In learning to ride, you must also learn to fall. - Rohirric proverb
Chapter 6
Sun was setting and Lothíriel was already regretting her decision. As she regarded her reflection in the mirror she felt convinced that the night would only end in ruin and tears and maybe bloodshed too, and it'd be for the better if she went now and found some hiding place so that Amrothos couldn't drag her along.
But then she considered how unlike herself that thought was. Had she ever feared anything like this? He was just a man, for Elbereth's sake! What could he do to her except scream? And if he tried to kill her, then she could maybe use him as a target practice for her bow, and... no. Killing a king was not such a good idea.
She groaned and rubbed her temples. At least she looked kind of nice, as she had allowed Bainiel to braid her hair and she had even picked up a nice riding gown (it had a split, because she refused to use a side saddle). Still the worrisome truth remained: she'd have to reveal her identity to a hot-tempered man who also happened to be a king. No doubt Father would hear of it sooner or later too, and then she'd be in trouble.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of knocking at the door, and then Amrothos peeked in. As soon as she had taken her leave of Legolas she had gone and sought her brother, whom she had informed he'd come with her to the Rohirric camp tonight.
"You insisted on meddling so you'd better see this thing through", Lothíriel had told him and for one reason or other he had complied without arguments.
"Are you ready, sister?" he asked now. "I think we should get going."
"Well, I don't really think I'm going to get any more ready than this", she sighed and cast one more look at her reflection. She thought she looked sick.
"It's going to be all right. I think the man likes you enough to let it pass", Amrothos tried.
"Brother, just don't", she said in a suffering voice, and he understood his comments were not needed at the moment.
"Fine, fine", he said quickly. "Shall we go then?"
"Yes", Lothíriel answered and fastened a cloak on her shoulders. "Into the Lion's den we venture..."
Would she come?
That had been the chief thought in the mind of King of Rohan ever since he had arrived to the Rohirric camp down on the fields. Though the evening appeared to have all the makings of a proper feast – someone had thrust a wineskin in his hands and he had been invited to sit by at least dozen different camp fires – he found it difficult to enjoy himself. All the while, he'd look around himself, and expect to see her somewhere close.
But then there was the possibility she wouldn't come. Why should she, after all the times she had tried to tell him to forget her?
Time was running short, soon he'd return to his own realm, and he'd be damned if he should to go there without even saying goodbye to the woman who called herself Little Wolf.
Elfhelm, ever the old hawk, noticed something was on his mind. Likely he even knew what it was about, as he didn't ask what was wrong. And anyway his expression said all that was necessary for the young king to know. This all was annoying and stupid, the way his personal life had apparently become a matter of politics and common interest, and if he had known any of this beforehand Éomer thought he would have run for the wild the moment Uncle had made him the heir for the throne.
Now he pushed aside those thoughts. The night was fair and young and there was a merry mood in the camp, and the men seemed happy that he had joined them; the atmosphere was far less formal than up in the palace. While Gondorian court gatherings could be very posh he knew what he preferred.
After a stroll through the camp they came to a company of Riders from the Muster of Edoras, and loudly they demanded that the King join them for a bit. Room was made around the fire and Éomer allowed himself to be persuaded to take a seat.
"But really my lord, it is good to have you here in our company for a bit! We lads were starting to think they were trying to turn you into a Gondorian up there in the palace", commented one man sitting close; the young king remembered his name was Froda.
"Apparently the crown comes with many strings attached, and standing on ceremony is sadly one of them. In that one matter at least I am looking forward to going home as much as any of you", he answered lightly. Indeed, if Uncle had lived he knew where he'd have spent his nights... then again, it was very likely he wouldn't have been able to fight the temptation of at least making an appearance to see if certain lady was attending.
"What's it like up there, Sire?" asked another man.
"It's... very Gondorian", said Éomer at length, which amused his riders. A laughter rose among them.
