Author's Note: Alright, so I'm going to go ahead and address some of the reviews from last week! Firstly, thanks to everyone for pointing out my mistaken labeling of Minas Tirith as meaning 'white city'; I'll admit I had just rewatched the movies before my last edits on the past chapter and didn't do my due diligence before uploading! It's now been corrected to its actual meaning (as so many of you pointed out) to 'tower of guard'.
Secondly, just to clarify for AdriKenobi and anyone else who may have been confused about my point of Rohan and Gondor being at odds: I'm basing this bit off of Theoden's reluctance to call on Gondor for aid, and the fact that Sauron and Saruman 100% undermined the relationship between the two countries to weaken both of them during the War of the Ring. Obviously the two countries have been allies for generations, but I think it's obvious (especially in the movies) that the relationship between the two has weakened/cooled in more recent years. Still allies, yes, but not super friendly, I think. Eomer and Aragorn's close friendship is going to do a lot to encourage healing between the two countries, but as I've highlighted in this story so far, there are numerous cultural differences that may cause some sticking points.
Thirdly, for my dear Avonmora who has been one of my most consistent and kindest reviewers throughout this entire journey, I just wanted to clarify on the number of OCs/canon characters I've included to hopefully make everything a little clearer. I know I've introduced a number of them, but I promise they all serve a purpose. Hopefully, by putting faces to the names and explaining their respective relationships will help y'all keep them straight in your minds! I don't want to clog up the pre-chapter notes too much, so I'll go into more detail about the extraneous cast at the end of the chapter :)
And now, forward! Here be cranky housekeepers, lakeside adventures, and a discussion of wedding traditions, in both Gondor and Rohan.
CHAPTER TEN
Bledgifu does not like Lothiriel.
Which, in all fairness, Eomer hadn't either, the first time he'd met her. She had been-or had at least seemed to be-badgering Eowyn, short-tempered, and all together righteous in a way that had made his blood boil.
But that was months ago now, and first impressions are not always true. Lothiriel is hot-tempered, certainly, but also loyal, kind, and intelligent: all traits Bledgifu has always professed to admire in women in the past. And from what he's seen, the princess has been nothing but unfailingly polite and a little bit baffled in the face of Bledgifu's unwavering sternness.
It is enough to drive him mad after just two days.
"Bledgifu," he says finally, after witnessing her staring at the princess with an icy sort of disdain she'd once reserved for bloody Wormtongue. "Enough."
She raises an eyebrow at him; king or not, this woman has seen him from infancy to manhood, and has never responded to orders well. "My king is displeased with me?"
"Confused," he admits. "Has the princess done something to...offend you?"
"Not in particular," Bledgifu says with a shrug. "Only that I dislike the thought of her molding our Eowyn into someone she is not."
That draws a surprised laugh out of him. "Is that what you think is happening?"
"I heard mentions of etiquette lessons and dancing," the older woman spits, frowning. "For Eowyn! Stripping her of title of shieldmaiden is bad enough, but to expect her to be a dainty, soft thing like that girl-child there-"
Eomer stops her with a hand, torn between amusement and irritation. "Bledgifu, Eowyn has asked for these lessons herself, so that she might better adjust to her new city and role. And the princess is as delicate as Eothain, despite her stature. There is no molding or changing occurring here, I assure you."
The housekeeper's frown doesn't lessen. "That is what she says, certainly, but I am not convinced."
"She has earned Eowyn's friendship and mine," Eomer argues. "Something neither of us give away lightly."
Bledgifu's expression softens and she squeezes his hand. "I know your hearts, mīn cild. They are more open than you believe, and I would not suffer anyone to take advantage of that."
She means well, the old battleaxe, and Eomer lets the matter rest. The princess had proven her true character in time, to both his men and himself; why should it be different with Bledgifu?
They finally venture to the lake on the third day of their trip to Aldburg. The excursion could not have come quickly enough; Bledgifu's coldness towards Lothiriel did not seem to be thawing, even in the face of Eowyn's entreaties on her behalf.
