Chapter 10
Aldburg, April the 26th, 3018
Runhild gave her a disbelieving stare, baffled at what appeared to be the ugliest piece of clothing ever to be made: "I swear I'll never understand how you can be so bad at it".
"Runhild!", Wilrun shrieked.
"But it's true! Look at this…this…I don't even know what this is!".
Wilrun almost turned purple then, whether out of embarrassment for Runhild's ruthless comments or because she was trying very hard not to laugh at her ineptitude, that she did not know: "Don't be so harsh with her! Lothíriel is still recovering and knitting was probably not the best form of entertainment we could come up with".
Though that was certainly true, Lothíriel had to disagree with her: "I appreciate your attempt at defending the indefensible, but I'm afraid my lack of skills has nothing to do with me being weakened", she admitted. In fact, she had always considered embroidery to be one of the most bothersome, stressful pastimes ever!
"It doesn't matter and besides, you have other talents you can be proud of".
"You admit I'm a lost cause then?".
The look on Wilrun's face as she studied from more up-close her needlework was worth more than a thousand words: "It is bad…".
"I wonder what your mother would say about it", Lothíriel chuckled.
"Oh, trust me: you don't want to know. When it comes to anything even remotely related to her work, she can be mercilessly outspoken! Speaking of which: have you given a thought which dresses you'd like her to make?".
"Dresses?".
"Yes: which cut, which style and so forth. If you have something specific in mind you could even sketch it, wouldn't that be great?", she proposed with a great deal of excitement. Seeing her puzzlement however, she suddenly paused. "Oh dear, did I choose the wrong colours?", she asked, her eyes glancing towards her desk: there, neatly piled in one corner, were all the cloths Harn had given her.
"Those were for me?".
"Why, of course! Didn't he tell you?".
"Well yes, the merchant said you bought them for me but since I knew nothing of it, I assumed it was just an excuse. I thought maybe you didn't want your mother to know or…".
"I meant Lord Éomer: he never told you, didn't he?".
Lothíriel frowned while besides her, Runhild rolled her eyes and let her needle spin at an almost unnatural speed: "The day the Gondorian merchants returned to Aldburg, he called me to his study and explained that since you had been forced to travel light from Minas Tirith, he was concerned you did not have enough clothing with you. He had already visited Harn's stall at the market but wasn't sure which colours and textures you might have liked and since we are friends and my mother is a seamstress, he asked if I could help".
Lothíriel stared at her with what she supposed was a rather dumb expression: "Oh, I-I didn't know…", she mumbled.
"He told me I could buy as much as I saw it fit, as long as that included the scarlet fabric. That was the only one he was sure about, obsessed almost: I think he reminded me about a dozen times about it!", Wilrun giggled.
Lothíriel looked at her. Then at the scarlet fabric sitting on top of all others. Then back at her: "But I hate that colour!", she couldn't help but blurting out.
"Trust the man to have the worst possible taste ever", Runhild growled, to which Wilrun burst out laughing: "Why would you even say that?! Lothíriel would look great in scarlet: the colour fits her hair, brings out her complexion and…and it's just perfect for her!".
"It looks awful", Runhild declared, her tone dry, her frown growing deeper by the minute.
"That's not true! My mother too agrees with Lord Éomer and in fact, she went as far as praising his good eye and…".
"Fine!", Runhild cut her short, the crochet taking off from her hands and landing somewhere under the bed: "A scarlet gown would suit her nicely, so what? Shall we build the man a statue just because he can judge colours?", she yelled, then strode out of the room and shut the door closed behind her with enough strength that Lothíriel thought it might have just come unhinged.
A moment of bewildered silence was cast over them: "What in Bema's name has gotten into her? Was it something I said?", Wilrun asked, staring with some concern at the frame of the door.
"It's not your fault", Lothíriel reassured her, her mood considerably tampered: "She's just angry. Very angry".
"I am also angry at Lord Éomer for whatever he told you that made you run that way, but that's hardly a reason to leave that way just because someone mentioned his name!".
"It's not only that. Runhild is angry with me – for the way I left of course, but especially because she thinks I should be…angrier".
Wilrun arched an eyebrow: "She's angry because you are not angry enough?".
"Yes".
"What does that even mean?".
