Special thanks to
Glory Bee: Twists and turns can only get better ;)
littlemsstrawberry: Duty or no duty, her father will see to it personally! Haha!
Sic Vita Est: Chapter 10 has not been the easiest to compile at all! It grinds my brain!
AHealing Renaissance: Éomer is definitely playing a part, soon to be revealed in the next chapter. Let's add some spice in between!
Helleni: I have always enjoyed the sarcastic exchange between Miss Bennett and Mr Darcy!
Mary07: Like wine, love takes time to brew, especially in the case of these two unlike souls :)
Shy: All story need a little cliffhanger :)
Anon: It will go where it would go :)
To all anonymous reviewers: THANK YOU!
I have added some notes to add some understanding to the history behind Imrahil's family and Saewon's
Note on story OCs:
Saewon - the Head of Trade in Dol Amroth. He has control over most of the trading in Dol Amroth. He still holds a strong grudge against Imrahil for something else he has done many years ago (to be revealed in coming chapters)
Balchron - Saewon's eldest son whom Lothíriel stabbed and made cripple ten years ago. He finds pleasure in inflicting physical pains on others.
Glavror - Saewon's second and youngest son. A younger brother to Balchron. He holds strong affection for Lothíriel.
Writ of Shadows and Phantoms
Chapter 11
Part1: of Rain and Tears
Minas Tirith
Between 18th and 22nd July 3019 T.A.
With hands over her forehead, shielding away the increasing number of tiny droplets of rains beating on her, Lothíriel, quick and nimble, bounded across the pavement leading to The Old Fabric Shop. She pushed the door open and hopped into the stone shelter and busied sweeping off the remaining droplets that had not had the time to soak into her cotton garment.
The rain came unexpectedly. It has been clear and breezy during the day. After supper time, the clouds crept over the sky like ants and then the cries of thunder roared across the roofs. She reached for a towel to dry her damp hair, twisting it in the towel to force out the trapped moisture. It was late. She returned from checking the orphans and was not pleased with the weather. The candlelight flickered fiercely under the wind seeping from a window.
The King of Rohan had returned to Minas Tirith to carry the procession of King Théoden back to his own land. The festival over the last few nights was celebrated by many with great rejoice. Her father and brothers did feel themselves a little sober in the morning and it still did not stop them from resuming the same activity every night. And tonight there was no exception. She had restrained herself from being dragged along to such occasions, with some made-up excuses that she was required at the orphanage or the Houses of Healing as such. Somehow, she felt, under the watchful eyes of her father, he knew her reluctance to appear at the dinner table with others. He must have known that even not sitting at the same table, Éomer's presence still had the strong tendency to be uniquitous to her. And she had been trying to avoid him. The unexplained ambiguity between them had been troubling her mind since the night they last met at the Tombs of the Kings. She could not enunciate her feeling around him. So she decided it was best to avoid to have any form of contact with him.
The beating of the raindrops on the stone roof became louder. Lothíriel took a peek from her window and concluded that it won't stop for at least for an hour. It was at that moment that she saw a tall figure, staggering in the dark down the quiet and empty stoned path. That was unmistakenly a drunk man. When he finally came under a torch that survived under the rain, the ray lit up his face. His blonde locks, even with front fringe tied in a half pony rail, tangled and webbed across his face. She felt her heart skipped a few beats when she saw him. It was no other than the man she wished to avoid - Éomer. And he was drunk as a man could be.
Her heart thumped as he nearly tripped over a flower pot as he continued down the path. His feet got tangled under him as he tried to leave, and he lurched sideways and fell down like a heavy sack. He started cursing in his own tongue. Lothíriel quickly withdrew herself before she came to his sight. Her heart was pounding loudly in her chest. What was this stupid man doing under the rain at this hour? Then slowly she recalled the conversation that her brothers had at the lunch time. Elphir and Erchirion were planning to bring the Horselord and his men completely down to three sheets to the wind[1]. They succeeded by the look of it. Either Éothain or Gamling was anywhere to be seen with their out-of-element king. She sighed with a scowl as if a headache had just struck her. The thunderous roars above her roof were declaring that the downpour would only get heavier. She could have just shut the windows and let the man sleep in the rain, of course that would mean he would properly be pretty sick when he woke up; or she could be more generous and remove him from the cold biting rain. Torn between what her brain told her to do and what her heart insisted, she scowled, biting her lower lip. After taking a deep breath, she gathered the end of her dress and darted outside towards the unsteady man who still tried to get onto his feet with poor coordinated movement.
