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3. Fine bloody feathers make fine bloody birds
The fire in the hearth burned red and brightly, filling the chambers with a warm heat and glowing light, and Lothíriel, sitting in her chair in front of the fireplace, sucked in the snug warmth with every fibre of her being, humming with her eyes closed. Behind her, her young maidservant Aida brushed out her long black hair with admiration and precision, combing through the tresses until they shone like waterfalls of onyx, flowing down her shoulders.
'You have beautiful hair, milady.', the young woman behind her said, as she wove her fingers and the comb through her hair one last time before moving to braid it for the night, 'But you really should wear it open more often.'
'Aida!', the older sister shrieked, very obviously shocked by her sister's impertinent impulses, and Lothíriel had to keep herself from grinning wildly as she turned around in her chair, almost too eager for her manners for the surely upcoming argument – it was not the first time the two sisters had brought her great amusement with their constant bickering, and she knew this time wouldn't be any different.
Madlen and Aida were two sisters who couldn't be any more different, and their one and only similarity started with their dead parents and ended at the colour of their yellow hair. Madlen, the elder sister, was more refined, more stiff, more inclined to duty and manners, and she wore her hair in a braided bun in her neck. Aida, however, the younger sister, was more spirited, more curious, always asking too many questions, and especially those of the wrong kind, always managing to put her foot in her mouth somehow, and she wore her hair in a long braid down her back, and in her jumpy eagerness it frequently flapped about her like a fluffy tail.
'I would wear my hair open more often, dear Aida', the queen finally spoke, coming to the younger sister's defence, 'but it simply does not befit a princess of Dol Amroth.'
'But you're not a Southern princess any more… '
'Aida! Keep your nosey nose out of it!', the older sister spat at her, turning around, having had enough of her younger sibling's endless improper poking, for a moment interrupting her task of sorting out the queen's many dresses and gowns she had taken from her home in the South, 'What our Lady means to say is that a woman of high birth and high status should not look like a loose little lassie!'
'You're quite right, Aida, I'm not a Southern princess any more.', Lothíriel spoke then, jumping in once more to save her young maidservant from her older sister's scolding, and both women looked at her expectantly then, as though she were to make a bold and triumphant claim of patriotic loyalty, but she would disappoint them both, her heart had not arrived at her new home just yet, 'But even so, your sister Madlen is right, I am a married woman, and unbound curls are for unbound girls.'
'There you have it, Aida. Now go on and make yourself useful – these fine dresses won't fold and put themselves away on their own, now, will they?', Madlen chimed in, using her queen's words as a steppingstone for a sisterly reminder of the young woman's duty and position. But as older sisters are so often reminded of these days, the young do not so eagerly bow to the old, and thus it was that the queen had to clasp her hand over her mouth to stifle her hearty laughter as she watched the younger sister imitate the older one with nigh perfect exaggeration – grimacing face and wagging finger and all.
'Aida!', the older sister exclaimed impatiently when she noticed her younger sibling's impertinent behaviour, planting herself squarely in front of her, arms akimbo, eyes twitching with annoyance, 'You're being such a child!'
'But I am a child!', the young sister said half-shouting, half-laughing, as she mirrored her older sister's ridiculous stance of attempted and failed authority.
'Your moonblood started flowing almost five years ago – you have long stopped being a child.', the older sister pointed out matter-of-factly, rolling her eyes, and folding her arms for an appearance of authority before she turned her back on her little sister, done with dealing with this kid's stuff, and busied herself with collecting this week's washing load from the basket next to the door, mouthing as she went, 'You should stop acting like a child.'
Aida's shoulders stiffened, and for a moment Lothíriel almost expected the younger sister to retort something witty and provocative to fan the flames of the sibling's argument anew, but then she sighed, her shoulders slackened and her head bowed low, as it would seem in sisterly submission. And as the young girl-woman went to the bed to fold the laid-out dresses and gowns, her older sister sorting out the clothes that needed to be washed, stacking them on piles of bright or dark colours, the queen watched them with a sombre heart and melancholic sentiment.
