"Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilized by education: they grow there, firm as weeds among stones." ― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
A/N: I can be extremely critical of my writing. When I started this piece last year, I honestly hated it. Time's greatest gift is perspective though, and after a year of writer's block, I'm finally happy with it. I had a lot of fun adding to it and that's what counts!
I'm sorry about its length. It's a bit of a monster.
Enjoy!
Lothíriel struggled to keep her tears contained, refusing to look into Éomer's eyes. Meduseld was overflowing with people, occupied by faces she'd never seen before, but she welcomed it. Their expressions distracted her from the reality of her presence in Edoras. She wasn't sure what she'd find within their features, but her anxiety usurped her curiosity. It wasn't something she thought she'd ever do, allowing apprehension to take precedence over everything else, obscuring it from view. She refused to live a lie. Her authenticity had always been one of her strongest traits, but she was beginning to lose faith in it. She had never excelled in the art of restraint. Her emotions controlled every aspect of her life, lingering like fingerprints in the worst way possible, displaying their interference long after they had faded away. Without them, she felt incomplete. Her sense of self had been constructed under the assumption that she'd always live in sight of them, utilizing her heart to make decisions instead of relying on her intellect alone. Matters of state required some degree of sacrifice, but she had neglected to consider the importance of her responsibilities, refusing to acknowledge that one day, she'd have to uphold them. Securing a political alliance had always been her sole purpose in life. Subservience was expected of her, but it had never suited her.
If she met Éomer's gaze, she knew she'd have to face reality, observing her life from the eyes of an onlooker, powerless in the face of the inevitable. While it wasn't his fault, she couldn't help but blame him for it. The weight of her responsibilities had failed to overcome her desire for autonomy. She refused to concede despite having already lost, determined to maintain her integrity against all odds, readjusting her approach so she wouldn't lose sight of herself. If their marriage proved to be nothing more than a convenience, at least she'd have that. A single tear slipped down the curve of her cheek, subtle enough to escape undesirable stares, but altogether too obvious from the perspective of those closest to her. Lothíriel looked up, summoning enough courage to meet Éomer's eyes. He had noticed.
The expression on his face surprised her, seeping into her skin as slowly as sunshine. It was warm, defying her expectations in ways she hadn't expected it to, spilling across his irises until she could hardly determine its place of origin, distracted by every fleck of gold inside of his stare. They'd met before, but under different circumstances. She'd kept her distance on purpose, determined to avoid interacting with him as much as possible. Her attempts at evasion had been obvious, a compilation of excuses wrought from laziness, too absorbed in her own grief to care about how she'd made him feel. Every letter he'd sent remained sealed, hidden among her things in places she knew she'd forget about. Circumventing his attempts at conversation had been easier than facing reality. By avoiding him, she was certain he'd stop pursuing her. Her naïveté had consumed everything she'd worked so hard to cultivate within herself, bypassing common sense as though it were nothing more than a weed, something she'd remove at her own convenience. Instead of blending into the background like she'd wanted it to, her betrothal to Éomer had become unavoidable.
His name had become a curse, brushing against her skin as though it were nothing more than a stray thread, occupying every thought that passed through her head until she could hardly stand it anymore. No matter how hard she'd tried to, she couldn't escape him. He had become a part of her. Her perception of him wasn't very accurate because of it, but her expectations had been formed from whispers, mouthed from person to person like lies, failing to capture his likeness. Éomer felt far less incorporeal than what she'd been made to believe. His gaze reminded her of spring, thawing the ice that had formed within her, staining her cheeks a subtle shade of red. He looked apologetic, overly perceptive of how she'd been made to feel, and that annoyed her more than anything else. She felt compelled to say something in response, but the expression on his face destroyed her resolve. There was nothing she could say that he didn't already know.
