By the Sea Chapter 17: Learning to Remember, a lord of the rings fanfic

By the Sea.

Chapter Seventeen: Learning to Remember.

For a long while, as Éomer glared at her with all the fury of an orc in battle, Lothíriel struggled to find the words to speak. Her mind could not comprehend the complexity of this warrior—her husband—as he squeezed her shoulders dangerously, willing her to reply. She opened her mouth and only a rush of air seemed to escape the dense cavity. At that particular moment, her entire being seemed to be falling deeply into the pair of hazel brown eyes that swallowed her thoughts without mercy.

In time, she saw his impatience stirring and desperately did not wish to anger him further, but what could she say to the man that had been nothing but gentle and kind to her prior to this day? She had seen nothing of this dangerous beast that lurked beneath the shallow ripples of Éomer's calm façade. Of course, she caught only a glimpse of it during their first argument, but she had not been frightened as it had never surfaced with such vicious determination before this day.

Were she his foe, Lothíriel was certain that she would have turned tail and run all the way back to Mordor. It was a good thing she was not his enemy. But how in Varda's name would she convince him? He would think that her tales were nothing but imaginative lies...

Lothíriel started as he shook her again, wincing only when her husband's grip on her upper arms tightened to remind her of his presence and that she had yet to give him an explanation.

She sensed the underlying current of tension and fury beneath his threatening behaviour, but forced herself to remain stoic as she tried to muster up her ancestral courage. Swallowing, she wondered absently why her throat had become so parched like the barren lands of Harad, crying out for a drop of water to relieve them.

"My patience is growing thin, woman," Éomer hissed quietly, forcing Lothíriel to suppress the shudder of fear that meandered languorously up her spine.

Woman, indeed. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes emphatically, positive that such an action would not be welcomed by her husband in his present state. He certainly had thought much of himself as Third Marshal of the Mark to address her so callously. Unaware of her actions, Lothíriel allowed her tongue to dart out and lick her dry bottom lip. Her heart seized when Éomer's gaze drifted down to the very same spot, the brown pools of his eyes hardening as he studied the pouted petal lips that had seemingly caught his attention.

Lothíriel could not, for the life of her, understand why her cheeks were burning to the extent they were. It was unusual for her to feel so aware of another man's presence. Not even with Elfhelm did she feel this, and he commanded a great deal of her attention.

The moment was gone in the next instant, almost as soon as she blinked and before she knew what was happening, Éomer was standing and striding towards the opening of the tent as he spoke, "You will remain here if you value your life, stranger. I will speak with my men and you better hope that one of them answers in your favour."

Lothíriel forced back a gasp; she could not let him leave! He would think himself mad if he saw that his éored had been replaced by a leisurely travelling party. What would he make of the wagons, carriages and women-folk? There was no doubt that he would be beyond consolation. And then where would she be?

Rising from her stupor, Lothíriel struggled to her feet and made a sound of frustration. Something she had not done in a long while. "Wait! Please!" She cried, hoping to cease him in his tracks. "Éomer!" Her plea fell upon deaf ears and as her husband neared the opening of their tent, Lothíriel felt her desperation soar beyond the seas of Ulmo.

Her last resort was to opt for shocking him. Perhaps then she could explain the goings on outside their tent. "None of your men will answer for me, my lord!" She announced boldly, "Because—I am your wife!"

Éomer stilled in his tracks, a hair's breadth away from the parting in the fabric of the tent. He was close to stumbling at her words, his back ramrod straight and shoulders set with a great burden. One that she had perhaps added to, but what else could she do?

Lothíriel could not have allowed him outside the tent, in good conscience, without telling him the truth. And the truth was the only redemption she could offer for her noncommital remark. She would speak the absolute truth, for there was nothing she could hide from this man. This warrior. Deception would not be the wisest course of action, she determined. And so, Lothíriel steeled herself against the overwhelming anxiousness that trickled down into the tips of her toes, willing her to run from her husband.