Lothíriel had learned enough from Aida's thoughtless chatting and Madlen's polite conversations that both sisters had been forced to stop being children and grow up rather abruptly, as they had lost their parents quite early on in their lives. The Rohirrim had been harassed by their neighbours to the west, the wild men of Dunland, for as long as the Mark had existed, and long before the War of the Ring had even begun, they had seen their attacks increase, and in one such raid their family home had been put to the torch, and with their parents trapped, they had become orphans over night. After that, there had been little time for childish thoughts and childish things; toys had been exchanged for toils; sports and games had been exchanged for servitude. As orphans of the Westmark, they would have actually fallen under the protection of the Third Marshall of the Mark, but back then, as the shadow of war had darkened, it had been ordered that those of the outer provinces should seek shelter in the heart of the country, and thus both girls – with Madlen's industrious workings spirit, and Aida's lively charming spirit – had quickly ended up at the King's court that had then been in dire need of order and levity.
Truly, both of these young women had been denied a proper childhood, and perhaps it was even that which had turned Madlen into such a serious, stiff lady and Aida into such a childish, improper young woman. Or perhaps it had been the fact that Madlen as the older one always had to take care of her younger sister, taking on the role of mother before she even had been a woman, and Aida in her turn had always relied on her older sister's motherliness and thus forwent turning into a proper adult. But whatever it had been, Lothíriel had decided – almost instantly when she had arrived here all those weeks ago, when she had first been introduced to her young maidservants with their atrociously accented Westron – that given the bitter blow these two had been dealt with, she would make certain that they would be married well and would be well off, as was her right and duty as their queen and mistress. Yes, a thoughtful partner for Madlen who would share her industrious and serious streak, and a cheeky, smiling husband for Aida who would cherish her childish, wilful nature rather than berate it. But until then, she mused decisively, it was her job to treat her maids with kindness and respect and to ensure their well-being.
'Milady, you have such beautiful dresses!', Aida squeaked with unbound delight, pulling Lothíriel out of her quiet thoughts and making her older sister shake her head in silent disapproval as the younger sister danced around the chambers, holding one of the queen's dresses against her own willowy shape. Lothíriel smiled, her sombre thoughts lifted by the very image of it, already contemplating whether or not to lavish the young maidservant with that dress as a gift or as part of a possible dowry.
'They're beautiful, yes, but undoubtedly not made for this weather.', Madlen chimed in, her forehead etched in frowns as she held up one of the satin shifts of the queen, so thin you could almost see right through it, and it was clear to see that the maidservant spoke truth here, but there was more to it than that, and Lothíriel did not mistake her double meaning. After all, in that month she had been here already, she had only once or twice left the Golden Hall of Meduseld, and she had barely even left these chambers – and it was not the cold or the thinness of her clothes that was entirely to blame for that.
She was a stranger in a strange land, and shy was her nature; but to be believed was to be seen, and few enough people had actually ever seen the new Queen of the Mark ever since she had been married and crowned. Perhaps, like her unfit clothes, her skin was too thin for this place, and who could believe her to be a queen, if no one had ever seen her acting as one? As of now, she was a queen that was neither seen nor heard, and she knew many had expected nothing more of her when she had come here: to be nothing but a silent vessel to bear children, something pretty to be looked at – and she knew, since she had got here she had not worked particularly hard to change that opinion. So, with what right did she feel hurt by that one comment of her maidservant? If she wanted opinions to change, she had to change them herself – and it was as though Madlen had heard the resolve of her inner voice as she spoke once more, 'We'll have to get you some woollen gowns, especially for the colder months. At the market they often have good ones, dresses truly fit for a queen. I'll send Aida down in the morning.'
