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2. Strangers in the night and strangers in the light

Lothíriel paced aimlessly around in her bedchamber, absent-mindedly brushing out her hair while reciting some Rohirric words that she still had trouble properly pronouncing, all the while trying not to mix up their meaning. To her dismay she had found that, although she had always been gifted in learning languages – after all, she was fluent in Westron and both Quenya and Sindarin – the language of the Riddermark gave her quite a hard time. She was not sure whether it was the rustic sound of the words, so harsh and guttural, foreign to her native soft tongue, or the structure of the sentences, sometimes so similar to Westron, sometimes so unfamiliar and strange, or whether it was the logic of its semantics. (Every other damned word seemed to be connected to horses – and granted, what else could she possibly have expected in a land filled by horses and horse-loving people? – and like this, how could anyone be expected to not mix up eorl, the name of the founder of the House of Eorl, kings of the Mark, and ceorl, the word for a mere peasant?). Lothíriel paused for a moment in her pacing, closed her eyes and sighed in frustration, remembering what had driven her to undertake this messy business of attempting to learn the tongue of the Mark.

A few weeks after her wedding she had had a nightmare that had caused her to leave the bed. She had not feared to wake her new husband, for it was not unusual that he would work late into the night or be gone on royal business she had no part of. It had not been the first time she had had this nightmare and, in fact, she would go on to have this nightmare almost every night, and sometimes she would even disturb her king with her wild thrashing and little helpless cries, prompting him to wake her, though he never seemed to care enough to inquire further. But perhaps that was only a natural reaction of his, after all, he had been a warrior all his life and he was a man to whom nightmares were not unknown. More than once she, too, had heard him cry out in the night, jolting awake, shaken and sweaty, eyes wide with a terror she had no knowledge of. But he never spoke of it, never even acknowledged it, and so she, too, had stayed quiet, complicit in their silent, unspoken agreement to politely ignore it.

Still, as much as she had grown to overlook her husband's nightly terrors, her own nightmares were not so easily forgotten and ignored, and she remembered that one night it happened particularly well. It was always the same. She found herself surrounded my mists of smoke and the burning heat of flames, a sound of panicked neighing that made her turn around, only to see a horse running straight at her; white hide, black mane, eyes crazed with fear – and just when the beast was about to ride her down, her dream ended.

That one night she had awoken with a scream caught in her throat, shaken, trembling with fear, drenched with cold sweat, alone in a big royal bed and for a moment unable to breathe. It had taken some time to remind herself that she was safe, that she was in her bed and that she was a Queen, and not a fearful little girl. Although she had considered settling back into the sheets and trying to fall asleep again, she had known that it would have been a fruitless effort in her agitated state; instead, she had left the comfortability of the royal bedchamber to take a quick tour to the royal library. Reading had always helped her nerves calm down, helped her to settle down and focus, and since she hadn't dared to explore much of her new home yet and no one was around to catch her unprepared, she had thought it to be a good idea at the time. And thus, in nothing but her flimsy night shift and bare feet, and a silken mantle haphazardly thrown over her shoulders, she had ventured forth …

… She had leisurely strolled through the wings of Meduseld often enough to know the location of the royal library: having left the royal bedchamber she had known that she had to cross the Great Hall in order to enter the corridors of the eastern front-buildings; the third eastern front-building housed the library and study. Once she had left the royal chambers she had to go to the corridor of the two doors, one west, one east, that both led to the Great Hall, and opening it, she had found the hall empty, cold and dark, with only subtle moonlight shining down through the louver built into the roof. Alone the fire in the great hearth in the middle of the hall had been burning leisurely; but then again, that fire was always burning – or was it not said that if the fire of the hearth in the Great Hall of Meduseld ever perished, so would the line of Eorl?

But fire or not, it had hardly been able to light the hall enough for her to see and the darkness and chill of the night had almost had her scurry back to the safety and warmth of her bed. Thinking back on it now, she almost wished she had. But she had gone on; crossing the Great Hall with hurried but careful steps she had entered the corridors of the eastern front-buildings and slowly – counting the doors – found her way to the entrance of the library. She had found the door unlocked and slipped inside, remaining standing there at the door for a moment to allow her eyes time to adjust to the dark light, but oddly enough it had not been necessary, for there in the library a roaring fire had burned in the fire place at the wall.