"I have never known her to be so harsh," Eowyn complains on their ride from the city to the beginnings of the lake-country. "I have to apologize again, Lothiriel-and to you, Erchirion-"
"We are accustomed to censure well enough," Erchirion snaps, temper short as it has been in the past few days. He spurs his horse ahead to catch up with Eothain and Eomer, leaving Lothiriel mortified in his wake.
"I am so sorry, Eowyn," she manages to say. "I do not what has gotten into him since we left Edoras, but he has been an absolute Orc."
"Perhaps he has left something behind of great value," Eowyn says, something sly in her tone.
Brow crinkling, Lothiriel ponders for a moment; she cannot think of anything so great of value that could have been left in Edoras to her brother that it would turn him from charming prince to prickly arse in the span of three days. "Perhaps," she answers instead.
All thoughts of her usually even-keel brother's behavior vanish with their arrival to the lake. Eowyn had not exaggerated; it was beautiful, with deep blue water, ringed with trees on the shore furthest from them, and grainy light-brown sand all along the shoreline.
"Sweet Elbereth," Lothiriel murmurs, earning a laugh from Eowyn.
A few ladies from Aldburg have joined them-Esrun, Bledgifu's second in command, a cousin of Eothain's, and Sunngifu, Bledgifu's daughter-as well as a number of lads.
"And you've never seen a lake before, my lady?" Sunngifu asks.
The daughter is infinitely preferable to her mother, for all of the flirtatious smiles she keeps shooting in both Erchirion and Eomer's directions.
"No, just the sea and a number of rivers I'm afraid," Lothiriel admits.
"Well, a lake has its benefits, to be certain," Esrun assures her. "Picnics, for one."
"Swimming, for the other," Eothain's cousin, Rosefled, giggles.
Lothiriel arches an eyebrow at that. "Surely we will not be swimming."
"No, not us," Eowyn says, smirking again.
That tone tends to bode very ill for all involved, and Lothiriel quickly turns towards the safer topic of finding their agreed upon picnic sight.
The meal Bledgifu has packed them is a number of Rohirric delicacies-goat cheese has become something of a favorite of hers, though she still shies away from the salty eels-and the ladies settle down into a comfortable conversation. Lothiriel can hear the men shouting and laughing in the distance, but no one seems overly concerned by it, and so she assumes it's a natural part of this sort of trip.
Eowyn has apparently mentioned Lothiriel's now infamous ride in a blue dress, and she finds herself besieged with numerous-but thankfully harmless-questions regarding the fact.
"And all the ladies wear blue in your city? Truly?" Esrun asks.
"I'm afraid it's a rather dull color in Dol Amroth," Lothiriel promises. "And we would have unapproved marriages occurring every hour if the color meant the same there as it does in the Mark."
"We must be careful when sending our riders to your city then, my lady," Sunngifu says with a smirk. "Or you may find your sea-side town populated entirely by descendants of Eorl."
Laughing, they all share stories of dress mishaps for a time. Lothiriel stands, feeling oddly stiff and a little warm in the September sunshine. "I may walk to the water to cool off my feet; would anyone like to come?"
The other women wave her off, though Eowyn gives her specific instructions to keep to the right side of the shore. Nodding, Lothiriel begins her short trek, pausing to toe her shoes off before sinking her feet into the damp sand. Despite the unfamiliarity of the lake in front of her, this, the sand between her toes and the beginnings of the cool water lapping at her feet, feels like home.
She's just managed to lift her dress-not blue this time, thanks to a loan from Eowyn-enough to keep it from getting wet as she stands ankle deep in the water. Curious fish swim over the exposed skin of her feet, and she cannot help but laugh and wish that Alphros was here to enjoy such a sensation with her-when a familiar voice calls her name.
"Thiri!" Cries Erchirion. "Imagine what we could do with a boat on water like this, eh?"
Laughing, she turns to face her brother, only to have her mouth fall open in shock. Erchirion is shirtless, standing knee deep in the water, his hair plastered messily against his forehead.
"Erchirion!" She squeaks. "Where-where is your shirt?"
"On the shore, safe and sound," he assures her. "Naneth would murder me if anything were to happen to it."
"Likely so," Lothiriel manages to say. "But why are you shirtless, brother?"
"We were swimming, of course," Erchirion says, gesturing down at the water. "We have never swam in shirts before, Thiri."