Her brows scrunched even more as she got closer to him. He looked utterly awful from tip to toe. He had appeared before her looking grimed and dirty but not drunk, and now he was just completely pickled[1]. She reached for his arm, trying to pull him up. He muttered in a rough, angry and incomprehensible tone. His voice was thick with wine. He swung his arm up in the air, an attempt to wrench free of her grip.
"Get up!" She commanded.
Half-blind, he turned to look at her and did not seem to realise that anything was amiss.
"For Valar's sake, get a hold of yourself!" She cursed under her short breath. Clenching her teeth, she swung his arm over her shoulders and secured her grip around his waist. His weight came down on her like a rock on a miner. Damn, this man was heavy like lead, she cursed again. Every step she made towards her little shelter was a struggle, as if she were pulling his feet out of ankle-deep mud. The distance to the Old Fabric shop now was more steps that she would have believed; hundreds and thousands steps more. The pickled man on her shoulder was still muttering under his wine-soaked breaths. She cared not what he was saying. She just wanted to throw him on the floor once they got under the stoned roof. Her steps became more lumbering as they moved closer. Then with a last breath she hauled him across the lounge then dropped him on floor. Catching her breath quickly, she was sweaty and wet, liquid dripping continuously from the edge her sleeves.
The wind continued to whirl through the window. She needed more hot water, some towels to dry both of them and of course some dry clothes for changing. Grabbing a thick jute bag, she made for the door and swirled her way up the gate to the Houses of Healing. This was the only place that one could find these at such hour and moreover, it was close. Within minutes, she went running back to her shelter, with the loaded jute bag across her front and a large basin of hot water. Settling the basin and bag on the table, she dipped her fingers to check the temperature of the water. It was still warm. Good.
She leaned over, patting his face lightly. "Lord Éomer?"
No reaction. This man was boiled as an owl.[1]
Grabbing him by his shoulder, she pulled his upper body up, and took his soaked leather top off. It seemed the treated deer suede tunic managed to stop most of the rainwater; only the underlying shirt was wet and sticking to his skin but anything down from his waist seemed rather dry, save his boots. She was for a moment relieved that she did not have to do the honour to strip him naked. Dapping one of the cotton towels in the basin, she wiped his face, then went along and around his neck, chest and back. This man had to be the most beefy male she never came across. His flesh felt hard beneath his skin as her fingers ran through it. She swapped for another towel to dry him, from rubbing his damp hair to patting across every inch of his exposed flesh. She did not stop frowning for the whole while she was drying and dressing him in a clean shirt. How could a man get so drunk? How could he get so drunk? She must not forget to congratulate her brothers that they managed to work the magic in turning the man, who was unusually cautious with alcohol, to such a blasted[1] state, so successfully. Right, clean and dry he was now and he turned completely unconscious, it was her turn to take care of herself before she got sick and the warm water turned cold. With the basin in her left hand and towels in her right, she entered her chamber and quickly dried herself and changed into a set of dry raiment.
When she exited from her room, the man lying on the floor began muttering. His head rocked side to side as if he was in disapproval with someone. She paused and eyed him for a while. It was evident that she could not leave him on the floor in the middle of the lounge like this. It was disrespectful especially he was a king, regardless of his current condition. And there was only one bedchamber with a bed - hers. Not completely happy to bend to against her will, she titled her head sideway with an almost benign sigh, then her feet found themselves in front of the drunk man.
