Author's Note: Hello again, friends! Many apologies for the long absence; this chapter gave me absolute fits and I had to rewrite a few parts numerous times until I was satisfied with them. But, I hope you'll enjoy it! As always, thank y'all so so much for the awesome reviews and questions-if I haven't gotten back to you yet, I will soon.
Fair warning, there's a little bit of a Moment for our favorite pair towards the end of this chapter-nothing graphic, but certainly sensual-so if that makes you uncomfortable, skip after "What outcome?".
I'm also available over on tumblr at theemightypen for questions, comments, concerns, and, of course, prompts!
And now, onward! This is a pretty dialogue heavy chapter, and family is the topic on hand :)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Her eyes ache with tiredness, but no matter which position she tries, she cannot fall asleep. Erchirion's blank face keeps floating in her mind's eye-he had been so quiet at dinner that even Eofor had noticed.
Damn my temper, she thinks. Mad as she is at him, at the situation, yelling at him had done little good. She knows his heart. A better course of action would to have been to sit, to listen, to help him understand-
Groaning, Lothiriel drags herself to her feet. There is enough light left by the dying embers of the fire that she can find her dressing gown, and on second thought, her cloak as well. It is still cold inside the hall, after all. The walk to her brother's rooms is short, but Lothiriel finds herself hesitating outside the door. There is a good chance he will be asleep. Or lack a desire to talk to her at all-it is not as if they parted under pleasant circumstances, with her ignoring the clear anguish in his voice as she pulled the door shut-
She shakes her head to clear it. There is no sense dwelling on what has already been done. Steeling herself, she taps the door in the pattern she and her brothers have used since childhood. It opens not a minute later, revealing Erchirion's face.
"I could not sleep," she whispers.
Her brother smiles, despite the lingering worry in his expression. "That makes two of us."
Erchirion steps back to allow her into the room. The fire is still bright, illuminating the half empty pitcher of wine and the tousled blankets in the chair he'd obviously been occupying before her knock. The signs of his obvious disquiet only serve to heighten her guilt, despite the small voice in the back of her mind that sounds suspiciously like Alycia reminding her that she had not been all wrong in what she had said.
"I am sorry!" Lothiriel blurts, once they've both settled into their respective chairs. "I do not regret what I said if it made you think, Erchirion, but I could have said it in a kinder way. You and Lisswyn and the child...you will need every ally you can, not someone to point out all of the things that are stacked against you-"
"Lothiriel, peace," Erchirion interrupts, reaching out to take her hands. "If we are apologizing, I should be the one doing so. I have been a fool, and you were right to tell me so."
She can only blink at him in surprise. "What?"
"You were right," he repeats. "I did not consider how far-reaching this will be. For Lisswyn, for our child, for our family..." At this he scrubs a hand over his face. "I have no good reason for my stupidity other than I love Lisswyn. And even that falls flat, because my loving her has only served to make her life harder-"
"Do not say such things!" She says. "Oh, Erchirion. I have heard it from her mouth myself, how much she loves you, how happy loving you has made her. Messy as this has become, would you take it back if you could?" Lothiriel flushes pink as he arches an eyebrow at her. "Loving Lisswyn, you twit, not...lying with her."
"No," Erchirion responds, instantly, "not for one minute. Lisswyn...she is what I fought for."
Lothiriel knows she must look as confused as she feels, if Erchirion's sudden wry smile is anything to go by. "I do not understand," she says. And she doesn't; Lisswyn and Erchirion had not met until well after the War's ending. How could it have been her she fought for, if he hadn't known her?
"You know me, Lothiriel. I was not a soldier for glory, nor for love of battle. I fought because I had to, because to not fight against an evil like that would be the same as siding with it. But I took no pleasure in it. Elphir would have fought a thousand men, a thousand Orcs, and been content to do so, knowing it would keep Alycia and Alphros safe. Amrothos has that fire, that intense sense of purpose, of righteousness...I suspect that is why Ada gave him control of the fleet. He'll be a formidable enemy for the Corsairs. But I...I would have thrown down my sword for a moment of peace. To close my eyes and not see the dead and the injured behind them. I could feel pieces of myself falling beside them on the battlefield and I was helpless to stop it."