Lothíriel sighed, tried to shift into a more comfortable position but whichever way she turned, there was always something aching or – even worse, itching. Leaning back against the bedpost, she tried to collect her thoughts. Ever since arriving in Aldburg, Runhild had been the only beam of light in an otherwise pitch-black darkness. Her face had been the last thing she had seen before slipping into unconsciousness and not in a lifetime would she ever forget the moment she had entered her room after she had awoken: she had cried like a baby, sobbed to the point she thought she would have passed out and for the whole night, she had never let go of her hand. Guilt ridden, she had apologized a thousand times for the stupidity and selfishness of her actions but the moment she had opened up about what Éomer had told her, things had taken a sudden turn for the worse: "Runhild thinks this", she said opening her arms and pointing at her mangled leg, "is all Éomer's fault. She thinks I should hate him for what happened and can't accept the fact I'm not feeling that way".
Wilrun stored her yarn away and dragged her chair a little closer to her bed: "You're not angry at him?".
"I am. But things are…complicated, and I tried to explain it to Runhild, but she just won't listen. She thinks I should demand to be sent back to Gondor because there's no way Éomer can deny me that now".
Wilrun bit her lip as if unsure she could say what was on her mind: "She thought you had taken your life, Lothíriel", she finally confessed. "That day, when she came knocking at your door and found it locked, when she realized no one had seen you in almost a day, she thought you had taken your life. After she returned to Aldburg later that night, I came here and found her sitting on the floor, crying and holding that bracelet you gave her to her chest. She told me that had something happened to you, she'd have never forgiven Lord Éomer and now, despite loving you like a sister, she'd rather see you gone than knowing you living a miserable life among us. Even if that means she'll never get to see you ever again".
Lothíriel angrily wiped her tears away: she hated so much the weeping mess she had become those days!
"Lord Éomer would find a way, you know? I doubt he can get your marriage annulled, but I'm sure he'd find some sort of diplomatically correct solution so that the two of you can live separate lives in separate countries. This way you could go back to Dol Amroth and…".
"I don't want to go back to Dol Amroth".
Her stance obviously came as a surprise: "You don't?".
Lothíriel shook her head and at last, she spat it all out: she told Wilrun of her father's scheming, of his decision to tell her nothing about her marriage, of the way he had informed her but a few days before the ceremony itself. Her friend listened carefully and by the time she was done, all she could do was staring at her with wide eyes and a thousand questions floating in her mind. Eventually, she settled for the most obvious one: "Did Lord Éomer know?".
"I thought he did and that's why I hated him so much, that's why I was always so angry – with him and with everybody else too! You have no idea how awful I was, Wilrun: back in Minas Tirith I just pretended he did not exist, turned the other way every time he'd say a word. But he kept trying and in what precious little time we had before the wedding, he'd often pass by my room: once he asked if I could show him the city, another he proposed to have a stroll through the gardens, another he invited me for tea. I never answered, never even opened the door and in the end, he just gave up and started ignoring me. On our way here, I took my anger out on his squire, told the boy terrible things, accused him – and all of you really, to be nothing more than a bunch of uneducated rubes with whom I was being forced to spend the rest of my life. But my anger was misdirected for Éomer was fooled into this marriage as much as I was and the other day, when we both finally understood the extent of my father's foul play, I think he was even more shocked than I was. To me, I hated my father before and I continue doing so. But to him, realizing I had no say in all of this, realizing he had practically bought me and got me shipped all the way here without me ever agreeing to anything, it was…difficult, I think".
"He would never do such thing, I'm sure of it! He is…".
"He is an honourable man?", Lothíriel finished the sentence for her, laughing softly: "That's exactly how my father tried to sell me the whole thing, you know? He's an honourable man, he told me. I didn't believe him of course and in my mind, I had already decided the type of man he was. But then I arrived here and as time passed by, I found it increasingly difficult to reconcile the image of the vile man I married with the great hero you all thought him to be – Runhild too, until not long ago. And in my own little way I tried to better understand him, but I always found him so…".
"Intimidating?", Wilrun suggested.
"Yes. And stern, cold, constantly frowning down at me like I was nothing more than a burden to him. There have been rare instances in which he seemed to drop the mask and reveal a gentler side, but then he'd always go back to his usual self and I'd only grow more confused and insecure about him. Yet he came for me and when we spoke the other night he seemed so…different".
"He was out of his mind, Lothíriel. I saw him when he brought you back, saw the fear in his eyes; and my father was there when they found you in the woods, said he had never seen him that way, said that had you died, he didn't know what he might have done".
