Warning: Content may contain explicit description not suitable for children.
Writ of Shadows and Phantoms
Chapter 19: of Heart and Broken
The furthest distance in the world is not when I stand in front of you
Yet you can't see my love
But when undoubtedly knowing the love from both
Yet cannot be together
~Anon
Post Yule.
Edoras.
The next day marked beginning of the strange days of dining in Meduseld. It did not go as badly as Lothíriel had imagined and she soon grew used to it. Once in a while, there were always some events that were beyond her control. One such occasion was when Marshal of the West-Mark, Lord Erkenbrand visited Edoras with his new recruits to swear their loyalty to Éomer.
It was a morning in early January, a week after Yuletide ended. A ringing blast broke the chilly afternoon. Many residents came out to welcome the Marshal and his company. Lothíriel had only met the old Marshal once when he came to pay his final respect to Théoden. The riders slowly made their way up to Meduseld. The man leading them was tall and strong, Lothíriel recognised the signature red shield and black horn that he bore. There were many low mutters among the new recruits. Many of them were young and judging from their response, it was their first time stepping on the soil of Edoras.
Surprises always came when one least expected it. It was their fourth day in Edoras. They had just finished their lunch and were on a half an hour break before their training began. To say it was a training session, perhaps, it was a wrong choice of word. The recruits were expected to demonstrate their skill of swordmanship to their King. A few were nervous for they did not know their King. Besides that, Éomer's temper, somehow, weaved a legendary tale in the worried mind of some poor souls. He loved his men, but he also trained them hard.
Of course, there were always a very few bold ones. One that took the chance wherever there was one.
In the kitchen of Meduseld, Lothíriel was overseeing the preparation for tea break when a recruit came up to her.
"I've heard you are a diplomat from Gondor, my Lady?" He grinned boyishly, speaking Westron with a Westfold accent.
"Uh huh," she made a casual acknowledgement and looked up at a very young man, at least a few years younger than she was. The child-like appearance had not completely varnished from his physical.
She continued to her job of press a pie crust into an iron cast mould and sprinkled some flour on it.
"Will you give me your name, My Lady?"
She could hear the anticipation in his voice that expected an answer from her. Dusting the flour off her hands, she surveyed the young face in front of her.
"I suggest that you should return to the training ground, Esquire," she answered in a neutral tone.
"But you have not given me your name," he insisted.
She said nothing but frowned slightly at his persistence. It was not an everyday business that someone addressed her with infatuation. Moriel would have handled this better.
"You should go before your Marshal finds you."
This time she inserted a hint of warning and irritation in her voice, hoping the young man would catch it. But no, he had other ideas.
"It is still early. I would rather enjoy my time with a woman of refined beauty. One such as you, my Lady."
His honeyed words failed to impress her. She shook her head. With a stern expression, she said coldly, "Thank you for your compliment."
"You are truly a strange woman – responding to praise with such ice in your voice."
She chose to ignore him. But he stood closer, resting an elbow on her worktable and shifting his weight on one foot.
"Suits yourself, Esquire."
She turned around and shovelled the bilberry pies into the roaring oven. She reached for a bellow and pushed some air into the fire pit.
"Your hair is so dark like the mane of the dark meares. What a shame that it is covered with ashes and dusts. You should not be working in the kitchen. You are an Ambassador of Gondor. Have you been mistreated, my Lady?"
"Watch your tongue, young man," she warned. She did not like the idea that he was devising. Edoras had treated her very well.
"There's nothing in life I enjoy quite so much as being threatened by a beautiful woman."
"If you hold any high regard for your own well-being, I suggest you should stop now and go to meet your comrades."
Éomer was standing at the door to the kitchen. He had observed and listened to their conversation for a good while. The feeling of rage was slowly growing into his skin, filling his blood and swirling like a red tide within him, rising to his chest. His breaths became harsh and shallow, his hands unconsciously curling into fists at his sides, itching to swing out and put a dent in the wall beside him. He felt his eyes were turning an even darker shade of green as he continued to observe. The unhidden affectations and continuous attempts of infatuation. He stretched his lips to keep himself from speaking. His mind was whirling with thoughts that did not succeed in calming himself much. His teeth clenched and if it had been possible, his eyes would have seared holes through the person in front of him. He couldn't stand the sight of this. He disliked it. Very much. He had no reason to but he did.