'Really, I don't want to be any bother: there's no need to spend money needlessly on my account.', Lothíriel started quietly, a small smile playing around her mouth, but humility was not on her mind right now: it was time to be the queen no one expected her to be, 'As I understand it, the Rohirrim are a humble people that pride themselves on their modesty – perhaps, we could simply sew a layer of woollen shifts underneath my old dresses?'
The smile Madlen gave her queen told Lothíriel everything she needed to know, and she knew that she had made her first steps in taking the mantle of queen, and the first steps to truly write her own destiny, the first steps to be someone new, and perhaps, even someone happy and fulfilled. It was true, she may not have come here of her own accord, and this land and its people seemed as foreign to her as their language, but she also knew that she could not expect any happiness in her life other than what she made herself, and thus she had to choose to be the queen to this country and its people, and to do so, she had to make this country as much a part of her as the sea had always been.
'I'll call upon the senior seamstress down in Auld Town. She has the skill of an Elf, I dare say!'
'No need, Madlen, I have some skill with the needle myself, and I have been tending my own gowns far longer than I've actually been allowed to wear them.', the queen spoke then, astounding the serious sister once more, 'But I would be happy, if you and your sister would keep me company.'
'Y-yes, milady.', the older sister stuttered then with no little surprise, curtseying, and very nearly dropping the load of clothes she meant to sort into bright or dark colours for washing. As Lothíriel turned around to stand closer by the fire once more, stretching her fingers out towards the warmth, she could see out of the corner of her eye that the younger sister gave her older sibling a cheeky wink and even cheekier smile. The older sister seeing her younger sibling's non-verbal equivalent of "I told you so", only shook her head and rolled her eyes, but she smiled nonetheless, and returned to her sorting of the clothes to be washed with new-found vigour.
'It's good to have a lady back at Meduseld.', the queen heard Madlen chatter absent-mindedly as she started to pick up the pile of bright clothes she meant to bring to the wash-kitchen.
'But the lady Éowyn … well, is a lady.', Lothíriel then heard the younger sister question and the queen imagined that well-known expression of confusion and doubt etching the young girl's forehead in frowns.
'A real lady, Aida. Not some man-woman who only wears her gowns to hide the armour beneath it!', her older sibling spat back then with an edge in her tone, biting as the snow outside the window.
The Queen smirked at that comment and wondered for a moment whether Madlen would still talk so boldly if the lady Éowyn were present – but then again, the Rohirrim were known for their love of speaking the truth, it was questionable, however, whether their love extended to the hearing of truths as well? But then again, Lothíriel had little doubt that the opinions of others were as far from the shieldmaiden's mind as the open sea she had never seen – but soon, the Lady of Rohan would lay eyes on the wide, blue ocean, and perhaps then, as so many curious, mean eyes would see her, her sister-in-law would then listen to what others thought of her? The queen smiled melancholically, and hoped the shieldmaiden wouldn't – her sister-in-law was a marvellous person, if an unusual one. With a sigh, Lothíriel's thoughts grew sombre again.
Sometimes she wished she had her new sister's fiercely confident streak, to boldly defend her independence and to be deaf to the words of others, but alas, as a Southern lady she had not been afforded such simple luxury. Instead she had been expected to be a proper lady in looks and manners, words and deeds, for had she not done as expected, she would not have been accepted, and thus she became all the lady she was told to be. She wouldn't say that it had made her particularly happy, but then again, she had never expected happiness in her life anyway, not after her childhood had passed. She had been content with what little niche of her interests she had managed to fashion while adhering to the social codes and expectations of her family and rank, but it had not brought her much happiness.
