The Day the Horse-Lord wed the Lady of the Seas

by Magdalenara

Disclaimer: I do not own this world, that's Tolkien's thing. I simply breathe life into a story I wish would have been written. I do not own the characters (well, some of them I do own, but who's splitting hairs?), I simply write them down as they have been running amok in my head for years now.

(See at the end of the chapter for fun facts and / or author's notes!)

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1. So far from the Sea

Despite the hot water the woman in the bathtub shivered almost involuntarily, and with a defeated sigh she sank deeper into the steaming masses to wring the cold out of her. Her bathing shirt, that had stuck to her like a second, icy skin, now billowed around her for a moment, before deflating again and, alongside her form, floated like a feather in the warm bathwater. She closed her eyes, willing herself to relax, to push the cold – as it would seem – out of her very bones. But even though a roaring fire burned in the fireplace in front of her, and all windows had been shut fast, and the water around her seemed to have been heated by Aulë's smithy himself, she could not but feel cold and uncomfortable. With another defeated sigh, Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling of her chamber, reminding herself once more, painfully, that she had to stop thinking of herself as such, for she was no longer a Princess and Dol Amroth was no longer a home to her.

It had been some two weeks now since she had come to this place, and since she had been given to the Horse-Lord they called King – and even after all that time, she still knew practically nothing of this land that they called the Riddermark, and she knew even less about the King of the Mark that she now called husband. Often she had found herself watching her husband in the night – when sleep was hard to come by – that silent brute from the North: he never talked much, and he appeared grim and cold to her, just like his country, empty and joyless, a forlorn place bereft of light and lightness. It had been hard to bring in line the romantic notions of love the bards sang of with the sombre reality of marriage; but then again, she had had no such romantic ideas of love and marriage to begin with.

Her marriage had not been one made for love, but for politics and practicality. The new King of the Riddermark had been in need of a wife, and the Kingdom of Gondor, of which she was a citizen, and a Princess (even if only of a lesser royal house), had been in need of strengthening the relationship of both kingdoms, not to forget the ambitions of her own father. Her say in the matter had been of little consequence and she had obliged with a sense of daughterly duty, and what little protest she had had, had made way to sober resignation and finally acceptance. That was not to say that she went into this whole affair without apprehension.

She had heard her maids talking about it, gossiping about the brute from the North who would wed their Lady; they had giggled and wondered, when they believed their Lady wasn't listening, whether the Rohirrim took their women like their stallions mated with their mares. Her father, the Prince Imrahil, had given both girls a stern talking-to afterwards, but it hadn't changed much, and what had been done could not be undone – and so it was that the Princess thought with fear of her coming wedding and she dreaded the day that she would be given to the Horse-Lord of the far away North, a man she did not know or love, and a land that was not her own.

She remembered well (and would so for the rest of her life) her father's last words, hissed towards her as he had let her down the aisle of the hall of Meduseld, towards that stranger-husband waiting at the dais before the throne (for her, the future queen, there had only been a thin wooden stool): Never forget – your king is your husband, and your husband is your king. With a bitter laugh catching somewhere deep in her throat, she thought of the actual ceremony, if one could call it that; and if the poor stool next to the wooden throne had not been sign enough for her, the ceremony most definitely was.

It was over quicker than the splash of a tidal wave and with a flash that passed her by in state of detachment, all words had been said and all customs and traditions had been honoured, which had not been many, to be honest. The Rohirrim, though aware of all the Valar and Iluvatar the Creator, had nonetheless chosen Oromë, whom they called Béma, as their god and patron, and thus had fewer rituals to honour to invoke a blessing for the marriage. And even though they had spared a thought to her own faith of Ulmo, Lord of Waters, by allowing the ritual drink of seawater by both bride and groom (her new husband, unaccustomed to the taste, had grimaced all the way through it), it was clear from the start on which faith and which traditions the real significance was placed in these lands. The customary horse racing between the groom and a member of the bride's family afterwards had led to far more entertainment than her sombre traditions ever would – even though it was clear that her brother Erchirion, ever the champion warrior of her family, had let the king win quiet easily; however, Lothíriel doubted not that her new husband, being a horse lord and all, would not have needed it. Her brother Amrothos, she mused with unshaken certainty, would not have let him win so easily, but Amrothos, after all, had been one of the few people, too, who had not rejoiced at this marriage.