Lothíriel looked away in resignation, memorizing the pattern that danced across his tunic instead, admiring every stitch that had been placed there. It prevented her from acknowledging their shared silence, interrupted every so often by the sound of Aragorn's voice. He stood several metres away, deciphering every look that passed between them as though it were a language he could understand. While Éomer's gaze felt intrusive, Aragorn's felt sincere. His amusement was a palpable thing, interrupting their awkwardness like a question, one he demanded an answer to. Éomer cleared his throat and Lothíriel bit her lip, eyeing the King of Gondor warily. She didn't know what to think of him. He was imposing, gentle, and kind, a myriad of contradictions that incited curiosity within her. He presided over their wedding in a way that felt unconventional to her, imbuing every sentence that slipped through his lips with hope. His belief in it surprised her. He didn't look as though he'd ever been in need of it, but his demeanour made it altogether too obvious. His accomplishments overshadowed the darkness within him, but he handled it better than most, acknowledging it instead of pretending that it didn't exist. Hope sustained him, fuelling the fire that burned behind his eyes until everyone in his vicinity could feel it, basking in the warmth he'd created as though it were a second sun. He embodied her understanding of balance, accepting every wound, scar, and memory without pause, reflecting on the lessons he'd learned in an attempt to regain everything he'd lost. Unlike the majority of people within Meduseld, his silence felt meaningful to her. She wanted to believe him, but she didn't know how to place her faith in something she'd become unfamiliar with. Uncertainty plagued her like a disease, replacing hope with doubt, shrouding her heart in complete darkness. It was impenetrable. Although his words were encouraging, she continued to feel trapped within her own life.
Aragorn reached out, placing Éomer's hand within her own. "Speak honestly," he said quietly, meeting Lothíriel's gaze. "Vows are not easily broken."
Her breath faltered and she found herself looking into Éomer's eyes again. Before he'd been tasked with ruling his people, his heart had governed his head. That rekindled what little hope remained within her. Being true to herself meant more to her than the crown he'd inherited. She didn't know how he'd respond to what she had to say, but her desire to assert herself remained at the forefront of her mind. His gaze felt inquisitive, trailing across her face as though he intended to memorize her features, attempting to uncover what lurked beneath the surface of her skin. If he refused to acknowledge her individualism, she knew they'd end up divided at heart, split down the middle like a ripped seam. She wanted to believe that he was a good man. She'd accept her role as his wife because it was expected of her, but her heart was too wild to subjugate.
"I'll marry you," she told him, using his hand as a lifeline. "But I belong to no one."
His grip on her hand tightened, but not enough to indicate any distress. "I have no desire to own you," he replied, and she could tell that he'd meant it. "I'd like to share my life with you, but only if you'll have me."
Out of the corner of her eye, Lothíriel thought she could see Aragorn smiling. "But what about love? Are you prepared to live without it?"
"Then I'll do my best to earn it."
"What if it can't be earned?" she asked, pretending she didn't see the hurt within his eyes. "I don't even know you."
Éomer smiled sadly, pressing her knuckles against his mouth. "Take me as I am and I'll do the same."
Lothíriel believed him. She could feel it in her bones, a slight ache that rooted her firmly to the ground, filling her with certainty. When she nodded her head in agreement, she could have sworn that the entire building exhaled in relief. It was considerate of him to have acknowledged her desire to become more involved in her own life, but it felt like a ruse more than anything else. If she had refused him, the consequences of doing so would have eclipsed her pleasure in having had her own way. Honesty had become her only option, one she'd wield like the blade fixed to Éomer's hip, unable to utilize anything else in her given situation. It wouldn't stop her from reciting her vows, ignoring Aragorn's stare, or pledging her loyalty to the realm of Rohan. She'd play the role she'd been given, but she knew she'd have a choice in her execution of it. If he disliked her performance, he'd have to live with it in the same way she'd have to live herself, reluctant to destroy everything she'd ever believed in.