However, becoming a proper lady had also brought some advantages with it. She had learned to play the games of the court nigh to perfection: she had learned to always portray an image rather than a real person in order to trick and manipulate, to gain favours and move the chess pieces according to her own will and need – not by force but by persuasion. She had learned to appreciate to have other people see her as what they wanted to see her. In the South, that was the core of the court games; to play along with the images projected, to curry favours by flattering and cajoling the egos of lesser men, to guess the secrets of greater men, and to gossip about everyone and everything in between. But here in the North, here in the Mark, people only had one face to show to the world; they didn't know how to lie and cheat and manipulate and gossip, and they didn't need to, for their lives were a simple dedication to the noble and true nature of integrity, and what they saw, they believed, and what they heard, they knew.
And so she wondered, what did the people around her see when they looked at her? What did they see when they saw her in her light and blue dresses, her perfectly coiffed hair, her soft skin and fine fingers? What did they think to know about her when they heard nothing from her lips but the silence of a deep lake? By the reactions of her handmaidens to her offer and favours asked, she had a pretty good idea what they thought of her and saw in her. Had they expected a pampered little princess who put up her feet all day, lounging in her bathtub, and spent her days with wasting away money? If that was what they saw, then she had to do her best from now on to change that. Lothíriel smiled at that thought, her resolve hardened, her goal set and clear.
Turning around to her maidservants to reveal her decision, her intention to start anew and to become a proper Rohirrim woman, she froze in her movements, however, the smile on her lips fell apart and her eyes widened. Lothíriel beheld Madlen standing in the door, still as a deer at the snapping of a twig, gaze worried and decently ashamed; one of the queen's very own shifts between her hands, blood smears on the cloth, marring the pure whiteness of it. Aida, who for once had ceased her infinite mindlessly happy chatter, stood in the middle of the room, eyes darting from woman to woman, and to the bloodied piece of clothing in her sister's hand. For a moment, everyone stood still, afraid to move or speak, tiptoeing on the very edge of a sword, and every action threatened to hurl all three of them into the black abyss. They were all women, they all knew what it was; they all grew up at court, and they all knew what it meant.
'I'll take that.', Lothíriel spoke then, at last finding her voice again, spurring into action, moving towards her maidservant with quick steps, but not quick enough as it would seem. Madlen watched her with big eyes, the confusion in them like a cloud of fog that was washed away by the rain of understanding, making her gaze harden – not with anger or hatred, but with resolve and the impulse to submit everything and all to duty, even the friendship between women.
'No, milady, it's no bother, really.', the older sister answered then, quickly withdrawing her hands – hands, that had held the bloodied shift outstretched just a moment ago, now clutched the bloody piece of evidence to her chest, unmistakably out of her mistress' reach. Aida, who still looked helplessly from one older woman to the other, swallowed hard when her older sister's determined gaze hit her and without any word needing to be spoken she took the shift from her sister's hand, picked up the load of bright clothes and left the chambers to bring it to the washing kitchen.
And then there was only silence between both women left in the room – Madlen, having done her duty, returned to sort her queen's dresses back into the cupboard, and the queen, having failed to hide her secret, returned to the hearth, seeking at least the warmth of the fire for solace, and as her skin soaked up the heat, she allowed her thoughts to brood with worry. She wondered whether Madlen or Aida would tell their king about this. She knew in the South, husbands often tasked servants to spy on their wives, to check if they were faithful or whether they withheld information about things such as these – but she didn't know how things were done here in the North, in the Mark. And if they spilled her secret, how would her lord and husband – her king – react? Would he be angry, would he be disappointed, would he lash out at her?
Granted, he had never treated her unkindly or hurt her in any way (although his clumsy choice of words could sting sometimes), but she knew him to be a man capable of great violence and great anger (the incident in the library had been evidence enough of that), and then again, she had never disappointed or disobeyed him before – so how could she really know for sure? She knew that, officially, she had been sent into this marriage for one reason and one reason only: to bear a child, a son, an heir, and to further a royal line of a royal house that was now on the brink of extinction. She understood that if she were unable to perform her duty and not bear a child, she would be cast aside and the marriage would be annulled – her king would marry another woman, one of his own choosing, one from among his own people, and perhaps, the Rohirrim would even welcome that, after all, she was a stranger from a strange land? As for her lord father, he had made it abundantly clear that the road home would be forever barred for her if she did not do the job she was sent here to do – she would be cast out, rejected by her own family and left to her own demise.