Frowning, she closed her eyes, shaking her head, trying to shake off the thoughts and memories in her mind – if she allowed herself to think of her brother Amrothos, or her home, she would only weep again, and she had sworn not to shed any more tears (since useless tears were a waster of water, after all, and that would be an affront to her god Ulmo). And so instead she thought back to that first night together, their wedding night, and how unaware she had been back then of the dealings between man and woman …

… She had trembled then, as her King had led her down the hallway, all the way down to the Chambers that they were expected to share, in this night, and for all nights to come. She had trembled still in their Chambers, although a roaring fire had given off heat enough, and she had trembled even more at the sight of the huge king-size bed, draped with heavy cloths and brocade fabrics, painted in dark earthly colours with the banner of the Mark, and in the flickering light of the flames the white horse upon green had seemed to run wild, almost beast-like.

Behind her she had heard her King start to undress, and she had taken the sounds as an unmistakable request and order of her King: with shaking hands and fingers stiffened by fear and nervousness she had taken more time than necessary to unfasten the heavy corded belt around her waist and to undo the laces at the back of her gown. Yet she had known that no matter how slow she was with her undressing, she still could not escape from this last duty of her wedding night, and at last the white fabric had fallen down to her feet, billowing around her ankles.

It was in this moment that she had felt her King's gaze upon her and soon enough his large hand on her shoulder had made her turn around to him; immediately she had lowered her eyes in fear and embarrassment and it was all she could do not to wince, at his touch, at their closeness, at the nudity of their bodies, at the unexpected intimacy of this moment. Her King had at first only caressed her raven hair with admiring touch and she was once more reminded at how very different they both were: bright and dark, strong and cautious, spirited and shy, warrior and maiden. Soon enough his hands had wandered down: from her shoulders his fingers had gone down in a long line of caress, down to her fingertips and for a moment he had marvelled at the sensitive softness that spoke of a noblewoman's life. Then, after his hands had gone up her arms again, his touch had tentatively moved to her bosom, and she had felt his gaze upon her then, trying to gauge her reaction but she had never looked up, she simply had not been able to, feeling the red of her shame and embarrassment burn her cheeks. Her King, apparently, had been pleased well enough by what he saw, and felt, and thus he had taken her hand in his and led her to their marriage bed, to consummate their marriage and seal the bond newly-forged between them.

She remembered the fear and embarrassment that had paralysed her as her King came to her, and though she had been rather hesitant, she yet did not deny him, for he was her husband and her husband was her King, and she was always the obedient wife. But she had had no cause for fear, for despite his rather hard look and gestures her King was yet gentle with her; and though there was no passion, no aim to pleasure her in his touch, and her King obliged to his task dutiful as a soldier, he yet respected her inexperience and fragility, and in her naivety and innocence she had neither the idea nor the courage to ask for more …

A knock catapulted her out of her memories and her eyes snapped open; feeling the draft of cold air coming through the opened door before it was closed again, she shivered and sat up, ready to turn to tell her handmaid to bring her a towel and help her out of the bathtub. The only problem was, it was not her handmaid Madlen that had come and disturbed her moment of relative peace; in fact, it was none other than the King of the Riddermark himself.

'My Lord.', she spoke quickly, remembering her manners, albeit clearly startled by him; and his keen eyes did not miss that she pulled up her knees against her chest to hide herself from his sharp gaze. And even though he pretended not to notice her obvious reaction, he fought hard to keep a smile from his face. Was she still shy to let him see her?

Watching her now, amused, Éomer, son of Éomund, King of the Mark, remembered well the many times he had watched his wife, mesmerised by her. She was like no other woman he had met before; with her raven hair and eyes the colour of the darkest hours of night, her sun-kissed skin and air of softness, there was something out of this world about her, so out of place with the rough world around her. More beautiful than all the flowers of the plains of the Mark she appeared to him, more beautiful even than the Mearas, fairest of all horses they were – compared to her, all other women appeared plain. And yet, there was also an air of aloofness about her, a sort of composure and purity that felt reminiscent of that distant Elvish ancestry, or more so, as one in whom the regal race of Númenor seemed to almost run true. Verily, her queenly bearing seemed worthy only of a king, and Éomer knew he was far from kingly.

