriel offered an encouraging smile as she spied his hesitance.
He smiled timidly, "Well... I was just wondering...?"
"Yes?" She urged.
"I was wondering why your tummy was so big!" Éomer blurted out, "I mean, the rest of you is small. So why then is your tummy so huge?"
An expression of pain clouded her face. She hid it before he could detect her sadness at his question. "I am carrying a baby."
His eyes grew wide with awe, "A baby! And it fits in your tummy!"
"Yes," she laughed. "It most certainly fits."
"How did it get there?" He chewed his lip thoughtfully as he tilted his golden head, waiting for her answer.
Oh dear.
Lothíriel wondered how she would explain this without causing herself embarrassment. Perhaps it would be best to leave Gleawman to this predicament. But she knew that if her husband regained his senses, he would not forgive her for allowing him to ask such a question to one of the oldest healers in Edoras. With a subtle smirk, she decided to offer him an altered version of how she became pregnant.
"When a man and woman are married and they love one another dearly, the husband gives the baby to his wife so that he or she can grow in the her stomach." It was not a lie, but at least it was not a detailed analogy of love-making.
"How does he give it to her?"
Valar! He was like a dog with a bone. She almost blushed but schooled her features into indifference. She knew that, if her child was a girl, she would have to impart this knowledge to her in due course. "The way in which the man gives his wife a baby is through a precious gesture, one that I will tell you about once you are older."
"You will not tell me now?" He almost pouted.
"Nay, I will tell you when you are older."
"I wish I were older now," Éomer sighed, glancing at his horse before raising it once more. "Where is your husband, Lothíriel?" He asked absently, making 'neigh-ing' sounds as he wriggled the horse in the air.
Lothíriel wanted to weep for her husband as she witnessed him playing with the toy. If only he knew! If only he knew that he was the father of their child. O, Valar! How much suffering did he have to endure before he could live in peace? How much suffering did she have to endure before she could tell him that—that she loved him...
"My husband is not here," she answered as truthfully as she could.
"Oh..." Éomer whinnied and set the horse aside for a second time, "When the baby comes, will I have someone to play with then?"
"Yes," she laughed. "You will. And will you help me look after the baby?"
He nodded solemnly. "My Mama isn't here now, but I will help you look after baby when it comes. Does that mean you'll be my Mama now?" He was frowning.
Lothíriel wished that she could say yes, but the thought was far too disturbing. "I am not your Mama, Éomer," she said gently. Tears welled within his warm brown eyes. Well... That was obviously the wrong thing to say. "But I will look after you like your Mama," she added hastily, trying to abate his sniffles. "If you wish it, I shall always be here for you."
The once mighty King rubbed his eye with his good hand, ceasing his tears and giving her a large grin. He nodded enthusiastically.
Rising from her chair, she leaned close to place a parting kiss upon his brow. "Now, will you promise me that you will rest?"
"Why? Where are you going?"
"I have very important meetings that I must attend. Will you be good for Feger?" She looked at him expectantly as she spoke of the kind woman. The housekeeper had agreed to look after the recovering King and tend to his needs as a nurse. She knew that Éomer could be a handful when he wished it.
"Feger is not as pretty as you," he scowled. "And she treats me funny."
"Oh? How so?"
"I don't know... Just funny."
She knew that he was merely searching for an excuse to avoid the declaration of his good behaviour. "Éomer," she scolded lightly, her eyes flashing in a reprimand.
Éomer sighed. "I will be good," he promised with an adorable grin that just melted her heart.
Satisfied with his pledge, she stroked his head before turning to leave. As she reached the door, Éomer spoke out one final time, "When will you come back and play?"
Lothíriel turned and tilted her head in thought, "As soon as I can," she replied steadfastly. "Now get some rest, otherwise I will not come!" She threatened teasingly.
Éomer promptly flashed her a wounded look that spoke of deceit, for he truly was not fearful of her words. He knew that she would come, she always did and Lothíriel felt that he took every advantage of her in that aspect. Chuckling, she exited the room in a lighter mood.
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Days later, she went into labour.
It had been during the night that it happened. Water seemed to pool beneath her on the bed sheets, between her legs. Soon, pain began to shoot through her abdomen and she knew that it was time. She felt incredibly calm, not at all panicked as she thought she would be.
Rising from her bed, Lothíriel carefully walked over to the bell-cord and pulled the rope urgently. It would ring in the healer's room and alert the mid-wives to her needs. Sure enough, three women and a female healer came bustling into the room, all of them still bleary-eyed from sleep. The women soon rushed around as they gathered wash bowls from the antechamber and cooling cloths for her body, as well as crisp new sheets, linens and towels.
They tended to her throughout the long hours of the night and well into morning as she went through the lengthy process of the painful contractions. This time was spent in a haze for Lothíriel as she could not recall how many hours seemed to come and go. Time bled into one constant and there was nothing except the pain—the damnable pain!
After what felt like an eternity, the contractions in her abdomen grew closer and closer and soon Lothíriel was crying out for relief. The women tried to soothe her as they spoke words of encouragement and comfort, but she could not hear them.
She was perspiring rapidly and she felt exhausted as they commanded her to push.
"Push, your highness, push!"
Push? The women wanted her to push? She would push all right! Push them off the damn platform of Meduseld if they continued on with their ridiculous demands. Why could they not understand her need for sleep? Her need to be free from the pain?
With a loud cry, Lothíriel pushed downwards as the next bout of pain accosted her. She desperately clung onto the hand of one of the mid-wives and thought she heard the woman groan in pain as well. Feeling the never-ending pain sear through her again, Lothíriel pushed with all her might. She grit her teeth and willed herself to push, if only to be rid of the pain.
The pain receded briefly, but she knew that it was not over.
Once again, the pain returned and she felt too tired to do anything. But as she was encouraged and goaded, Lothíriel mustered the last remnants of her strength and grunted indelicately as she gave one final push. There were worried mumblings from the woman that she could not understand.
Relief coursed through her veins as she felt the weight of the child slide out from her. Slumping back against the pillows, she closed her eyes and breathed heavily, over-exerted and clearly out of breath but utterly joyful to be able to see the face of her child.
The concerned murmurs from the mid-wives caused her crack her eyes open.
"My baby," she murmured hoarsely to one of the mid-wives, "Where is my baby?"
The mid-wife smiled thinly, her eyes shifting nervously as she pressed a cool cloth against Lothíriel's forehead, "Rest, my lady-queen."
Lothíriel felt slightly panicked by the woman's reply. She struggled to sit up but was pushed back by the golden-haired woman. "Where is my child? Where is my baby?" She cried weakly.
The grief and worry in the woman's eyes was palpable. A tear rolled down Lothíriel's cheek as the fair haired mid-wife shook her head sadly, "I am sorry, your highness... The babe did not survive the birth."
The babe did not survive... But—how? Why? Lothíriel knew that she would get no answers to the questions that she were poised on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she wept bitter tears for her lost child, her piercing wails echoing through the Golden Hall like a ghostly presence that would find no rest, no comfort and no peace in the dawning day.
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Added Notes: Oh-eh, you hate me now, don't you? I don't intend to write cliff-hangers... But oh well. Can they be cliff-hangers if I update regularly? Lol. I don't think they are, but I agree that this story is getting depressing. I took poetic license with the end of this chapter, so please forgive me but I simply had to add more drama and tension ;sigh; But who says that it was Elfwine? My lips are sealed until future chapters ;does another evil jig; I love Éomer... Poor child-like Éomer.
Buttercup7; I hope this chapter answered your question ;-)
Thanks to all those who keep reviewing, your words make my day! ;offers reviewers home-made biscuits;