"Horsemaster, let's get you in bed!" She bent down and placed his shoulder across hers, coiling her other arm around his waist, she dragged him across the lounge, his heavy boots scraping the floor. He looked like a dead carp[2] that the fishermen in Dol Amroth pulled off their fishing nets. As they reached her bedchamber, she lowered her shoulder and released her hands on him, sliding him onto the bed, with just his booted feet hanging in mid air. Wiping the sweat off her forehead, she supported herself by leaning against the bed frame, grasping for air. Whilst he continued muttering with a few grumbles in between, she pushed his feet up onto the bed.
"Théo…..den…."
She paused and examined the unconscious man. No more sound came from his lips, maybe it was her own illusion. The dancing candle light cast out the sharp feature on his face. This man was incapable of looking ugly even when he was sleeping. Damn. Shaking off her silly thought, she resumed loosening the laces of his riding boots then finally taking off the boots.
"Théoden….Éam…" It rang silently then trailed off again.[3]
He was calling for his uncle. With a worrying look, she pulled a blanket on him and leaned over to soothe him.
"Shush, sleep, sleep."
He was not responding to her soothing words. He began sucking in air noisily, his face drawn with pain. He shook his head violently, his hair fell and webbed over his closed eyes, hiding the unshed tears that were surely forming. Then came the huge choking sob that made his whole body shake uncontrollably. The incipient tears just before were now streaming down his cheeks unheeding without any restraint.
"Éam..." The man in front of her was crying in his sleep, weeping for his lost family, his breath was stifled by sobs. Death was always a subject too painful to be dwelt on; its after effects showed how deep the sorrow sunk. As a leader of his people, he could not verbalise his grieve easily with anyone. There were always things that a king had to restrain himself from doing just because he was a king. Little things like missing his family became a privilege yet deemed vulnerability in the eyes of many – this man could only cry in his dream.
Expression of exceeding sorrow that cast over his face arched her heart. The valiant rider whom everyone knew was nothing more than a wailing child tonight. His sorrowful cries drove the urge for her to touch his cheeks now so burnt with tears – a yearning for it so strong that it dawned through the walls of her aching heart. His grieves were too weighty for him to bear alone and it was gnawing her heart away. Her sight became bleary. She left a lump in her throat that she needed to forcefully push it back down. Her shaking hand reached for his pained face, fondling it gently and slowly. Tears beaded her lashes. On her lips, the salt taste of tears came to her tongue. Shocked, she lifted another hand to feel her face. Then, the moisture gushed over her cheeks. She brought her knees next to the bed and bowed her head upon his shoulder, murmuring. Her voice muffled in the thick folds of suffocating emotions. She heard the darkness breathed around them. In a quiet voice, she sang him a lullaby.
The wind continued to seep through the window and whispered around them.
Her grip on his hand laid still until the morning came.
Part 2: of Unremembered and Remembered
The morning had dawned clear and breezy with a reminder that the day was going to be rewarded by warm fuzzies.
Éomer opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through the window. Feeling slightly light-headed, he groaned under his breath, pressing his temple. He rose to sit and was not sure where he was. He was not in his tent - that was certain. The room looked strangely familiar. He looked down on the hand-woven blanket lying on him. It carried the scent of fresh forest like pines. Earthy it was. The pale curtains were half drawn. Chirping of birds was a solid proof that he was not in any sort of vertigo.
He pushed the cover away and rested his feet on the side of the bed. There he saw his riding boots sitting next to the black ash table. Surveying himself, he found that he was wearing an ivory cotton shirt not completely buttoned. It was not the light brown shirt that he usually had and his green suede tunic was missing.
After stretching his legs for a short while, he grabbed his boots and slipped his feet into them.
"Éothain!" He called out. A habit he developed since Éothain was appointed as the Marshal of the Royal Guards.
"Lord Éomer!" A little head popped out from the door. It was Hannor. "Good morning!" The boy seemed delighted to see him. "Would you like a wash?" He offered.
"Yes, please, Hannor. Thank you." He answered. Pausing momentarily, he asked on second thought. "Where am I? And what time is it?"
"It has just passed nine o'clock. You are at the Old Fabric Shop. Lady Lothíriel's chamber." The young boy grinned at him.
He pitched the bridge of his nose, feeling a sudden attack of headache upon hearing the answer. It all explained why he found the room familiar but he could not remember how he ended up here.