Lothiriel's heart gives an uncomfortable lurch in her chest. She knows, she's always known, how the violence her brothers have lived through has affected Erchirion the most deeply. But as close as they are, drawing his true emotions out of him is no easy feat, and to hear him speak so candidly…"Erchirion…"
He squeezes her fingers, as if she is the one who needs comfort. "I thought those pieces of myself lost. How could I even think of wanting tenderness, or softness, after so much death? But with Lisswyn...it is as if she kept the seeds of such things in her hands, lying in wait until I could hold them again without fear, without reserve."
The Poet Prince, Lothiriel thinks, fondly, remembering what Dol Amroth's court has long called her middle brother.
"How could I do anything else but love her, Lothiriel?" He asks. "Foolish I have been, and irresponsible, but I feel more like myself now than I have in years."
It breaks her heart, just a little. How could she not have seen? "Why did you not say anything?"
That draws a smile out of him, and he taps her nose. "Your heart is just as soft as mine, little flower. It did not feel right to burden you with such darkness."
"I am no child," she reminds him, "and I would have been glad to listen, even if I could not fully understand."
His eyes search her face. Whatever he sees there makes him sigh, and nod resignedly. "I see that now. But I do not regret keeping it from you. Nor that it was Lisswyn to give me my peace back. I only regret that our joy at finding each other cannot simply be what it is."
"I am sorry, too." Lothiriel says. "What will you two do? What does Lisswyn want?"
Erchirion huffs a laugh. "The same as I do. To wed and live happily, with Darwyn and our child, and the wagging tongues be damned."
"A happy picture," she says. "But I do not think it will be that simple."
"No," he admits. "We let our happiness blind us to the realities of the situation. In Dol Amroth, my reserve would hardly be out of the ordinary for a courting man, but here...I fear Eothain and Eothred will think me cowardly, or untrue, for not having been more open with how I feel about Lisswyn."
"Eothred will be more sympathetic, I think," she says, cautiously, "but Eothain...reserve is not something he understands. Not when it comes to expressing one's love, at least."
"An understatement if there ever was one," Erchirion says. "Can you imagine what Minas Tirith's court would make of him and Wilfled?"
"Oh, they'd be utterly scandalized," Lothiriel agrees with a smile, despite the seriousness of the situation. "But I think Lisswyn's family will be the easier of the two to placate. Ada and Naneth... they have already asked you to wait-"
"I will have to fail them, this once," he interrupts. "I will not return to Gondor without Lisswyn as my wife."
"Should you return to Gondor?" She asks. Now that she has had time to think, to breathe, the situation does not seem as entirely dire as she'd originally thought. Complicated, to be sure, and likely to cause no small amount of trouble, but not so bleak. "I think the Mark would be able to offer you and Lisswyn a less scrutinized life. People will still talk, but the Eorlingas value deeds over words. If you show yourself to be a good husband to Lisswyn, and a good father to your child, they will forgive the hastiness of your marriage more quickly than our own people would."
Erchirion gives her a searching look. "You truly do understand them, don't you?"
At this, Lothiriel flushes. Twisting a strand of hair around her finger, she says, "I am trying to. Their culture is no less interesting and complex than our own."
In truth, there are many aspects of Rohan's culture that she prefers to Gondor's. Much as she longs for the more sedate balls of Dol Amroth, or a leisurely afternoon spent at sea with friends and family, Lothiriel is not sure how well she will be able to go back to such mundane pursuits. Not to mention that after months spent alongside such open, straight-forward people, the thought of having to paste on a courtier's smile again is an exhausting one. Aragorn and Arwen's rule will likely help to change the mood of the courts, but even monarchs such as they cannot invoke change overnight.
"Perhaps I'll pledge my service to your King," Erchirion murmurs, clearly unaware of her inner turmoil, "and then again to you, when you become Queen of this place-"
"Don't," she says, sharply. "That is not something we can talk of in terms of certainty."
Her brother blinks at her. "You cannot tell me you doubt Eomer."
"No," Lothiriel answers, "never. But we are only courting, and Ada and Naneth know nothing of it. In the wake of your marriage to Lisswyn, I worry that they will think we have been...similarly rash."