… With a bitter sigh his thoughts wandered back to the day they had been wed: how fair she had looked that day, how very regal and ethereal, and how scared. He remembered well how very uncomfortable he had felt, like a farming horse pretending to be a shining stallion, waiting in front of the throne, along with Gandalf Greyhame, waiting for a bride he had hardly known – that he still hardly knew. It had not been his choice to marry, but then again, it had not been his choice either to be king; he had felt he had neither the makings of a good husband nor of a great king – but king he was, whether he wanted it or not, and a king was in need of a wife. The choice had been made by wiser, more seasoned men, and having lived all his life as a soldier, he had accepted his duty with gruff obligation. That was until he had met his bride back in her home; her refined manners and beauty, her family's political finesse – none of it had made it easier to feel worthy of being called husband or king. But that was what he was, or would be, soon enough.

When the door had been opened to the Golden Hall of Meduseld and at last there had come his young bride, with her father, the Prince Imrahil, always at her side, all uncomfortable feelings of not-belonging, of unworthiness, seemed to have vanished, eradicated by the sheer vision of her beauty. After all, he had to be kingly to be worthy of such regal beauty.

The ceremony had been short enough, as was customary to the Rohirrim – they had no need of flowery, gallant words and empty beauteous phrases – and after Gandalf Greyhame had intertwined their hands, and both had spoken the traditional words, it was upon bride and groom to seal the newly-forged bond of marriage with a kiss. He had turned to his young bride then, dutiful as he was, and lifted the flimsy veil of blue silk. Truly, she was a beauty without equal, fair as the dawn, fair as the night, a beauty almost more than human, and yet not as far removed as those of the Elves. But the king remembered that she had not looked up, fearful as she was, and her deep blue eyes, as blue as the sea she seemed to have come from, had been hidden from his sight. He had gently put his hand under her chin and she had lifted her head, obedient as she was. Their kiss was no more than the chastest touch of lips on lips, and yet she had trembled as they broke apart again – as had he. She had been the first to retreat from this unfamiliar intimacy between them, eyes cast down with haste, and he had marvelled then at how beautifully her cheeks had flushed, and it had not been the first – nor the last – time that this new, strange feeling in his chest had roared…

'You better come out soon, Lothíriel, before the water's getting cold.', Éomer spoke then, forcing himself back from his memories and thoughts, forcing himself to focus on the naked woman in the bathtub that was his wife.

'Of course, my Lord. I'll call for Madlen.'

'Nonsense. I'm quite capable of handing you a towel myself.', and as if to emphasise his point, he took a towel from a small stool nearby and proceeded to spread it before the bathtub, apparently waiting for her to come out and dry herself off.

She hesitated, her eyes searching his face, wondering whether he truly did not realise that he was making her uncomfortable or whether he simply did not care. Not for the first time did she resent the fact that for the King and Queen of the Riddermark there was only one shared royal chamber, and not two separate solars, as was customary in Southern courts. She remembered him telling her upon her inquiry that it was a safety issue and that the Rohirrim were modest in nature, but even then – and even more so now – she had found it to be barbaric and crude. But a small part of her admitted that it was not so much her manners and sense of propriety that rebelled against it but rather her wishing for a place, her space, to retreat from his overbearing omnipresence.

At last giving in, she gave a long, defeated sigh before she rose up with a single, swift motion; the draught of the cool air made her shiver – or perhaps that was caused by something else? A smile played around in his eyes as he motioned his head towards her, and as quickly as she could she pulled the wet bathing shirt over her head and threw it on the ground next to the bath tub. He had never understood the use of bathing shirts – why would you cover yourself when trying to scrub yourself clean? – and often wondered if that enforced sense of propriety meant that those Southerners fucked with their clothes on too?

As the water ran down her bare body, she had to fight against the urge to wrap her arms around herself, though whether to protect herself from the cold or his gaze she could not entirely say for sure. Truly, although she was desperately avoiding his gaze, she did not miss that he waited a moment longer than necessary before enveloping her in the folds of the towel, though it wasn't long enough for her to be sure of it.

In fact, as soon as she was enwrapped in the towel her king and husband seemed not to care for her nakedness any more but rather attended to the task at hand as dutiful as a soldier; he rubbed her dry with as little passion as if she were a child – but perhaps, that came only natural to him, being an older brother to a younger sister and all. As he knelt down to dry her legs and feet, she blushed, having him so close to her – close to all of her he had already laid claim to – but she steeled herself and suppressed the urge to retreat from this situation.

