This had to stop.
Obviously time hadn't improved matters. Eomund wasn't sure what he'd hoped for—a softening of her heart, perhaps. A return at least to the easy friendship they had once shared. He definitely had hoped for more than her cold, stiff greeting this morning.
Eomund stared into the flames dancing and snapping in the hearth, not moving as the sounds of the household settling in for the night sank around him. Her rejection had stung, more than he wanted to admit. He wondered if the painful ache in his heart was the kind time would ever ease.
He hated to see her like this. Cold. Guarded. Brittle, as if she were so close to the breaking point that at the slight touch she would shatter into a thousand stinging pieces.
It wasn't the girl he knew. He remembered Illian when she was as carefree as the summer day was long. She ran wild and free across Rohan's flowered meadows, blond curls tossing in the wind and a joyous smile on her face.
The Illian he knew never let anything get her down. She was strong. Brave. Impulsive sometimes, but with a good heart and a clear head. She loved freely and laughed often.
Eomund moved to stir the fire, leaning his back against the warm stones of the fireplace and watching the shadows flicker across the deep red tapestry on the wall, giving the woven white horses life as they leaped and jumped. The light fell on the plain, polished wood furnishings, on the wide bed presiding against one wall. He averted his gaze and sighed.
She hadn't always been this way. But the dark shadow of the wild creatures had crept across their land. Her father had been gone much, keeping the evil at bay, and the weight of the kingdom had fallen on Illian, for though the queen was a good woman and a talented healer, she was rather weak of will.
Increasingly the duties and troubles of Rohan had fallen on Illian's young shoulders, with Eomund able to do little to help her, and the smiles had slipped from her merry lips. Then came the day the messenger brought evil tidings from the east—the Lord of the Mark had fallen.
So it was that when the plague struck the land, not sparing the household of the king, its best healer lay useless in the grip of grief. Illian was left to deal with the tragedy as best she could, as her people lay dying and first her young sister, then her toddling brother, and finally her mother herself succumbed to the disease.
Eomund swallowed, his jaw aching from clenching it. No, she had not always been this way. But the weight of grief and too much responsibility too soon had robbed her joy, and now this…
Why could she not see that he could still be her friend? That he longed to be her friend and confidante, to hold her close and shoulder that burden. And yes, someday, perhaps to be more to her. But for now, he would be content with even a smile.
He glanced again at the thick wooden door.
She should have returned from the great hall an hour ago. Everyone else had already sought their beds. She has good reason to not seek hers.
Eomund flinched, shutting out the gnawing voice in his mind. Perhaps she did not intend to come at all. Should he go in search of her? He felt a fool waiting up for her, unable to sleep while their troubles preyed on his mind.
He was trying so hard to be patient, to give her time. To not respond with anger when she rejected his efforts. To deflect her barbs and speak to her gently, as one speaks to a high-strung horse who has been badly wounded.
But oh, the woman could be so infuriating.
The door latch clicked and the object of his thoughts slipped inside, surprise and alarm flashing across her face as she caught sight of him waiting. Eomund unclenched his hands, resisting the urge to wipe them on his trousers. As a man, he felt himself reacting to her beauty, and he clamped down on the thought, annoyed at himself—and at her, for so easily affecting him. He calmed his spiking heartbeat by sheer force of will, making himself meet her gaze.
Illian turned to close the door, and when she faced him again, she gave him a wan smile. "I thought you would be asleep by now, milord, after such a long journey. I apologize if I kept you."
"You mean you hoped I would be," Eomund said without malice. They might as well be honest with each other. He was tired of the games.
Illian froze, staring at him. Her soft lips parted slightly, as if to reply, but no words came out.
"Illi…" He nodded at the hearth across from him. "Have a seat."
She moved with slow steps toward him, and perched on the edge of the stones. A frightened sparrow, poised to flee. He could see the rapid pulse beating in her neck.
Eomund looked away, leaning forward and pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. What could he say? This has to stop? What have I done to make you hate me? Or worse, far worse, Could you please just give me a chance?
He leaned back, staring at the shadowed ceiling, feeling her wide green eyes fixed on his face.
"Milord—" Her words came out in a breathy gasp. "About this morning, I am sorry, I—"
"Illian." Eomund looked at her, his gentle word stopping her rambling. She bit her lip, eyes falling to the ash-covered hearth, and his heart stirred. "Illi, you are troubled. I would help you, if I can."
Her eyes flew up to his own, and he felt the impact down to his toes. He had to get a grip on himself.
She was startled. She hadn't expected him to say that. Eomund frowned, tamping down his annoyance. What did she expect him to do, chastise her? Doubtless she deserved it.
Illian swallowed, her eyes flicking around the room. He felt his irritation evaporating.
"Talk to me, Illi."
"What is there to say?" She flung her hands up, her poise cracking. "No words can undo what has happened."