"Elbereth, Lothiriel, Lisswyn and my actions will not poison them against Eomer! You know how much Ada admires him. They know his honor, and I will be the first to tell them how properly he has gone about courting you-"
Lothiriel's cheeks flush guiltily-Eomer has been proper, by Rohan's standards, but Ada would no doubt take issue with the King of the Mark kissing her in a stable or hidden behind the bushes of Morwen Queen's garden-
Erchirion's sudden groan startles her out of her reverie. "Valar be good, Lothiriel, do not tell me I have been mistaken-"
"No!" She cries, cursing her readable face. "No, Erchirion, he has done nothing to dishonor me. And," at this she gives him a stern look, "it is not as if you would have the right to lecture if he had. I am not the one due to become a parent in a few months time, after all."
Her brother's face floods with color. "It-it is different, Lisswyn had been married already and I am-"
"An honorable man? An older brother?" She asks with an arch of an eyebrow. "Someone who courts with marriage in mind?"
Erchirion's mouth snaps shut. "I deserve that," he begrudgingly admits.
"Yes," she agrees. And there is still so much to talk about, so much she wants to ask him-what is he planning on saying to Eothred and Eothain? If he and Lisswyn were to remain in the Mark, what would he do to provide for their family? Has he considered Ada and Naneth's reaction beyond the initial outrage?-but she finds herself yawning instead.
"It is late," he says, smiling at her. "And now I think we've talked enough that you will not keep yourself up with fretting."
"As if you were not doing the same!" Lothiriel protests-but her outrage is marred by another yawn, this one larger than the last.
"True," Erchirion agrees. "But mine was more deserved than yours."
Lothiriel stands, stretching before moving towards the door. Erchirion's hand catches hers before she can pull it open, and she can't help but give a soft laugh as he moves his thumb over hers in a familiar motion. A relic of their childhood, a sign of secrets and promises kept.
"I know I have not been the brother you deserve lately," he says, his words at war with the light-heartedness of the gesture, "but Thiri, you should know how proud I am of you. Of the woman you are becoming."
"Oh," she breathes. In truth, she is still worried for him, for Lisswyn, for their child, and the ripples that will follow when the situation comes to light. But oh, how she loves him. Her best, her most foolish, her most tender-hearted brother. "There has never been a luckier sister than me, to have such a brother."
Erchirion ducks his head-even he cannot fight blushes, it would seem.
The gentle tap he gives her nose before letting her leave lingers, even as she snuggles down into her blankets.
Perhaps it will not go so ill, she thinks, after all, what has the War taught us, if not to hold to hope?
The dull-throbbing behind his temples only worsens when his page arrives with another stack of papers from the council.
Eomer had not slept well, and the strain of a mostly sleepless night is starting to take its toll. He knows he must have dreamed unpleasant things, but mercifully, cannot seem to remember any of them, other than he'd woken himself four times, drenched in sweat and reaching for the dagger he can't bring himself to keep from stowing away under his pillow.
Still, these missives must be attended to, headache or no headache. But the words all blur together. After re-reading the same line for the fifth time, he groans, flinging the paper back on his desk.
He should have called for something to ease the pain the minute he'd left his room, but he'd tried to convince himself that it would fade as the morning wore on.
Eomer has cursed his stubbornness many times in his life, and can only do it again now.
Briefly, he toys with the idea of sending for Lothiriel-she's become well-trained in the healing arts, under Duilin's tutelage, and likely knows how to treat a headache. The thought alone is nearly enough to banish it; her fingers pressing gently against his temples, the sweet smell of jasmine that always seems to follow her in the air, the brush of her lips, warm and soft, over his-
Groaning anew, he presses his hands over his eyes. Tempting as asking Lothiriel for aid is, he doubts her brother would look kindly on him asking her, unchaperoned, into his rooms. And there is the distinct possibility he would do something decidedly outside the realms of "appropriate wooing"-like pressing her against his desk and kissing her until neither of them can breathe properly-
"Freca!" He barks, trying to banish the mental image and the swift swoop of lust it brings with it from his mind.
His page peeks in from the door. "Sire?"
"Find Master Duilin," Eomer says. "Tell him I need one of his héafodece drenc."
He tries to read the missives again to fill the time it will take for Freca to reach the Master Healer's shop, but the words remain meaningless.
Much to his surprise, it's not his page who pushes the door open a few minutes later, but the cantankerous Master Healer himself.
"Duilin, you need not have walked all this way in the cold," he says. Duilin is not a young man by any means and has to rely on a wooden cane during the winter.
The older man tuts at him. "I can manage the walk from my shop to your door well enough, Eomer King. My joints are not worth the King of the Mark expiring from a headache."