Instead – and she didn't quite know what had come over her – she found herself stretching out her hand towards him. She had always enjoyed watching him – after all, he was not an unattractive man – as long as he was not watching her, and sometimes the curious need became too strong: to know how those muscles felt beneath her touch, or whether his beard was as scratchy as she believed to remember it from their wedding's kiss, or whether his hair felt as golden as it looked. As if in a trance of some unconscious emotion her fingers went into his mane and put a strand of his golden hair behind his ear, and when he looked up in response to her touch, his gaze, so intense and piercing, made her shiver and suck in her breath. She was unsure what emotion her face showed, but whatever he saw, it made his eyes darken and made him spring into action.

With a quick motion made of grace that belied his strength and height he rose, facing her, looking down at her, and as he did so, his arms wrapped the towel around her trembling form, and this act made her slightly sway towards him, as if to fall straight into his arms but he stopped her short of that. Instead his body appeared to stoop low, leaning towards her, and then his hands were around her and she was in his arms, being carried off towards their bedchamber. And there he placed her directly in front of the bed, carefully, as if she were a delicate thing (and compared to him, she mused that she was) and then, just like that, he pushed down the towel, letting it drop to the floor, taking her only protective layer of cloth, leaving her naked, vulnerable, open to his gaze. She trembled then, feeling his eyes wander all over her, and she did not know whether it was fear or the cold that made her shiver, or, perhaps, something else entirely? Her eyes were closed shut, trying to retreat from the intensity of this moment, trying to ignore the penetrating feeling of his eyes on her, bracing herself for the onslaught of her kingly husband's advances.

But instead of pushing her onto the bed and burying her under him – as she had expected him to – he only mouthed a kiss on top of her raven hair, and with it a whisper that sounded like "bed". Lothíriel needed no other words to be said, she understood. She was ever the obedient wife – even in their wedding night she had yielded to him obediently – and followed his orders; why should now be any different? After all, her king was her husband and her husband was her king. Dutifully, she went into the bed and crawled to the head of the bed and leant against the hard board of dark wood, and to distract herself she considered the horse-like figures that were carved into it but she could not make out what scenery it depicted. The words of her handmaidens returned to her and she shivered again, already grabbing for the blankets, but Éomer saw, he always saw, he was a king.

'No,' was all he said, shaking his said, 'No.'

His tone was kind enough but it was unmistakably an order, and he did not smile, he seldom did, he never did. Following her king's orders as the obedient wife she was, she tried to distract herself from the sounds of undressing; she briefly wondered what it would take to make a king smile, but as she looked up impulsively upon the sound of rustling fabric she already knew. She looked at her husband who was also her king, and she felt herself shiver. Even without a crown, even without a throne or horse to sit upon, he still looked all the king he was; even clothed with nothing more than his skin he still looked all the fearsome warrior she had heard so many tales of. Did she shiver out of fear? She did not know; she tried not to show it, but he saw, he always saw, he was a king. Still, intimidated as she might have been, her curiosity led her eyes to gaze with fascination at her husband. He was muscled, with broad shoulders, lightly tanned skin, flaxen hair the colour of gold, more kingly even than any crown in the world. He was a man in his best years and the life pulsated in him, strong and fierce … and erect. She cast her eyes down and blushed at having gazed at him so openly, so intensely, so shamelessly.

As he reached the bed, the Horse-Lord stared at her for a moment, eyeing her with intrigued, fascinated eyes – she knew that she was to his liking, and she could see now how her beauty affected him. Her husband reached out and grasped her feet, and then he slowly pulled her down towards him – he was surprisingly gentle, and yet she was aware of the strength and force that was behind his movements, small and slow as they might appear. As she lay there before him, one hand grasping the sheets, the other almost outstretched, she was somewhere between keeping herself from being pulled down, welcoming him or even the thought of pushing him away. But the Queen did not deny her King that right; he was her husband, was he not? He had every right.

