Chapter 10: Getting Somewhere
The days went by slowly, but progressively. Lothíriel divided her time between the Healing House and the barn. Only a select few knew of her miscarriage and they sold her bedridden days off as feminine pains. Lothíriel doubted the silence of the women's tongues for any period longer than a month, but they would deal with that when the time came.
She thought about the baby more than she was willing to admit. Her dreams consisted of the child's face, strangely androgynous, but beautiful nonetheless. Sometimes her baby would have blond hair, other times dark hair. She felt undeniable love for him, but the sorrow was often overwhelming. She'd wake with a start, feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes, but they never spilled. She couldn't tell if that was a strength or weakness.
Éomer was wonderfully sensitive of her, making sure she was comfortable and safe. While she appreciated his attention, the limit on her freedom was slightly irking. In Dol Amroth Lothíriel could walk the quiet shores of the sea without a horde of attendants. She and her brothers would take long rides into the hills unaccompanied knowing their father didn't mind a bit. But this was not Dol Amroth.
Lothíriel folded a blanket, glancing at the sun as it dipped below the window's view. Éomer and his men were collecting the villagers and bringing them to Edoras. The King and his council had accepted her plan, though there were aspects she hadn't thought of, such as where to keep the toddlers and babies. Lothíriel and Gamling spent several hours the day before planning the layout of the makeshift refuge. The tables and chairs would be placed in a separate halls and the eating space had to accommodate more people than usual. Gamling suggested folk bring their own cook-wear and the like, since it was doubtful Meduseld had enough to cater to so many people.
"My lady?" Lothíriel turned to see a woman with an armful of blankets. "Where shall I put these?"
"Over there, Cellwyn," she answered, indicating to the pile of bedding. The woman nodded and placed the blankets on the precarious mound. Lothíriel, Cellwyn and the other women had been working tirelessly for hours preparing the halls. Lothíriel left the bedding and sat down on one of the remaining benches in the room.
"Come, Cellwyn," Lothíriel said gesturing to the bench space beside her. The flaxen haired woman sat beside her Queen, watching her with a curious expression. "You've all worked so hard. A moment of respite is well earned."
"Thank you, my lady," Cellwyn replied with a smile. She looked to be in her late thirties, though the lines on her face made her appear far older. Lothíriel had been working with her in the Healing House for the past few days. She liked Cellwyn's positive attitude and attention to detail. Lothíriel returned the smile and sighed.
"Hopefully this winter will not be terribly harsh," the younger woman mused, smoothing her dark green skirts with one hand.
"It's hard to say, my lady."
"Indeed." Lothíriel listened to the other women talk as they worked across the room. While this may not have been the best idea, it would keep those vulnerable to the elements safe, at least, for this winter.
"Are you unwell, my lady?" Lothíriel's grey eyes met Cellwyn's brown eyes, clouded with concern. The Queen blinked, surprised by the question. The blonde woman ducked her head, cheeks reddening. "You seem distant."
"Just thinking," Lothíriel assured her. Cellwyn nodded and reached down to pick up a stray blanket. As she extended her arm forward, the sleeve of her dress rose above her wrist, exposing bluish bruises on her skin. Stunned, Lothíriel caught Cellwyn's wrist gently in her hand. "What happened?" she asked, indicating to the abrasions. Cellwyn's blue eyes widened as she followed the Queen's gaze. With a frown, she pulled her appendage from Lothíriel's gasp and shrugged one shoulder.
"A trifle of an accident." She smiled weakly and stood. "I ought to be more careful." Before Lothíriel could inquire further, the woman slipped away, leaving for the kitchens as the deep horn sounded.
Éomer had returned.
Walking outside into the chilly weather, Lothíriel watched from the stone veranda as the Rohirrim came through the gates. There were citizens of Rohan behind them, making a line as they came up the dirt street. Some people walked, others rode in small wagons and others still rode horses. Lothíriel began to worry where they would put the extra livestock as Éomer caught her gaze from the gate of Edoras. He nodded to her, reining Firefoot in to help an elderly man with his horse. Turning from the approaching party, Lothíriel directed the servants to prepare food and warm drinks. Several minutes later, the doors opened to the Golden Hall. Éomer and his company of men entered, escorting the group of villagers.
"Hail, Éomer King," Lothíriel greeted her husband.