"I will get you some warm water. Lady Lothíriel will be back soon with breakfast."
He watched the boy with the sunshine smile on his face disappeared from the door, leaving it ajar. He got on his feet and stretched his arms upwards. He pulled the curtains back and felt the breezy air brushing on his face. Minas Tirith was showered with a bright warm veil from the morning sun. The ray reflected from some shallow puddles blinded his eyes. Creaking sound came from the lounge, a good indicator that someone just entered. He turned around and opened his door. His eyes met with the owner of the chamber he just spent a night in.
Lothíriel could not tell if she was surprised or embarrassed to see Éomer. She felt awkward meeting his gaze. He was leaning against the door beam, with the unbuttoned shirt showing almost the entire of his muscular chest. His eyes reflected colourful shades of amber. She quickly tore her eyes away from him, pretending to be busy laying out the table with the fresh breads and cakes she just purchased from the bakery. Her ears were burning. She hoped he did not notice.
"Good morning." He greeted her.
"Good morning." She continued to busy herself with dressing the table, avoiding looking at him.
"How did I end up here?" he inquired politely. "I must apologise that I could not remember."
Her fingers on the cups halted. Her eyes became unsettling.
"I found you outside in the rain…..drunk." That last word came slow.
She heard him cursing lowly.
"I am truly sorry. I hope I have not caused too much inconvenience. I appreciate that you had given up your bedchamber for me."
The sincerity in his apologising tone was unmistaken. It interrupted her thought briefly but very quick, she resumed her task, gesturing at an upholstered long chair[4] with a silk rug on top, in front of him. "I have a place to sleep. There was no need to be apologetic." She tried to keep the neutrality in her voice as much as possible, suppressing any emotion and lie that might leak from it.
As she remembered it, she woke up when the first light of the day touched Minas Tirith. Her legs were aching and numb from spending the whole night pressing on the cold floor without any sheets. Her thoughts were doubled with shock and embarrassment when his face appeared before her opened eyes and finding her hand clasping his. She startled and pushed herself back. A strong sense of guilt ran through her. Still unable to justify her own action, she exited her room hastily. Quickly finding a spare rug, she tried to calm herself in a long chair. She could not close her eyes. Her heart was pounding so loudly in her chest. The residue of warmth of his hand on her fingers rippled in the pond of her heart.
A flow of ambiguous air surrounded them. She disliked it. Maybe it would be better if she did not have to be around him. Setting her eyes on the table, her fingers worked their way swiftly to slice the breads and cakes and uncover the butter and jam. Then she prepared the tea and coffee. "Hannor will be back shortly with water and clothes for changing. After breakfast, you should make your way back to your camp. Your men would be looking for you. It would be most unwise for them to think their king has gone missing."
Her words did not sound completely convincing and they came out colder than she thought. On contrast, neither Éothain nor Gamling had come around looking for their king. She won't be surprised if they were still sleeping somewhere like the rest of their riders.
"I have to go to see the children. Have a good day, my lord." She refused to look at him when she took a light bow before bolting for the door. She was certain he noticed her unease.
Imrahil's camp
20th July 3019 T.A.
Imrahil was giving instructions to his knights to organise the preparation for the journey to Edoras when one of his Royal Guards entered and whispered in his ears. His expression settled into a deep frown. After pacing in his tent for a while then he called his Royal Guard forward. In a stern voice, he said to him. "Send words for Lady Lothíriel to see me."
TBC
Footnotes
This scenario is based on movie-verse. There was no scene showing Éomer grieving for his beloved uncle.
18th July 3019 T.A. : The Rohirrim returned to Minas Tirith to make the preparation to carry the procession of their fallen king back to Edoras.
[1]three sheets to the wind, pickled, boiled as an owl, blastered: (adj) drunk
[2]Carp: (noun) a big fish
[3]Éam: (strong masculine noun) maternal uncle in Old English
[4] Long chair: Chaise Lounge (in French), an upholstered chair with long bed; arm and head rest on one side. Similar to that which Éowyn was sleeping on in The Two Towers. (see DVD Chapter: Éowyn's dream)