Eomer rolls his eyes. "It is hardly so dire as that."
Duilin huffs. "I'll determine that, boy."
Despite their gnarled appearance, Duilin's hands are deft as they measure out the appropriate herbs. Eomer knows the smell of white willow bark well enough and begrudgingly accepts the cup offered to him once the powder has been mixed in.
The healer prods him a little once he's finished the drink; peers into his eyes, presses his fingers to the pulse at his neck.
"Hm," he says. "Too little sleep and too little water. Did you have too much ale?"
"None at all," Eomer says. It's a fair question-normally, he's not above having a mug or two at dinner, even on nights of no importance. But last night he'd been too preoccupied with Erchiron's strange melancholy, and Lothiriel's nearly brittle brightness, trying to keep others from noticing it as well to even think of ale.
Duilin's face changes, softens. "Nightmares, then."
Eomer nods. The healer has known him and Eowyn since childhood and has sharper eyes than most, regardless. "I cannot recall any of them, but I think that might be for the best."
Duilin digs through his pack before pulling out a pack of dried, but still bright-white, flowers. "Chamomile should help you sleep. It would be better if it were fresh, but it's too late in the year for that. I'll see that Merthwyn makes a tea for you tonight."
"Thank you, Duilin," he says.
The older man huffs, but Eomer knows him well enough to read the hidden affection in his crossed arms, the smile just barely visible in his eyes. "The entirety of the Mark would have my head if something were to happen to you, boy, not to mention what your þyrnihtu cwén would say. "
Eomer smiles briefly at the thought-he suspects Lothiriel is too fond of her teacher to ever truly be cross with him-before the memory of her tears yesterday floats back. He turns in his chair, fixing Duilin with as steady of a look as he can manage.
Duilin merely arches a brow, clearly unimpressed. "Is there something else you require, Eomer King?"
Eomer can recall a time when that look alone would have sent him running-even Theodred, Duilin's favorite, had known better than to test his luck with that look. But Eomer is not ten years old any more. He is a King and a warrior, and has faced down much more frightening things than a short healer close to his eightieth winter.
Still, he makes sure to nudge Duilin's cane further away from him with the toe of his boot.
"I will not ask you to break her confidence," Eomer says, slowly, cautiously, "but if there is anything I should be doing...that I can do, to help Lothiriel with whatever upset her so badly yesterday, I would know."
There's no mistaking the look of surprise on Duilin's face. Surprise and something like...awe. It's a look Eomer has rarely seen directed at him over the years. Duilin has always been softer with Eowyn, and he and Theodred had had the bond of grandson and grandfather. It's not that Eomer ever doubted that the older man was fond of him, but they were so fundamentally different that it made sense that he was sharper, harsher, with him. Duilin lives to heal, to mend; Eomer has had a warrior's mentality since men brought his father's broken body back to Aldburg. Even as a child, he could handle Duilin's whip-sharp reprimands, his astute critiques, and see them for what they were. Not cruelty, merely the older man's own way of preparing him for what he would face in an eored, as a leader.
Duilin pulls his perpetual hat from his head and Eomer is struck by how old he looks. How fragile.
"Valar smite me," he grumbles, rubbing at his bald scalp. "You look so much like your father that I forget that you are Theodwyn's son, too."
Eomer blinks in surprise. "Meaning?"
Duilin chuckles, shaking his head. "All your life you have been warned about Eomund's recklessness, his love of battle-both to his credit, and to his folly. You have grown to be so like him, in many ways, but the fact that you would ask such a thing...it is your mother's heart I hear in the asking. I had not realized how much I missed it until now."
My mother's heart, he thinks. Eomer is not sure it is a good thing to possess; after all, hadn't it been her heart that had called her to leave him and Eowyn, to follow their father into the grave? Having such a heart is a dangerous thing.
Duilin must see some of the conflict in his face, because he strides over to rest a gnarled hand on his shoulder, and squeezes. "Your mother's heart was the most beautiful thing about her. Oh, the bards sang songs of her loveliness, your uncle's eored was enamored of her riding abilities...but it was her heart that won her friends. It was her heart that your father had to prove himself worthy of, not her title as princess. Never have I known another who loved as well, as fiercely, as Theodwyn, daughter of Morwen."