Although she had found it odd for the maids or body servants to leave a fire unattended at night, she had not heeded this warning. She should have tucked tail and run then and there; but she didn't. Instead she had ventured forth to explore the destination of her little nightly adventure, but there had been little to explore. Where rows upon rows of books and scrolls and paper should have been stacked and packed and squeezed in, only lonesome shelves of a few scrolls and papers here and there could be found, thrown into the brittle wooden structures with little aim or motivation. It had truly been a sorry sight, and for some reason, it had made her sad and her heart heavy, heavy with longing for the library back in her home in Dol Amroth, where she would have spent many an hour lost in wondrous tales, sitting at the window, hearing the lulling murmur of the sea, or watching the ships and boats brace the sea. This library – if one could truly call it that – was a shame compared to that; but with a sigh she had resigned and stepped forward. If this was truly all she had, she had best make the most of it.

Slowly she hadstepped forward, towards the few shelves to the right – one row of shelves before another row of shelves and another and so on and on. The first two rows of shelves had been closest and the light enough to easily read the titles of the tomes and perceive the symbols of the seals on the covers encasing the scrolls. Titles such as The Foldes and Woldes of the Mark, On the husbandry of horses, The breeding tree of the Mearas and lesser horses or On the Practices of cavalry and The great Strifes and Sieges of the Mark. Wherever shehad looked, the foremost rows of shelveshad seemed to contain nothing but words and words of warfare, horse-breeding and maps. And what was more, most of it had seemed to be in Rohirric too, as she had figured out after she had opened a scroll or two, and thus had been quite unreadable for her. Not very enticing reading for a Princess from the Sea. No, not any more, remember?, she had chided herself silently then, adding ironically, you are a Horse-Queen now.

Not ready to give up yet, she had looked over to the other rows of shelves following behind the foremost ones she had already dismissed: since the light from the fire place had not stretched out all the way to the end of the room, she had neither had the idea how many rows of shelves there truly were nor how spacious the library and study really was – at some point the light of the flames had simply started to change to shadows, ever darkening, until the light was completely swallowed by utter blackness. As she had been about to proceed, she had felt that sensation again: a subtle warning settling low in her stomach, and she had wanted to leave then and there, but she didn't.

Moving further down the rows of shelves she had ventured forth – albeit more hesitantly – into the darkening shadows, hoping for easier reads in easier tongues to be her reward but she had been sorely disappointed. Although there had already been few works for reading available in the front rows, the back rows provided even fewer options, and, judging by the layers of dust, these were the reading choices people seldom made. Since the materials of warfare, horse-breeding and geography were apparently highest in demand, she had wondered, intrigued, what books and scrolls remained mostly shunned and hidden here.

Her curiosity, however, had not been rewarded, for no books or scrolls could be found on the last rows of shelves, and only empty, dust-covered nothingness had stared back at her. And yet, on the last row of shelves a little detail had caught her attention: on the level of the same height as her shoulders a little black, blank stripe had revealed the spot a heavy tome had stood there not too long ago and had only recently been removed. Her brows had creased in confused disappointment as she had stepped closer to rest her finger on the spot of the missing book; and while she had given herself over to thoughts of wild speculations of what mysterious nature this tome might have been, she had absent-mindedly stared into the darkness ahead – the only problem was, there had already been something staring back at her.

With a shocked, high-pitched scream she had jumped back, crashing into the row of shelves behind her, nearly knocking them over, as her hands had clasped over her mouth, trying to keep herself from giving off another cry at the sight of these eyes, these green eyes, greyish-green eyes – oddly familiar eyes. But as she had tried to focus her gaze, tried to make out the truth behind her suspicions, the materialising shape behind the last row of shelves had slowly stepped forward, and as the light of the flames had hit him more directly, she had come to see that it was none other than Éomer king himself.

Too confused to speak she had instead beheld the sorry state of him: instead of the strict and sombre military clothes she had come to see him in, he had worn nothing but his breeches and a thin shirt, feet bared and dirty, sleeves rolled up, his hair unkempt and unbound, and in his right hand a mug half-emptied that had seemed to explain his appearance best. In his left hand he had clasped a book she had judged to be the tome missing from the last row of shelves, but before she had had the time to read its cover her king and husband had addressed her – but not with the kind or dispassionate tone of the ruler and stranger; instead with a deep, husky voice, muddled by ale and some other emotion.

