"When enemies, the intellect and the heart only see one another as the hater and the fool." ― Criss Jami
A/N: I usually post my stories once they have been finished, but I thought I'd try something new. Hopefully this will encourage me to write in a more timely fashion! If not, oh well! I do edit as I go, so if you notice any changes in the future, that's pretty standard with me.
I'd like to thank konartiste for their unwavering support! It means a lot.
Enjoy!
When Lothíriel had been nothing more than a child, her brothers would share their lessons in swordsmanship with her. It had never been anything but a secret among the four of them, and even though she was no longer an active participant, she could still remember what she'd learned as though days had passed by instead of years. Under their tutelage, she had come to understand that a person's observational skills were paramount in combat, altering the tide of battle for better or for worse. She had sharpened her mind when she hadn't been able to sharpen a sword, mastering the art of observation until she could perceive more than most. Because of this, she was certain that her husband hated her. He seldom looked at her, but when he did, his gaze felt calculated, searching for cracks she refused to let him find. He always seemed amused after these silent confrontations of theirs, aware of what she'd been up to, and this had cemented her suspicions. They were at war with one another and she was determined to be the victor. She hadn't wanted to start her marriage on such poor footing, but he had left her with very few options. Éomer was headstrong, strong willed, and above all else, steadfast in his convictions. Their marriage was one of convenience, and while she had been prepared for it, he had not. His crown was an inherited burden and it was one he reluctantly wore. He performed his duties as solemnly as a dying man, concerned about the future of his country and the people that lived within it, putting his own needs aside for the greater good. For the most part, he had left her alone. Aside from their public appearances, he had yet to touch her, seeking refuge in his study rather than in their bed.
At first she had been thankful for his absence in her life, but she had failed to realize how lonely she would become without him in it. She had spent the majority of her time alone since her arrival in Meduseld, wandering through its halls in search of something to do. She always looked out of place within it, dressed far too grandly for a building that required its occupants to exhibit some level of humility, and that was a trait few Gondorians possessed. She knew beyond a doubt that she wasn't the Queen Rohan had asked for. Everything she had learned in Dol Amroth went against their values, and her presence alone was enough to alienate her from even the most receptive of people. Her welcome had been lukewarm at best, composed entirely of forced smiles and half-hearted well wishes, a form of artificial happiness that bothered her more than the truth did. She was a commodity at best, living proof that the people of Rohan would survive to see another summer. This didn't sit well with her. Marriage had always been one of her primary responsibilities, a task she had been expected to accomplish for as long as she could remember, but she had never planned on being just a wife. The very idea of it was enough to make her angry, bubbling within her like a pot on the verge of boiling over. She had never taken kindly to such simple nomenclature, altogether too aware that the needs of men would always usurp her own. To her, marriage was the greatest sacrifice she would ever make, but to others, it was what she had been born to do. She would always be a wife above all else.
Now that she had become one, Éomer's attempts at evasion were beginning to look more like subterfuge. Her life's trajectory had always coincided with marriage, and by avoiding her, she felt as though he were denying her of the one thing she had been allowed to do. His lack of acknowledgement had caused a great deal of uncertainty within her. The people of Rohan had no use for a woman who was Queen in name but not in practice, preferring to govern themselves rather than relying on a foreigner to do so. Without their recognition, guidance, or patience, she knew that she would fail before she'd been given the opportunity to succeed, and such a loss would be far from salvageable. Éomer's golden hall had become a gilded cage. Little attention had been given to her daily routine for a reason unbeknownst to her, but when she wasn't wandering from room to room like a ghost, she could be found beyond the Barrow-Field, sitting quietly next to the Harrowdale river. It was reminiscent of the Bay of Belfalas in some ways, but its similarities weren't enough to prevent her from remembering that she was far from home. The tide pools at the foot of her father's keep had come to mind first, but upon further inspection, she had realized that looks could be deceiving. She had made the mistake of submerging her feet into it once, and it had been cold enough to deter her attempts indefinitely.