While this is all true, and she has seen her brothers-and a number of their friends-similarly clothed while in the ocean, it is different now, because this is Rohan and Erchirion is in a lake and-
"Are all Gondorian princes as pretty as you, my lord?" Sunngifu's flirtatious voice cuts across Lothriel's panic. "If so, I can see why Eowyn has lost her heart to one."
The other women have joined her, now, and much to Lothiriel's horror, she sees Eothain's mass of red hair rounding the corner, followed by a number of other figures. All, are of course, shirtless.
"There you are, Erchirion!" Eothain yells. "Couldn't stay away from the ladies, could you?"
Erchirion kicks water at him while Eothain and the other men guffaw.
"And where have you left your king, Eothain?" Eowyn asks, hands on her hips, but a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "Hopefully not submerged under a rock somewhere at the bottom of the lake!"
"You wound me, my lady," Eothain cries, hand pressed to his heart in a dramatic fashion. "As if I would ever abandon my king in such a perilous place."
Where is Eomer? Lothiriel wonders.
And then she can no longer wonder, for the man in question appears, looking like something out of a sea-story of old. Shirtless, like the rest, his long hair flowing not unlike water itself around his shoulders, his king's marks only brought into stronger relief against the blue of the water and the bronze of his skin-by the Valar, his skin is nearly as dark as hers, but how? For Eowyn was fair, pale, even, but she would be hard-pressed to call Eomer thus. He is well-muscled and as broad-shouldered as ever, striking a vastly more impressive figure emerging from the lake than any of his companions. The markings inked into his skin do not look nearly as painful as they had the day of the coronation; indeed, Lothiriel has a sudden urge to trace the path of those winding tattoos with the tips of her fingers-
"-thiriel?"
Gulping and feeling strangely weak-kneed, Lothiriel turns her almost certainly red face back towards her fellow ladies.
"Are you feeling alright?" Esrun asks. "Your face looks as if you've been standing in front of an oven!"
"It is likely the heat," Rosefled fusses, bending to dip one of the leftover napkins from lunch in the water before pressing it gently to Lothiriel's forehead. "There, is that better?"
"M-much," she manages to stutter.
"Perhaps you'd care for a dip, my lady!" One of the men yells, earning a swift cuff from Eothain.
"As if you lot are worthy of sharing this lake with the princess!" He reprimands.
Lothiriel starts at the sudden presence of Eowyn at her side; her friend slips her arm through hers and offers a sympathetic look. "Are you over-warm, my friend?"
Lothiriel thinks she hears Sunngifu mutter something that sounds suspiciously like 'not from the weather', but she ignores that, trying to draw up a passably calm expression. "No, I am fine, the water is quite cool."
Nonetheless, Eowyn draws her away into the shade of a nearby tree, where Rosefled continues to fret over the flush in her cheeks.
Lothiriel keeps her eyes resolutely turned away from the lake until the call is given for them to depart.
To say that Eomer had been displeased by how thing had gone at the lake would be a massive understatement. Oh, the day had started pleasant enough, and it gratified him to see that the men and women of Aldburg did not possess Bledgifu's reticence towards their Gondorian guests. The water had been cold, but not awful, and it had been all too easy to agree to Eothain's suggestion for a quick swim.
The swim had quickly turned into an all and out brawl. Erchirion had been a surprisingly agile ally, with his long history of swimming in Dol Amroth's waters better preparing him for a round of splashing than any other man present.
Which is why Eomer had not worried when the Dol Amrothian had disappeared; it was unlikely that such an experienced swimmer would be in any sort of danger in the calm waters of the lake. Eothain, however, had not been so convinced, and had easily persuaded the other men to look for their erstwhile companion.
It soon becomes obvious what had drawn Erchirion's attention; his sister, wading ankle-deep along the lake's shoreline. Eomer had been too far out to make out her face properly, but not far enough to hear one of the men-Folca-all but invite the princess to swim with them. Even Eowyn at her most reckless would have refused such a bold proposition, and Eomer makes no attempt to hide his displeasure as the men pull their shirts back on.
"She is not of the Mark, Folca, and likely thinks us little more than barbarians, after a comment like that," he growls, fixing the man with a stern look.