"And the ladies, my lord? Are they very beautiful?" Froda asked.
"Aye, I suppose so – at least as long as one has patience for thinly veiled offers for marriage", he replied dryly and took a taste of the wine. This was evidently funny as well for the men, as they laughed again and proceeded into a conversation about the absurdity of the idea of a Gondorian noblewoman as their queen. Luckily Éomer's opinion was not asked in this matter, though he would have liked to point out some other topic would have been refreshing for change. In theory he did understand the concern behind all this talk about marriage and queen and whatnot, but it was starting to exhaust him.
Fortunately conversations turned towards other things then, even to the point of making him forget about those ever-present concerns. This light atmosphere was just what he needed. It should suit well Éothain too, as the captain was always nagging to him how he should sometimes relax and try to enjoy himself.
The merrymaking came to an abrupt and unexpected end after a while, however... for there was a female voice, and he'd have known that furious shrieking anywhere.
"You pig! You're not the King of Rohan and even if you were I did not give you the permission to touch me! Oh, I should do a favour to all women everywhere and skin you right here!"
As Éomer jumped on his feet his eyes instantly found her, and there was Garafiell threatening a Rider with a small blade – he knew she'd use it if need be, and she would probably win, too.
But bloodshed wasn't probably what this night asked for, and so he swiftly strode towards the Eorling who had evidently made unwanted advances towards her, and the strange, insane, wonderful woman he so wished to make his queen.
She had come.
Father was usually pretty permissive when it came to his daughter and her whims. For one, he had already given up his attempts to make her take a guard or two along when she visited the training grounds or markets: she had sneaked out alone and returned unscathed enough times for him to come to the conclusion that she could take care of herself. Years of watching her run about with her brothers, and the way she handled her bow and small blades she usually hid in her clothes, had convinced him that his warlike daughter would be fine.
He did insist she take someone along if she went beyond the city walls, though (which was a fair enough request). This time her company consisted of Amrothos, and the name of their father got the two siblings through gates without any trouble.
They did agree however that he'd only accompany her only as far as the Rohirric camp, and then he'd let her go and find the King of Rohan on her own. Amrothos had offered to come along as moral support, but Lothíriel knew she had to settle this by herself.
"Besides, your presence would probably just confuse him or put him off before I even have a chance to say anything. I'll just... I'll see how it goes, and find you again afterwards", she had told him. Then grimacing, she muttered, "Say goodbye to Father for me if his kingship decides to murder me."
Her brother had snorted at that but he had not said anything, and so they had started for the Rohirric camp.
Getting there had been easy too: the guards were on a merry mood and they had not asked questions when Amrothos had said they had come to see some friends. Apparently people came from the city often enough, and this festive after-war atmosphere no one apparently had proper energy for suspicions. Amrothos had wished her luck and promised to take care of their horses, and with her heart hammering in her chest Lothíriel had started to look for the King of Rohan.
Asking directions turned out helpful, though half of the men she met and questioned didn't seem to have any idea of where their liege-lord might be – they were apparently happy to help anyway. But some, like the man she considered flaying, seemed to think a lonely woman in the search of the King warranted rude behaviour.
Be it as may it did seem like her fate was to be frequently found by the King Éomer when she was in the middle of rampage or otherwise just not presentable for a king, and this time he arrived when she had pulled the foul-mannered man down by his beard and was threatening him with a dagger.
"Lady Archer! I see you have not given up your habit of manhandling of Eorlingas", he called out. She made no move to let go of the Rohir who had first claimed he was indeed the Lord of the Mark and then tried to kiss her. The voice of the actual King had the annoying fellow freezing on the spot.
"I beg to correct that statement, Sire. I only manhandle Eorlingas who are being rude", she said sweetly, momentarily even forgetting what it was she had come to do here. The damned King truly did have a way of distracting her.
The horselord approached them and turned to look at the man posing as him.