'You know, milady', she heard Madlen say quietly then, yanking the queen out of her dark thoughts; her tone of voice almost ashamed as she sorted the dresses back into the cupboard, as though she truly felt bad for having just betrayed her mistress' trust by doing her duty, 'if you don't find it too bold of me to suggest, I could have some tea prepared for you that would help with the cramps and the aching. It's a special tea, it dulls the pain but not the senses.'
With a sigh Lothíriel turned around, schooling her expression to not show her obvious disappointment and worry that had gnawed away at her just moments ago – after all, it wasn't Madlen's fault that doing her duties also meant to divulge secrets she had rather hoped to keep … well, secret. In a way, it had been her own fault, really – usually, she had kept a tight memory of her monthly courses, as they were always, always on time, but her marriage life so far had put quite the emotional strain on her, and she had been so surprised by her moonblood this time and so distracted that she hadn't even thought to properly hide her bloodied shift. No, the queen thought, it would be unfair to blame Madlen, who for all her womanly sternness was still an insecure maiden trying to please her betters, and thus Lothíriel, as they say, stretched out her hand in an offer of peace.
'Thank you, Madlen, I would like that.', at her words, the handmaiden looked to her with a smile as bright as the sun, not even noticing that instead of hanging up the queen's dress in the cupboard, she let it fall crumpling to the ground, oblivious in her bliss, and Lothíriel, endeared by that girl trying her best to act like a woman, could not help but let go of her feelings of betrayal and worry, and instead found herself gushing with benevolent generosity, 'I had no idea you were learned in those kind of things.'
'Well, I might not be an exceedingly learned woman, but I do know my herbs.', Madlen said with no little amount of pride, puffing out her chest and putting her chin up, and only her younger sister Aida's barely muffled laughter, betraying her return, managed to step on her older sister's moment. The older sister gave her younger sibling a deadly glare meant to silence her but Aida chuckled all the more because of it, and Lothíriel had to fight hard not to let the sibling's amusing bickering get to her all over again.
'If you like, I could teach you – and your sister – some of the higher healing arts.', the queen brought herself to say, when she had at last managed to suppress her own chuckles, hiding her obvious amusement behind the trained polite expression of a perfect lady of the South, but even so, her true feelings for these two young women she could scarcely hide at all, after all, when she had come here, some two months ago, these two sisters were the only people that had treated her as a friend and not a stranger, 'I honestly don't know how else I could ever repay you for your kind services … for your kindness in general.'
'There is no need, milady, we are most glad to be at your every service.', Madlen spoke quickly before the red of her sheepish blush at the queen's generous words rendered her too embarrassed to utter a single word, and so instead of many words, she fell into an impromptu albeit clumsy curtsey, and sought to cover her nigh inappropriate elation with a quick snide remark regarding her sister, 'However, it would give Aida something useful to do with her hands and tongue other than wagging in gossip and playing pranks.'
The younger sister, obviously affronted at being used as an easy target and cover up for her sister's overflowing, sheepish pride, simply stretched out her tongue in childish defiance, clearly not ready to give up her silly ways of gossip and playing pranks just yet. Madlen, shocked at her younger sibling's acting, rolled her eyes and shook her head, wagging a warning finger in her direction as she spoke with the patience of a soon-to-erupt volcano, 'Aida! For Béma's sake – were your raised by wolves?! What will the queen think of us?!'
'HA! I was raised by you!', Aida snarled, arms folded like a fortress in front of her, eyes squinted in an anger that challenged her older sibling to a duel, 'You know full well I don't like being talked about as though I'm not here! I'm sure even the queen would agree!'