He stepped in the kitchen and cleared his throat and spoke, "I believe your lunch break is finished, Esquire!"
Lothíriel gasped at the sudden presence of Éomer in the kitchen. There was an inevitable warning in his voice and his tone reminded her very much of that of her father's senior commander when he caught some young ruthless soldiers drinking while on duty.
"No, Sergeant, it is still early. And, I am still hungry."
Assuming it was his Sergeant speaking, the young esquire did not even bother to look back, playing with a slicing knife in his hand.
Éomer's gaze hardened. Lothíriel thought he now bore the likeliness of the personification of a angry swirling thunderstorm.
"If so, perhaps you would be happy to see your buttock served on a platter?" The words came out slow and with increasing emphasis on each as they left his mouth. It was painful to maintain the neutrality in his voice.
The young Rohír stopped in horror after registering that voice for the second time. He turned slowly around with a mixture of guilt and fear on his face. The knife fell and clanked loudly next to his feet. His face paled and he was lost of words.
"You are late for your session."
If only voice could kill, Lothíriel believed the young man would have died many times already.
"I am sorry, my Lord."
"Are you waiting for an invitation?"
"I will take my leave now."
Still appalled by the situation, the young rider found his feet suddenly weak. His slow movement was fraying Éomer's patience rather quickly. Before he could torch the frightened young man down to his bones with his blazing glare, Erkenbrand appeared timely to stop the disaster escalating to a new level.
"Éomer King." The Lord of West-Mark greeted and turned around to question his pale-looking recruit. "Cúthbert! What are you doing here?"
"I….I…."
The poor soul could not find any words.
The old Marshal grabbed the young soldier by his shoulder and gave an apologetic nod to his King.
"Are you in charge of this beast?" Éomer lifted an eyebrow.
"He is mine to bear. He will be disciplined accordingly, my Lord."
Éomer remained wordless but Lothíriel saw anger flaring from his nostril as he sneered across his shoulder at the young esquire being dragged away from the kitchen. The kitchen was sort of busy today, she thought. Too many uninvited guests. Too much eventful moments.
When they were both gone, he returned his glance on her. She could tell something was on his mind from that begrudged look on his face. She could see his wheels of fume turning. He went around the worktop and stepped in front of her, very close.
His mouth began to form the words his mind was screaming. "What are you doing? Not getting enough attention?" His voice was dark and the acid was practically dripping from the corners of his mouth.
"I didn't take this job to get noticed."
His throng of unjustified and aggravated response was now making sense to her. He was jealous, though he tried not to show it for jealousy dislikes the world to know it. She struggled to fight back a grin as an unknown joy crept over her, filling her with momentary courage to go against him.
"Try not to look so excited."
Anger had not ceased from his voice.
"I am not excited, my Lord."
Her response came with a barely suppressed laugh. She needed to make full use of this precious moment.
"You look happy."
"I can assure that it is not happiness that I have derived."
"Then, what have you derived from your empirical judgement?"
"The sound of possessive nature dripping - if that helps to explain your behaviour." She still fought against the overflowing joy within from leaking out.
He frowned at her words. His nostril still flared.
"I don't have to explain myself to you. Second, that sound you hear is the ice cracking underneath your feet."
"If you must insist it that way, I honestly have no other response to it except asking you a question."
"What question?" he probed, lifting an eyebrow.
She finished the last pie she was working on. After placing it in the oven, she turned around and cleaned off her hands with her apron before taking it off. She stared closely at him, grinning.
"Why do you sound like a jealous husband?"
And there was no ice on the kitchen floor...
A month or more after the kitchen incident.
Edoras.
Happiness was always short-lived. More than one month after her joyful kitchen event which she still found very amusing every day, a messenger came to Edoras, carrying three letters from Dol Amroth. There was one from Imrahil to Éomer. One from Elphir to the Lord of the Mark as well. The final letter was for her.
Her fingers slid through the red royal sign of Dol Amroth. Uneasiness grew inside her. The writing on the envelop belonged her second brother's. Erchirion won't write unless there was a matter of urgency. Breaking the seal with a small knife, she unfolded the letter. There were lines and lines of neat writings of Erchirion.