"What is your name, Rider?" he asked. There was a stark look in his eyes and he seemed somehow taller and larger. Standing straight and resting one hand on his sword, the man was every inch the king – more so than she had seen him before now.
"It's Bron, my lord", said the man faintly. As Lothíriel was still holding on to his beard she could very well smell the scent of wine in his breath, and grimacing she let go of him and sheathed her dagger. It wouldn't do to skin people on the front of King Éomer.
"What precisely had you presenting yourself as me?" asked the King of Rohan, his voice steady and sharp. His question made Bron flush in embarrassment.
"Just trying to appeal to the lady", he mumbled.
"Well, the lady is not appealed!" Lothíriel growled, which made the man flinch as if he thought she might indeed go through with her threat.
"You heard her, Bron. Hasn't your captain told you that we ought to behave courteously and respectfully towards our hosts?" asked the King. He was frowning now and it made him look quite threatening. One did not have to wonder where his reputation as a fierce warrior came from.
"But my lord, she said she wanted to see you, and I thought she was a... a lady of the night", Bron spluttered.
At that the princess shrieked. Without further consideration she pulled back her fist and flung it against the man's face, just the way Erchirion had taught her. Though the punch certainly did hurt her knuckles, it looked like the pig of a man and his face hurt much more.
"You insolent scruff!" she exclaimed. But Bron had apparently lost the control of his legs, for he fell down and began to snore. As she towered above the man she considered kicking him, but then a sound of applause interrupted her thought and she looked about. The King and his men, as well as other riders who had witnessed the scene, were cheering at her.
She recovered from her surprise quickly enough, and so she made a mocking little bow and turned towards King Éomer. His eyes were sparkling with mirth and he offered her his arm. Without hesitation she placed her hand there.
"That was truly beautiful, Garafiell. Where did you learn to hit like that?" he asked, and she was surprised to hear some admiration in his voice.
"My brother taught me", she answered. Casting a look at him she allowed herself a small moment of bewilderment, though perhaps it shouldn't be such an astonishing thing that this man wouldn't be put off by her punching people. He chuckled and then spoke in his own native tongue to couple of his guards, giving what sounded like commands. Indeed, the two picked up the snoring man from the ground and took him away.
"Why were your men cheering at me? Shouldn't they be appalled that some woman comes and beats up one of them?" she asked the horselord beside her.
"Eorlingas have nothing against women standing up for themselves, especially when a man has crossed the line. As to why the cheered at you, I presume they were surprised to see a Gondorian woman so bold", he answered. A faint crooked smile touched his face, "Just as I was surprised when we first met in the woods."
Lothíriel made a scoffing sound.
"Well, he was a rude and annoying fellow, and I have no patience for such behaviour", she said nonchalantly and lifted up her chin. That pulled a soft laugh out of the King.
"I am glad that you came, my lady. Though I must apologise for Bron's behaviour", he said then.
"Hmph. Maybe I should have skinned him anyway", she muttered.
"Perhaps not. It is kind of a bloody work", he commented wryly. A slight smile came to his face, "Would you like to have a look around? And this time without drunk and ill-mannered riders?"
"If your kingship would be so kind", Lothíriel replied. Perhaps the inevitable conversation could wait for a bit... she hadn't seen the Rohirric camp before now, after all. And the horselord seemed to be on a good mood – she didn't want to ruin that quite yet.
As they strolled through the camp she saw long precise rows of tents that served as lodgings for the riders. When she asked if it was very uncomfortable, the King just shrugged.
"Rohirrim are a people of horses. Many of us are nomads and herders and the sky is roof enough for us. That is why the settlements in Rohan are small for the most parts. I understand most of the tents came from the city, as we couldn't bring much supplies with us when we rode for Gondor", he explained.