There is a sudden snort from Eothain, and Eomer turns to give his captain a poisonous look.
"What," Eomer hisses, "is so funny?"
"I do not think it was the comment that had her so flustered, sire," Eothain says, towelling off his mop of bright red hair.
There a few murmurs of agreement, and Eomer is suddenly very glad that Erchirion has dressed himself already and wandered off to find to find the ladies.
"Well, what then?"
"Your tattoos, Eomer King," pipes in Hildred, another of Eothain's cousins. "Perhaps she has never seen the like?"
"It's the man who makes the marks, Hil," Eothain guffaws, throwing an arm around his cousin's thin shoulders. "And if we are barbarians, Eomer, I suspect the princess would like nothing better than to tame at least one I can think of-"
He punches Eothain-hard-in the shoulder, remembering his promise to Wilfled not to break his captain's nose again, and he is loathe to anger Eothain's small but surprisingly strong wife.
"Esol," he hisses. Eothain simply continues to laugh, most of them men with him.
"Surely there are worse thing than to be admired by such a lady," Caedda chuckles.
Eomer fixes him with a look that has sent many a man running, and takes great pleasure in the sudden whiteness of his guardsman's face.
Dinner is a raucous affair, the day's ride and the swim having put everyone into a fine mood. Bledgifu does not disappoint and she's put special effort into making a number of both his and Eowyn's favorite foods. The ale is a bit heavier, the mead sweeter; they're closer to the mountains here, in Aldburg, than they are in Edoras. A part of him will always consider this city-this keep-home, but he does not long for it, the way he had as a child when his parents were freshly gone and Theoden still little more than a stranger to him.
Theodred, though, had eased their transition to Edoras more than any comfort foods or well-meant words. Twelve years his senior and Crown-Prince besides, Theodred had always been something of a god to Eomer before they'd come to Edoras. Getting to know the real Theodred had been infinitely more satisfying than the hero-worship of a little boy.
"What are you thinking of, Eomer?" Eowyn asks, dropping into the seat beside him.
"Theodred," he admits. "And how much he would have enjoyed today."
She squeezes his hand. "He would have."
They sit in contemplative silence for a moment; with food in his belly and some of the people he loves most in this world at his side, it is hard to tend towards melancholy. So, instead, he opts for teasing.
"And what of your Steward?" He asks, nudging his sister's shoulder. "I noticed that our poor riders are venturing to Gondor's borders nearly twice a week, carrying letters, and not all of them from Aragorn."
A look of happiness slides over Eowyn's face. "He is as almost as wonderful in his letters as he is in person."
Eomer has never seen his sister smitten before-oh, there have been flirtations in their youth, boys she had fancied in passing, but this is something different. Something true. He cannot imagine giving his blessing to any man who did not truly love his sister as she is, and he knows Eowyn well enough to know she would never compromise her core self for any man. That she has remained this happy-this in love-after a few months separated from Faramir only serves to convince him further that she has made the right choice.
"I am sorry to have separated you, then," he says, squeezing her hand.
He had not been, at the beginning. Coming back to Edoras without Eowyn had been unfathomable, but he sees it now, how selfish he had been to only announce their betrothal instead of pushing for a wedding.
Eowyn tuts, rolling her eyes. "As if you could have survived those first few weeks without me. Not to mention the coronation. No," she sighs, the dreamy expression returning to her face, "I am not sorry. Faramir and I will have our whole lives together, after all."
The cynical part of him, the part that still wonders if Theodred would not have been the better king after all, wants to remind her that the future is not guaranteed, even if the War is over and a relative peace lies over the land, that she should not be so certain.
But he cannot-could not-say that to her when she looks so happy, so at peace. Peace is something he has always wanted for his wild, fierce little sister.
"You will," he says instead. "Has there been any discussion of what your wedding marks will be?"
Wedding marks are something that every boy and girl in the Mark dreams of; they bond a married couple together much in the same way a king's marks bind him to his country. They are a serious commitment, agreed upon by both parties in design, and are displayed with pride in the warmer months.
Eowyn frowns, thinking. "He has not mentioned them, and I had not thought to...Erchirion!"
The prince's head pops up from a few seats away, where he has been deep in conversation with Eothain and Lothiriel. "Yes, my lady?"