Ever so slowly, as Éomer turned to face her. Lothíriel bit her lip almost painfully and watched as his eyes narrowed in her direction. The expression on his face twisted with something akin to contempt. "This is a dangerous game you play, my lady," he uttered gruffly. "One that I am not willing to participate in... Choose your next words carefully."

Taking a deep breath, Lothíriel drew her hands to her stomach and began to wring her fingers in a motion that had been a familiar bad habit since her childhood. She had not done this in quite some time. "I speak the truth," she whispered despondently. His eyes flickered with disappointment and she forced herself to rush on, unwilling to give Éomer a chance to remark scathingly. "I am your wife!" Again, she saw his nostrils flair at the assumption. But she was not one to be cowed into submission.

"I," she braved on, "Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth and daughter to Prince Imrahil, wed Éomer son of Éomund in the Year 3020 of the Third Age, after the War of the Ring in 3019. The ring was destroyed and Sauron's realm fell; it was the end of March. Your uncle perished in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. And ere he passed into the Halls of his forefathers, he named you his heir. King Elessar now sits upon the throne of Gondor with his wife Arwen Undómiel by his side, and is striving to rid the land of Sauron's disbanded army. We were wed, you and I, at the beginning of the Year 3020—"

"—You speak falsely!" He snapped, interrupting her speech. "It is the Year 3019; twelfth of March. My uncle is alive; I have marshalled the Rohirrim cavalry and we have set out to aid Gondor in their direst hour of need. Who are you to tell me any differently?" He crossed his arms, daring her to oppose his belief. "And I would never deign to be married. Nor could a simple Marshal be allowed to acquire the hand of a Gondorian Princess."

Lothíriel felt her heart go out to her husband. It seemed that his hearing chose to be selective, for he had not heard that his uncle had named him his heir. Her next words would surely cause a violent outburst if he understood their meaning, but he needed to hear the truth without hesitation. "Perhaps a Marshal can never be allowed... But a King certainly can." She raised her eyebrow at this and fixed him with a defiant stare.

Éomer faltered for a moment as confusion settled upon his fair but unsettled features. "What say you?"

Lothíriel ignored the apprehension that fluttered wildly against the walls of her stomach. Blinking heavily, she sniffed almost delicately, "A King can ask for the hand of a Princess, can he not?"

"... Aye. What of it?"

"Well, how else would we be married?" She prompted gently. Hesitantly, she added, "Your uncle is at peace, Éomer."

The colour from Éomer's face drained almost instantly as he deciphered her blanketed words. Finally, he laughed mirthlessly; a sound that chilled the very marrow of her bones. "Were I a King or a simple soldier, I would not have married," he reasoned steadily, his eyes never leaving her wavering form. "My uncle lives," he stated stubbornly, "And I ride to certain death and glory; mayhap there is hope on the horizon. But for me..?" His brow contorted thoughtlessly as his mind wandered into a distant realm that she could not reach, that she could never hope to reach.

Lothíriel frowned. Was this his belief during the War of the Ring? Was this his belief before he had asked for her hand from her father? She did not know how greatly the battle upon the Pelennor Fields had affected her husband.

He rarely spoke of it during their nightly conversations and apparently, the experience was to be given a great deal more consideration and credit than she ever acknowledged. Perhaps being by his uncle's side, as he wavered upon the brink of death, had given Éomer insight into a life and future that he obviously had not considered before being named King by the late Théoden.

Tentatively, Lothíriel took a step forward. She repeated the gesture until she found herself standing before the melancholic posture of her husband. "Éomer..." She breathed his name as one would breathe a sigh. But there was much more intimacy involved when she murmured his name.

It was enough for him to break out of the shadowed realm that had captured his thoughts without mercy. Instantly, he took a step back and Lothíriel felt her heart contract with pain. She would pursue this vendetta until he knew the absolute truth. She would never give up hope. "You are my husband and I am your wife," she reasoned calmly, placing her finger upon his lips to the silence the troubled protest that formed almost instantly at her words.