Thinking of the man next to whom she had awoken, remembering how she had seen him laughing one moment and crying the next, Lothíriel had no difficulties believing it. Truth was, that night Éomer had been all she had needed him to be: reassuring with his calm presence and little silly attentions; comforting when she had needed to cry out and any word would have been inappropriate; brutally honest in admitting his own struggles and faults. He had been all he – and her, had failed to be during those past few months and even though she still blamed him for being the reason why she had to leave her home, she realized now he was hardly the barbarian she had accused him to be. "I don't know what to do, Wilrun. My plan was to ride to Pelargir, where my aunt lives: she never forgave my father for marrying me and I thought I could have hidden there but now…", she tried to explain while in her mind, the memory of Dúnor running away from his parents' torn bodies kept playing over and over again: "…now I feel like I could ride to the world's end and yet, what would I accomplish? Life will never be the same, I will never be the same girl who spent her days reading books and worrying about nothing", she realized with a pang of fear that almost kicked the breath out of her. Because if she wasn't that person anymore, then who was she? Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, or rather Lothíriel of Rohan, wife of Éomer, Third Marshal of the Riddermark? Where did she belong to? The palace by the sea where she had spent a blissfully blithe childhood, or that strange city full of so many hostile faces and yet blessed at the same time with some of the best friends she had ever had? What was she supposed to do? Should she demand to be sent back to Gondor only to be the shade of the person she was, living her days pretending she had not felt on her own skin what the world out there was like, or should she stay in Rohan instead to…to do what, exactly?
Wilrun made for saying something but she raised a hand to stop her: "I-I'd like to be alone, if you don't mind".
"Of course", she consented. She collected her things and made for leaving, then rushed back to her and pulled her in a gentle embrace: "Whatever you'll decide, I promise you'll be fine", she whispered in her ear.
Éothain almost jumped out of his skin when he suddenly materialized on the doorway. His expression changed however, when he noticed the smug smile on his face and the two ales in his hands: "So it's true? She's awake?".
"Yes".
All puffed up like the peacock he was, Éothain stood fists on his hips and chin raised: "Can I tell it?".
"Fine, just get over with it".
"I told you she would have recovered!", he declared with a booming voice, holding his pose for a more dramatic effect.
"Yes, you were right: happy now?".
"Moderately", he grinned, snapping one the ales out of his hand.
Éomer laughed and beckoning for him to follow, he made his way out of the stables and across the square, then up the narrow path that led to the ruins of the old watch tower. He knew Éothain – and pretty much everybody else in town, hated the place: it was old, creepy and full of strange sounds. Many actually believed it to be cursed by some daunting spectre but in the many years he had come up there, the scariest thing he had witnessed were dormice nestling under the half-collapsed roof and – during the summer, bats sleeping in what was left of the basement. And he liked the place: he liked the trees sprouting from the cracks in the rocks, he liked the ivy growing on the walls, he liked the musk covering the stones and, above all, he liked the undisturbed quiet the place offered thanks to his gloomy reputation.
Leaning against the remains of an old wall, he took a hefty sip from his mug and took a moment to enjoy the view. His eyes scanned the city, then lingered on the window of Lothíriel's room: it appeared dark and silent, the curtain swaying gently in the light evening breeze.
"When did she awake?", Éothain asked, looking suspiciously around as if he expected a ghost to jump on him at any moment.
"The night after you left for Edoras".
"…and?", he prompted him: "How is she feeling? What does Frumgar say? Did you speak with her?".
"Aren't you nosy".
"Come on, don't leave me hanging!".
"She's feeling better, or so Frumgar told me".
"You haven't seen her?".
"I was there when she awoke and we had a…lengthy conversation. But she slept most of yesterday, this morning she was busy with Runhild and Wilrun and when I passed by her room in the afternoon, Frumgar told me she was resting again. He says it's her body's way to recover and that there's nothing to be concerned of".
"Guess that's all that matters".
Lost in his thoughts, Éomer stood silently for a long while: as light started to fade, Aldburg's streets grew emptier, its taverns louder. Far below them, a group of lads stumbled across a deserted alley, singing – or better said howling, some obscene ditty; almost at the same time, the door to some not very reputable establishment banged open and a young boy – far too young to be anywhere around there, was unceremoniously forced out. In a fit of sudden rage, he started kicking the door until one giant of a man appeared behind him and put an end to his nuisance with one well-placed fist. "Éothain?".