Looking up she had noticed that he did not really see her, his eyes, tired and unfocused from drinking, and it had taken her a while to realise that he was not speaking to her in the common tongue of Westron, but in his own native language of Rohirric. But he had seemed entirely oblivious to that fact. Confused she had remained silent, not knowing what to say, not knowing what he said; however, her continued silence – rather than make him aware of his miscommunication – had appeared to anger him. His voice had grown louder, the tone changing from babbling to growling, and he had started to swing his arms around wildly, with ale spilling everywhere.

She had not known what to make of it. This was not a sight she had ever thought she would see of him. It was so not like him – she had never seen her husband drink, she had never seen her husband angry or ranting (at least, she believed it to be ranting, that much was clear even despite the language barrier) and she had never seen him as anything less than controlled and disciplined. And although she knew from her brother Amrothos and her father's knights that men changed when drink got to them, this seemed to have been caused by more than just an excessive abuse of ale. But perhaps, she had mused, the answer was closer to home than she would have expected, and if a Southern princess from the Sea could be woken by nightmares in the dark, could not a warrior king restlessly wander the halls for the very same reason?

But just in the moment when she had wondered what nightmares could keep a king up at night, she had been torn out of her thoughts with a loud thump, as the heavy tome had crashed against the shelves behind her and then fell to the floor, revealing a title writ in golden letters: On the House of Eorl and the lesser houses of the Riddermark. Looking up, shocked and confused, she only saw her king and husband close the distance between them, eyes clouded by drink and fury, before he gripped her shoulders with the strength of a seasoned warrior and proceeded to push her up against the wall to her left.

Surprise and overpowering, the ungentle impact of her back against the hard, wooden wall, and undoubtedly fear as well, had wrought the air from her lungs in desperate, hectic gasps. She had wanted to free herself, she had wanted to demand answers, she had wanted to tell him that he was hurting her – but she did none of these things. Met with green eyes turned to black, a gaze so fierce and hard, so wild and so relentless, she had felt her heart skip a beat, the words caught in her throat, threatening to choke her. And then he had shouted at her again, words in a language she did not know, all the while shoving her further into the wall, the wooden barrier scratching the soft skin of her back even through her mantle and night shift (although she doubted that he realised he was hurting her), and no matter how much she had wanted to look away, she could not have escaped those eyes.

He's a great warrior, and that's all he will ever be, she had remembered then, her own quick, judgement-at-first-sight of her husband and king from all those months ago coming back to her; the day she had been told of her engagement, she had taken one good look at him and thought to have figured him all out, and now it seemed to have been all too true. In that moment she had feared that he would actually hurt her in his drunken fury and when indeed he had raised his hand, she had quickly closed her eyes and turned away, preparing herself for a blow that never came.

Instead his hand, balled into a fist, had crashed into the wooden beam next to her, so hard she could hear the noise of something cracking, though whether the wood or his hand, she could not have said. She had been too frozen to react, or to realise what was happening, before it was already happening. His head had slumped forward, and then his whole body had seemed to fall against her, and he had been shaking, almost violently. His weight, made heavy by muscles from years and years of training and fighting, had pulled him down and as he sank down on his knees, his head came to rest on her belly, as he buried his face there.

He was crying.

The Princess that was now a Queen had turned to stone in that moment, too overwhelmed to react to the scenery that had unfolded before her. It was unspeakable, it was unthinkable: that a king was just a man. All her life, along with the people of the South who had never known a king in their lifetime, she had worshipped the idea of kings as men greater than men. The Kings who had hailed from the West, who had built the White City, the Greatest City of Men, who had defeated the Dark Lord, not not once, but twice – those kings had to be more than mere mortal men. And thus it was unimaginable for a king to suffer a mortal's simpering sentiments – despair, fury, cruelty, greed; these were the stirrings of lesser men, but not of kings. Kings did not lust for things that were not for them. Kings did not rejoice in the shedding of blood. Kings did not rage beyond reason.

And Kings did not weep.

And yet here she had been, a princess turned into a Queen, with a King turned into a mortal man. In that moment her whole world had seemed to shift and all her views and understandings shattered all around her – and if she had believed to live her new life as the detached Queen to a great King, one of tales and unreachable, immortal aloofness, she realised now that she had been wrong to do so. No, she would not be allowed to shut herself off from the new world around her; she would not be able to believe herself a stranger in a strange land, detached from all the rest, no longer. She would not be able to see the man before her as more than a man, to see him only as a title and an idea more than the person made of flesh and mortal weakness, for he was her husband more than he was her king, and she was his wife more than she was a queen. For if kings could despair and rage and lust, then queens could be touched, too; she could be touched too.