She motions him over. Eothain, as ever, cannot be left out of the fun, trails along after, all but dragging the princess along behind him.
"I have a question for you, and perhaps for you as well, Lothiriel," Eowyn says while they seat themselves.
"We are here to serve, my lady," Erchirion says, something like teasing in his voice.
Eomer quirks an eyebrow at that; the man is in a better mood than he has been these past three days. Turning his questioning look towards Lothiriel, he is somewhat surprised to find her staring resolutely at a spot just passed his shoulder, her face pink. Eothain and Caedda's words from earlier float back to him and suddenly he finds himself wanting to test the truth of them.
But then Eowyn is speaking again, asking, "What are Gondor's standards regarding wedding marks? Faramir has not said, and I must confess that I find it a bit odd, with the wedding so quickly approaching-"
Erchirion and Lothiriel now wear identical expressions of confusion.
"Wedding marks?" Erchirion asks. "What do you mean?"
They've attracted an audience now, and every Eorlingas exchanges a bemused look.
"Perhaps they have some fancy Elvish name for it, in Dol Amroth," Eothain offers gamely, rolling up his sleeve. "Take a gander, prince, and tell me what you make of it."
Eothain's tattoo has become something of a running joke-not because it lacks beauty, or that he would ever do anything to lessen its value-but because there is no man more willing to flaunt his wedding mark. At every opportunity, Eothain will show off the mark with the glee of a green youth in the flush of first love. Which, he is, in a way; Wilfled had been the first girl he'd ever loved, and would be the last.
It's a pretty enough mark, the dark red of Aldburg's banners, where both he and Wilfled are from. It winds around his bicep in gentle waves, mimicking the waters of the lake where Wilfled had dunked him in and then kissed him for the first time.
Eomer has heard the story enough times that he can nearly recite it himself, and is grateful for Lothiriel's question interrupting Eothain's thousandth retelling.
"It is lovely, but what does it mean?"
That sets the room buzzing; even children no higher than their parents' knees know what the marks mean.
"The marks are a symbol of our wedding vows," Eowyn explains, though her brow is furrowed as well. "It's how we show that we are promised, to our spouse, to the children we create, in both this life and the next."
Erchirion looks thoughtful. "I am afraid we have no such inkings in Gondor, though I would say that is our loss."
The murmurs only grow.
"What do you do to signify your promise to each other then?" Someone, Eomer suspects Rosefled, asks.
"Perhaps nothing, if marks are not deemed worthy enough-" Bledgifu mutters.
"We wear rings," Lothiriel interjects, eyes blazing; it is obvious she did not miss the housekeeper's less than polite murmur.
"Rings?" Esrun asks. "Can you not take them off?"
"You can, but most do not," Lothiriel explains, looking slightly calmer. "They're made of precious metal, usually, and given at the time of the wedding. Some are passed down from generation to generation, signifying the family's approval of one's potential spouse."
There are a few more murmurs; confusion, mostly, but a few voices of interest. Metal and precious stones are rare in the Mark, and not as valued as horses or food, but it would make sense that the ever-proper Gondorians preferred a symbol of wealth instead of practicality.
"But you can take them off, should you so choose," Bledgifu says, looking thunderous. "What is to stop some lord-or lady-from removing the obvious evidence of their marriage, and making the most of its absence?"
There are a few laughs, a few gasps, but Eomer cares only for Lothiriel, whose face goes white and then almost as rapidly, a dark red.
"My mother has not taken her ring off once-through childbearing, through healing, through war and loss and bloodshed. If that does not show devotion to the vows she made at her wedding, I do not know what does," she hisses.
"You speak of your mother, my lady," Bledgifu says, arching an eyebrow-never before has Eomer cursed the housekeeper's tongue, but he does now, knowing the venom she is about to direct is undeserved-"but what of your father?"
Eomer cannot help the look of horror that crosses his face at what Bledgifu suggests with such rancor. One of the greatest shames an Eorlingas could face is the public ceremony that occurred if one was caught breaking their marriage vows. The wedding mark of the offending party would be altered before the entire town, and their wronged spouse could choose to dissolve their union on the spot, depending on the severity of the crime. Infidelity in either partner was not tolerated, and a man could not raise his hand to his wife without threat of the tōberstan. To insinuate that Gondorians view marriage as less than anything other than a sacred vow is both insulting and scandalous.