"Hm?".
"Say tomorrow I'll start planning Éowyn's marriage to some Gondorian noble. Say I'll tell her nothing until a few days before the wedding. What do you think would happen then?".
Éothain looked at him in stunned disbelief: "I think we would need a new Marshall, that's what would happen". He chugged his beer to the last drop, then wiped his beard with the sleeve of his tunic: "It's incredible how those people still believe themselves superior to us – in any way. Our palaces may not be as sophisticated as theirs, but at least we don't sell our daughters like cattle at the market!".
"I married a woman without her consent, Éothain".
"Don't blame yourself, you had no idea…".
"It's a lame, pathetic excuse!", he snapped. "I should have known and anyway, it shouldn't have taken me three months to find it out. All this time, Lothíriel thought I had been part of her deceiving: can you blame her for hating me?".
"No", Éothain admitted: "I just don't understand how her father could do such thing".
"I keep asking myself the same thing. I tried writing him a letter, but I can't even get past his name…".
"Your Royal Abomination Prince Imrahil of Dol-rotten Amroth?".
Éomer tried to keep a straight face, but that got him smiling nonetheless: "Something like that, yes".
"What will you do now?".
He rubbed his face, took a deep breath in search of some clarity but his mind kept being the usual turmoil: "I have no idea".
"Do you want her to stay?".
"Yes", he answered without any hesitation: "She deserves a place among us and as selfish as it may sound, I don't want to see her gone", he confessed.
"You have many flaws Éomer, but selfishness is not one of them: you always put others' needs first and if I know you one bit, then you've spent the past two days tormented by your conscience and will never forgive yourself for what happened to her".
"How could I? She was forced to leave her home, forced to marry a complete stranger, forced into my bed!", he growled, his knuckles turning white at the memory of their wedding night, of the fear in Lothíriel's eyes when he had entered their bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed and dressed in nothing but a thin white chemise, she had looked like a sacrificial lamb placed there for his own pleasure: how could he not see she had been put there against her will? "Bema I could have raped her…", he muttered, a sickening feeling rising in his stomach.
"But you didn't".
"Shall I congratulate myself for this extraordinary achievement?".
"No, of course not. But if you want Lothíriel to stay, then you should go tell her. I know you think you don't have the right to do so, but all this mess was caused by her ruthless father and by the two of you – and all of us really, being too stubborn to speak with one another and find out the truth. Maybe Lothíriel will ask to be sent back to Gondor and so be it, but don't you think you should at least tell her that you want her to stay?".
Éothain was right. If a chance still existed for him to mend his relationship with Lothíriel, then it lied in being honest and proving her that despite an awful start, the future ahead of them could be a brighter place.
She needed to know he wanted her to stay and she needed to know his wish had nothing to do with the possible implications of her going back home: in fact, he didn't care one bit about the crumbling of an already shaky alliance between their countries, he didn't care one bit what his cousin would say and he didn't even care one bit if his own position as a Marshall would be jeopardised. If he wanted her to stay, it was only because under the well-polished surface of a refined princess, hid a thoughtful, kind, brave – if a little reckless, young woman; one who had proved more strength and courage than she even realized; one who could find a more meaningful life in a place like Rohan, where her virtues would be cherished and her freedom respected.
One with whom he could find some sort of happiness, if only she wished the same thing.
Gazing at her window, Éomer could almost see her sitting behind the curtains, wasting her days away in the solitary confinement of her room, mourning the life that had been stolen from her while the rest of the world moved carelessly forward. And Bema, she deserved more than that! "I'll speak to her tomorrow", he promised.
By his side, Éothain threw him an apprehensive glare, then stared intently at the bottom of his mug as if hoping some more ale had miraculously appeared in there: "I'm afraid that won't be possible…".
He snapped around: "Why not?".
"Because you need to leave Aldburg tomorrow at first light".
"You don't tell me…", Éomer groaned, collapsing with his head against the wall.
¨Yes, you're expected in Meduseld latest by tomorrow evening".
"Tomorrow evening?!", he almost chocked: "I sent you there to buy me some time and you managed to get my audience anticipated instead?!".
Éothain looked dangerously close to start pulling on his own hair: "There was no buying, Éomer! I arrived in Edoras and found that slimy little snake waiting for me in the stables: in the stables, you understand?!", he cried, throwing his arms in the air.