'That is so … just so you!', Madlen shouted back, hands pulling at her own neatly braided hair, breaking the perfect control she had had, before she threw her arms up and planted herself in front of her younger sister, arms akimbo, fuming with perceived righteous anger, 'Miss I-don't-need-manners-I-need-to-have-fun, now you also presume to speak for royalty!'
'Oh, that's rich, coming from you, Miss … Miss … – Miss I've-got-a-stick-so-deep-up-my-arse-I-got-stuck-in-an-eternal-curtsey!'
Watching the two sisters battle it out with words and gestures and facial expressions full of anger, annoyance and quite a lot of amusement, managed to put the queen's mind off the more pressing concerns she had, but not for long, and soon enough, Lothíriel turned her back on the sibling's shouting contest, turning towards the hearth's warming heat and allowed her mind to sink back into her thoughts of worry and concern.
Lying in bed already, blanket pulled up to her chin, Lothíriel watched as her lord and husband took off his clothes one by one, preparing to come to bed for the night, and her watchful eyes did not miss that he did not take off his breeches, and the queen knew at once that one of her maidservants had talked. It was not like her king came to her every night to perform his kingly rights, after all, they had been married for almost two months now, and yet, it was highly unusual for him to shun her bed for more than five or six nights in a row, and given what her handmaidens had discovered today, it would have been some great coincidence indeed if her husband's abstaining were not connected to that bloodied shift of hers.
Lothíriel sighed with a heavy heart, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth and stared at the canopy of the great king-size bed; the colour of green was on each and every piece of fabric above her head, a sea of grass on which a single white stallion stood, proudly but alone, the herd all but gone – would there be no more fillies, no foals to further the herd? Hissing the queen snapped her eyes shut, shaking her head to shake off these images and yet she could not quite shake off the heavy feeling of worry that had burrowed itself inside her stomach like a deep, yawning pit of pitch black darkness, swallowing all of her.
Eaten up by fear and concern, the queen sat up then, incapable of finding the peace tonight she would require for anything resembling sleep, and looked over to her husband and king slouching comfortably in his favourite wing chair while sharpening his sword, as he so often did in the evenings, as though eager for a battle and a war that never came again. And the very image of him grinding the whet stone along the sharp, long blade made her questions of earlier in the day return, how her king would react to the news of her failure to produce an heir, the very likely possibility of his wrath – or perhaps, his wrath would be even greater if he learned that she had tried to hide this piece of news from him? Lothíriel swallowed hard, hands instinctively reaching for her throat, as the blade glistened sharply in the light of the hearth.
Should she apologise?
Her father had told her that, officially, her most important duty was to provide the King of the Mark with an heir, and many husbands, in particular if that husband was of a royal lineage bound to end, were quick to lay blame and shame on their wives for not providing the desired offspring. But she knew there was more to it than that; this burden had not been placed on her shoulders for the sake of the Mark and her husband alone. She knew her father, the Prince Imrahil, to be an ambitious man above all else, and his lust for power to be almost insatiable. There had even been rumours back during the War of the Ring (as it had come to be known), when the Mad Steward grew even madder, that her father had desired to be more than just the Prince of a luxuriously rich and powerful princedom, but to enrich his already legendary lineage with an even more priced position – if not the most powerful man in the kingdom, then at least the second most powerful man?
Of course, the outcome of the War of the Ring had changed all that: a king had returned and chosen a steward of a long line of stewards, and thus it had seemed that her father's ambitions had been for nought. But her father was a politician through and through, and he was cunning and knew well how to play the long game. He knew that if enough favours were exchanged and enough backs were scratched, he perhaps could climb right to the highest steps of power, right next to the King of kings. And what better way than to provide the king's most trusted ally with a belly to fill and two royal houses to connect, what better way than to help the friend of a friend? Truly, she knew her father to be the man to demand an apology from her for not fulfilling her duty. The bitter thought crossed her mind quickly, and even quicker did her instincts jump into action, and thus she found herself ready to address her king and husband with caution and a decent show of remorse.