On their way they also met an endless amount of tall blond riders. Their king they greeted light-heartedly, though she could see the love and respect behind that merriness, and to her they gave curious looks. Most of them wore their hair long, just like their liege-lord, and had lively, bearded faces that easily turned into grins. Their clothing was simple but comfortable-looking and made of good materials (she knew Rohirric wool and leather were considered very high quality). Between themselves they spoke their own language, which sounded animated in her ears. There were women among them, too, and she knew these were Shieldmaidens. Tall and fair they were, and their eyes were bright and bold. Looking at them Lothíriel felt curiously envious of these women, seeing how naturally they blended in this setting.
"You have not met Shieldmaidens before, Garafiell?" King Éomer asked, having rightly noticed how she followed the women of the camp.
"I haven't. I didn't know there were others than your lady sister", she said and glanced at him.
"Some of our women, sisters and daughters without families to watch over, chose to ride with the Muster. It is not uncommon in the Mark that men who have no sons will raise their daughters to become riders, especially in the years before the war. But among Eorlingas you won't find many a woman who would not take a blade to defend their farms and families... if not for the valour of our women, we wouldn't have homes to return to", he spoke, his voice alive with the pride and love he had for his land and people.
"Are all Rohirrim riders, my lord?" she asked, glancing at the tall man beside herself.
"Most of us learn and master horsemanship. It is considered a matter of pride among us, you see. But not all actively ride in éoreds. The men you see here are in large part the common folk who were mustered when the call for war came. In the times of peace they are farmers, merchants, herders, and craftsmen. The Marshals and Eorling lords have éoreds of men who are warriors by trade – those riders are trained professionally and tasked with the protection of our lands. When all able men ride for war it is called the Muster of Rohan", he said, looking ahead. He glanced at her, "We don't have fortresses, except for the Hornburg, and that was not even originally built by our people. Men who defend it are almost exclusively those who were born and raised there and the common jape goes they are the worst riders in the Mark. Our forces are a cavalry, and we only fight on foot as a last resort."
Lothíriel listened attentively to this explanation. It was fascinating to hear it from a man of Rohan, who was nothing less than the king himself. Strange how it could go like that sometimes.
"I heard of what you did on the Pelennor fields, Sire. I heard of the shield-wall you raised there – I saw it from the walls of the city", she said quietly, though she feared it might somehow insult him. Perhaps the memory was unpleasant one? But even so, she recalled how in dread and wonder she had watched the Rohirrim prepare for one last stand, and how the standard of White Horse had flown in the wind as though to defy the doom at hand. What were the chances that the very man who had lead them would now be striding beside her?
"Then you know I did it because I expected all of us to die", he answered solemnly, and as she looked up at him she could see a shadow on his face. Unpleasant memory indeed.
"I tried to sneak out and fight too. Stupid, I know. But everyone else was out helping and it was horrible to be left behind. Father found me, though, and sent me to the Houses of Healing. He said I was far more useful running errands there... he usually says he trusts me to handle myself, but that time he obviously didn't", Lothíriel said, and her words caught the attention of the Rohir beside her, as it always did when she spoke of herself.
"Why am I not surprised to hear that?" he mused dryly, though the shadow had passed from his face now.
"Think of it, though! We might even have met in the battle if I had been able to get out without Father noticing", she said to cheer him up, and it did bring something of a smile to the horselord's face.
"And have our little shouting match sooner? I'm not sure I'd have been much of an opponent then", he commented. That she could understand: at the time of the great battle before the walls of Minas Tirith, he had just lost his uncle and been under the impression his sister was dead too. She decided not to let him think of that, though.
"Well, neither were you back in the woods of Ithilien", said the princess smugly, which made him roll his eyes, but obviously it had the hoped effect of distracting him from the memories of the battle.
They had now arrived to a something of a square in the middle of a camp, where tents were not so close to each other. Couple of men appeared to be in the possession of lutes and a peculiar-looking flute, and they were adjusting their instruments.
"Now, my Lady Archer, what about that Rohirric dancing?" asked King Éomer with a charming smile.