"What did Gríma want from you?".
"To talk about you, of course! He started babbling about what happened at the Holbeck farm, said its destruction was a loss for the whole Mark and that you should not have let that happened", he explained, to which Éomer barely managed to keep his temper in check. His next words however, had him freezing on the spot: "Then, he started questioning your loyalty to Rohan because of what happened to Lothíriel".
"He already knew?".
"He knew she had run off. He didn't know we had found her. I was taken aback, didn't know what to say. In the end, I figured there was no point denying and tried downplaying it instead: I told him yours had been a lovers' quarrel and that he had misunderstood the whole situation for in fact, Lothíriel had already returned to Aldburg. I know it was a gamble to assume she'd recover, but I thought…".
"You did good, Éothain: I'd have handled it way worse".
"It's cold comfort: Grima was not persuaded and demanded that you to report immediately to the King. He even pretended that I rode straight back to Aldburg so that you could be in Edoras already today. All I could do was buying you this extra day…".
Éomer run a hand through his hair and paced restlessly around the ruined tower: "I have known for quite some time that we have a mole – probably more than one. But I hadn't expected them to be that zealous".
"Any idea who that might be?".
"No, but I intend to find it out", he hissed back.
Small eyes. Long muzzle full of fangs. Short but dense fur.
"Damn it!", Lothíriel muttered as she tossed her sketching book away. She had always considered her talent for drawing like a gift, but those days it felt more like a curse: every time she would reach for the charcoal and regardless of her best intentions, her hands would always end up portraying those awful beasts yet again. As if the images branded in her memory weren't already enough!
Reluctant at the idea of getting some more sleep only to be awoken by the umpteenth awful nightmare, Lothíriel thought of what else she could do while she waited for the sun to rise: she could read a book but alas, Twilight Tales stood on her desk and therefore out of her reach. For the same reason, she could also forget about sitting on the sill: she wasn't even able to change clothes on her own, let alone limp until the window. Asking for an early breakfast could have been a brilliant idea, but she had had her fill of bland chicken soup – the only thing she was allowed to eat, for some reason. She briefly entertained the idea of starting a hunger strike but doubted Frumgar would have been amused by her reticence.
Lothíriel let out an exasperated sigh but the prospect of a long and tedious wait until the morning was unexpectedly interrupted when someone knocked at her door: "Come in!", she called, glad to whoever was suffering from insomnia as much as she was.
Of all the people she had expected to see, her husband had not been one of them: "May I?", he asked, peeking from behind the door. Taken aback, Lothíriel hesitated but one moment too long and immediately, he retreated: "I can return later…".
"No, no: you can come in. I just did not expect it to be you, that is all".
Hands behind his back, Éomer made one reluctant step forward: "I saw the lights on and thought maybe you were awake", he explained, standing in the half-light and looking like he was ready to bolt out of the room at any moment. "Do you mind if I keep you company?".
Lothíriel didn't even have the time to answer that her stomach took the initiative and erupted in one loud grumble that had her reddening to the tip of her ears: "I'm sorry!", she apologized.
"Are you hungry?", Éomer asked, the corners of his mouth twitching and betraying his otherwise solemn expression.
She'd have denied it, but her stomach was not yet done complaining: "A bit", she admitted, hugging her belly and hoping there would be no more embarrassing sounds.
"Frumgar's diet is terribly dull, I know", Éomer told her with a roguish smile that looked so strange on his usually sulky face. As he finally came closer however, his expression changed to one of concern: "I don't know if they told you, but I tried to visit you twice yesterday – and the day before as well!, but you were always either busy or resting", he informed her and there was something in the way he spoke, in his tone. Like he really wanted her to know his absence had not meant he had not been ignoring her, quite the contrary in fact.
Lothíriel was at loss: it was as if a part of her had expected the kind, caring version of her husband to be nothing more than a fleeting moment and now that she saw him for the first time with clear eyes, she had no idea how to react to his thoughtfulness.
The mattress bounced under his weight and perhaps prompted by her obvious discomfort, Éomer leaped back on his feet and opted for sitting on a chair instead. He took her sketching book with him, frowned as he examined her portrait: "I must say, I prefer the birds", he told her. Then, as if suddenly realizing he had admitted to sticking his nose into her stuff, he grew visibly embarrassed: "I'm sorry, they were probably not for me to see. I just found them on your desk and thought they were beautiful".