'My lord, the moon has been shining full for some nights now, and sad for us as it is, it will continue to do so for a few nights more.'
The silence that followed when her lord and husband interrupted his sharpening of the blade was the only evidence she had that he had heard her, but when the silence stretched on and she saw her king look up – his brows creased, his forehead etched in lines, his face wearing an expression of utmost perplexity – she wondered then if he had really understood her meaning, and when he spoke then, she knew that he had no clue what she was talking about, 'What are you talking about, Lothíriel? There hasn't been a full moon for over a week now.'
'No, my lord, the moonblood – ', she jumped in quickly, panic and embarrassment battling for dominance inside her, making her blush redder than her monthly flux, as she struggled with herself to make him understand what she tried so hard and so in vain to tell him, cursing herself for the secretive language polite society forced on her and all women, 'My courses have come on me again, my lord.'
Her lord and husband only blinked at her words as though he still could not or would not understand her meaning, as though the ramifications of her words were still escaping his understanding, and Lothíriel very nearly despaired at the amount of embarrassment she felt that she would actually have to spill it out for him as plainly as a milkmaid would, with no flowery speech or subtle language to cover that awkwardly intimate subject between them. Swallowing hard, the queen made a last attempt to explain the situation to her king, resolved to be as clear as crystal this time, 'My lord, my blood has come on me again. It means I will not be able to give you a son and heir just yet.'
At this his mouth slowly formed into a silent and round "oh", his eyes clouding over, and he must have understood her meaning at last, for he inquired no further nor showed any other sign of confusion or question. As a matter of fact, her lord and king showed no sign whatsoever of further interest in the whole affair at all since he simply took up the whetstone again, put his sword in his lap and resumed sharpening its blade with the precise, monotone movement of a trotting horse. The queen blinked rapidly at his words, unbelieving, and now, ironically, it seemed to be her part to be confused.
'My lord, I am sorry.', she spoke then after a while, when she could not take the unending noise of the whetstone on metal any longer, and indeed, with her words, the sound of the sharpening of the sword faded into silence once more, and once more it was up to her king to fill the silence that followed with words. Acknowledgement she expected, disappointment she believed, anger she feared, but comfort … comfort she could not have guessed.
'You don't need to apologise, Lothíriel. It's not your fault.'
Quietly, oh so quietly, the words had been spoken with such soft rendering she would have missed them, had she not hoped so desperately for any word from him, and even now, certain of what she had heard him say, she could not believe her own ears. Surely, she must have misheard him, surely, the singing of the whetstone sharpening the blade had muddled the words of wrath and blame into words of ease and understanding. But no sounds of sharpening could be heard, no noise of stone on metal cut dissonantly through the silence, and as she looked up then blade and whetstone lay untouched in her king's lap and her king's gaze was trained on her with a softness she had neither thought possible nor expected in a thousand years.
'My lord?', she brought herself to say then at last, swallowing hard, fighting the urge to look away and instead hold his warm gaze – too warm a gaze, in her opinion, for an arranged marriage between strangers, too warm a gaze, in her experience, for a man who had just learned that his wife failed to do her most important duty, 'Where I come from women are often blamed for this sort of thing.'
'Lothíriel, do you really think me the kind of man to do that?'