Lothíriel sat on the riverbank in silent contemplation, watching it twist towards Edoras in a graceful arch, glittering in the sunlight as brightly as the peaks that stood behind her. Although Rohan hadn't welcomed her with open arms, she had fallen in love with it. It was a wild place, stretching out as far as the eye could see, wreathing under her gaze like an ocean in the midst of a storm. It was green, vibrant, and thrumming with life, more alive than the rocky outcrops she had been raised on top of. She had never seen so much of one colour in all her life. It filled her with a sense of longing, forcing her to acknowledge that on some level, she yearned to be a part of it. The urge to do so had consumed her entirely, but she was unaccustomed to living in a place that promised so much freedom. That promise had ensnared her. She looked out across Rohan and pictured a life far removed from her own, a life devoid of the influence men insisted on having in it, and a life shaped by her own two hands. It was a luxury she rarely indulged in, but when the opportunity presented itself, she couldn't help but partake in it. Time had a tendency of slipping away from her in those moments. She didn't notice Éomer's approach until he was several hundred feet away, slowing Firefoot's gait from a gallop to a trot. The glint of his helm was enough to bring her to her senses, putting an end to the life she had envisioned for herself. He was a sight for sore eyes, a physical representation of Rohan itself, but she was no fool. His good looks had made disliking him all the more difficult, and she was certain he knew this all too well.
There were very few men like him in Dol Amroth. She refused to admit it to herself, but she liked looking at him, admiring his wild hair, the breadth of his shoulders, and the resolve within his eyes. She had yet to experience the full weight of them, but she couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to be at their mercy, awash in feelings reserved for those he trusted implicitly. Even though his obligation towards her had been wrought from their union, she was convinced that his stare housed his soul, and she was determined to see it for herself. He shouldered so much on his own. She could see the weight he carried plain as day, readily apparent in the furrow of his brow, the clench of his jaw, and in the cadence of his voice. He had never been rude to her, but his words felt carefully curated. Every time they spoke, she could sense his discomfort. She could see it now, shrouding his gaze until it became as impenetrable as fog, and before she had time to remedy it, her displeasure with him had returned in full force. It was becoming increasingly difficult to stay calm in his presence. He called out to her and she replied in kind, allowing his title to fall from her lips the way it always had when he drew near, but no amount of etiquette could mask the ice in her voice.
"I ask that you return to Edoras with me," he said, cutting to the point as soon as formalities had been exchanged.
"Whatever for?"
"There are Wildmen afoot and until I am certain they are not a threat, Edoras is the safest place for you."
"Am I not safe with you, my lord?"
He smiled at that, but it wasn't enough of a deterrent.
"For the time being, but I am one man and there are many of them."
"You needn't trouble yourself on my behalf. I am more than capable of finding my way back."
"On foot?"
"Unless I sprout wings, my lord, I am more than happy to use my own two feet. I enjoy my own company and I would hate to impose upon yours."
For a split second, the fog that shrouded his gaze lifted. She was relieved to see something other than resignation in his eyes, but it didn't last. He was clearly unhappy with her. She was surprised to discover how much she disliked being looked at in such a way, especially by him. She wasn't prideful enough to deny her role in it, but she wished he'd try to look at her with kinder eyes. It wasn't in her nature to be unreasonable, turning words into weapons instead of weaving proper sentences, soiling every attempt at conversing with him. The longer she spent in Rohan, the more her irritation seemed to grow.
"Be that as it may, my lady, I insist that you return with me," he replied after a moment, pursing his lips into a thin line. "I do not doubt your capabilities, but Firefoot's pace surpasses your own."
"Distance is of little concern to me."
"I admire your conviction, but this isn't voluntary," he said with finality, offering her his hand.
She frowned at him, eyeing his hand hesitantly, but the situation demanded cooperation on her part. In an act of compliance, she slipped her hand into his own. He lifted her into the air and she gasped from the shock of it, surprised by how easily he'd done it. If he had noticed the sound that had slipped from her lips, he managed to keep it to himself. She settled in behind him, wrapping her arms around him as best as she could. The armor he'd chosen to wear was as unyielding as his gaze, devoid of warmth, vulnerability, and comfort of any kind. She tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was nothing more than a piece of luggage to him, an object he'd ferry around at his own convenience. She refused to spend the rest of her life being treated in such a way. The years unfurled before her like the pages of a book, each chapter worse than the one preceding it. She had always known what marriage would entail, but the reality of it had begun to seep into her waking moments like spilled ink, staining her perception of married life. If she had known that she would spend the majority of her time agonizing over Éomer, she wouldn't have ever married him. Their scruples with one another had begun to tire her out, and in her mind, their marriage had become a battlefield. By default, the place she was supposed to call home had become inhospitable, and the person she was supposed to trust more than anyone else had become her sole enemy. This realization alone was enough to break her heart. She pressed her face into Éomer's cuirass as they approached Edoras, seeking solace in the sound of Firefoot's hooves striking the earth. She refused to let anyone see her cry.