"I'm afraid I have no idea of how to dance in Rohirric fashion", she said, eyeing the players and the men gathered around with some suspicion.
"It's all right. It's not about getting the steps right, anyway", he said nonchalantly and offered her his hand.
"Then what is it about?" she wondered; the musicians had now started a lively tune.
"I will show you", said the horselord and pulled her into a dance.
Truth be told, to her it seemed more like leaping around than dancing. And questionable leaping at that as far as propriety went, because he not only did he take a good firm grip of her hand and placed another on her waist, but also stood so close to her that in the middle of the dance it almost became like an embrace of sorts. Then as he pulled her along she had to hold on to his shoulder just to keep up with him.
It was certainly different than that proper court dance back in the ball the other night, and there was no time for conversing. All her concentration was consumed by just keeping up with him and giving an occasional yell, but as her heart hammered fast and his grip of her remained steady, Lothíriel found it wasn't actually too bad. It was less about performing flawlessly and more about moving together with the guidance of the cheerful tune. Her yells turned into shrieks of laughter and the way King Éomer was grinning proved he was quite enjoying himself too.
She was out of breath when they finally slowed down and he found her a seat close to a near-by fire. The King's guards had fallen away to watch or even participate in the dance, apparently to give some privacy to their lord. They had followed the King and his lady companion through the camp, but Lothíriel had paid little heed to them. Her undivided attention was given to the Lord of the Rohirrim.
Now, as he sat down beside her, he offered her a drink. Somehow he had acquired cups of sweet-smelling liquid she recognised as mead.
"Here you go. You must be thirsty", he said and she took a long sip of the drink. It was cool and sweet and she nearly downed it in one go, but she knew she'd have to be careful with it, lest she drank too much and ended up passing out here in the camp.
"Thank you", she said and gave a smile to the Rohir sitting beside her. She considered him, "So that is what you call dancing in Rohan."
"More or less", said King Éomer with a half-smile. "How did you like it?"
"It was... very lively. I should have known to expect something like that", Lothíriel answered and took another sip of the drink. She narrowed her eyes, "Do all dances require that kind of contact? Isn't that improper?"
He lifted his eyebrows.
"What is improper about two grown people dancing together if they want to?" he asked. "They're wearing clothes and everything."
She couldn't but laugh at that. Rohirrim. What a precious people!
"You shouldn't say that to the ladies up at the Citadel. Especially the part about clothes", Lothíriel sniggered.
"No worries, my lady. I wasn't going to share that opinion with them anyway", he answered nonchalantly and tasted his mead.
As her laughter eventually faded away the princess remembered their previous talk about the Rohirrim being a people of horses, and that brought her back to the conversation even earlier. Horses... she remembered the great stallion she had seen up in the Citadel just before the King of Rohan had once again happened on her.
"Sire", she spoke up, making him look at her quizzically, "Earlier today I was thinking of the horses you told me about. Mearas, you called them. Have you ever ridden one?"
He shook his head.
"Only the kings and princes of Rohan can ride them. Except for Shadowfax, of course. Outside Eorl's line, songs and tales know of no other rider than Gandalf who has been able to tame a mearh horse. Then again, I suppose we can agree he is not an ordinary man", he replied.
"But you're a king now, a lord of the line of Eorl the Young. Doesn't that mean you would be able to ride one of them?" she asked.
"I suppose so, yes. However, mearas are no ordinary horses. You don't get to choose one of them, even if you are a king or a prince – they choose you", said the Rohir quietly. He considered his drink with something like a frown, and she knew something was on his mind.
"What is it, Sire?" she asked. He looked up at her and gave her a sheepish smile.
"You'd think me foolish", he said. There was something to the colour of his voice she didn't really comprehend, but on the other hand Lothíriel already knew there was much about this man she did not understand.
"I saw you skinny dipping in Anduin, Sire. You can tell me", she told him pointedly, which made him chuckle under his breath.