"To her ruin," Eomer murmurs. "Do not forget it was that love that drained the life from her-"
Duilin flinches back. "What? How can you say such a thing?"
It is Eomer's turn to look surprised. "Everyone in Aldburg thinks it. Helle, Duilin, half of Edoras, and no small number of the rest of the Eorlingas would say the same."
"Superstitious fools!" The healer hisses. "Eomer, I swear by the Valar that it was not a weakness of spirit that killed your mother. She was already ill before your father fell, and while grief may have accelerated her sickness, it was not heartache that took her life."
If the older man had punched him in the stomach, Eomer would have been less surprised. "What? But Bledgifu-even Uncle-"
"You and Eowyn were children when she passed," Duilin interrupts, "children who had just lost both parents. What better comfort could they give you than the knowledge that they were together, if they could not be with you?" At this, he scowls. "Though I would have hoped someone would have told the two of you the truth of the matter, in the nearly twenty years between now and then!"
He's abruptly glad that he is already sitting, and that it is just him and the Master Healer in his study. Bema only knows what his councilors, his marshals, would make of the near tears in his eyes. "So...Modor did not...it was not-"
"It was not of her making," Duilin says, voice soft. "Surely you do not doubt how much she loved you and your sister."
Memories of his mother are faded, foggy due to too many nights spent thinking about them, and equally as many spent trying not to think of them. He can just barely recall the shape of her smile, the gentleness with which she'd combed his and Eowyn's hair, the lilt to her voice whenever she'd welcomed Faeder back to the hall...no, he cannot doubt it.
He reaches up to give Duilin's hand a squeeze. They're silent for a moment, both lost in memories.
Abruptly, Duilin clears his throat. "As for the matter of Lothiriel...offer her comfort, if she asks it of you. Distract her, if you can-in an appropriate manner," this, he punctuates with a sharp jab to Eomer's chest, "and do not feel slighted if she doesn't tell you the reason behind her disquiet. It is truly not her story to tell."
"She said as much yesterday," Eomer murmurs. "But Bema, Duilin, I feel...helpless, for not being able to do more. She deserves...she should be happy-"
Duilin's grin is smug now, and the chuckle he gives is nearly as frightening as one of Aragorn's. "Theodwyn's heart indeed. At least I know her to be worthy of it, and of you. The best thing you can do for our þyrnihtu cwén is to continue on as you have. Clearly it's worked well enough thus far."
Eomer can feel his cheeks burn but attempts a dignified nod of acknowledgement.
Duilin's snort tells him he likely looks more little boy than warrior king, and he nudges the healer with his shoulder. "Away with you, old man. I've taken up enough of your time."
"This old man always has time for Eomer, son of Eomund," Duilin says, setting his hat back on his head. "Even when he sounds like a lovestruck youth."
Eomer groans good-naturedly as Duilin hobbles out of the room.
Already, the white willow bark has helped-the words on the missives look less like meaningless scribbles-but still, he finds himself sitting, staring into space.
Eowyn needs to know about Modor, he thinks. It won't be an easy conversation; Eowyn's grief for their mother had taken a bitter tint as she'd grown older. Even now, deeply in love with Faramir, he knows she scoffs at the idea of letting that love-or its loss-drain the life from her. Knowing that their mother had been ill, truly ill, that she hadn't merely given up on life without their father in it...he suspects it will not be an easy thing for her to learn, but something she should hear, nonetheless.
Resolving to talk to her after the evening meal, he attempts to focus on the missives once more.
Lothiriel is on edge for two days before she succeeds in forcing herself to not obsess over Erchirion and Lisswyn's eventual reveal. They are, as Duilin had said, both grown people, and entirely capable of handling themselves.
She does insist on talking to Lisswyn, herself, just to hear from the other woman's mouth what she expects, what she wants.
Lisswyn has been more aware of the challenges of their relationship and the child from the start, and it only serves to raise her higher in Lothiriel's estimation.
"I will not pretend that this is how I wanted this to happen," she admits, running a hand over her still flat stomach, "but every child is a blessing from Vana, and this little one will be no different."
"Of course," Lothiriel agrees. "And my parents are not unreasonable people. I cannot say they will be pleased that you two were so...so.."
"Irresponsible?" The older woman offers, expression sheepish.
"Well, yes. But they were young and in love once. And after meeting you and Darwyn, I have no doubt they will happily welcome you both into our family."