Lothiriel's hands slamming on the table startle nearly everyone, and she draws herself to her full height, glaring fiercely at Bledgifu. "My father would have tattooed every inch of his body to show his love for my mother, if that was our way. I am sorry if you think a mark is the only way of showing love for another, but I have learned that there is more to love than words and symbols."
The room is silent.
"Lothiriel," Eowyn starts, looking as horrified as Eomer feels; Bema above, it is enough to insult the princess, but to bring Imrahil into it-!
The sound-her name-seems to bring some noise back into the room. Bledgifu murmurs a somewhat sincere apology. Eothain hurriedly calls for a round of ale. Erchirion reaches for his sister's arm, but she is swinging herself over the bench, resolutely not meeting anyone's eyes.
"I need some air," she says, her voice wavering only slightly, "excuse me."
And then she is gone, in a whirl of skirts and brown hair.
Eomer is on his feet before he can stop himself-what he intends to do, he's far from certain, but he cannot let the insult stand, cannot let her rush off and be alone after being dealt such a blow-Bema, the pain in her expression-
Eowyn's hand on his arm stops him and he turns to give her a blank look. Surely she was not about to scold him for going after-
"Let me go," Eowyn says, voice pitched low. "It was my questions that caused this entire mess to begin with."
Eomer allows himself to be pushed back into his seat, turning his attention toward the obviously fuming Erchirion. Eowyn squeezes the other man's arm before rising and hurrying off down the hallway that the princess had previously vanished down.
"Erchirion," Eomer starts, unsure of how to speak to the other man. They are friendly enough, and have never had any trouble discussing horses or war stories, but this is something else entirely.
Erchirion waves his hand at him, taking an angry sip of ale from the mug Eothain has hastily set down before him. "I understand that our customs are different, Eomer King, but the rings we give in Gondor are considered no less binding than the marks your people bear. And to insult my father thus-"
The dark haired man cuts himself off, knuckles white around his mug.
"Bledgifu will apologize," Eomer assures him. The housekeeper has been given leeway in the past, but this was too far, even for all of the love he bears for her.
Erchirion snorts. "What good will that do? She is respected here, her opinions valued. If she says that Gondorians spit in the face of marriage, no amount of goodwill towards me or my sister will be enough to sway your people's opinions."
Eomer stares at the other man. There is some tinge of bitterness in his tone, some sort of hurt that did not spring from the insult to his parents.
Why would a Gondorian prince worry if the people of the Mark think him unfit to wed? Eomer wonders.
"Bledgifu is only one woman, Erchirion," Eothain says suddenly. "Her influence is not as vast as you may think."
"It is large enough," Erchirion snaps. He finishes his ale and stands. "I think I shall retire for the evening. Good night."
Watching the prince leave, Eomer cannot help but wonder if any and all diplomatic-not to mention more personal-relationships with the royal House of Dol Amroth have just been undone in the span of minutes.
The thought bothers him more than he cares to admit.
She knows she is frightening the stable boys, but Lothiriel cannot bring herself to stop. The anger coiling inside of her is unlike anything she has ever experienced-worse than when that bastard of an errand boy had called Alycia a savage, worse than when a group of Minas Tirithian nobles had tried to put a hot iron to Amrothos's curling hair, worse than when Denethor had called Faramir worthless in front of the entirety of the court-and so she must hit something. The fence post will suffice for now, since she cannot bludgeon Bledgifu with a stick.
She is untrained in any sort of footwork or sword play, but she knows enough to rattle the fence post, to make her arms ache with each stroke.
Lothiriel is accustomed to scorn, to censure. But to insult Ada-and Naneth, and their marriage-Elbereth, it is more than she can bear, to hear the people she loves most in the world slandered by a bitter, uninformed-
Dimly, she's aware of the tread of someone's feet. With one final ringing blow, she lowers the stick to her side before turning. With her luck, it would be Eomer, and she would be accused of attacking royalty on their own land.
If Gondorians are capable of infidelity, they would certainly be capable of murder, or at least that's what the people of Rohan would believe, Lothiriel thinks, unkindly.