"That is true, my Lady Archer", he agreed.
He sighed then and looked into the flames of the camp fire for a moment before speaking again. Lothíriel watched him silently, noting the way the light of fire was caught in his hair, and how it revealed flecks of gold in his dark eyes. For one unguarded moment she found herself marvelling how suddenly his face revealed softness which one would not expect on features usually so stern, and she wondered if he'd mind much her touching his hair – if just to see how it felt like. But ten he began to speak, distracting these unexpected thoughts; his voice was quiet and his brow knitted.
"Many years ago, I had this dream. It wasn't that usual kind of thing with no rhyme or reason – afterwards, I wasn't sure it even was a dream. Be it as may it came to me on the first night we – my sister and I – spent in the Golden Hall after our parents had died", he began softly. He continued, "In the dream, I was in my new room when something awoke me, and it seemed to me something was calling me outside. So I left my bed and ventured out, and all of Meduseld was quiet and dark. I made my way outside... Edoras was in slumber, but the lands around the hill were covered by silver mist. The stars were very bright, however, and all the world was pale and luminous."
"The horse arrived then, climbing uphill towards the Golden Hall. Wild he was, for he bore no rider and no bridle, and in the light of moon and stars his grey coat shimmered. The moment I beheld him I knew he was one of mearas. You saw Shadowfax and how he appears to one's eyes – you do not need to look at them twice to know they are no ordinary steeds. So I watched this dream-horse, and he came to me, and then as he bended on one knee to ask me to ride with him, I woke up", he finished and shook his head.
"That is... well. I don't suppose dreaming of horses is so odd for a man of Rohan?" Lothíriel said thoughtfully.
"Not all dreams are just dreams. And Eorlingas believe it is particularly significant if you dream of mearas. You're not of the Mark so it is difficult to explain the meaning of it. I know it was not an idle dream, because many years later I saw that same stallion again – in the very waking world", said the Rohir. A crooked smile appeared on his features then, "Oh, now you think I'm a lunatic."
"It does sound odd, if I may say so. How did you know it was the same stallion?" asked the princess. Though the tale was peculiar it was somehow fascinating as well. And perhaps she was wrong in doubting it. Horselords had their own legends, their own wisdom and way of seeing the world... hadn't she witnessed the meaning of dreams first-hand among her own kin?
"Incidentally, it was just couple of months ago. I was returning to Aldburg after hunting orcs, when suddenly on the plains I perceived a stallion that looked exactly like the one I had seen in my dream so long ago. He came from the mist, just like I had dreamt, and galloped beside me for a while before he again disappeared... it was on the night my cousin Théodred died", he said quietly as the frown deepened on his face. "I didn't know. I should have been there – I should have come to his aid. He'd live, if I had -"
Lothíriel didn't allow him to finish that sentence. She touched his forearm, which made the young king look up, and there was no mistaking the grief in his eyes. She could see how deeply it was felt, and she understood that while he would often mask his feelings behind sternness, it did not change the intensity of his emotions.
It was a realisation that caused her a strange fluttering sensation deep in her chest, but she tried to ignore that, and met his gaze steadily.
"You have done all that you could, my lord", she said calmly. "You and your people have saved all our lives. You're not guilty for all the death and destruction that has taken place - without your valour it would have been much more extensive, perhaps too much even to endure."
Then she offered him a smile and asked, "Do you think you'll see that horse for a third time?"
"I don't know. To be honest, I'm slightly worried what should happen if I did", he said sincerely. Momentarily the frown deepened on his face and that shadow she had seen before appeared again. But then he downed his drink and tried to smile.
"Perhaps that is enough for unpleasant topics for conversations, my lady", he decided. Her hand still rested on his forearm, and he placed his own on hers, warm and large and calloused. Then as if without thinking he twined his fingers with hers, and her chest felt tight as she lowered her eyes on their joined hands. It felt nice and she returned the gesture instead of letting her fingers just rest in the warm security of his.
