A/N: Sorry for the short chapter 7. I was pressed for time, but because I received such lovely and endearing comments, I wanted to keep folks satisfied, so this chapter will be a tad bit longer. That in mind, thanks again to everyone who took the time and care to review. It means so much to me (as it does to all writers). I promise to update as much as possible! S
Chapter 8: Name Calling
Of all the stupid things he'd done… Éomer paced the floor of the Golden Hall as the sun illuminated the large room. It was almost midday and the King had been completely unable to concentrate on his council meeting. They decided to adjourn earlier since the issues weren't being addressed with a complete council. Elfhelm took Éomer's place in the daily ride. He and his men had just left, allowing Éomer some time to himself.
Many of his subjects assumed he had been restless due to the encroaching threat of the Dunlendings.. Truthfully, he was concerned about the increasing aggressiveness of their mischief, but his mind and energy was focused on Lothíriel. He had hurt her, more than physically. He rarely considered himself a cold man, but her touch that roused him from sleep brought a side of him into the light. After years of sleeping outdoors in the service of Théoden King, Éomer had grown accustomed to waking at mere touch of another being's hand.
But his reaction had scared the both of them. How could he have perceived her touch has hostile? He was livid with himself, recalling her bewildered and wary expression. And then to have to give her the tragic news… it was almost too much for him. But he realized, as he stood in a ray of blinding light, that he longed to see her again. He needed to see her and assure himself that she was alive and would not vanish before his eyes.
Walking to his chambers, he thought back on the previous night.
Unable to sleep he left Elfhelm's room, wandering about the dark citadel with fleeting memories on his mind. He'd watched those he loved slip away from him like sand through fingers. His parents, cousin, and uncle, not to mention numerous companions. Even his dear Eowyn had left him. But he was happy for her. The love she found in Faramir was well deserved and he wanted only the best for her. He remembered dreaming of marrying a lovely woman and having a brood of children in Rohan. Nothing of Rings, hobbits, war, or kinghood. In his dreams, Theoden lived a long reign and his son followed him to the throne. In his dream, Eowyn wed a local noble and lived in the same palace as her brother. And Éomer would still be a Rider of the Third Mark. Not king of the entire land.
Agitated by unwanted memories and dreams, Éomer walked quietly down the dark hallway toward his room. He listened first to hear if any of those bellicose women who'd shooed him away earlier dwelt within. Satisfied with the silence, Éomer entered the room. In the bed lay his wife, her skin seeming paler than usual in the firelight. He closed the door and stoked the fire a bit. Figuring it would be inappropriate and uncomfortable for Lothíriel if he climbed into bed beside her, Éomer placed the chair from his desk beside the bed. Sitting down, he watched his wife sleep. Her lips were drained of their color and her eyelids were a faint blue. The covers lay over her chest, which rose and fell steadily.
He was relieved she'd survived. He had heard stories of women who died of a miscarriage. He prayed they were only tales, especially when the news was given to him. It would be awful for the psyche of Rohan if its Queen died so soon and so young. Éomer realized it would be awful for his psyche. Lothíriel was his foundation. In her he found his strength. And while she probably never imagined it, she'd set a course to heal him of his battle scars.
And there he had ruined her hard work by grabbing her wrist and scaring the very wits from her. He remembered the feel of her bone beneath his fingers, his skin pressing into her flesh with blind aggression. He shuddered at the thought.
He knocked on the door to his chambers. A voice bid him enter, which he did promptly. Inside, Lothíriel sat on a bench beside the window as Lady Berewyn plaited the Queen's hair. Lothíriel looked physically better. Her skin had returned to its healthy whiteness and her eyes shone dimly beneath long lashes. Lady Berewyn also looked substantially improved since the last few nights. The attendant dropped into a curtsy (but not before she secured her lady's hair) and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Lothíriel turned to look at him, her face soft in the sunlight that filtered through the crocheted window drapes. She wore a dress of dark blue that hung nicely from her slim shoulders. Despite being slender, she was not without curves, which Éomer noted the moment he'd seen her on their wedding day. Her hips curved gently and her breasts were generous. She had smooth skin that neither clung for life on her bones nor bunched beneath her in rolls. She was well proportioned for her height and he recalled the strength of her legs against him when they had consummated their union.
"My lord?" she queried, an eyebrow raised slightly. Her voice was quiet, and he could hear how she strained to not rasp.
"I apologize," he mumbled, coming further into the room. She made to stand but he gestured for her to remain sitting. Looking away, Lothíriel folded her hands on her lap placidly.
"What is it you would have me do, my lord?"
"Pardon?"