To my beloved sister,
May this letter find you in good health, safe and unharmed.
It was the first Yule without you in Dol Amroth. I have missed your presence dearly.
The situation Belfalas remains within grip of control. There is a constant battle between the farmers, fishermen and the Guild of Tradesmen. Father has been taking matters in his hands personally. We should see peace restored for a while.
There is one issue which I believe Father would not have mentioned to you and I think it is necessary that it should be brought to your attention.
At the last meeting with King Elessar and the council of the United Kingdom, it has been brought up a few times that the King has the clear intention of finding a queen for Lord Éomer. Suggestions have been made and would be disclosed to Lord Éomer at the wedding of his sister, Lady Éowyn to Lord Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, this midsummer.
Finding a queen for Lord Éomer. She felt a tremendous weight on her heart, her chest grew tight and her hands trembled uncontrollably. Her knuckles whitened.
Taking a deep breath to brave herself, she continued reading.
I hope my words before my departure have signalled sufficient warning to you, to awake you from the impossible fantasy that you might have weaved through the course of your stay in Edoras. Should Lord Éomer agree to the suggestion of King Elessar, it would be wise for you to leave Rohan for your role as a diplomat would appear conflicting to that of the Queen.
Please forgive me. I wish not to break the news in this matter. It is, however, in my opinion that it is for your best interest to learn about it before it comes as a grave surprise. I hope you have not forgotten my words.
Think of yourself and of us, in love, and farewell.
Erchirion
Her grip on the letter grew weak. The letter swayed in the air and fell silently onto the floor.
How could she have forgotten herself? Forgotten the words that her brother told her. And that man was going to have a queen and that queen would never be her. What was she doing to herself, basking in the silly joy ascended from his jealousy? It was stupid.
She stared blankly at the window. She needed to lock her feeling in a dungeon, clamp her heart on a wheel and annihilate both.
This was dinner time now. Dining in Meduseld – something she had grown used to and fell in love within such a short time became the moment she always wanted to escape. She would prefer to hide in her own little cottage or her study in the orphanage. She could not bring herself to see Éomer knowing the cruel truth that someone else would take the seat next to him. Tonight, she chose to sit next to Gamling.
Laughter and stories filled the usual table conversation. She was a deaf listener. Usually she would laugh and poke at the men but right now she felt extremely uncomfortable.
"I cannot do this," Lothíriel whispered into her plate, to herself, so low that no one could hear. Her steak sat there untouched, grown cold now, a thin film of grease congealing beneath them on the plate.
She looked at them and felt ill. She pushed away from the table.
"Are you feeling unwell, my Lady?" Gamling asked.
"I don't feel hungry, Gamling," she answered weakly.
"You have scarcely touched your food, my Lady. You should at least try."
That earned a lifted eyebrow from Éomer. She cast a very quick glimpse on him and could not tell if he was concerned at all.
"Does the food not suit your taste?" He finally asked, looking at her untouched plate.
"No. The food is fine. I just seem to have lost my appetite tonight. May I be excused, my Lord?" she recited stiffly.
He only gave a brief nod.
Before anyone else tried to keep her, she bolted for the doors as Gamling stood baffling about her unusual behaviour.
The next morning, she sent words that she was unwell and claimed absence from the morning council. Much to her relief, no questions were asked. The rest of the days followed similar pattern with possible excuses that she could come up with. When they supped, she decided to sit a few tables from him. But there was one habit that she could not shake off. She always waited in Meduseld for him and his men to return from patrolling. She would always wait no matter how late it was. Until that day she decided not to wait anymore.
Until that day she decided not to wait anymore.
The lullaby rang in the wintry night. He pushed the timber door open. The lounge was empty. The children were already in bed. He followed the mellifluous singing.
From the ajar door, he saw her kissing one of the children and blowing off the candles. When she came to the door, their eyes met. For a moment, he thought the elements of surprise flashed in her eyes but they quickly died down before he could be certain of it. She gestured him to stay quiet and slowly closed the door behind her.
"Have you been trying to avoid me?"Grabbing her by her upper arm, he pulled her into the lounge.