Lothíriel held back her tears until the ceremony had concluded, loosing herself in the cacophony of cheers that filled Meduseld, alight with an assortment of sounds she'd fail to forget. Their happiness filled a void within her that she hadn't been aware of possessing. Losing herself within it prevented her from feeling the brief sensation of Éomer's lips against hers, his hand within her own, and the sound of his voice accompanying everyone else's, reverberating through her chest like a war horn. His victory felt hollow to her, but her grief remained unnoticed, lost in their revelry until she had become nothing more than an extension of his arm, a prize he'd obtained by being born a man. She didn't like being objectified in such a way. The pain of it nearly killed her, but Aragorn's gaze pulled her from her musings. Encircled in the arms of his Queen, hope continued to emanate from him like smoke, cementing her grasp on reality. If she couldn't live in accordance to her own values, she'd live in constant pursuit of them. At least she'd have control over that.
The festivities raged on for hours, but Lothíriel didn't care much for it. Her room had become a welcome escape from the sound of their amusement, a place she'd retreated to the moment she'd left the throne room, but her solitude had a time limit. In her haste to be alone, she had dismissed her ladies-in-waiting, determined to remove every article of clothing they'd placed her in, tearing at her kirtle to no avail. Tears filled her eyes and she slumped over in frustration, letting everything out in one, defeated sigh. If she'd been given a choice, she would have chosen a different life, far from the trivialities of her gender. She hated the monotony of it, embodying everyone's expectations of femininity instead of being herself.
Lothíriel took a deep breath in an attempt to console herself, unbraiding her hair until her it pooled around her shoulders like spilled ink, merging into the shadows that flickered around her room. Very few people had witnessed her true self, but when they'd caught a glimpse of it, she'd been ostracized for behaving in a way that hadn't aligned with their expectations. Her brothers had teased her about it relentlessly, her father had disliked speaking of it, and she'd been forced to attend lectures on the importance of propriety every time she'd faltered. Her reflection felt like stranger, a slab of clay moulded into a shape that failed to house her soul, imperfect in its rendition of nobility. Her state of dress reflected her state of mind. If she hadn't questioned the role she'd been given in life, she knew she'd be a lot happier. Blind acceptance scared her more than anything else, indicating a lack of character she refused to condone, but her responsibilities demanded it of her. Wiping away her tears, she directed her attention towards removing her mother's jewelry, withdrawing each piece as though it were as fragile as glass, placing it in an unorganized pile on her vanity. In the process of tackling her dress again, Éomer had found his way inside of her room.
He paused several feet away from her, eyeing her cautiously, but she was too absorbed in ridding herself of her kirtle to care. She continued tugging the laces apart, trying to ignore the flames his stare had kindled within her, frustrated that she'd dressed according to convention. Her nerves weren't as frayed as she'd assumed they'd be. She knew he'd find her sooner or later, prepared to consummate their marriage. The act itself had been explained to her years earlier, foiling any attempt of hers to make inquiries at a later stage, something she remembered being more frustrating than constructive. As strange as it was, she didn't fear the reality of it. Marriage had its fair share of strings. She'd been instructed to adhere to her husband's wishes within their chamber and outside of it, and while this had never sat well with her, she knew that there was very little she could do to change it. Instead of resisting the inevitable, she'd chosen to embrace it. His hesitance bothered her in the absence of her own nervousness, a stark contrast to the behaviour he'd displayed earlier that afternoon, aware of how volatile she'd become in his absence.
He approached her in the same way he'd approach one of his horses, observing every move of hers with trepidation, trying to determine if she'd snap at a moment's notice. It made her want to laugh, but she didn't think he'd find it very amusing. From what she'd been told of the Rohirrim, they were a stern lot, honest to a fault but never insincere. The look on his face was beginning to irritate her. For someone who said very little, his stare spoke volumes. Every time their eyes met in the mirror of her vanity, she'd turn more and more red, self-conscious in a way that was foreign to her. She'd had her fair share of embarrassments, forced to nurse her pride on more than one occasion, but she'd never been scrutinized so intently by a member of the opposite sex before. His observation of her felt like an intrusion, stripping her bare. There was very little she could hide from him. Lost in his gaze, flushed from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes, the extent of her unhappiness was quickly revealed. The expression of his face betrayed his thoughts and she sighed, dropping the laces of her kirtle in favouring of shielding her eyes from him.
"May I?" he asked, approaching her from behind.