He moved closer then, which did nothing for how breathless she was starting to feel, and ever so gently lifted her chin with his free hand. Those dark eyes were deep as the ocean, just as full of untamed force, and she had to turn her gaze quickly away, lest some spell was put on her.
"Garafiell", he spoke that name, carefully pronouncing each syllable and somehow adding depth and colour to it; before now it had merely been a humorous nickname Father used when he was exasperated. King Éomer called it again, "Garafiell, I'm not going to ask your name, but could you at least tell me if you are a daughter of a nobleman?"
"Why do you ask?" she wanted to know and her voice came out as a squeak. Now he smiled slightly.
"It's just I should probably start and figure out all the explanations I will have to give my people and yours, if you're not a high-born lady. Because it is going to require a lot of imagination to make up a believable and not completely outrageous reason as to why I'm convinced a commoner would make as good a queen as any noblewoman", he said softly. She nearly jumped at that and a strange sound escaped her mouth, and she turned to look at him with wide eyes.
"My lord!" she stuttered, "We haven't even agreed about anything yet! And there was never talk of anyone becoming a queen! Not to mention I haven't even kissed you!"
"That can be fixed right away", he murmured and moved closer to her, and the way he looked at her then and how his lips slightly parted and she could feel his breath did make it very, very hard not to jump him right there.
But she simply couldn't let that happen. She couldn't let him walk into this fire like that – not without the truth. He had to know, because if he didn't, if she let him kiss her now she'd forever regret it afterwards if the truth did have the worst effect she could imagine.
And if she kissed him she'd lose herself.
Lothíriel placed a hand on his chest, effectively stopping him there. He blinked and frowned, and she knew he was wondering if he had read the signs wrong. Before he could entertain that thought further she spoke: "There's something I'd speak of with you, my lord. And it is very important that we do so right away, before... before anything more happens."
She was rather proud of how steady that came out, though her heart was hammering in her chest in an unsteady pace and keeping straight her mind was very difficult with this infuriatingly attractive horselord hovering so near. Fortunately he was able to gather some semblance of clarity to recognise the urgency in her words, and so the King of Rohan nodded.
"Very well then", he said and pulled back, which did disappoint her. Oh, sweet Elbereth! How differently this all could have gone, if she had just been honest from the beginning. And she was all the more convinced telling him the truth now would result in her hurting him, especially after the way he had shown her so much of himself tonight, revealed things to her she sensed he didn't often speak of to others.
But Legolas had been right. King Éomer did deserve her honesty.
Apparently he had noticed something strange on her features, for he touched her hand, and she looked up to see concern in his gaze.
"This... this is not really a good place for it. I'd like to talk with you in private, Sire", Lothíriel said uneasily. The breathless feeling had already turned into a cold sensation of dread of what would happen next.
"Of course. My tent is not too far from here – I believe that should be private enough", he said and got up on his feet. He offered her his hand to pull her up, and Lothíriel took it. He helped her to stand and even a gesture so simple was suddenly something to make her want to kick herself. It was now all the more real, the way she had treated him... it would be a wonder if he forgave her.
On the way to his tent they did not speak much, though Lothíriel did try to think of something cheerful to say. However, now she just couldn't summon any light banter that had come so easily before. Whether he deemed odd her sudden quietness she didn't know, and anyway she couldn't bring herself to look up at him.
They reached the royal tent soon enough. It was larger and when they stepped in she noted it also had rugs on the floor and some collapsible furniture. The King gestured her to sit down, which she did, and all the while the knot in her stomach grew tighter ad tighter. But this had to be dealt with and he needed the truth.
"Would you like something to drink?" asked the horselord, but Lothíriel shook her head.
"No thank you", she answered. While getting herself drunk did seem appealing in the face of what was to come, she did also know that drunkenness would not help at all with what she'd have to do.