"I see the boys were wise enough not to give you live steel," Eowyn says.
"Fortunately for the fence post, yes," Lothiriel answers, finally relinquishing her make-shift sword.
Eowyn hesitates.
Lothiriel does not think she has ever seen her friend so unsure before; angry, joyful, teasing, stubborn, brash, yes, all of those emotions, but never uncertain.
"If you are thinking of a way to apologize to me, you need not," Lothiriel offers, trying and likely failing to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "The fault does not lie with you, Eowyn."
Eowyn's eyes flick up to hers and Lothiriel is somewhat relieved at the spark of irritation she sees there. "I offer no apology. I am merely trying to think of a way to express how little I agree with Bledgifu's points. Rings, marks; no symbol on earth can make a faithful spouse out of the faithless, and certainly the ability to remove one's ring does not make a person inherently more predisposed towards infidelity."
Lothiriel can feel some of the tension leech out of her spine. "I only wish I had expressed myself half as well before running out here like a spoilt child."
Eowyn shakes her head, stepping closer to take Lothiriel's hands in hers. "You were attacked, unjustly, for a tradition your country-and your family-holds dear. No one can blame you for wanting to be away from a person who has just insulted you in nearly every way." Eowyn pauses, contemplating. "If someone had said such a thing about marks to me in Gondor, I think I should have slapped the silly bint across the face and felt no regret for it. At least you prefer to take your anger out on fence-posts."
Startled into laughter at the image Eowyn presents, Lothiriel squeezes her friend's fingers. "Ah, the Wild Shieldmaiden of the North, laying waste to Minas Tirith's court! Faramir would likely swoon."
Eowyn cannot stifle her own amusement; the thought of Faramir, level-headed and noble, falling over in a faint at her defending her country's honor was a thing of hilarity, to say the least.
Once their laughter has passed, though, the gravity of the situation in the hall slowly creeps back in. Lothiriel, though cheered by her friend's defense, cannot help but feel...stung. Such censure and scorn she had tolerated in Minas Tirith without complaint-though certainly not over Gondor's wedding bands-but in Rohan, she thought she had found somewhere she was welcome. Somewhere where she...fit, in a way that only her family's rooms in Dol Amroth or quiet nights spent in Minas Tirith's library with Faramir had made her feel before.
Eowyn's expression drains of mirth when she says as much. "Lothiriel, you do fit! Surely Bledgifu's words are not enough to convince you otherwise!"
"You cannot understand," Lothiriel murmurs, eyes filling with tears in spite of herself, "you cannot possibly understand what it means to be made to feel so different. So...other. Even amongst many of own countrymen I am considered an oddity, and then I came here and I thought...I had hoped-"
Eowyn's sudden hug is nearly bruising, but Lothiriel welcomes it, tucking her face against her friend's shoulder.
"You will always have a place with me and mine," Eowyn hisses fiercely, "I have told you before that I consider you kin, and no difference in marital traditions or color of skin will change that."
"But what of the rest of Aldburg, the rest of Rohan?" Lothiriel sniffles miserably. "Surely, they will think me and Erchirion-if not all of Gondor-strange foreigners for not partaking in wedding marks-"
"Just as some Gondorians thought my brother and I uncouth savages from the North," Eowyn insists. "It does not mean they are right, and nor does it mean that your traditions are any less valuable. People will see your true worth, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, and they will love you for it. As I do, as your other friends do. Anyone else scarcely matters."
Lothiriel nods, feeling comforted. "When did you become so wise, Eowyn of Rohan?"
"When I met a very kind man in the Houses of Healing, who showed me that things need not be as black and white as I perceived them," Eowyn says, gently brushing a tear from Lothiriel's cheek.
They are silent for a moment while Eowyn allows her to gather her composure.
"Faramir would not be opposed to them," Lothiriel says suddenly.
"Opposed to what, dear one?"
"The wedding marks," she explains, smiling slightly when Eowyn blinks, clearly surprised. "I suspect he would saw his own arm off if it would please you, and this seems like much less dire option."