The very thought of it had shaken her with realisation and the depth of it had almost drowned her. She had thought that if she kept her eyes lowered, she would not have to see beyond her own beliefs and experiences, that if she kept her ears closed off, she would not have to listen to the truth of her new reality, that if she kept her heart sealed off, out of reach from mere mortal stirrings, that she would not be touched by them, would not be tainted by them, would not be moved by them. But now she saw her own folly at last. Much pride her family and her people had taken in their aloofness derived from their past, believing themselves more than mortal, an echo of the glory of kings and queens past, idols carved from stones, and just as unaffected – but they bled and wept and raged and failed, hoped and feared, and they felt all the same. And she saw that she was no different from the man before her – and if he was a king, he was also a man, and if she was a queen, then she was also a woman.

Sucking in a desperate gulp of air, she had fought to keep the tears from welling up in her eyes, for as she had looked down, seeing the kingly head crowned with golden hair shake and tremble, just as any other man might, it had made her heart break, at the sight of him and at the realisation that she could no longer pretend to be above such mortal feelings as loneliness, shame, fear, but also the craving to belong. Slowly then her hands had moved to the head still pressed in trembling despair against her belly, and without really knowing what she was doing, her fingers had woven themselves into the deep folds of his golden strands; caressing, massaging, soothing. Was it not said that sorrows shared were sorrows halved, and that misery loved company? She had been a healer of the body, she could be a healer of the heart and soul, too. And for a moment then it had seemed that her sentiment was appreciated, desired even, as his arms had come around her midst to be closer to her and the comfort she offered but then it had all been shattered.

All of the sudden then he had grabbed her wrists, shackling them in an iron grip, and the force behind it had made her hiss in pain; instinctively she had released him from her nigh-embrace, too confused and too stunned by pain to protest or inquire. And as she had looked down, so had he looked up, and there had been unshed tears in his eyes, blurring the green into a dark shade of grief, fury and despair. For a moment she had been reminded of Nienna, the Weeping Lady, who griefed forever and always for the suffering of mankind – but there had never been fury mingled with those tears, and yet here he was, as much water as there was fire. He had looked as though Ulmo had risen from the deep of the ocean, riding the waves of wrath and despairing fury, rising with its tides, or as though Oromë, the Great Huntsman of the Rohirrim, had descended in his wrath, riding his hosts of steeds through a field made of flames. She had trembled at the sight; she had shaken and shivered, but that had been all she was capable of doing.

With her hands locked in his fists he had risen, and yet, binding her with more than just his hands but with his gaze – cold and hard and yet heated had been his look, making it impossible to back away, as he had backed her further up the wall, his hands now digging into her shoulders again. And now he had been shouting at her again, and though the words had seemed familiar now, they had remained strange to her all the same, but the storm in his eyes and tears on his cheeks had conveyed enough emotion for her to understand, or if not understand, then at least for her heart to sense the meaning behind it. And when he had finally released her then, pushing her away once more, she had run back to the safety of her bed, and she had never looked back …

… Although that night had been seared into her memory, she had never again brought it up, and apparently, she had not been the only one trying to forget it. The next day at breakfast she had remained silent when he had lied to his newly-returned sister about his injured hand, and she had shied away from his gaze when he had looked her way. Neither she nor Éomer had mentioned the happenings in the library to each other, rather they seemed to be tiptoeing around each other, never locking eyes, never raising their voices, always avoiding confrontation. But despite her wish to forget the intense incident, she could not forget the strange words in the strange tongue that had been shouted at her, the deep emotion carried over through eyes rather than words, and in her the desire had formed to understand them.

Perhaps she thought that if she understood his words, she would also understand him – and did her own father not bid her gain trust to gain influence? Of course, she knew it was not the only reason for her new hobby, and despite all her attempts to push the incident to the farthest fringes of her memory, she could not so easily suppress the shift it had triggered in her consciousness. She knew that if she wanted to escape her loneliness she had to learn to connect to the people around her, her people; if she wanted to belong, to feel at home, she had to make a home for herself; and if she wanted to end her feelings of shame and fear, she had to conquer them and meet them head-on, like the Swan that lashes out when threatened or cornered; and like the sea that could even destroy mountains with the wrath of its waves, she would rise with the tides. She had to face it, this was her new home now, and if she were to find happiness here, it was upon herself to make it happen, and if this meant that she had to become a proper Rohan woman, exchange her slick silken shifts for wool dresses and learn a language so rustic her very tongue seemed to rebel against, then by Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, and all other Valar, she swore that she would make it so.