His jaw twitched furiously and she could see him restraining his temper and embarrassment at her suggestive manner, lest he do something regrettable. "Many months into our marriage, as I was with child," she saw his aghast expression and almost smiled, "You had to leave for duty and honour. Your presence was required in a small battle with a tribe of orcs that had set up camp in Eastemnet. They were terrorising neighbouring villages and towns and you were needed to aid your people. You are their King, Éomer... And I understand it was your duty."

This time, however, he would not remain silenced. Gently but forcibly, he removed her fingers. "I am not King of—!"

"Please, let me finish!" Lothíriel cried unflinchingly. Before he could respond, she rambled on, "You did your duty and succeeded but upon your return, your éored was ambushed by another tribe. We lost you! Your men came back, thinking that their King had perished. Gamling bore me the news and never have I felt such pain as I did that day. The only consolation that could be offered to myself and your people was the heir I nurtured within me. That babe carried your blood and it was all I or Rohan had left of you..."

Tears clouded her ice blue eyes, spilling out onto the high peaks of her cheek-bones. Holding back her tears for the moment, Lothíriel continued, "But you were found and you were healed! Physically, you were well. Though when you awoke, your mind looked upon the world through the eyes of an innocent child, not the man you were... And I had lost you again," she said softly, holding back a pained sob.

Throughout her tale, Éomer's expression grew darker and darker, more thunderous in nature than ever before. Were it not for his stubborn manner, he would have almost believed her. But it was not so, and Lothíriel could see this.

"It is true," she remained adamant. "You asked if we could visit my homeland, by the sea. Belfalas is a beautiful land and I thought it would please you greatly to make the journey. We are on our way there as I speak!" She glared defiantly at his bemused demeanour. "Outside of these fabric walls lies not your men, not your éored, but a muster of Royal guards and women-folk to bear and accompany us through the difficult journey towards Gondor. We ride to safety and sanctuary, not war. Let me aid you in gaining your memories once more, let me help you... Please."

As she finished, Lothíriel could distinctly feel the pounding beat of his heart against the heavy fabric of her expensive dress. She scowled when she was gently pushed away from him, his anger clearly pronounced by the clenched set of his jaw. "A fine tale you have woven, my lady," he growled softly, "But methinks that you are in need of aid. Not I." Éomer paced the width of the tent thoughtfully as he came to a conclusion. "I know not what your purpose is, nor how you have managed to entrench yourself so fully into my tent without my knowledge, but I must see to this immediately."

He clearly believed her to be mad. That was certainly rich, coming from him. Sighing with annoyance, Lothíriel resorted to her last solution. "Fine. I see you will remain like a stubborn child, set in your ways and unwilling to listen to reason. I understand it is difficult to believe only one person, but perhaps Gamling or Gleawman may be able to persuade you?"

The King froze, looking aghast as he gazed upon her. "How is it that you know of Gleawman? I can clearly see that you are not of this land... It is next to impossible that you should know of him! Unless you are a spy for the Dark Lord!" Swearing softly to himself, he rounded upon her and grabbed her arm, pulling her surprised self from the confines of the tent.

And all she could do was shake her head. Oh, her poor husband... How had it ever come to this?

Lothíriel stepped out quietly beside Éomer as he stood gazing upon the scene before him, stunned by what he saw. As his hand left her arm, she sighed forlornly at his paled visage. It was not what he had expected to find. It was not the cold, dreary camp that warriors usually inhabited. Such was the peace, that Éomer himself felt oddly subdued by it all.

A small fire was burning, surrounded by tents of various sizes and purposes and yet not a soul stirred, for the moon was high in the sky; they would all be resting for the journey tomorrow. He observed the distant shadows of guards on duty with a critical eye, seeming dissatisfied that he could find none of his éored among them. The more he absorbed the details of the camp, the more bewildered he grew.

"My liege." The voice of the guard on duty by their tent, startled the King from his stupor. Kneeling swiftly before his King and Queen, the guard bowed his head, quietly amazed by the sudden presence of his lord-king.