"No, but they might aid to mend the damage." Eomund leaned his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands as he studied her features. "Tell me what troubles you, lic ehel."
Tears sprang to her eyes at his rarely-used pet name for her, and she wiped them brusquely away. "I—in truth, I know not what to say, milord."
Eomund waited, burying his impatience. She would speak when she found the silence too unbearable.
Illian swallowed, lowering her gaze and running slim fingers over the gold embroidery decorating her gown. "I wish none of this had happened. I wish we could go back, before the shadow crept over the land and father rode away forever and everyone, everyone was dying except me. Before…"
"Before I became your king," Eomund said quietly.
She didn't respond, but a flush rose in her pale cheeks.
"Those days are gone, Illian."
"I know." She looked at him, a full look, and her eyes held an emptiness that grieved his heart to see in such a young, lovely face. "I know they're gone."
"But the days ahead do not have to be dark, milady." Eomund hesitated, longing to help her understand, but feeling sharply his ineptness to explain. He was a man of action, not of fine speech. "Change does not have to mean grief."
Illian turned her face away. "It always means grief."
"No." He felt anger rising and for once did not try to quell it in his tone. "Not always, milady. This change can be a joy to you, if you will but let it."
She whirled on him, her brown eyes snapping, yet filled with pain. "You act as if nothing has changed. You pretend that we are still simply small children, friends out for a lark. You act as if things can stay the same, but they cannot!"
Eomund stared at her, taken off guard. He had thought she wanted him to be her friend, and nothing more. What was she saying?
He took a deep breath, forcing out the words his heart feared to speak. "Do you want things to change between us?"
Illian looked at him, licked her lips nervously, then dropped her gaze to her clasped hands. When she answered, it was in a very small voice.
"They already have, milord," she said.
He tried not to flinch. What had he expected? For her to throw her arms around him and declare passionate love for him? Eomund forced away the image. No, though it would have been nice.
"Do you want it back to the way it was?" He was offering an impossible thing, he knew that, but for her sake he would try.
"I—" She looked at him, struggling to speak, then tears filled her eyes. Illian covered her face with her hands. "I don't know."
She was going to reject him. He knew it. But he couldn't help it.
Eomund slid across the hearth and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her into the hollow of his shoulder. Illian stiffened, but to his surprise didn't draw away. The moment stretched, like a cat after a long nap, but she did not move and he feared to speak.
Finally, he took a steadying breath. "If I—started changing things between us, would you give me a chance?"
She didn't answer. Eomund's heart pounded in his chest, fear coiling in his stomach, and he had to fight back the temptation to make a run for the stable.
Illian shifted and tilted her face up toward him, her eyes wide and questioning. "What do you mean?"
"I mean…" Eomund paused, distracted by her beautiful eyes so close to his own. And those lips, parted just so…
He leaned toward her, the throb of his heartbeat in his ears drowning out reason, and gently kissed that sweet, inviting mouth. Oh, she was heaven.
Illian stiffened, her small body tensing. But he held back, not wishing to frighten her, and was rewarded as she slowly melted into him against her own volition. A hot rush swept through him and Eomund drew back, breathing heavily.
She stared up at him, her eyes even wider if possible. But not angry, instead filled with surprise and not a little wonder. He gave her a small smile and she blinked, as if coming out of a dream.
"I mean," Eomund said softly. "That if I began treating you as a woman—as my wife—would you let me?"
Illian swallowed, the turmoil of conflicting emotions evident on her face. He forced himself to remain silent and wait until she spoke.
After a silence that seemed to go on forever she sighed, turning to bury her face in his shoulder. "I will try," she whispered.
Warmth rushed through him that had nothing to do with the physical. Eomund drew her gently to him, happiness he had thought impossible a mere hour before now welling up in his chest.
He slipped his hand under Illian and lifted her in his arms, anticipating her gasp of apprehension. "Do not fear, lic ehel," he murmured.
Eomund set her gently on the bed, before laying down himself a comfortable distance away. She kept casting wary glances at him out of the corners of her eyes, but he supposed he couldn't blame her after his impromptu kiss.
"Illian…" he said softly. She glanced up at him, and he gave her a tentative smile. "Will you let me hold you?"
A slight hesitation, then a nod so faint Eomund would have missed it if he hadn't been so carefully looking for it.
He shifted closer, sliding his arms around her and drawing her against his chest. Eomund could feel her tension, hear Illian's hurried breathing, but he didn't release her. He simply focused on taking slow, even breaths and holding still—no easy feat with him holding her so close. But it worked.
Slowly, she relaxed. Ever so slowly, the tension seeped out of her body and her breathing grew deep and steady in sleep. Eomund closed his eyes.
One day, perhaps she would come to him gladly. One day, perhaps they could make love as a true husband and wife, without any shame.
But today…today he was grateful. Today he was more than content to just lie with her sleeping in his arms, breathing in her scent until he drifted off to sleep himself.