"If you'd be so kind," she replied, mustering up the courage to meet his gaze.
He didn't answer right away, but she could sense his discomfort. "I won't proceed unless you've asked me to."
The look he gave her was poignant, enough to send shivers down her spine. She knew he hadn't meant it that way. It didn't stop her from nodding in agreement, folding her fingers together in an attempt to prevent them from fidgeting. The sensation of his touch startled her at first, but she quickly grew accustomed to it, altogether too aware of how his warmth bled into the fabric of her kirtle, seeping in her skin.
"I don't pretend to know your heart, but I'd like to, " he told her, loosening each section one tug at a time. "Be as blunt as you'd like to."
"You'll regret it."
"My likes and dislikes might surprise you."
"How can you be so sure? I'm not easily surprised," she retorted, inhaling sharply when his warmth suddenly disappeared.
"Would it surprise you to know that I care about your happiness?"
"That's not your concern."
"Why not?"
"You shouldn't care," she stated grimly, ignoring how her kirtle had slipped over her shoulders, free from his grip. "No one does."
Lothíriel turned around to look at him again, afraid of what she'd see within his stare. She'd found the courage to speak candidly, but something inside of her heart had collapsed like a dam, too weak to contain everything she'd stuffed within it or so long. Releasing it hadn't liberated her. The storm she'd attempted to subdue had become too wild to control, whirling within her until she didn't know what to do with herself anymore. Hurting his feelings hadn't been her intention, but he looked defeated in the worst way possible, unsure of what to say in the wake of her outburst. She reached for him, afraid that he'd turn away from her, embodying everything she'd been taught to expect from a man. She'd grown tired of it. The truth evaded her at every turn, slipping through her fingers like sand, lingering long enough to illuminate some of the lies she'd incorporated into her life. While it wasn't her fault, she continued to take responsibility for them.
She'd done her best to deconstruct every little thing she'd been told to believe in, formulating her own opinions so she'd have something uniquely hers to hold on to, but it wasn't enough anymore. Being alone had always been preferable to being someone's wife. She'd neglected to consider the effect loneliness would have on her, too stubborn to acknowledge her desire to be understood by someone other than herself. Éomer's hand cradled her elbow in a way the defied her expectations, an act she didn't feel like she'd deserved. He'd done nothing to incur such a display from her. Kindness wasn't something she'd expected from him, confident that he'd distance himself from her on purpose, using her in an attempt to impress his peers. She didn't know him. His letters popped into her mind, the ones she hadn't bothered to read. She suddenly wanted to find them, deconstructing every sentence he'd formulated so she'd have a better understanding of who he was. His eyes displayed very little in comparison to what he currently felt, alight with something she refused to name, reddening her face until she though she'd burn up. The urge to interpret him usurped the storm within her.
"I apologize," she said quietly, turning away. "I shouldn't have said that."
"I'd rather hear it," he replied, slipping his fingers from her elbow so he could hold her hand. "Your mind is your own."
"Doesn't it bother you?"
He laughed a little, gripping her fingers tightly. "No, I can't say that it does."
"You're unlike anyone I've ever met," she replied, too absorbed in her thoughts to notice his grip on her hand. "I don't understand you."
"Would you like to?"
She nodded slowly, starring at their joined hands. They had never touched like this before. His palms were rough against hers, calloused in places specific to him, reminiscent of how he'd grasp his sword. His grip was firm, unyielding, but gentle, and the contrast of it captivated her. She turned his palm over, tracing the scars that danced across the back of his hand with the tips of her fingers. His breath hitched in his chest. It piqued her interest, coercing a smile from her mouth. Her amusement was barely perceptible, but he had proven himself to be quite observant, picking up on her mannerisms when she least expected him to.