Lothíriel held her breath as she waited for her husband's response. Which was, granted the circumstance, not much. Éomer himself seemed more than astounded by the formality of the guard. He grunted absently to himself, still staring at the spectacle of the kneeling guard by his side.

When no response was made, Lothíriel moved forward and acted on his behalf by addressing the man herself. "Rise Heoru," she commanded. "I would have you bring Gamling and Gleawman here immediately, please. Show them straight in; do not wait for my consent."

Heoru nodded quickly, his eyes lingering upon the stiffened countenance of his King. Without preamble, he left to do his Queen's bidding.

As gently as Lothíriel could, she took Éomer's puzzled form by the arm and led him slowly back into their tent. Upon entering, she guided him towards the cot and sat him down. Anyone could see that he was dumbfounded by all that was occurring around him, and Lothíriel could not fault his unsteady demeanour. Quietly, she placed her hand against his forehead and noted that it was a little warm, but nothing to be concerned about.

Éomer batted her hand away unconsciously, all the while muttering to himself, "This cannot... I will not believe it!"

Heavy footsteps came to rest behind her, alerting her to the presence of Gamling and Gleawman. She turned and gazed at them with troubled eyes. "He is a child no more," she informed them. "But his memories are still not intact. He believes that he his riding out to battle," Lothíriel smiled wryly at the raised eyebrows of the Captain and the healer. "I tried to reason with him, but he will not believe me. I think, seeing the camp outside has shaken his belief quite profoundly."

Gleawman stepped towards the cot with a frown. His brows furrowed deeply at the incoherent murmurs that fell from Éomer's mouth. "Indeed, he is in much astonishment. But perhaps I can aid him." Carefully, he took the brown satchel from his side and moved to help his King.

The next hour was spent with Gleawman assuring and calming his King, offering a herbal concoction from his satchel which seemed to do the trick. Gradually, Éomer ceased his incomprehensible muttering and was now staring vacantly at the various animal skins placed on the floor of the tent. Lothíriel could spy no emotion seeping from his eyes or face, and it worried her greatly.

She moved to Gleawman's side and spoke quietly, "Mayhap it would be best if you and Gamling spoke with him alone?"

The healer nodded, motioning the Captain towards the cot where her husband sat morosely. Lothíriel turned and exited the stifling atmosphere of the tent. She prayed with all her might that Gamling and Gleawman would help Éomer overcome his shock and grief.

A considerable amount of time rolled on as Lothíriel wandered about the centre of the camp. The guards on watch-duty eyed her curiously, but said nothing. They bowed when she passed, but were formal as ever.

She would rather be in the tent with Éomer, aiding him and comforting him. But it was not her place to console her husband in his current condition. That could only be done by the people he was currently familiar with. It pained her deeply to know that he had lost his uncle once again; that he grieved for the death of his King and was now burdened by the duty shouldered to him.

She knew that he had been plagued by nightmares of his uncle's death, subsequently before she had lost him in the Battle of Eastemnet. She also knew that his Kingly demeanour had been a façade to his people and that inwardly, he pined for his uncle and cousin to live. He was a warrior, first and foremost. Kingship was hard for him and she had known that he missed the freedom that came with being a simple soldier in the King's service.

Lothíriel's heart ached at the knowledge. Having none of her family perish in the War, was a blessing to be sure! She did not have to grieve... And she could not begin to fathom how painful it would be to relive the death of a loved one, as though it had just occurred.

An unnoticed tear trickled down the curve of her cheek. How she wished she could help him! But as always, she was useless to him.

How much time passed, she did not know. The night was growing cooler by the minute and it was a good thing she had the incentive to wear her fur-lined cloak, lest she freeze before the hour was out. Feeling her legs grow weary of walking around, she settled upon a rock by the outside of her tent. The guard she had spoken to before, Heoru, looked at her in askance. "My lady-queen?"