His life had always been sufficient with keeping his land and his people safe. Social and personal interchanges never made to his priority. But the changes crept in gradually. His unfavorable impressions of her ceased. The months which passed so eventfully only increased the sense of mutual dependence between them. She never missed his morning council and showed her capability by not holding back her opinions and opposing his ideas which she deemed inappropriate. It became a common sight for his council to witness to their quarrelsome discussion. It carried out for months. They understood each other more and the clash of words took a milder turn. Expecting her presence every morning became a solid habit that he did not realise. He did not know it, but his nature was being softened, deepened, and enriched by these deep and unwonted experiences.
Then her regular attendance at the morning council became less frequent, until her absence became too evident to him that she was at her every attempt of avoiding him.
There was something between them that he could almost visualize, but still could not quite pull into focus. Something he tried to ache and reach for, but could not quite touch. He could not understand but could not ignore it either. The same went for his rage. It gnawed all his thoughts.
"Why are you not attending the council anymore?" Furrowing his brows, his glare was scorching her.
"I try to remember my place," she replied in a low tone.
She was worried the cache of her heart would surface under his blazing eyes. Uprooting the feeling she had for him proved difficult. It only drove him closer to her.
He cupped her face and held her up again. His calloused thumb trailed along her jaw line. He could tell she was lying.
"Is that the best you can come up with? What happens to your capable tongue?"
His blazing dark eyes stared straight into her grey ones.
"Brevity is the soul of wit as I have been constantly reminded," she made every effort to turn her face away, refusing to look at him.
"Does that include the intent of avoiding me?"
He used his massive build to his advantage and kept pushing her, forcing her to retreat to a corner.
Trapped. She was forced to look up and meet him. His eyes made her uneasy.
"If you must insist on this topic, we should talk somewhere else. The children are sleeping."
"I prefer to settle it right now and right here. Does that trouble you?" he insisted, his eyes inspecting her face, up and down it went several times.
Under the mystifying flickers torchlight, her irises reflected shades of different intensities. Like the impression they always bore, they looked remarkably hollow and deep tonight – dark voids that devoured his sensibility.
He was very close to her. They were a finger-width away from touching each other at their noses. She could smell him, his earthy scent that mingled with sweat. He just came back from patrolling his land with his éored and was expecting her to be present. He growled only to step in Meduseld and found that dishes for him and his men had been prepared and laid, she was nowhere to be seen. She always had dined with them and she would always wait for him. He had had enough. Nameless anger grew and escalated quickly in his chest as he stormed his way out of The Golden Hall and darted towards the orphanage. He knew he would find her there.
The frown between his brows grew into a scowl. He was upset at her. She knew by looking at the twitch of his brows. Pretentious did not come naturally to him. His face spoke what his heart felt. If only he understood it.
"Why have you come?" She asked wearily, trying hard to suppress the agony in her voice.
All kinds of vicissitude she experienced in the last few months failed to strengthen her immunity against him.
The tension between them was too much for her to defy.
"I…."
He saw the bitter twitch around the corner of her lips. His heart softened. He squeezed his eyes and stepped closer. She could feel his warm toned frame pressing against her. His warm breaths were blowing on her face and neck. His hand was still cupping her chin. He studied her minutely, taking in every detail of her face. Her skin took the colour of gold sheen under the dim light. His coarse thumb found its way to her pallid lips, he pressed and rubbed them gently, tracing along its contour, leaving a cold, tingly trail. For some reasons they appeared extremely aphrodisiac to him tonight. He could not stop feeling them with his thumb. She blinked. Her heart was beating erratically at his touch. Her lips parted subconsciously gasping for more air. Feeling invited, he leaned forward.
He kissed her.
A kiss is a lovely trick, designed by nature, to stop speech when words become superfluous.
Her lips were soft and warm like mulled wine. Her taste was gratifying. He felt his body burning raw beneath his clothes. His blood surged. His other arm coiled around her slender waist to bring the distance between them to non-existent. Sliding his hand from her silky jaw line down to her neck, it left a tinkling path on her skin.
Her heart was beating wildly. Her mind was sailing along the sea of dark. His rough beard grazed on her chin. All by itself, her fingers glided along his arms, feeling the irregular texture of the hardened leather and suede along their length, until they reached his shoulders and up to his neck. She caressed his bearded face with great fondness.