She wasn't used to being someone's centrepiece, living out the majority of her life unnoticed, but Éomer continued to make her feel as though she was on constant display. From the moment he'd met her, he'd given her his undivided attention, making an effort to include her in his conversations. She hadn't known what to make of it at first, confused that he had even bothered to address her, but now it made sense. What she had perceived as being facetious had been a deliberate attempt to make her feel comfortable on his part, and the realization of it surprised her. While she loved her family greatly, their approach towards women had always been traditional. She didn't fault them for it. It had caused her a great amount of grief once, culminating in arguments that had been nothing but circular in nature, forcing her to reconsider her place in the world. Having three brothers had made her upbringing unconventional, but her role among them had never been anything but clear. They had been taught how to wield a sword and she had been taught how to wield a sewing needle. Every time she'd attempt to voice her opinions in the company of others, it had fallen on deaf ears. Éomer's patience with her was as unfamiliar to her as the scars on his hand.
She exhaled slowly, allowing herself to relax, sliding her hand up the length of his forearm. In the time they'd spent apart, he had removed his armour, exchanging it for a simple pair of trousers and tunic. It hung loosely from his shoulders, thin enough that she could make out the muscles underneath. In her anger, she had neglected to realize that she had married an attractive man. Her epiphany was altogether too obvious and he smiled in retaliation, peering at her sheepishly from beneath his eyelashes.
"I-I'm sorry," she stuttered, backing away from him. "I've made you uncomfortable."
His fingers found her chin, tilting her face towards him so that she was looking directly into his eyes. Her stomach fluttered and she flushed, shocked by her sudden onslaught of nervousness. She had prided herself on her ability to adhere to convention when it had been asked of her, but the emotion flowing through her veins wasn't familiar. She had spent the majority of her life sheltered from men, angry that she hadn't been afforded the same privileges as her brothers, so her opinions had been rife with bias. Love? The very idea of it had been frivolous to her. While the majority of her peers had spent hours giggling over books lacking substance, she had spent the majority of her free time studying, trying to make herself useful. Her proximity to Éomer made her feel useless.
"Not all at," he told her, maintaining eye contact. "Are you?"
"I'm fine," she replied, swallowing hard. He didn't look as though he believed her.
He withdrew himself from her personal space, holding his arms before her in pacification. "I am yours to command. If you'd like me to go, I can."
"No!" she said hurriedly, reaching for him. "I wish to know you. This is a good a time as any."
His brow raised in surprise, but he didn't question her request. He watched her silently instead, trying to gauge her thoughts. She was determined to keep the expression on her face from betraying her. If she faltered, she knew that he'd notice. Her approach was calculated, masking her lack of confidence, but the weight of his stare was as unyielding as his touch. Instead of avoiding it, she decided to meet it head on, breeching the space between them until she could feel his breath tickling her face. Up close, he looked different. His eyes were greener than she had originally thought, reminiscent of the tide pools she'd visit in Dol Amroth. She'd spend hours wading around in their depths, admiring the colours she'd see within them, a myriad of browns, blues, and greens that would linger long after she'd left. The recollection of it continued to comfort her, and while Éomer's stare incited many things within her, she couldn't deny the resemblance. It was beautiful.
The smile that graced her lips was transient, illuminating her face as though she'd stepped into a ray of sunlight, momentarily revealing her thoughts. His sharp inhale didn't go unnoticed. Her facade had begun to collapse. Lothíriel quickly composed herself, brushing a stray piece of hair from his eyes. Her fingertips skimmed the surface of his skin, mapping out his features as though they were constellations, piecing together the puzzle that made him who he was. The scars she discovered had stories to tell, complimenting his face instead of detracting from it. He'd never been anything but himself in her presence, comfortable in his own skin. She'd met plenty of men who had acted differently, pretending to be people as fictitious as their personalities, so far detached from reality that the thought of it continued to annoy her. She'd been accused of being fastidious because of it, but she was glad of it now. The choices she'd been permitted to make had been limited. Although her position in life had afforded her few liberties, she couldn't deny Éomer's quality of character. For someone so tenacious, he was motionless beneath her hands, vulnerable in a way she was unaccustomed to seeing in man. The reality of it hardened her resolve. She placed her hand above his heart, watching the expression on his face change as he stared down at her. His heartbeat quickened.
"Do you fear me?"