'I don't know you.', she answered quietly then, truthfully, painfully honest, and Éomer couldn't pretend that it didn't sting a little to hear her state it so clearly, so openly, and what was even more painful to him was the way she lowered her head after her admission, as though ducking out of danger coming ahead, as though preparing for a storm of wrath she apparently expected him to rage against her. He knew he would be lying to himself if he pretended that he wasn't hurt by the way she so very clearly saw him (a grim brute? a savage caveman that unleashed his anger on a woman blameless of their misfortune?) but then again, what right did he have to feel hurt? What had he really done so far in their marriage that would make her think better of him (he was still mortified by his behaviour in the library and deeply ashamed by his disparaging words towards regarding her passion for reading)? Or even before then, during their time of courtship (if he could really call it that)? In truth, he had done nothing, less than nothing, to better her opinion of him (he had no illusion that most Southerners did not share King Elessar's or Prince Faramir's good opinion of the Rohirrim, but rather the contrary), so how could he expect her to know what kind of man he was, or rather, what kind of man he wanted to be? Still, all his rational thinking did not stop himself from feeling, and what he felt was hurt and disappointed, and that could perhaps explain why his next words could be hardly counted as truly comforting or supportive.
'We have time for that yet.'
And with that the conversation was over, or at least that's how it seemed, since the king turned his attention back to whetstone and sword and resumed his sharpening of an already perfectly sharpened blade. As for the queen, she looked over to her lord and husband for a few more moments, unbelieving and too stunned for words, and it would have been an understatement to say that she was surprised. It was safe to say that she had not expected their talk to go this way (but then again, to be fair, she had not expected, either, to have a conversation with her lord and king about the intricacies of the female cycle).
Her father had instilled in her the belief to obey her husband – as he was her king – and to fulfil her duties to him; he had never said anything about trusting her husband, or being his partner for that matter. But perhaps her father had been wrong in his instructions too, perhaps this marriage was more than just a contract, a means to an end, or at least, it could be more, and although she didn't know yet what it was, she felt the hope inside her glimmer that it could be more than what her father had ordered it to be. Of course, she didn't think of love here; love was reserved for fairy tales and romantic scandals, but perhaps, yes, perhaps a sort of mutual understanding. It was strange, she thought, as she slowly sank back into the blankets and furs, so strange to think that this man, this man who was her husband and king, this man that she didn't know at all, that this man – a stranger, by all accounts – would show more compassion for her than her own father ever did.
The swishing sound of a sharpened blade sliding back home into a sheath pulled the queen out of her sombre musings and back into reality, and her gaze settled onto the shape of her husband, moving slowly and deliberately, elegantly almost, across the chamber. Sword belt along with sword was put aside on a near-by table, candles blown out, the fire in the hearth choked until only the embers shone with the red of the remaining, radiating heat. Only then did her lord and husband grace their marital bed with his presence, although, as they had clarified in their painfully honest conversation, she knew there would be no marital activities here tonight. But as her king came to their bed, he came close enough to make her doubt her certainties on this regard.
At first she had thought that this was only the masculine impulse to take up space born out of the masculine perception that space they were owed, and so she sought to escape the irritatingly comforting heat radiating from his body by sliding further and further away from him towards the very edge of the bed, so much so that she was nearly in danger of falling out of bed. But still, every inch she edged away from him, he reclaimed, until there was no more retreat and he settled in behind her.
As his arm came around her then, embracing her from behind, that large paw of a hand settled low on her belly, drawing slow and deliberate circles, and for a moment she wasn't sure whether he still had not understood the meaning of her words from before. But by then the movements of his hand had already taken effect, having her tense, cramped body relax under his touch, the deep warmth of his voice adding to it like warm honey sweetening milk as he spoke then, and by the time he finished, the words and timbre of his talking had soothed her half to peaceful sleep already, 'It's alright, Lothíriel, it's not what you think. Someone told me it helps with that time of the month.'
FUN FACT #1: This chapter was actually a pretty late addition - but since the relationship between Lothíriel and the sisters will be important later on, I thought it best to establish it first. *slaps forehead* *writer's guilt intensifies*
FUN FACT #2: Often when I watch or read supposedly historical / fanfastical fiction, I always wonder about the little things - how do the ladies deal with their monthly annoyance, or how do these high and mighty folks take a decidedly not so airy dump? Well, now you know why this chapter simply had to happen - and fear not, the intricacies of toilets will be addressed too.