He looked at her with green, burning eyes, always looking, always watching – and she felt utterly naked and vulnerable under his intense gaze; but no matter how hard it may have been for her to bear his piercing gaze, she did not find the strength to look away. She held her breath as he parted her legs with calloused hands; she held his gaze as he climbed on top of her. With one hand, placed next to her head, supporting his weight, the other locked under her knee, holding her in place, he came to her; with one hard push, that made her gasp in surprise and overpowering, he slipped inside her. His movements above her were steady and strong, and though he was not exceptionally gentle with her or appeared to care for her own pleasure in any way, he still cared enough so as not to hurt her.

As he increased the tempo, his breathing became faster as well; his thrusts so powerful she felt herself pushed further and further backwards on the bed, and almost instinctively her hands grasped the sheets next to her head, seeking something, anything to hold on to. Never, not even once did his eyes waver from her face, those piercing, green eyes that seemed to burn so hot she feared to be consumed by their fire, and it took all her feeble strength to hold his gaze and not look away. Soon enough the air between them was filled with his sounds of pleasure, growls and moans so deep and dark it made her shiver, though whether out of fear or quite another emotion she could not say.

All of the sudden then, she saw his eyes grow dark and for a second she wondered what she could have done to stir his wrath but then, from one moment to the other, he retreated, and she realised what was happening. For a moment there was the thought of objection on her mind, and afterwards she could not have stated with absolute certainty if not the slightest sound of protest had escaped her – but as always she did not deny her king. With a quick and determined move of his hands, he turned her around, and then he was behind her. As the stallion mounts the mare.

In those moments there was no gentleness in him; in those moments there was no pride in her – pushed on all fours like an animal, it was hard for her to believe that she was a Queen and that he was a King. There was nothing regal, nothing civilised about the way he mounted her in those nights or the way he howled like a beast. She felt him starting to shake and she knew it would be over soon, and true enough, three, four, five more powerful thrusts that made her gasp and draw in a few sharp breaths, and her lord and husband started to shudder and voiced one long, final growl before he at last collapsed on top of her. For a long moment they remained like this: both breathing heavily, unable or unwilling to move.

When Éomer retreated at last, he rose, and pushed her onto her back again, and for a moment he looked down at her, his gaze somewhat softening at the sight of her still lying motionless before him, breathless even, before he smiled gently, a stark contrast to the way they had just come together mere minutes ago. Without words he picked her up and carried her to her side of the bed, laying her down and tucking her in as if she were a child, before he himself crawled into bed on his side. After he blew out the candle a pressing darkness fell upon the room, and it didn't take long before she could hear his breathing slow down and turn even, telling her that he had fallen asleep.

But Lothíriel could not find sleep, she simply would not find sleep: staring at the ceiling she knew she missed the slow murmuring of the waves that had leapt onto the beach of Dol Amroth, lulling her into her dreams. She turned her head to the left and looked over to her husband who slept peacefully as any man content and satisfied would. She gazed at the dark shape of her lord and husband and not for the first time did she wish that she could have hated him: it would make things so much easier for her, but no, she had no reason, and no excuse, to hate this man.

He was neither cruel nor did he mistreat her, in fact, since the day she had come here and married him, her husband had treated her with nothing but kindness and respect, and yet he seemed not to care much for his new wife. Apart from sharing a bed with her and exerting his right as a husband, they hardly ever saw each other or even talked; spending most of his days with the council or going on long rides to scout the surrounding area and settlements, she was mostly left on her own; and though she had at first appreciated the latitude he gave her, she soon came to feel utterly alone. His apparent indifference towards her made her feel even more like a stranger in a strange land, with a language she did not speak and customs she did not understand; where everything was so different from her home and all she had loved and known all her life was gone. She was all alone, and with no one to talk to, each passing day felt grimmer than the last.

The Queen of the Mark sighed heavily, and ignoring the burning tears in her eyes she rolled onto her side, facing the wall, and willed herself to sleep. But how could she ever find sleep, how could she ever feel at home, or be happy, when she was truly a fish out of water, and so far from the sea?

FUN FACT #1: I have been working on this story for nearly 7 years now, and out of one story 4 more grew. Last year I finally gave myself a push and started writing this down (my notes were becoming too endless anyway ...) and the 4 other stories of my Tolkienverse are waiting patiently for when it's their turn.

FUN FACT #2: I have a very specific actress in mind when I picture my Lothíriel character - who would it be for you, I wonder?