Lisswyn's cheeks flush a delicate pink. "Will...will you tell me more about them? I know they must be good people, to have raised you and Erchirion, but I...it is so different. With Widfara's family, I had known them all since childhood. My mother-in-law was a proud woman, but kind, and my father-in-law had a laugh that you could hear across three fields. The only thing I know about your parents are their names."
Lothiriel makes a mental reminder to kick Erchrion the next time she sees him. "What would you like to know?"
Everything, as it turns out. So she tells Lisswyn how Ada and Naneth met, their long courtship, her grandfather's grudging approval. Of Ada's keen wit, his sharp eyes, how even the best of liars cannot fool him. Naneth's steady hands, her years of healing, the way she can pull secrets even from Erchirion with an elegantly arched eyebrow.
Lisswyn relaxes, inch by inch, the more Lothiriel talks. She's smiling widely when she finishes a story about Ada and Elphir returning from some diplomatic meeting only to find the rest of the family in the kitchens, squabbling over which of their favorite meals they should prepare, and laughs outright when she describes the time Ada had caught Amrothos and Erchirion swimming drunkenly in one of the fountains.
"Your family sounds wonderful," Lisswyn says.
"They are," agrees Lothiriel, reaching over to squeeze one of her hands, "and by adding you and Darwyn, we will only be more blessed."
And it would seem she and Lisswyn were not the only ones to have a discussion regarding family. Eowyn had been oddly silent for the better part of the morning until Lothiriel had been able to draw the reason behind it from her-Eomer had told her the truth of their mother's death. Illness, true illness, had taken Theodwyn's life, not the heartsickness that both of her children had long believed.
"I am glad to know," Eowyn murmurs, twisting her sleeve almost angrily in her lap, "but I have judged her, been angry with her, for so long. To find out that all of that anger has been misplaced…I can scarcely believe it."
"Duilin would not lie about something like this," Lothiriel says, "and even if he had, Eomer would have been able to tell."
"I know. And admit it gives me comfort that it was sickness that took her from us, rather than her own heartache, but…" Eowyn shakes her head. "I know I should forgive her, but I am still angry. Angry that we have had to live our lives without her, that my children will not have grandparents on either side."
"I am sorry for that, too," Lothiriel says, though as she says it, she cannot help but wince at the thought of Eowyn meeting Uncle Denethor. Faramir's Rohirric bride would have likely had some...choice words for the Steward, regarding his treatment of his younger son. For all of Denethor's steely strength, she is not sure if he would have emerged the victor. "But they will have an abundance of aunts and uncles to look after them, at least. And I can think of a few Hobbits who will happily teach them all sorts of mischief…"
Eowyn smiles, good humor returned at the thought of their small friends. "Did I tell you what Merry said in his latest letter? He's begun courting a Hobbit lass! Estella Bolger, whose brother is apparently called Fatty…"
Lothiriel smiles at the memory, even as Blodwyn wails in her arms. She's agreed to watch the babe while Wilfled takes a much needed trip to the markets. Eofor is out, enjoying the slowly melting snow, and Eothain...well, she's not entirely sure where Eothain is, except that he is not here.
"Shh, lýtling," she soothes, gently rocking her goddaughter. "They will never leave you alone with me again, if this is how we get along."
The rocking seems to help, and absent-mindedly Lothiriel begins to hum a song she remembers Naneth singing to her as a child.
A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain
Softly blows o'er Lullaby Bay
It fills the sails of boats that are waiting
Waiting to sail your worries away
Blodwyn blinks up at her, earlier sorrow or discomfort forgotten. Her eyes are the same beautiful blue as Wilfled's, and flutter shut as Lothiriel continues on.
It isn't far to Hushabye Mountain
And your boat waits down by the quay
The winds of night so softly are sighing
Soon they will fly your troubles to the sea
Someone-she assumes Wilfled, though she's back much sooner than expected, or perhaps Eothain, returned from his mysterious errand-opens the front door. She's too engrossed in Blodwyn's dreamy expression to look up. She runs a finger gently over her cheek-it's so impossibly soft, and round with the chubbiness of babyhood, that something in her aches, however sweetly.
So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain
Wave goodbye to cares of the day
And watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain
Sail far away from Lullaby Bay
She waits, keeping her gentle rocking motion until she's certain the babe is truly asleep. "I think I've succeeded," she whispers, eyes still glued to Blodwyn's serene face, "would you like to hold her?"