"No," he replied with difficulty, struggling to keep his features neutral. "I fear what you could do to me."
"Show me," she said with finality, deciding her course of action.
She didn't have to ask twice. They'd kissed before, but it had been chaste and mechanical, an act that had been governed by decorum. When his mouth found hers this time around, all attempts at modesty had vanished. His kisses were achingly thorough, coercing the air from her lungs until she'd forgotten how to breathe. She knew him to be a methodical man, but she had neglected to consider the extent in which he'd exercise that characteristic. His lips had incapacitated her. Unable to organize her thoughts, she slipped her arms around his neck in retaliation, afraid that she'd lose her balance as a result of his ministrations. The noise he made in response released something within her that had never seen the light of day before. Her lips parted in surprise and he took full advantage of it, deepening the kiss. His fingers slipped into the space her kirtle used to occupy, gripping the fabric of her chemise tightly between his fingers. It began to slip, revealing the ridge of her clavicle and the curve of her shoulder. If she had felt naked before, it was steadily becoming a reality now. His lips trailed across her jaw slowly, committing the sensation of it to memory, distracted by the sound of her breathing. It had increased in intensity, leaving her lips in ragged gasps.
Her education had been extensive, but she'd learned nothing of passion. To discuss it openly invited scrutiny from others. From what she'd been told, it was nothing more than an unequal exchange, designed to empower men rather than women. She couldn't help but question what she'd learned in his embrace. When he looked up at her, the expression on his face rendered her speechless, articulating his intentions more than words ever could. He stared at her poignantly as his hands shifted, gathering the fabric of her dress until it had pooled at her waist, allowing gravity to take hold. It fell to the ground in one, spontaneous heap. Her breath caught in her throat, but her gaze didn't waver. If he'd found it amusing, she couldn't tell. All she could see was desire. He refrained from touching her at first, giving her a moment of respite. It didn't last. She reached for him before he could change his mind, winding her fingers into the fabric of his tunic until he was pressed flush against her, sharing her air. For the first time in her life, she craved something other than freedom. The reality of it shocked her. Her refusal of tradition had become legendary and while she'd been nothing but unhappy for the majority of their acquaintance, she hadn't expected to feel so unrestrained in the presence of someone other than herself. It was an anomaly to her, diluting her anxiety. She felt like his equal rather than his wife. He didn't take more than what she was willing to give.
Her perusal of him mirrored his exploration of her. His kisses had become languid and open-mouthed, pressed into her throat and between her breasts. Her fingers investigated the spaces between his ribs, the fine line of hair at his navel, and then the hem of his shirt, divesting him of his clothing. He stood before her as a man, nothing more, nothing less. It made her heart ache. He looked at her as if she'd always been deserving of notice, memorizing her features one by one, determined to know every line on her face as if it were his own. If she'd asked him to leave, she knew that he'd obey her request, but she didn't want him to. There was nothing more intimate than the look on his face. She didn't know what he'd written in his letters, but she was certain they'd convey very little in comparison to what she currently saw, riddled with pleasantries he knew she'd tolerate just to humour his good graces. She preferred him like this, raw and unfiltered, devoid of the decorum he'd been raised to uphold. In the confines of her chamber, she expected nothing less. She didn't have to articulate her concerns to know that he agreed with her. His mouth confirmed her suspicions, muddling her thoughts until she could think of little else, unaware of how they'd migrated across the room. The dance he'd introduced her to wasn't familiar to her, but she knew he'd guide her through it to the best of his ability. If anything, he'd proven to be rather conscientious in her company.