He took the other seat and she dared to look at him. The frown on his face confirmed he had already noticed how uneasy she had suddenly become.
"Now, what is it? Is something wrong, my lady?" he inquired, studying her face with keen eyes.
She sighed and momentarily considered her hands, which she had folded in her lap. Oh, she should have just told him everything the moment she had come here! Now, after the pleasant time spent with him, it felt so much more difficult. Then, knowing she couldn't postpone this any longer, she started to speak.
"You have been asking for my name, Sire", Lothíriel started slowly, and a brief glance towards the young king confirmed he sat very still, staring at her even more intensely now than before. "I... I suppose it's high time I stopped lying to myself, and to you. And I should tell you that I am sorry for my behaviour – I did none of this because I wanted to hurt you, my lord."
He remained silent, which she imagined was because he feared she'd change her mind if he somehow interrupted her.
"I know it was very stupid to do that, but after our encounter by Anduin I decided to avoid you. I was embarrassed and... and I thought you'd think less of my father, knowing what kind of a daughter he had. I didn't want to cause him disappointment, because I had heard him speaking so highly of you, and I knew he thought of you as a good friend", she went on, keeping her eyes on her hands.
"It was only later that I started to see what an idiotic idea it was, because you kept on happening on me, Sire, and the hole I had tossed myself in just got deeper and deeper. And then you came to my father's house, and he was so determined we meet, and I thought maybe if you believed I was touched in the head I could make sure you wouldn't make the connection between that hideous orange-wearing thing and the woman who screamed at you in the woods. But that very same day we danced, and I started to..." her voice fell quiet, because the words were tangling in her throat and from somewhere tears had found their way into her eyes. Angrily she wiped a hand across them, because now was not a time for bawling.
"I started to realise how much I liked you, my lord", she announced in a stronger voice. Now she lifted up her eyes to meet his gaze, to see if his features betrayed anything that was going in his mind. But the horselord's face was just blank as he sat there. So she continued, "I liked you, the way it was so easy to speak to you – and how I could be myself even if I was... even if I hadn't told you who I was. I thought you'd be like the Gondorian men and would be offended if you knew a daughter of your good friend was such an orc of a girl, and that is where I made my mistake. Sire, the reason I put up this show and refused to reveal the truth was because I did not understand you, and because I didn't understand myself."
Taking a deep breath, she spoke it out loud at last: "My lord, I am Princess Lothíriel, daughter of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth."
A/N: And I return with a new chapter!
Here at last Lothíriel tells the truth to Éomer... but I'm afraid we will have to wait for his reaction until the next chapter. I also felt like some relationship-building was yet needed - hopefully I didn't frustrate you, my dear readers, too much with that almost but not quite kiss. :D Well, they say good things are worth waiting for!
Some of you have made it clear Lothíriel's irrational behaviour is annoying. I can understand where that comes from, but please keep in mind she's not a perfect person, and moreover she's young and hot-headed and she's never been in a situation like this before. For someone so inexperienced (though she'd never admit that, not to mention it must embarrass her) getting attention from a handsome young king must be bewildering - especially when she begins to discover that he's not unlike herself. But perhaps she is now coming around and seeing how foolish she has acted. Well, that is the thing about stubborn characters - they're stubborn in good and bad.
Thanks for reading and reviewing!
Sandy-wmd - Yes, I did think that was necessary, to keep up with what they're thinking at the moment. Glad you liked the chapter!
Kiiimberly - Oh, he is! It's probably not wrong to say he's enjoying the situation much more than anyone else. :D
quickreader93 - Thanks! :)
Wondereye - Happy to hear that! I rather liked writing that little scene. :)
Le Pleiade - Chances are she'd slap you back, though. :D Like I said, stubborn people are stubborn both in good and bad!
Talia119 - I consider the part with Aragorn and Éomer pretty important in some ways. And I think Aragorn would be the one Éomer would go to with things like this.