'Come on, stop your whining, Princess, if your ancestors could conquer the West of Middle-Earth, then you can conquer this gobbledygook of a language!', she chided herself, and then with a sigh she came to an abrupt halt in her recitation of Rohirric vocabulary. She knew her teachers – her two handmaidens Aida and Madlen – would not take kindly to her apprehensive stance towards their beloved tongue, and neither would her people. Rise with the tides, she reminded herself, the words of her ancient family and House echoing in her mind and heart, pushing her forward; rise with the challenge, she spurred herself on. Lothíriel pressed her lips together, steeling herself and setting her mind back on the task of reciting the vocabulary she had learned today in one of her daily sessions – today, she had been taught the names, and also the meaning of the names, of various different plants that were native to the Riddermark, and she was hell-bent on memorising them today.

But while she was reciting her vocabularies as the fervent student that she was, repeating them, again and again, testing their rustic sounds on her soft tongue, completely absorbed in her studies, she did not hear the door to the bedchamber open nor did she notice a certain someone entering the room.

'Sim-bel-mue-ne.' at the sound of a voice she turned around, startled and speechless, face to face with the King of the Riddermark, her husband – Éomer. The King himself had to fight hard to keep that grin from his face: he was always amused by how easily she was startled, and he thought he could waste his life away, happily, with watching her being startled by him – it was most entertaining.

'My Lord?', she looked at him with big eyes as he slowly descended down the two steps towards her, and he could almost see how she had to refrain herself from shying away from him as he moved further into her personal space.

'Symbelmynë. That's how it's spoken.', he explained with a smile and adding, 'If you do learn my language, I should at least have you learn it properly, don't you think, my Lady?'.

But that wife of his did not answer, she only nodded, slowly, almost as if she were in a trance. Éomer had come to a halt at last, standing now right in front of her and he could see how his closeness discomfited her, but he was not smiling now. Instead he caught himself staring at her unabashedly, having now the full pleasure of looking at her, and what a sight she truly offered: eyes wide with surprise and anticipation, black hair loosely floating down her slim and willowy shape, and clothed in nothing but a thin linen night gown – the very light of the fireplace seemed to radiate through her.

However, as much as he was lost in the sight of her, he did not fail to notice how very much uncomfortable it made her to be under his constant, piercing look, and so, after a few moments, he turned away, pretending not to hear the relieved sigh she sought to suppress. Busying himself with stoking the fire, he gave her time to recover before springing on her again. Hearing the rustling of fabric in the background, he knew she was putting on her silken mantle, more to protect herself from his gaze than the cold really. He sometimes wondered whether it was truly shyness that made her retreat from him, or whether it was something more.

'It has come to my attention that you are a frequent visitor of the Archives and Library of the Golden Hall, is that true?', even without turning around he knew that he had startled her again, and the thought amused him, though he took care not to let her see that; and as he recalled the incident in the library all those nights ago, remembering his own carelessness, rudeness, his own disturbing behaviour towards her, well, it was enough to somber even the most mischievous of moods and killed the small smile on his lips before it even had the time to form itself. When he turned around to hear her answer he could see the surprise written all over her face, and understandably so. Because while his young wife must have believed him to be absent or disinterested quite often, being away or simply caught up in the affairs of ruling, it would have been a great shock indeed for her to learn that news about her activities and interests in Meduseld had never been far from his ear. He was a King after all, he heard all, saw all, knew all. Whether it were her two lady servants, Aida and Madlen, or the other body servants of Meduseld, word had reached him – he knew that she often tarried in the library, he knew that she had taken up learning the tongue of the Mark, and he knew that she barely left the halls of Meduseld.

'It is, my Lord, but … '

'But?', Lothíriel bit her bottom lip to keep herself from snapping; she felt caught off guard, unsure how to respond. For a moment she even feared, irrationally, that he had come to enforce a talk about the incident in the library all those nights ago, but it was more than that, and she knew him as a man who would never admit to such an incident. Rather, she felt embarrassed for her own carelessness. Truly, she should have known that neither her frequent strolls to the archives nor her newest object of study would remain secret for long; having grown up in the Southern courts of Gondor, she knew that servants often spoke little but heard all the more. She knew now she had been naive to think that Meduseld would be different; more rustic, perhaps, but no less steeped in gossip and hearsay.