The days spilled into one another until Lothíriel had lost all sense of time. Éomer was rarely present in Meduseld, scouring his land of Wildmen instead of staying on site, but Edoras wasn't the same in his absence. The people of Rohan were lost without their King's presence, and in turn, their Queen was promptly ignored. For the most part, this arrangement had suited her just fine. She had been barred from entering the stables and every time she had attempted to visit the Harrowdale on foot, the result had always been the same. Éomer had prohibited it, and she was to stay within Edoras until the threat hanging over them had been neutralized. While she understood the necessity of his request, she loathed it at the same time. It had done nothing but fuel her rage, creating an inferno within her that refused to die. A part of her wanted to scream out loud, voicing her frustration for all to hear, but logic usurped her desire to behave differently. She'd walk the grounds like a caged bird, searching every wall, window, and doorway for an escape route that didn't exist. There were only so many ways in and out of Edoras, and she had memorized every single one upon her arrival. Obedience had been drilled into her as a child. As an adult, she was beginning to realize that obedience was optional. Her lessons in swordsmanship had quickly resurfaced, and before she could even stop herself, she had discovered an exit. The men responsible for guarding the main gate had developed an affinity for alcohol. Like clockwork, they'd bicker amongst one another about their involvement in the war, and for a short while, their attention would be diverted. People would slip through the gate and the gate would comply.
By the time the guards had returned to their senses, nothing would appear to be amiss. They would go on with their day completely unaware that they had neglected to fulfill their duties, content to sneak ale in intervals, battling their demons one drink at a time. Lothíriel pitied them, but her urge to break free had reached its peak. In the span of a few days, she had dismantled some of her more elaborate dresses, fashioning a disguise that succeeded in replicating some of the styles she had seen other women wearing. She had never been fond of needlework, but it was the only weapon she had at her disposal. The outcome was nearly indistinguishable from the real thing. Her craftsmanship was impeccable, but the fabric she had used surpassed what was considered normal among the Rohirrim. It would take a trained eye to notice the difference, but if her plan succeeded, it wouldn't matter. Visiting the Harrowdale was her sole objective. Regardless of Éomer's intentions, she felt as though he had taken it away from her. She was determined to regain some ground in the battle they had waged against one another, envisioning how it would feel to roam freely for the first time in weeks. She had neglected to consider what would happen if Éomer were to learn of her plan. The look in his eyes had already begun to haunt her, and she was beginning to believe that it would haunt her for the rest of her life. She had thought about it long and hard, struggling to banish all thought of him from the recesses of her mind, but her desire to succeed was stronger than her desire to behave according to convention. Every time she closed her eyes, he was right there with her, watching her every move. She had long since memorized every fleck of gold in his stare, admiring the myriad of blues, greens, and browns that lived in their depths, but the expression in them never changed. It always stayed the same.
She took a deep breath in, staring at the gate in an attempt to divert her thoughts. So far, her plan was working. No one had stopped her, no one had spoken to her, and no one had noticed her. The novelty of it was unfamiliar to her, and she couldn't help but revel in her newfound anonymity. Her entire ensemble was a collection of muted grays and blues, fading into the periphery of everyday life like an afterthought. The only indicator that something was amiss was her dark hair, and although she had tried to make it less conspicuous, she couldn't hide its colour. It hung down her back in a three-strand braid, a hairstyle far less intricate than what she was accustomed to wearing herself. While it wasn't an impossibility among their people, brown hair was uncommon in Rohan. The sight of it would come as a shock to onlookers. She had prepared herself for it as best as she could, feigning indifference in the presence of so many lingering eyes. Her face continued to be unfamiliar to them, and that was her saving grace.
