Chapter 22: Confidence and Comfort

She didn't know why he'd let her go. She'd been forced to ignore her initial surprise and move on with her life. But in retrospect, she believed she would die by his hand. Recalling the almost painful expression on his face, she winced inwardly. There were numerous alternatives to that outcome, most of which ended in tragedy. How could she have escaped with barely a scrape and chill?

She led Éomer and his men to Elfhelm. It'd taken her a half hour to locate the correct monolith with the cave, but when she did they were greeted with a very tired but very grateful Elfhelm. Lothíriel found herself too exhausted to ride Dergh back to Edoras alone, so she rode in front of Éomer and Elfhelm rode Dergh (who was surprisingly placid). Her husband was silent for most of the ride, his body tense and erect behind her.

Lothíriel found herself hoping Eofor had survived. Still a boy, he did not deserve the fate he suffered. She was angry with Beorn for treating his brother with such flippancy. The man was a mystery to her. First, he abducts her and demands she help his brother. The next moment he's sending the lad into battle with only one hand. What kind of man was Beorn? Her first response might be 'barbaric.' But his nature seemed far too intricate to be limited to one word.

The hours passed as if she were watching them from a mirror. She felt the cold, but it didn't bother her. She tasted hunger, but it didn't perturb her. They stopped to rest on her and Elfhelm's account, which she appreciated. But Lothíriel felt utterly detached. Éomer spoke quietly with his men while they took a moment of respite. When they set off again, he did not speak to her. But that was alright. She didn't have anything to say.

They reached Edoras well after sunset. The Queen was greeted with flowers and warm returns, but she could only smile and thank. Supper had been prepared, but no one seemed hungry enough to eat in the presence of each other. Lothíriel sat in their room, running a brush through her hair. She was washed and clean, but she couldn't shake the cold from her skin. The warmth of the nightdress gave little comfort. She watched the moon from the window as the brush slid through black curls, pausing every now and again to work free a tangle.

Éomer and his men were in council. She hadn't seen him since he'd left her in the care of Lady Berewyn and Ivriel many hours ago. She worried at his disposition. Never had she seen such hate and anger in his usually calm eyes. Beorn would be pleased.

The door opened tiredly and Éomer entered the chamber. Shutting the door behind him, he sighed heavily. Lothíriel stood, hesitating to walk toward him. He looked awful. The armor hadn't been removed, nor the sword and his face was sweat and dirt covered. The fatigue in his eyes was mirrored in his unsteady movements. He looked at her slowly and took a step forward, before collapsing to his knees. She was beside him on the floor, unsure of what to do. His shoulders shook with what appeared to be infuriated sobs. His fists were clenched, biting into the ground harshly.

Lothíriel placed one hand over his. Éomer's body stiffened at her touch and he raised his eyes to look at her. His eyes were red, but there were no tears on his cheeks. No, he was angry.

"Did they hurt you?" his voice was terse and hoarse. He was looking beyond her, his expression unyielding in emotion.

"No," she answered. "I am fine, I promise."

"How dare they do this to me," he murmured, sitting back. Lothíriel was at a loss. She didn't know how to comfort him, or if he even wanted comfort. But he looked at her, his eyes wide with realization. "I've been so self involved - only thinking of myself. Surely it must have been awful for you! Were you bound?"

"No," she repeated. She scooted closer to him, trying to discern his temperament. "Éomer, please. Take off your armor and come to bed."

"I'll kill them," he muttered, gazing at the ground. Lothíriel frowned and took his hands. He didn't look at her, his visage troubled. So she released his hands and wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. She could feel him tense beneath and then relax. His hands held her waist as she stretched forward to hold him. Éomer's breathing deepened and she thought he might be weeping.

She pulled away slowly and stood. He followed suit and she began to remove the armor, piece by piece. He helped her and when he was free of it, he claimed her lips. Lothíriel realized this was what she'd been looking forward to since the moment Éomer had found. His hands wound through her hair and he trailed his lips across her jaw, slowly kissing her neck. Lothíriel dipped her head back, giving him further access to her skin.

"I'll never let them touch you again," Éomer whispered against her. Lothíriel felt the heat from his body and guided his lips back to hers. His hands slipped beneath the dress, drawing it from her with ease. She yielded to his touch, finding comfort and strength in his arms. It may not be love, but it was the closest thing to it Lothíriel had ever felt.

-o-

He watched her sleep, peaceful and beautiful in the soft light of the moon. They'd made slow, amorous love and he now felt complete. The fear he'd experienced when he discovered her abduction had taken hold of him so that his very morals were questioned. It was a good thing she and Elfhelm had been found, else his men would be driven mad. But it was Lothíriel who'd removed that fear and replaced it with something better. Warmer. More consoling.

Her eyes opened slowly, grey irises settling on his face. Her countenance shifted from calm to concerned. She sat up slightly, resting on her elbow as he was, her brows furrowed gently.

"What is it?" she asked quietly. "You should sleep."

"You're probably right," he replied with a smile. She watched him carefully, not ready to believe his words. "But every time I slip into the chains of sleep, I worry you are no longer beside me."

Lothíriel said nothing, her eyes downcast. Éomer lifted her chin gently with a finger so she could see the assurance in his face.

"I was scared." He admitted after a moment. She waited patiently as he collected his thoughts enough to tell her the things he could barely tell himself. "I have… So many have died. So many close to me. It seems, perhaps, that this line of Kings are blessed as rulers and cursed as men."

"What do you mean?"

"This alliance, between Gondor and Rohan, is purely political. That is, I would never force you to stay with me if you found it so unbearable. We are at least similar minded enough to tolerate one another. But you must understand, taking you as my wife also meant allowing a part of me to be threatened. No matter how many times I watch death claim my friends and family, it will always be painful. It will always create a wall within me. And I fear allowing the chance for such a wall to be built if I were to lose you."

"I see," she said after a moment. "I have not, on any scale, experienced the kind of loss you have. And I do not think I could survive and persevere as you are."

"I thought, certainly, that I had lost you. And that terrified me." He stopped, looking down at the sheets. Lothíriel placed her hand on his cheek, her fingertips gentle against skin. She did not smile, her expression was serene and it gave him hope.

"I am here," she murmured, kissing him. "It's harder than it seems to get rid of me."

He smiled and lowered her back to the pillow, their lips meeting again. He felt strong and he felt loved. Perhaps it was not the same love that his sister and her husband had, but it was enough for a man like Éomer. This marriage may not have been born from their love, but he was confident that they were going to make it work.