Her legs collided with the bed the way he'd intended them to, and in less than a moment's notice, they'd toppled over the edge of it together. He loomed over her, his hair a golden halo in the candlelight. It was enough to take her breath away. She looked up at him sheepishly, enamoured with the smile that had graced his lips, hoping she'd see more of it. He complied, pressing a kiss into the inside of her thigh. Her reaction amused him, but he didn't stop. His objective had been made very clear. A moan emerged from her lips and he revelled in it, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise the skin beneath, watching as she writhed beneath him. He'd been thorough with her from the moment his lips had first found hers, but his attentiveness felt like a rouse now, failing to prepare her for what he'd had in store. His mouth had become a weapon, coercing sounds from her that she'd never made before, tasting her sweetness until she couldn't take it anymore. She arched against him, trapping his head between her legs, but he refused to end his assault. He drew her knees up and over his shoulders instead, brushing his lips against her center over and over again, ever watchful. She didn't know what he was looking for and she didn't care. His mouth had become the center of her world. His attempts at being honourable had diminished the moment her fingers had found his, and she didn't condemn him for it in the slightest. He wasn't as stoic as she'd been made to believe. It had scared her once, usurping her propensity for self-reflection. Instead of questioning what she'd been told, she'd accepted it as gospel. Her perception of him had been riddled with prejudice, permeating her thoughts, words, and actions, ruining any attempts at friendship. There was much she had yet to learn about him, but for the first time in their short acquaintance, she looked forward to rectifying her poor behaviour.
She kissed him hard, incapable of restraining herself. His response was immediate. Every time his lips touched hers, it fuelled her desire for him, spilling into her bloodstream until she'd turned a bright shade of red, sharing his air as though she'd be starved of it. The flame he'd kindled within her had become a raging inferno. His fingers skimmed the surface of her skin, worshipping her body in silent admiration. Its intensity bordered on overbearing, but she refused to buckle under the weight of it, determined to see it through to the very end. Her tenacity elicited a groan from his mouth. She smirked in response to the sound of his pleasure, but it was short-lived. He retaliated quickly, closing the distance that remained between them, rolling his hips into her own. Her amusement was replaced with ecstasy.
He rocked into her gently, burying his face into the crook of her neck, aware of how her breath had faltered. It grew more and more laboured, disintegrating into airy moans. Their chosen rhythm had become second nature to her in a matter of moments, a skill she hadn't been aware of possessing. He continued to coerse it from her, prolonging her torment on purpose, trapping her hands within his own in an attempt to immobilize her. His fingers had become a lifeline, binding her to him as he continued his assault. The sensation of it reminded her of the ocean, crashing against her like waves. The more he moved within her, the more they increased in intensity, reaching a crescendo that threatened to swallow her whole. She'd never known such pleasure before. It filled her to the brim, imbuing her senses one by one, stripping her of rational thought. There was little to hide. She cried out, digging her heels into the base of his spine. He'd brought her to the edge. He smiled into her shoulder, snapping his hips against hers roughly, entranced by how her head had rolled back into the mattress. Her lips parted, her legs began to shake, and his name emerged from her mouth as a high pitched wail, ringing through the air as loudly as a bell. It proved to be too much. Her body clenched around him and he grunted, thrusting into her with renewed fervor.
His release was as sweet as her own.
"Would you say we're well acquainted now?" he asked awhile later, still struggling to catch his breath.
She laughed, brushing a stray hair from his face. "I may have missed a thing or two."
"I can fix that."
"I'd like to see you try."
"Béma, woman," he groaned, rolling onto his back. "You'll be the death of me."
"It wouldn't be such an awful way to go though, would it?"
His laugh was contagious. "I'd rather die by your hand than in any other fashion."
"I'll hold you to that," she replied smartly, curling into him. "I expect no less now."
"Then you have my word."
Even though he'd done nothing to encourage mistrust in her, she'd come to the realization that he was completely serious. Very few people could lay claim to that. Death wasn't in his realm of control, but she believed him. The look on his face was evidence enough. She reached out, cupping his cheek in the palm of her hand. His lips caressed the center of it, warming the skin beneath. Although he'd proven himself to be an honest man, her hesitancy in confiding in him continued to persist. He seemed to understand this, folding her hand into his own. They were still strangers. There were many things she'd have to unlearn, exchanging the lessons she'd been taught for new ones, and she hoped he'd understand. She had no intention of resuming the life she'd lead in Dol Amroth. Her desire for freedom remained, but it didn't look the same.