Startled by his voice, Lothíriel looked at him. "Yes, Heoru?"

"Would you like a seat or stool brought to you?"

Lothíriel smiled at his concerned tone. "No thank you, I am quite satisfied by this rock."

He seemed to hesitate, so she encouraged him with a brighter smile. Gathering his wits, Heoru nodded. "I was wondering... The King; is he well?"

Looking away from the guard's piercing gaze, Lothíriel focused upon the burning embers of the fire. They flickered with delight, the smoke from the fire rising upwards as though it wished to reach Eru himself. "He is well," she replied quietly, with a good amount of relief.

Heoru lowered his head in response, returning his focus to the outer rim of the camp.

Lothíriel sat in the guard's company, feeling not an ounce of awkwardness. With his inquiries about the King's health made, Heoru remained ever vigilant in the task of guarding the Royal tent.

At length, Gamling and Gleawman appeared. They saw her resting upon the rock strode towards her with a grim countenance. Standing, Lothíriel looked at them both alternately. "How is he?"

"Better," Gleawman remarked. "He is subdued and bewildered by all that has occurred, but the mix of herbs I gave him seemed to have calmed him. Once he was thinking clearly enough, Gamling and I explained the situation quite clearly. Though he is still confounded by it all, I believe he is coping. He is a warrior, after all." The healer paused before speaking once more, "I think he will be in need of you this eve, my lady-queen. Stay with him and speak to him; you may both rest in your carriage during the ride tomorrow."

Lothíriel nodded eagerly. "I will do so. I will do anything to aid him."

"I believe he is disquieted by the news of your marriage. Éomer never saw himself as husband material," Gamling offered dryly. "Tread carefully," his eyes held a twinkle of relief and mirth at the knowledge that his King's mind was recovering. Slowly, but surely.

Lothíriel held back her laughter. "I will," she promised. Gathering up her skirts, she bid farewell to the gentlemen and turned to step into the tent.

Heoru had tried not to listen to their words; it was not polite to do so. Though he had caught snatched of words, he was still oblivious and confused by the fading chuckles of the Captain and healer as they moved away from the Royal tent.

Lothíriel's abrupt entrance into their tent, caused Éomer to glance up sharply. His eyes followed her inquiringly as she strode forward to sit upon the stool by his cot. "How do you fare?" She asked breathlessly, resisting the urge to take his hand.

Under his thorough scrutiny, Lothíriel tried not to fidget. He was staring at her with a fair amount of wonderment and fascination, as though he had stumbled upon a rare creature that had been unknown to him before this day.

She offered a watery smile when he did not answer. "Is there anything you wish to know?" She asked suddenly, an epiphany dawning upon her as she found the means to continue the conversation. "Gleawman said it would be wise for us to converse; if you have any questions, that is." She was rambling. She knew this, but she was too excited by the prospect of conversing once more with her husband. Lothíriel had not realised how much she had missed speaking with him.

"Questions?" He echoed absently, blinking under the heavy weight of her cold blue eyes. It was almost as if he was mesmerised by her presence. She did not know what to make of it.

"Yes, questions." Lothíriel blew away the strand of hair from her eyes that had fallen from her bun. "Anything you would like to ask, so that I may fill in the blanks," she joked lightly, causing him to quirk an eyebrow. Oh, how awkward this all was! She cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably.

For a moment, Éomer was silent as he remained in observation of her. Then, he spoke, almost suddenly, "I have no questions," the muttered comment left Lothíriel crestfallen. He saw this and hastily added, "Well, I suppose there are a few." Absently, he rubbed his beard in a thoughtful gesture that raised her spirits. Perhaps all was not lost!

"You say your name is Lothíriel?" Éomer began doubtfully. Once she nodded in affirmation, he grew bolder, "And we are married; Gleawman and Gamling seem to confirm your story, yet I find it difficult to believe," he admitted reluctantly.

Lothíriel chuckled. "I could scarce believe myself when we first wed."