'It's just that I feel grieved at the lack of books and scrolls, for this library has hardly more to offer other than scrolls of warfare and geographical data, which are of little interest, I fear, for anyone, except a warrior.'

'For anyone? You speak of yourself, my Lady? You mean to say our library is of poor nature?', he eyed her with a challenging expression, clearly entertained by having backed her into a corner; the rigid politeness of the South had always amused him. And though it would have been an easy thing to leave her to fend for herself, to stutter her way out of this mess, he also saw the cruelty behind it, and despite all, he was not a cruel man. Thus he found himself jumping in, to save his damsel in distress, 'It is true, the people of the Mark have never been known for the writing of great books, though we have great stories to tell. Hardly any man or woman can read or write, but we remember our history and lore well enough in songs and ballads.'

In the pause that followed there was the unspoken but unmistakable knowledge that the many songs and tales of the Mark were only known to those learned in the language of the Mark, and that the things his wife sought were not to be found in the dusty pages of books or backs of scrolls but in conversations with the actual people of the Mark, and that if she wanted to make this her home, she could not shut the door and shut out everyone else, she actually had to welcome others. Éomer watched her intently, watching her expression change; surprise yielding to understanding, and knowing her as the shy woman she was, seeing her so resolved in opening up, it was truly admirable, and he gave her credit for that at least. And if she, a sensitive, little Princess from the South could find the bravery to open up and push forward, then so could a seasoned warrior and King, right?

'You enjoy reading, my Lady?', the question caught her off guard and for a moment she knew not how to answer it; was he expecting a truthful response or was it another one of his tricks to rattle her walls and make her trip? Lothíriel eyed her husband and king with a watchful look, but no, there was no deception about him – but that was nothing new. The Rohirrim, after all, were a truthful people, painfully direct in their words, they knew not how to lie – and if that made them blunt and rustic, it also made them genuine and trustworthy.

'Very much so, my Lord, it is by far my favourite occupation. When I find the time and leisure for it, of course.', she answered slowly; at first only with caution, but then uplifted by how good it felt to open up, she soon found herself carried away by her enthusiasm, 'I always found that reading is like travelling with the mind to the farthermost places and seeing the most wondrous things; anything is possible in books, and it makes the reader feel as though anything were possible for him, too. I always found it rather amusing, exciting even. Would you not agree, my Lord?', almost out of breath, she came to a halt, feeling her overbearing and oversharing making her blush.

With unsure eyes she gazed over to Éomer, hopeful that he would join her, and open up as she had done, but she would be sorely disappointed. For as forward and frank as Éomer was, he was also a hardened soul walled in by experiences and upbringing – and he had been, after all, raised as a warrior and a soldier, called to obedience and duty, hardship and endurance, rather than hope and imagination. She could sooner have hoped for the ebb and tide to still their dance at her command than for this warrior to throw away shield and spear here and then and to leave himself as open and vulnerable as she had done. He was not ready for that yet - and sometimes, in order to initiate true change, one had to be cruel to be kind.

'Hardly.', a stab to her heart, 'I have never found much need in the written word besides scrolls and maps shaped for the need of warfare and laws.', another stab, 'No book can tell you how to wield a sword or ride a horse, after all.', and another stab, 'Poetry and silly prose, I always deemed it a rather time-wasting, womanish effort.', and that last stab sank deep, deep enough to cut and leave a scar.

Éomer, who had been about to turn around, to start his undressing, was then met with the ramifications of his words when he beheld his young wife again. Eyes cast down, all colour drained from her sun-kissed face, a posture reminiscent of one of those sea creatures retreating into their shells. He could see that she was visibly hurt and disappointed by his words, although she tried not to show it as she quietly walked over to their bed and slipped beneath the sheets with not another word said. Immediately he regretted his harsh, heartless words, whose hard and cold nature he only came to understand now, cursing himself for this, but it could not be helped, and words said could not be unsaid. With a deep sigh he tried to shake off these feelings of remorse as he started to undress, but he could not so easily shake off that strange feeling that made something in his heart constrict almost painfully.

Fun Fact #1: As you probably guessed by now, both Éomer AND Lothíriel are dealing with PTSD. We'll find out more about that in later chapters.

Fun Fact #2: Like Lothíriel I'm very fond and usually quite good at learning languages. I am bilingual in English and German, I learned French in school and Latin at the University. Currently, I'm learning Turkish. Now, how about you? How cunning are you when it comes to the linguistics? (Sorry, I really can't help myself sometimes with the word play!)