"Hail Lothíriel Queen," he answered. Those behind him bowed or curtsied in her presence. He offered her a quick smile as she turned to help the women with their satchels. Many had brought the remaining food in their homes, along with their other earthly possessions. She allowed the ladies of Edoras to guide their sisters to the room where they could freshen up before supper. Lothíriel came to stand beside her husband as he stared the men of the group.
"Bedding and the like are provided," she said, nodding to the pile at the end of the Hall. "I understand this is a bit unpleasant, but I assure you will be warm and fed here."
"Thank you, my lady Queen," one of the older men said, bowing deeply. He had black eyes that held a lifetime's worth of knowledge and his smile was genuine. Though his hair and beard were grey, he was robust and in shape with the physique of a soldier.
"This is Aldon," Éomer said to his wife. "He and my uncle knew each other as lads when Aldon lived in Edoras."
"Well met," she addressed the hardy looking man, who bowed once more. She inclined her head gently with respect before stepping to the side and speaking to the others. "Now please, allow the servants to bring you all warmed cider. Supper shall be served forthwith."
So it was, crowded as they were, that the first night of their long stay began. Éomer and Lothíriel ate with the people, listening to stories and enjoying the evening. Though there was still much to be done, Lothíriel decided that would be tomorrow's work. They would have to distribute jobs to the newcomers and help them get settled. But not today.
That evening, in their room, Lothíriel sat before the window as she unbound her hair. Watching the moon hang lazily in the sky, she wondered what her father would think of her in these past weeks. She wondered if her brothers missed her as much as she did them. It was inconsolable, the desire to go home. But she would endure, if not for herself then for Éomer.
"My sister used to do that." Lothíriel turned to see Éomer sitting at his desk, his eyes on her. She raised an eyebrow in question and he smiled. "She used to sit gazing into nothingness. You could pass your hand before her face and she'd barely flinch."
"You miss her," Lothíriel observed quietly. Éomer looked down at the papers before him, a sigh passing between his lips.
"Just as much as you miss your brothers." He glanced up at her and smiled, but it was glazed with sadness. "Yes, I do miss her. But I take comfort that she is happy."
"That is a good comfort," Lothíriel agreed. They sat in a moment of comfortable silence before she looked at him. "How does Rohan deal with abusive husbands?" Éomer's eyes met hers as she saw him sit up a little straighter.
"Why the question?"
"I believe one of the women in the Healing House, Cellwyn, has been hurt by her husband."
"But you aren't certain."
"No," she admitted. "But the bruises on her arm look much too similar to hand prints for me to simply disregard them."
"I see," Éomer nodded, brow furrowing. "Well I will not have an abusive man in my eored. But until you are certain these bruises are his doing, I hesitate to confront him. A husband would take great offense if he was accused of something so foul."
"I understand." Lothíriel stood, her hair unbraided and falling down her back in soft waves. She felt Éomer's eyes on her as she walked to the bed. Getting in, Lothíriel pulled the covers to her hips, shivering despite the fire. Éomer frowned and abandoned his work.
"You are still cold?" he inquired, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. She noticed he wore a loose shirt untied in the front and riding breeches. She wondered how he could possibly stay warm, as she was quite possibly frozen.
"I suppose I am not used to such dreadful cold," she answered hesitantly. She didn't wish him to worry over her wellbeing, especially with the dilemmas he had to manage. He took her cold hand in his warm ones and rubbed gently.
"I'm sorry it is so." His voice was quiet and pleasing to her ears as he looked at her hand. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Your ministrations are as good as any," she replied with a smile.
He was close enough to her body that she could lean forward but a few inches and touch his chin with her lips. She slipped her hand from his and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. He looked at her and she caught a flame of passion in his dark eyes. Before she could say anything, his lips claimed hers and his hand was on her cheek. She felt the roughness of his flesh and reveled in the difference of texture as she tilted her head slightly. Accepting the heat of his mouth, she brushed her fingertips across his jaw, the short coarseness of his beard pleasuring her skin. Her other hand slid beneath the shirt, pulling his shoulders toward her until his torso was practically laying on her. He pulled away slowly, looking at her as she sat propped up by the pillow, his weight against her.
"This wasn't part of my ministrations," he confessed wryly. Lothíriel smiled and pulled him closer.
"No. It's part of mine."
A/N: Oh the tension/romance/cuteness! Sorry for the delay, everyone.