"Was it love that drove me to propose?" He asked suddenly, throwing her off balance completely.

Lothíriel did not know if she had the strength to answer truthfully. Nibbling her lip, she carefully tried to find the correct words. "Our marriage was a... Political alliance," she said slowly, noticing his bewilderment. Carrying on just as carefully, she added, "But I believe that you were fond of me."

"Ah. Of course. A King has duties towards his people and cannot afford the luxury of marrying for love." Did she detect a hint of disappointment?

"I would not say it was entirely a political agreement. We had spoken on several occasions and perhaps that was what prompted you to ask my father for his blessing. I know not your reasoning behind asking for my hand in marriage but... You did tell me that you loved me."

Éomer seemed even more agape by this suggestion. Lothíriel hid her smile beneath her small hand. For a long while, an extended silence reigned supremely before he gathered his wits enough to question her again. "Before..." his voice tapered off before he roused himself again. "Before, you said that you were with child." He was being as quiet as a mouse and Lothíriel had to strain to listen to him. "Where is the babe? May I be allowed to see if I have a son or daughter?"

At his words, Lothíriel felt her heart plummet into the depths of her stomach. Her shame and grief was evident to Éomer, though he did not know why she was behaving in such a melancholic manner. Looking down at her hands, she responded, "I lost the child at birth." She forced out the whispered reply as one would force out poisoned bile.

What surprised her, was Éomer's response. He had boldly taken her hand and was gazing at their clasped fingers with deeply concealed grief. "Forgive me if I may have frightened you before. I did not know what the truth was and... Forgive me if I seemed hasty with my actions and accusations. This day has been filled with the most grievous of news. First my uncle, and now this unhappy revelation," he snorted with disbelief. "Will the pain ever end?"

"It will, in due time." Lothíriel squeezed his hand helplessly. "This year of my life has been filled with much sorrow. But I am glad that you have returned to me, my lord." Surely this gentle man could not have been the same person that had awoken in this very tent before? It seemed that her husband had many colours of his personality he had not shown her during their brief marriage.

He was a warrior but he was also a noble man, an honourable man that was kind and disarming in such a way, that it left her flustered. Éomer was troubled by the loss of his memories, that much was evident, so she did not take his previous behaviour to heart.

In all honesty, she did not know what comfort she could offer him, save for speaking about the painful time of their marriage. How truthful could she be? How could she inform him that she had not loved him at all during the first months of their marriage? It would not bode well for either, but she understood that the truth would always remain the correct path to choose.

So, she was not affronted nor apprehensive by his next wish.

"Gleawman told me to ask if you would tell me about yourself," he requested gruffly, but solemnly. "If you will, he said that I may find a way to make your trials and triumphs my own. Will you tell me of your life?"

And she did.

She told him everything.

Added Notes: fans herself Whew! Hunky, scrump-diddly-umptious Éomer is present in this instalment. I'm a bit under the weather because, I caught the flu so I'm still feeling a bit poorly. Is it just me or has the Brit weather gone completely doolally? I had hoped to get this chapter up sooner, but was prevented from doing so because of the flu and the fact that I have a balrog for a boss. Yes folks, an actual balrog. She's got horns the size of a mûmak's behind and is more deadlier than a constipated warg. Apologies for the suspenseful wait—and yes, balrogs do have the smelliest breath in all of Arda! (insert cheeky grin) Not that I'm insinuating my boss has bad breath...

I hope you have enjoyed this chapter and that it wasn't too boring; next chapter will have our favourite pair in Dol Amroth, and Éomer is not acting himself. Perhaps an update will be available as soon as the boss-monster munches enough chocolate to make her slip into an anticipated sugar-coma by me and the rest of the staff.

Thanks to EruntaleofRohan, plzthx101, LadyArian, Blue Eyes At Night, lady scribe of avandell, Luthien587, buttercup7, rider of the riddermark, Enigmatic Irish, wondereye, thayzel and Rebby-Eowyn for reviewing! Your opinions are valued and greatly appreciated.