"And ruin the picture you make?" Comes a voice that is decidedly not Wilfled's or Eothain's. "Not for the wide world."
Forcing herself not to jump, lest she wake the babe, she looks up. Eomer is leaning against the wall nearest the front door, arms crossed. The look on his face makes her pulse race. It is not unlike how he'd looked at her in the stables, or in Morwen Queen's garden, but it is...tempered, somehow, with something sweeter than desire.
"I think you are just frightened to wake her," Lothiriel murmurs.
Eomer chuckles, lowly, pushing off the wall. "You know me too well, þyrnihtu cwén."
Regardless, he drifts closer, coming to stand at her side to peer down at Blodwyn's face. Slowly, with such gentleness that Lothiriel feels the irrational press of tears behind her eyes, his hand comes up to cup the babe's head, fitting over hers as he does so. Usually, being this close to him would set her blood-singing, but all she feels now is peace. Comfort. Home, if she's being completely honest with herself.
"She is so small," he whispers. "And so lovely."
"Wilfled is her mother," Lothiriel reminds him, with the ghost of a smile. "Of course she is lovely."
"Yes, but Eothain is her father," Eomer answers, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth, "she could have easily ended up as scruffy as he is."
Lothiriel barely stifles a laugh, and they both freeze as Blodwyn stirs, turning in her arms to burrow closer into her chest. "I really should put her down…"
But Eomer's hand is still curled around hers, both of them on the back of Blodwyn's head. An innocent enough position, though she cannot help but realize that were the babe not present, there would be nothing between his hand and her-
Eomer's hand lifts and Lothiriel turns, as quickly as she can with Blodwyn in her arms, hoping he will not notice her blush.
Once she is sure Blodwyn is settled in her cradle in Wilfled and Eothain's room, she returns to find Eomer still waiting for her.
"I did not know you could sing," he says.
Feeling her face flush again, she shrugs. "My voice is fair, I suppose. Nothing to compare with Eowyn's, or any of the other ladies I've heard in Edoras."
"Blodwyn seemed to deem it pretty enough."
"Blodwyn is an infant," Lothiriel argues. "Anyone who can hold a tune would be deemed passable."
Eomer rolls his eyes at her, before reaching out to crook his finger under her chin. "What of a king's judgment, then? If I were to tell you your voice is lovely, would you concede it?"
He brushes his thumb over her lower lip, and smiles when she shivers. "Fine. Yes. Cheater," she tells him.
"It's hardly cheating if we both like the outcome," Eomer counters.
"What outcome?" She asks, though she suspects she knows the answer.
He bends to press his mouth to hers. It is meant to be a gentle kiss, teasing and soft, but Lothiriel thinks of the look in his eyes when he'd been leaning against the wall, the heat of his hand over hers holding Blodwyn, and finds herself stretching up to press closer. They've kissed like this before, but never so completely alone. With everything that's happening with Lisswyn and Erchirion, she should be cautious, careful, but Valar help her, she wants to be selfish, just this once, just long enough to be certain she affects him as much as he does her.
So she finds herself pulling away just enough to trail a string of kisses along his jaw-his beard feels strange, against her lips, but not unpleasant-and is for once grateful for her short stature, for it makes it rather easy to balance on her toes, pressed up against the sturdy length of his body, and set her mouth against his neck.
Lothiriel has heard many a lecture given to Amrothos, about having such a mark, but Ada is not here, now, and frankly, she cannot bring herself to care. Eomer groans, sending all thoughts of anyone and anything except him from her mind. She can feel one of his hands, hot as a brand, at the base of her spine, and the other at the back of her neck.
All too soon, he's tugging her back just enough to kiss her properly again. She opens her mouth willingly, marveling at the hot slide of his tongue over hers-
Eomer pulls away, suddenly, and Lothiriel feels absurdly, horribly bereft.
At least she does until he grumbles, "You are so small," and abruptly lifts her, settling her on the table behind her.
They should stop, she knows that, she knows that, they are in Wilfled and Eothain's home, with a sleeping child not a room over, but she wants-she wants-
Lothiriel kisses him anew before logical thought can creep back in, and she has to suppress a blissful sigh at the sensation of his arms around her. The feeling sharpens, spikes, when she registers he's mimicking her move from earlier: a trail of kisses along her jaw before he finds her pulse under the hinge, sucking with just enough pressure that she cannot help the breathless gasp it forces out of her.