At last, the time had come. The guards began to squabble with one another, comparing their conquests the way men are compelled to do amongst one another, and before they had become aware of it, she had slipped past them. Her heart slammed against her ribcage like the beat of a drum, reverberating through her body until she was certain that everyone in her vicinity could feel it too. One of the guards had looked at her briefly, but the story he had been sharing had taken precedence over her approach. Being born a woman had made her invisible. She hastened her pace in retaliation, making her way towards the Harrowdale without a second thought. Simbelmynë was in full bloom, scattered across the tombs of Éomer's forefathers like stars, shining brightly from within the tall grass. The air was warm, the day was still young, and the path was clear. The Rohirrim tended to avoid the Barrow-Field out of superstition, but she had witnessed death firsthand in Minas Tirith, and the prospect of it did not frighten her. Death was as gentle as the path she had chosen to walk that day, an easy choice when the alternative was riddled with potholes, but life could be just as bothersome as the stones scattered across it. It was far easier to die than to live, but finding the strength to carry on mattered more than anything else. She kicked at the stones and continued on happily, winding through the tombs until she was free of them. The Harrowdale winked at her like an old friend. The smile she gave in response was as bright as the sun, dispersing the shadows that had formed in the features of her face. The burden she had been carrying lessened and her heart felt lighter. She lifted the hem of her dress, lengthening every stride in an attempt to shorten the distance, keeping her eyes on the horizon. The river twinkled in the sunlight as if it were waving at her, the grass swayed in the breeze to a song she longed to hear, and for a moment, everything was right in the world.
Lothíriel stopped mid-step, staring at the ground in concern. Hoof indentations littered the path like fingerprints, indisputable proof that something was amiss. She tried to examine them further, hoping to find her own footprints in the mix, but they did not belong to her. The Wildmen were afoot. Panic welled within her like blood from an open wound, overshadowing her capacity for rational thought. She looked around wildly, searching the tall grass for signs of life, but her efforts were in vain. Before she had time to even anticipate the blow, the hilt of a sword collided with her temple, knocking her to the ground. Dirt, grass, and blood filled her mouth, drowning out the sound of her screams. She scrambled towards the river like her life depended on it, clawing at the earth until her fingernails snapped from the strain of it. Her assailant grabbed her braid in retaliation, dragging her in the opposite direction, and the noise that emerged from her mouth sounded far from human. She threw herself against him as if it were second nature to her, whipping her head backwards in an attempt to break his nose. His howl of pain announced her success for all to hear. She ran towards the Harrowdale as soon as his grip on her hair had loosened, formulating a plan on the fly. She could hear him thundering after her, over encumbered from the weight of his armor, and in that moment, she knew that her chances of survival were entirely reliant on the river. She clamoured down the side of it with seconds to spare, and before he could grab her, she pulled him into its icy depths. He sank to the bottom according to plan.
Her newfound strength didn't last. She clung to the riverbank in desperation, struggling to pull herself up and over its steep edge. The embankment was slippery, riddled with stones that shifted every time she tried to move, dragging her down and into the water. It brushed against her skin, coercing the life from her limbs as slowly as a lover's kiss, coaxing her to let go, to give up, and to submit to its will. She had no control over it, forced to adhere to the commands of a force beyond her comprehension, and she hated that notion with every fibre of her being. She had never considered herself particularly religious, refusing to believe in things she couldn't see for herself. It wasn't in her nature to follow the blind. She had always made a point of asking too many questions, determined to get to the bottom of things regardless of her stature in life, ruffling feathers since she had been old enough to form words. If she were to die, it would be on her own terms. The river would have no say in it. Using the last of her strength, she flung her hand into the air in search of something to hold on to. Her fingers found purchase in the hand of a stranger, but the familiarity of it wasn't lost on her. Éomer looked down at her from the edge of the riverbank, his eyes aglow with an emotion she had never seen before, and she was certain more than ever that he hated her. The expression on his face was more than she could handle. She broke eye contact as soon as she had returned to solid ground, caving in on herself until she felt as though her soul had been exposed to the elements, left to weather a storm she could no longer shelter herself from. Her foundation had always been strong, but the walls she had constructed were not impervious to pressure, stress, and tension. Time had dismantled the fortifications she had made, and she had finally cracked.
She could hear Éomer yelling in the background, his voice rising to a pitch she had become familiar with in the Houses of Healing. It was the sound of a man in mourning, the sound of a man at his wits end, and the sound of a man who had been broken in half. From what she could gather, he was barely keeping it together. He reached for her, lifting her from the ground as carefully as possible, gripping her tightly enough to bruise the skin underneath. His breathing was steady, but his heart pounded erratically beneath his armor, betraying his true feelings. She thought he'd say something in the midst of it all, admonishing her for mistaking foolishness for cleverness, telling her once and for all that she didn't belong in Rohan, that she didn't belong in the Golden Hall, and that she didn't belong with him. He didn't speak a word to her. He placed her atop of Firefoot, slipped in behind her, and urged the horse forward. His silence spoke volumes.