Encouraged by her reaction, his fingers slipped beneath the collar of her wool robe, unfastening the knobs. The night air was chilly on her bare skin. She shivered, and gooseflesh covered her.
"Lothíriel…" He whispered in her ear.
He broke his lips off hers and slid along her jaw line. His desire dripped more with every trail and deepened madly when he reached her throat. Her skin was smooth and silky. The salty taste drove his rationale aside, his hand grabbed the fabric on her shoulder and his fingers pulled her robe back, unveiling flesh of velvety just above her breast. His tongue grew greedier as it left a track of burning marks on her skin.
"Éo...mer.." A soft moan escaped from her mouth and echoed in his ears, delivering a husky and low tone.
His kiss became fiercer and kept demanding more. His hands glided on her ribs, creeping slowly upwards. She could feel the gradual erupting fervour from his desire. It terrified her to think what might follow next.
It was a battle between her devious heart and her mind. The remaining rationale in her mind was shouting that it was madness. It was not right. It was not supposed to happen. She should not have allowed it to happen. She knew she must stop it before they reached the state of no return.
"Stop.." her voice trembled as she begged. It almost came out as a whisper.
He brushed his lips for the last time against her swollen ones and finally rested his weight on her exposed collarbone, breathing in more of her scent. It was feminine and familiar, yet hauntingly, almost maddeningly elusive. It smelled like a memory; something he knew and longed for, but could barely comprehend why.
His heavy breaths sent warm breeze flowing on her neckline as he exhaled.
"I must go."
She pushed him away. Gathering her robe tighter around her neck, she went bolting for the door.
His iron grip held on one of her wrists.
Her steps halted.
"Lothíriel, I…."
Catching his breaths, he knew not what to say.
She felt a lump in her throat and thickening in her chest that won't go away. Mist crept into her eyes and welled up like spring waters, blurring her vision. She had risked emotional hurt when she allowed herself to dwell in his compassion. Her heart was bruised and sore with bleeding pain. She turned to him.
He saw the glittering moisture in her eyes.
"What else do you want from me? You have seen it that night with your very eyes that I could not leave you yet you can't give me what I seek. Do you know how hard it has been to keep fighting against my own heart? To tell myself every sleepless night again and again that I should not continue to fall for you. Why won't you let me go? I have done everything I could, trying to part my heart and mind from you. I have never asked anything from you. How far do you still want to push me, Éomer? If you still have some mercy within you, do not give me anymore false hope. It brings nothing but misery. " Her voice was haunted with overflowing despair. She pleaded as the liquid trailed along her cheeks and glistened. The taste of salt intensified in her mouth.
"I am sorry."
It was all he could offer.
Finally, his grip on her loosened.
She turned and left.
Brushing off the stinging liquid off her cheeks, she hastened her steps to her cottage. She went for her bed and buried her head in a pillow and cried out aloud soundlessly. Moisture burst and gushed again.
She knew the devastating fact that they were not meant to be. It hurt too much to finally come to admit the complete truth.
A broken heart is a soul in torment with emotions which have neither control nor cure.
She knew it now.
TBC
Footnotes:
Mægen: feminine name. She is a retired Meduseld cook. Means strong
Cúthbert: masculine name. He is an esquire of Erkenbrand. Means wise guardian
Lothíriel has always known that she is not meant to be queen. Yet when you are in love you cannot help to wish that one day false hope becomes reality.
Our Éomer, on the other hand, is capable with horses and wars but when it comes to emotions, I think he is still quite inexperienced. There are many aspects that he cannot comprehend such as jealousy and anger when he finds out she is avoiding him.
Chapter 20: Their next breakthorough would be back to the first paragraph of Chapter 1 which ultimately leads to the worst turn of their relationship but all is not in vain, Gamling's suggestion to speak to Imrahil? Would Lothíriel leave Rohan?
I won't be updating for a week as I have an interview tomorrow and an important meeting end of this week. I hope some of the explored tension did satisfy the craving of some of you! And please review! I welcome any sort of reviews! :)
Stay tune and enjoy! ^^
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