Lothíriel stared at the warg's wicked eyes for one last moment, then tore the page out and ripped it to pieces: "Me too".
"Why the birds, if I may ask?".
"It's because of Elendil", she explained with a half grin, well aware of how that sounded.
"Elendil as the king of Gondor?".
"No. Elendil as my brother's crow".
"Your brother had a crow named Elendil?".
"Yes", she laughed. "Erchirion found him hidden under a bush with a half-broken wing and for some reason, he decided he could nurse him back to health. Nobody believed he'd manage but much to my father's dismay, the bird survived and Erchirion named him Elendil. The two of them became inseparable: Elendil was always on my brother's shoulder, he would wait on a fence while he was training and when he started going at sea, so did he. I was only five years old at the time, but I remember I was so fascinated by him: even though he was no longer able to fly, even though crows are not the most elegant among birds, there was strength, grace to him. And he was smart, had a strong personality. Much to my delight, Elendil tolerated my presence but absolutely hated Amrothos, my youngest brother: the fool once tried to pull the feathers on his tail and next thing we know, Amrothos is screaming and running around the palace with Elendil pecking the back of his head".
Éomer laughed and for the first time, Lothíriel noticed there were two dimples hidden under his dark-blond beard: "What happened then?".
"A family feud: Amrothos declared he'd have killed Elendil and served him for dinner, to which Erchirion – who was four years older and therefore considerably stronger, tackled him to the ground and almost punched him in the face. For months they ignored each other until one day, Elendil disappeared and never came back".
"Amrothos had nothing to do with it?".
"No, luckily for us he was in Pelargir when it happened. Had he been in Dol Amroth, it might have just ended up in a fratricide".
A smile lingering on his lips, Éomer took what was left of the warg's portrait and patiently burned every last piece of paper on the flame of a candle: "Are you close with your brothers?".
"With Erchirion, mostly. Elphir was always too much older and serious to spend time with me and I never got along with Amrothos. But Erchirion and I are much alike and always enjoyed spending time together, at least until my father put him in charge of the Amrothian fleet. I haven't seen much of him since then".
Flipping through her portraits, Éomer seemed determined to find something: "What of them? Who are they?".
In his hand was a page Lothíriel knew all too well. One she had spent entire days looking at, hoping she could get sucked into the paper to travel back to that exact moment, that exact place: "She's Gaeril, my handmaid: she raised me and has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. And he's Bathor, my cat".
"Your father mentioned her once, said she was too old to come with you".
"Yes, she is almost seventy years old and has many of the aches and pains that come with age. She could have never made it to Rohan on a horseback".
"What of him? Why didn't you bring him with you?".
Lothíriel sighed as the portrait sent her into a spiral of bittersweet memories: "Pretty much for the same reason. Bathor is old and deserves to live his last years peacefully and in a place he's familiar with: dragging him all the way here would have been selfish of me. Gaeril always adored him and I'm sure they are taking good care of each other"
"I'm sorry, I did not mean to upset you", Éomer apologized. His arms resting on his knees and his head tilted back, he stared pensively at the wooden beams above them: "Do you think they knew? Your brothers, Gaeril: do you think they knew about your father's plans?".
"Elphir did, had to. Amrothos, probably not: he has never been any good at keeping his mouth shut, so I doubt they informed him. As per Gaeril and Erchirion, no: they did not know. Gaeril, I could bid her farewell at least; but Erchirion wasn't even there when I left and all I could do, was writing him a letter…".
Éomer muttered a curse, hid his face in his hands as if he didn't want her to see his anger, his frustration.
The words just slipped out of her mouth: "What will happen now?".
His hand moved to cover hers: it was warm, its skin tanned and rough. "That is not for me to decide, Lothíriel: I will tell you what I'd like to happen but ultimately, it's your decision and whichever that will be, I will respect it". He paused then, seemed to struggle: his foot was tapping on the rug and twice he inhaled like he was about to speak, but then swallowed whatever he wanted to say. "I'd like you to stay", he finally said and though holding her gaze, in his eyes Lothíriel saw the uncertainty of someone who was laying bare his feelings with no assurance of how they would be received. "This marriage was forced on us – on you more than on me, and I've been a fool for not realizing it, I've been a fool for not giving you a chance, I've been a fool for not seeing what you were being put through. But I'm not ready to throw in the towel and I don't want you to leave. I know there's not much I can offer you and I know you had to renounce everything to be here, but I promise to be here for you – as a husband today, as a friend or perhaps something else in the future. Either way, I give you my word that you'll always be free: free to do as you wish, free to be who you choose to be". He gathered both her hands into his, gave them a light squeeze as if he desperately needed that touch to continue with his next words: "Stay, Lothíriel".