"With regards to the lost pregnancy," she stated, her tone controlled and detached. It was his turn to raise eyebrows. There was something brewing behind those seemingly serene grey eyes and he was positive he would find out soon.
"My lady – "
"My name is Lothíriel," she snapped, catching him in a strict glare. She stood up angrily. "Lothíriel! I was born with a name. So if you've come to express your displeasure then at least do me the honour of saying my name!"
Éomer was stunned into silence as he stared at her. If she'd been a man, he would have surely yelled back at her, but his surprise overruled his ire. The Queen's expression melted from furious to horrified. It was clear she'd been speaking in the passion of the moment, careless of the words she let slip. She sank back to her seat with a thud, her eyes glassy.
"I apologize, my lord," she whispered.
"Why would I be displeased?" he asked softly, his confusion getting the best of his shock. She glanced up at him but quickly averted her gaze to the window.
"The ladies said… they said you were furious that I could not keep the child alive," she murmured, her voice stiff and emotionless. Éomer stood dazed as she continued. "They said you would send me away as soon as I was well." Lothíriel glances at him again as he tried desperately to control his annoyance for her sake. The gossiping nature of some women was beyond reason.
"They are wrong," he muttered firmly. "I have never been cross with you. Especially not in an evil hour such as this. I am terribly sorry I could do nothing to help. As it is, I seem to have done more harm than good."
She locked her eyes on his and he saw the hurt in her eyes dissolve, replaced with gentle compassion. For him. He was disgusted with himself at that moment. She gulped in a breath of air and he wondered if she would cry. But she held herself together and he marveled at her strength. Standing stiffly, the Queen made to walk toward the door, but her breath hitched in her throat and her legs buckled.
Éomer was there in two strides, catching her before she collapsed to the floor. Her arms clung tightly to him as her body convulsed in sobs. Her head was buried in his shoulder as he lowered them both to the ground. He wrapped his arms about her shaking form, pulling her closer to him as she cried. Her breaths were heavy with pain as she wound her fingers through his hair and held on to him. He held her fiercely, as if to protect her from everything beyond his arms. Her sobs subsided to deeper breaths as she struggled to calm herself. Éomer's hands soothed her gently, rubbing her back and arms.
She laid against him, turned away from the sunlight, her hands on his shoulders and neck. He planted his lips against her silky hair and kissed, tasting the herbs she used in the healing house. She turned her head slightly so it rested against his chest. He could feel the wetness of her tears soak his shirt, but he didn't mind. He drew one leg up slightly so she could lean her back against it as he held her. He whispered softly to her in Rohirric, words his mother used to comfort him with. Her breathing became normal and he felt her heartbeat against him still from its quick pace.
After a moment, she pulled back slightly to look at him, making ready to apologize. Éomer caught her face in her hands and ran his fingers across her tear-marred cheeks. Her eyes were wide, grey irises watching him with appreciation and relief. He felt the moisture of her tears on his fingertips and smiled.
"There is no need to ask for forgiveness," he whispered to her. "You have done nothing wrong."
"Aside from sully your shirt," she replied softly. They smiled, the first real smile that made his cheeks warm.
"Yes, aside from that. So do not think I will allow you to apologize." His expression grew serious as he regarded her. "This is not your fault. I am not angry with you and I will not cast you out. We will try again," he assured her, but paused. "That is, if you still wish to. I know I haven't been much of a husband of late."
"You have been a King. And that is a responsibility that accounts for many lives. So it is a fair sacrifice." Her voice was mellifluous in the midday atmosphere. Her grey eyes sparkled from beneath their lashes, watching him with genuine interest. After a moment, his wife untangled herself gently from his arms and stood up, straightening the dress, which had wrinkled itself. Éomer stood as well, seeing that only a tiny patch of his own fabric bore any sign of her tears.
"I'm afraid I have to leave you," he murmured, truly regretting this. "I have been absentminded since you fell ill and must make up for that. But I'll return to dine with you, later this evening."
"I look forward to it," she replied with a smile. Her voice had returned to its velvety resonance as she moved away from him, picking her discarded book from the bench. "Once they deem me ready to leave this room, I think I shall return to the healing house and visit my horse. How has he been?"
"Feisty," Éomer answered with a grin. "None of the lads can ride him around the paddock without suffering bruised backsides." The Queen smiled fondly at the image and nodded.
"Very well. I shall deal with that beast. Now then, you must return to your duties. Do not let them think their Queen from Gondor has bewitched the King and turned him from his royal tasks."
"Indeed," he said, walking to the door. While she said it in jest, they both knew the possibilities of wagging tongues and the precarious pedestal they were momentarily on. Éomer prayed his people would accept and even grow to like their Queen as he had. "I take my leave then. I shall see you soon for supper, Lothíriel."