"But it is not Gondor's way-"
"But you are not of Gondor," Lothiriel interrupts. "And though I know he would very much like to give you one of Aunt Findulas's rings, I do not see why he would refuse the mark of marriage that is more familiar to you as well."
Eowyn gapes at her for a minute. "I had not considered-both! To have both!"
Lothiriel laughs, mopping at her surely dripping nose. "Then no one in Middle Earth could consider themselves as bound in love as you two."
"Both," Eowyn repeated, as if in a daze. "Lothiriel, you are a marvel."
Lothiriel flushes, elbowing her friend gently. "Hardly! I am merely working with the facts as they are. Why not please both parties, both countries? Surely no Rohir would oppose to a sign that your husband is overly devoted to you."
Eowyn seems not to hear her, suddenly taking Lothiriel's hand and all but dragging her back towards the hall. "You must help me with designs! It should honor both Gondor and the Mark, perhaps mine in the grey of Emyn Arnen, and Faramir's the green of Edoras-"
Smiling, Lothiriel allows her friend's excitement to wash away the bitterness of the earlier part of the evening; let Bledgifu spit all the venom she wished, she would not take Eowyn and Faramir's happiness away from them.
Author's Note: Ok, so there's a toooooon of stuff to unpack in this chapter, so let's begin.
Keeping with the idea of tattoos being an important part of Rohirric culture that I introduced in earlier chapters, I think it's fitting that Rohan also has marks for marriage purposes. They're a very active people, and I definitely think jewelry would be more of a thing for the nobility/royalty than for the everyday farmhands or midwives or what-have-you. Rings would be waaaay too easy to lose during the harvest or in battle, and given the importance placed on marriage, it makes sense that their culture would rely on permanent markings to indicate the seriousness of being wed to someone. In this instance, wedding marks vary by couple, depending on what region of Rohan they're from, what social rank they hold, and specific events of the couple's courtship. Wedding marks are on the man's upper left arm, and the woman's upper right arm, signifying that they are two halves of a whole once married.
Gondor, conversely, is a much wealthier society on the whole. Wedding rings are both a symbol of commitment and economic status. The higher-born the man and woman, the more ostentatious the ring-or at least, the better quality of materials that make it. Family traditions are important here too; even in arranged marriages, it's traditional to pass along a family ring, to signify that your new spouse's family approves of the match.
Bledgifu's dislike of Lothiriel comes in two parts: 1) she was never fond of Morwen Queen (Theoden's mother, Eowyn and Eomer's grandmother) who is the only Gondorian noble she's ever met and 2) she's not a big fan of the idea of her essentially adopted daughter moving away to Gondor, where everything is foreign and different. Lothiriel represents both Gondor's intrusion into Rohan and the confirmation that Eowyn is going to have to change and grow (which is not a bad thing, as Tolkien himself noted). Bledgifu is protective and bias, which is not always the best combination. We'll revisit her in later chapters, but it's important to note her opinion is probably not an uncommon one amongst older Rohirric people.
ORIGINAL CHARACTER LIST AND DESCRIPTIONS (feel free to skip if you're not confused/interested!)
Eothain: Eomer's Captain of the Guard and one of his oldest friends. Married to Wilfled, brother of Lisswyn, father of Eofor (who will be introduced later). In my head, he looks like Kristofer Hivju.
Wilfled: Eothain's wife, and one of the chief weavers in Edoras. Short-tempered, but good-humored. Looks like Eleanor Tomlinson a la Poldark.
Lisswyn: Eothain's younger sister. Widowed by the War of the Ring, has a small daughter, Darwyn. Soft-spoken and gentle. Looks like Kelly Reilly.
Bledgifu: Aldburg's chief housekeeper. Stout, outspoken, rules the household with an iron fist. Very close to Theodwyn before her death. Looks like Brenda Blethyn.
Sunngifu: Bledgifu's daughter. Looks like Kelly McDonald.
Rosefled: One of many cousins of Eothain and Lisswyn. Looks like Ellie Bamber.
Esrun: Bledgifu's second in command and an old friend of Eowyn's. Looks like Holiday Grainger.
Terms for this chapter:
mīn cild: my child
esol: ass
tōberstan: to break asunder, but in this instance it signifies the ceremony that occurs if either spouse is caught breaking their wedding vows