She's isn't consciously aware of moving her legs wide enough so that he can stand between them, only that suddenly he is, pressed closer than he has ever been. That shocks them both enough into freezing, staring at each other with wide eyes.
Lothiriel blushes crimson, suddenly ashamed. Oh, Valar, what he must think of her! As if she is no better than a common strumpet, nearly losing herself to something as base as lust-
Eomer's hands cupping her cheeks pulls her out of her rambling thoughts. "Whatever you are thinking, stop."
"How do you-"
He chuckles, just once, leaning to press his forehead against hers. "You are remarkably easy to read when you're flustered, min swete."
She can hardly deny something she knows to be true. "I am sorry," she whispers, "I-I do not know what came over me-"
He stops her with a kiss, this one thoroughly chaste, though still sweet. "Lothiriel, if you think you have done anything I would complain about, you are thoroughly mistaken."
That startles a laugh out of her and she twists, to better hide her face against his shoulder. Eomer's hand comes up to stroke her hair. They stay like that until their breathing has slowed and then he helps her clamour down from the table as gracefully as she can with her legs still feeling like a newborn foal's.
"I truly only meant to come and see if you and Blodwyn were well," Eomer admits. "I suspect the councilors will have run Gamling and Erkenbrand ragged in my absence."
"Go, then," she says, managing a smile despite her lingering embarrassment. "I will stay until Wilfled returns."
She turns, intending to wet a rag and wipe down the table, regardless of it being rather unnecessary, when Eomer's hands are suddenly on her hips, his chest pressed against her back.
"Make no mistake, glómmung cwén, about how much I look forward to the day when we could continue without consequence," he murmurs, breath gusting hot and close over her ear.
He drops one final kiss to the juncture of her neck and shoulder before she feels the heat of him retreat. The door swings open and shut not a few moments later.
Lothiriel sags against the nearest wall.
Dear Elbereth, she thinks, that man will be the death of me.
Lothiriel of Dol Amroth has blushed many, many times in her life, but perhaps the most profound one that ever occurred happened when Wilfled returned from the market to find her scrubbing at the edge of the table with a dreamy expression on her face.
"Has the table done something to you?" Wilfled asks. "Or have you done something to it?"
Personally, Lothiriel considers it an achievement that she ever stopped blushing, after that.
Author's Note: I know some of you are ready to murder me for continuing to draw out the Erchirion/Lisswyn situation, but there's a reason for that, I promise.
I'm sure Lothiriel's change of heart may seem sudden, but I've seen many people, once they've had their initial reaction to a bad situation be able to calm down and face it in a more rational manner. Yes, many of her original arguments are sound and definitely things Erchirion should have been considering, but yelling at an already upset person about the ways something they care deeply about could go wrong is many things, but helpful isn't necessarily one of them.
So. I love JRR Tolkien and the world he created for many, many reasons, but how he handled a good portion of his female characters isn't really one of them. So I've chosen to re-interpret Theodwyn's death in a way that's more palatable for me, and hopefully, still fits within canon boundaries. My godfather passed away a few years ago and my godmother was devastated; but she certainly didn't curl up and wait for her inevitable death because the man she loved died. In my mind, Theodwyn already being ill-in this instance I tend to imagine cancer, or whatever Middle Earth's equivalent is-before Eomund's death and that loss only helping her illness along makes much more sense to me than her simply giving up on life without him, especially since she had two young children. If this tweaking of canon is offensive to you, I apologize, but it just makes much more sense to me.
Also, I feel like I must have failed a few of you somehow, because Duilin's gruffness has apparently been interpreted by some as him not caring for or respecting Eomer. Hence their little chat. Duilin is far from perfect, of course, but I definitely wanted to shine a light on why he behaves the way he does with Eomer. Also, it should be noted that Theodwyn was his favorite of Morwen's children.
The lullabye Lothiriel sings is obviously not of my invention-it's Hushabye Mountain, written by the incomparable Tony Bennett. It can be found in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang as well, sung by Dick Van Dyke, if you're curious as to what it sounded like. Finding an appropriate lullabye for the LOTR verse is hard, y'all, but I thought the lyrics were pretty fitting as a song from Dol Amroth.