"Stay with me," she asked, weaving her fingers through his. "I don't know you well enough yet."
"Take me as I am and I'll do the same," he replied, repeating what he'd told her earlier that day. "That's all I ask."
Lothíriel cursed, sticking her finger into her mouth. She had finished her fifth letter and had cut herself in her haste to read it, eagerly reaching for the next one. Éomer was a man of many skills, but she'd neglected to acknowledge how well-rounded he truly was, admiring how artfully he'd articulated his thoughts on paper. It had taken her most of the morning to find the letters she'd stashed away, rummaging through the bulk of her belongings in an attempt to locate them. It had taken her far less time to read what he'd written to her all those months ago. Her responses were methodical, composed with a considerable amount of detail, determined to respond in a way he'd find agreeable. The side of her hand had turned black from her excursions, staining her skin. She was too absorbed in her own thoughts to notice, flitting around her room in search of paper, ink, and forgiveness. The sentences he'd constructed refused to leave her brain. Her assumptions about him had proven to be wrong, weighing on her conscience until she could barely breathe. He loved her. She didn't know why or how, but he'd written it down, honest to a fault. Had it been love at first sight? The idea of it made her want to laugh, but it didn't seem unlikely. He'd recognized the ridiculousness of it on paper, describing how little he knew of love to begin with, but it had found him nonetheless. The language he'd used had been straightforward, coinciding with the man she'd come to know. His honesty continued to surprise her. He'd been made aware of her temperament and he'd chosen to write anyway, unafraid of expressing what he'd harboured in his heart for so long. Their marriage wasn't something they'd had much of a choice over, but he'd tried to make the most of it. Her guilt refused to abate. She had come to the realization that while she couldn't apologize for being herself, she could make amends for treating him poorly. She continued to read, flipping through each letter page by page, composing her own in-between. In her haste to finish them, she'd lost track of time. The last of the day's light had fled from her room.
She burst through her door and into the hallway, written responses in hand, navigating every twist and turn until she'd located Éomer's study. He saw her approaching him from a distance, rising from his seat to greet her, but her expression stilled his movements. While her disheveled appearance was clearly a shock to him, he'd noticed the ink on her hands. The amusement in his eyes was palpable. Her nervousness increased, flowing through her veins like liquid courage, giving her the strength to do what she'd intended to.
"These are for you," she squawked, shoving the letters she'd written into his hands. "I'd like to start over."
He opened his mouth to reply but she silenced him with a single look.
"I am called Lothíriel," she announced primly, holding out her hand. She hoped he wouldn't notice the tremors that had started in her fingers, but she knew that he probably had.
His features softened and her breath hitched in her chest. He'd given her many different looks in their short time together, but she'd never seen this one before. It had transformed him, softening his edges in a way that had rendered her speechless in a matter of seconds, incapacitating her entirely. If he'd asked her to repeat what she'd said to him, she knew that she'd be unable to. He'd made it impossible to do so. She tried to focus on something other than his eyes, counting the moles that dotted his face as though they were stars, but the more he stared at her, the more flustered she became, clutching at the fabric of her dress in an attempt to ground herself. It wasn't working. Her knuckles had turned white from the strain of it, her nails had begun to stab into her skin uncomfortably, and her dress had started to turn black from the ink she'd forgotten to wash off. She'd never felt more disconcerted in her entire life. She wanted him to respond, afraid that he'd shoot her down, unimpressed with her boldness. By doing so, she'd gone against every rule she'd ever been taught. Love hadn't been involved in the arrangement of their marriage, but she hoped that one day, she'd feel differently. Staying silent wasn't an option. He glanced at her letters curiously and for one terrifying moment, she was certain that he'd open them in front of her. It took the remainder of her courage to refrain from lashing out, retrieving her letters just to storm out of the room in the same way she'd entered it, but she quickly composed herself. He'd read them at his leisure and if she happened to be present for it, so be it.
His laugh filled the room and she exhaled in relief, smiling when his fingers collided with hers. "I am Éomer," he replied, pressing a kiss into her stained skin. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