His voice was firm, his gaze upon her unwavering.
"Stay, because there's nothing I want more than getting to know this young, strong, beautiful woman who was under my nose for this whole time without me even realizing it; stay, because under this mediocre appearance you might find that even I, have something to offer you. Stay, but only if you think you could find happiness here – in whichever form that might be. And if you don't think it possible, if you think my words are too little too late, then I'll understand and you have my word that I'll escort you home – or wherever else you wish to be, and you won't have to see me ever again", Éomer finished his plea and only then did Lothíriel realize her hands were shaking and clutching compulsively at the blanket, her heart pounding in her chest.
Éomer searched her eyes and she could see that he wanted her to say something, that any further moment of silence was an agony. But she didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do.
His hand flinched back and there was an apologetic look in his eyes: "I understand if you need time", he reassured her with a stretched smile: "I'll anyway be leaving in the morning, so you'll have time to think about it without me pestering around. Before I leave however, there's one last thing I need to talk to you about: Meregith". A flash of anger crossed his face as he spelled the housekeeper's name, his expression growing suddenly thunderous: "I know this won't look well on me, but I had no idea things had gone so much out of control with her. I knew she wasn't fond you, of course. But I didn't know the extent of her hatred for you and I should have never left you alone dealing with it".
"Why does she resent me so?".
"She blames you for her daughter's dead".
"Meregith had a daughter?".
"Yes, Dawyn was her name. We grew up together and to me, she was like a sister. But Dawyn had…deeper feelings for me and when she found out I was about to marry, she decided to leave the city and move to her father's hometown in the Westfold. On her way there, her party was attacked and she was killed alongside her travelling companions".
Éomer's voice was laced with a sadness so profound, Lothíriel felt like chocking: "She loved you and could not stand the idea of seeing you with someone else", she mumbled. "Did you love her?".
"She was family but no, I did not love her in a romantic way".
"Was there someone else? Did you have to reject someone you loved because of me?", she managed to ask, fighting with all her might the urge to start crying all over again.
Éomer snapped up, took her chin between his fingers: "There was no one, Lothíriel. You came here as my rightful wife, you stole no one else's place and you bear no responsibility for Dawyn's demise, you understand?".
Rationally, she knew he was right. Yet it hurt to find out just how much misery her arrival in Aldburg had brought: to herself and to people whom existence she had not even been aware of.
"Meregith's hatred is irrational and the fact she'd have rather let you die than sending for a search party, simply abominable. I know I should have dismissed her and trust me, there's no shortage of people who keep reminding me just that. I decided otherwise because she has been an important part of my life, but I want you to know that should you decide to stay – and Bema knows how much I hope you will, Meregith's misbehaviour won't be tolerated anymore".
Éomer's eyes were as dark as a moonless night, his voice intense, his hand warm as he cupped her cheek. Deep within, Lothíriel felt something stirring: her arms locked around his neck, she pulled him down and until she could bury her face against the crook of his neck. She wanted to tell him she was sorry for all the grief she had caused; she wanted to tell him she knew the circumstances of their marriage were not his fault; she wanted to tell him she had never expected him to come save her, but was oh so very thankful he had. But her breath was ragged in her throat and all she could do was clinging on him and hope he'd understand that whatever would be, she did not blame him for the miserable fate that had befallen them.
His hand stroking reassuringly her back, Éomer held her gently and when she finally pulled back, he smiled down warmly at her: "You know what", he told as he tucked a rebel strand of hair behind her ear, "I think I might just happen to have something that will lift your morale".
He produced a small package out of his pocket and pressed it into her hands. When she unveiled its content, Lothíriel couldn't help but gasping in astonished surprise: "I thought it lost!".
"Éothain found it".
"It belonged to my mother, my sole memento of her".
With great care, Éomer lifted the necklace and fixed it around her neck, the tips of his fingers grazing lightly over her skin: "You should wear it more often then".
Lothíriel traced the intricate pattern of white gold chains with trembling hands: "I never did for fear of losing it. But maybe you are right: wearing it would be a more joyful way to cherish the memory of her".
"Yes", he agreed and for a moment, he seemed to wander away. Lothíriel wondered if he was thinking of his own keepsakes, of those parents who both left him when he was barely more than a child, but she did not dare asking. His hand slipped again inside his pocket and this time, he pulled out an envelope. It was closed, the seal unbroken: "I brought you this as well. Letters are not my strong suit and you'll probably find this one disappointing, but since you asked if you could read it…".
The flicker of insecurity in his eyes surprised her and without even realizing it, Lothíriel found herself smiling. She had thought him a monster, she had thought him uncapable of any human emotion that wasn't anger. Now, he just looked like a man who had found himself caught in a situation he had not known how to handle. "Thank you, Éomer".
Author's notes: took me a while to finish this chapter as there was much to say.
The aftermath of Lothíriel's ordeal has implications that are both profound and far-reaching: for Lothíriel especially, it's not only about finding out that Éomer had nothing to do with her father's actions. She has lived an extremely sheltered life and all of a sudden, she is now confronted with a world that can be far more cruel and violent than she ever imagined. As such, the decision of whether she wants to go back home or stay in Aldburg instead, encompasses more than just the faith of her marriage.
As per Éomer, his desire for Lothíriel to stay has many drives. Some are selfish because if she leaves, he'll never be able to gain her forgiveness; but above all, he wished her to be happy and is starting to realize that irrespective of whether their marriage will ever be one of love, Rohan could at least give Lothíriel the freedom Gondor has always denied her.
xXMizz Alec VolturiXx: high time they started to! Imrahil's actions are truly reprehensible and someday, we'll hear what he has to say for himself.
pineapple-pancake: at least they are now on the same page and can stop blaming each other for things that were none of their faults. In a sense, they probably needed to get to such breaking point in order to drop their masks and act like two adults – or at least like themselves!
Guest: he is indeed. He needed to show there's more to him than a grumpy man, just like Lothíriel needed to prove there was more to her than an angry, spoiled Princess. The road ahead is somewhat clear for Éomer, but for Lothíriel things are more confused. She never wanted to come to Rohan and for months, she has wished for nothing more but returning home. Now she can but at the same time, she's starting to realize things change and so do we, and she can either embrace it or refute it.
Beancdn: it's true. Because of Imrahil's actions the odds were all against them but if only they had stopped assuming they knew everything, they might have saved themselves from such a messy situation. Her characters hadn't helped either: Lothíriel is young, understandably immature and generally very introverted. Éomer is older and has a lot to deal with, but behind the façade of the great warrior he too hides insecurities just like anybody else. If anything, reaching this breaking point has forced them to suddenly drop the mask.
tgo62: thank you! Being Italian, I think the main difficulty - aside from vocabulary itself, is structuring sentences in a correct way. I remember an English teacher I had in Canada once explained me that Italian – like most of the Latin languages, has a spiral structural. Sentences are long, complicated and they tend to go in circles before reaching the final point. English on the other way is more direct and as such, I always find myself fighting against the urge of building unnecessarily long sentences. Strange times indeed: Italy is gradually easing the lockdown and luckily, my family is doing fine – hope yours too! The economic cost is truly worrying: here in Switzerland the Bundesrat has done a decent job so far (I even work in the aviation industry, which is one of the worse hit) and social welfare is generally good, so I try to stay hopeful. My family-in-law live in Hamburg and they too share your concern about people not caring enough. I think that's pretty much on everyone's mind at the moment :(
almythea: thank you!
Guest: glad to hear that and hopefully, you enjoyed this chapter too.
Catspector: dealing with Meregith will be a bit like navigating in uncharted waters, but at least Éomer is doing what he can to be prepared and has given a lot of thought on how to avoid making the same mistakes again. Of course picking Gárwine was a somewhat obvious choice: he's been rooting for his wife since the very beginning, he's capable and he knows he can trust him to do the right thing in his absence. Imrahil definitely had the lion's share when it comes to who's to be blamed for this situation. Éomer had the home court and as such, he should have done more to help Lothíriel. But as you said, they were both too stubborn and ultimately got themselves into this situation. For Lothíriel especially, it has been an eye-opening experience: not only on her marriage, but on what the real world is in general.
pzacharatos: thank you, your review definitely made my day! :)