Hey! There and back again! (Sorry, every Valar-forsaken pun intended!)

After fighting with myself to finish this chapter (it was actually already finished half a year ago, but last sunday I got an idea, however, working as a teacher right now is hell ...), I decided that I would simply split the chapter in two. Here's the first half - the second half will be chapter 5.

As always thanks for the lovely reviews (especially the guests - because I cannot reply to you when you are guests, I'll give you a shout-out like this! BOOM!), the favourites, the alerts and the love! Keep it up - it keeps us warm in these frosty times.

As always, next chapter next friday!

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4. Needles and men

'Béma! A curse upon this rotten piece of cloth!'

Éowyn, ever impatient and clumsy when it came to womanly chores, had pricked her finger once more with the sharp needle; the finger in her mouth, sucking up the little drop of blood, her eyes squeezed in anger and pain, as she cursed without shame. Lothíriel moved to pick up the fabric that her sister-in-law had just thrown away, once caught and clamped within the embroidery hoop, now rumpled due to the impatient hand of its holder.

'You need to clamp the fabric into the embroidery hoop really tight, so that it's taut and more easily to be worked on.'

'We both know it's not the tautness of the fabric that's the cause of failure here.', Éowyn refused to take back the hoop her sister-in-law tried to hand back to her, and instead continued sucking at her finger, angrily, feeling sorry for herself and scolding herself at the same time. Lothíriel, caught off guard, simply smiled uncertainly, but remained unsure of how to respond to her new sister's indirect allusion to her poor embroidery skills. She had politely pretended before not to notice the complete lack of skill her sister-in-law showed, and polite as she was, she had only because of manners agreed upon training her in the arts of embroidery.

One day, seemingly out of the blue, Éowyn had decided to embroider a cloak for her betrothed, in preparation for her wedding, to have it blazing with the newly-created banner of Ithilien and their new Prince and Ruler. Éowyn had told her that she and Faramir had both made a deal: as he was amused by her unconventional character and her non-comformity towards typical female activities, they had bet whether or not she would be able to successfully embroider a cloak for him. And although her sister-in-law had not told her what the stakes of their wager were, the cheeky smile she gave her told her more than enough.

Lothíriel, partly because it was customary for the Lady of Meduseld and royal wife, had decided to embroider a cloak, too, in honour of her lord and husband in the shape and colours of the banner of her new home and new house – a white horse running upon a green field – but also because she desired company that would keep her thoughts from walling her in. She had thought spending time with Éowyn would be a nice way to keep idle thoughts from getting the better of her, but training her dear sister-in-law in the art of embroidery seemed to be more than she had bargained for, it seemed to be an act of sheer impossibility.

She was in general unsure how to act around her new sister-in-law, for she was in every way a rather unusual woman: her complete lack of experiences in the typical activities of women, and instead her knowledge and skill in horse-riding and sword-fighting made for an unusual companion, so unlike her, both startling and fascinating her – and perhaps it even was her unusual character that allowed them to become such good friends at so short a period of time. Once Éowyn had returned from her trip to Ithilien – she had left with him right after her brother's wedding and had only returned almost a fortnight ago – it had taken a few days for the two women to warm up to each other. Éowyn first needed to be convinced that any woman could be worthy of her brother or of her people, and Lothíriel, well, her sister-in-law was as warm and loyal a woman as she was intimidating and fierce, and it had taken the shy southern princess a few days to be able to handle her forward and frank ways – but once the reservations between them had been overcome, they had become fast and true friends, companions and partners. Because while they were maybe not talking about needle techniques or exchanging cooking recipes, they were talking about the history of the Mark, the deeds of its greatest champions (not to mention: shieldmaidens!), the differences in politics between the Riddermark and her former home, and, they were also working on her language progress. All in all, she could not have asked for a more exciting, more distracting, more challenging or better companion than her new sister-in-law.

'Do not give up, dearest sister, none of us is born either a master at sword or a master at the needle.', she spoke softly now, trying to regain her interest, and truly, coaxed by her choice of words – for terms of warfare and of sword-fighting always piqued her interest and curiosity – the shieldmaiden took back the unnerving piece of cloth, eyeing her with a gaze that sought to unravel her mysteries.

'I would not assume the Swan Princess ever had problems with her needlework?', Lothíriel smiled shyly at the affectionate nickname her dear sister-in-law had given her shortly after they had got to know each other. Of course, she could not but be aware of the slight ridicule that resonated with that nickname: after all, it was widely known that Éowyn Shieldmaiden was a lady like any other, and that, indeed, she despised and mocked other women for their ladylike ways – and who could be more ladylike than a lady from the Southern courts? And yet, despite their differences in character and interests – or maybe even because of it? – they became true companions, closer than friends, like sisters, for truly sister they now were.

'Even the Elven ladies, I assure you, were once nothing more than inexperienced, clumsy ducklings.', they both laughed at her joke, although having both seen the Lady, and now Queen, Arwen, it was hard to imagine her as anything other than perfect, and their laughing slowly but surely ebbed away, 'I promise you, practise will make all the difference. But it takes time; you only started with the needlework yesterday and surely you cannot expect to be a master of the art of embroidery at the second day already.', Lothíriel sat down again, opposite her sister, ready to take up her needlework where they had left off.

'Forgive me, sister, I am aware that I can be a troublesome pupil.'

'Troublesome is not the word I would use, sister; challenging suits you much better.', Lothíriel had only meant to show her support and understanding for her sister-in-law, though it would seem that Éowyn saw more in her words than she had meant to show, as some darker emotion shadowed her gaze.

'I always forget how well trained fine noblewomen are at twisting words into more fashionable, concealing phrases.', she smiled, but now there was bitterness in that smile as she added, 'I suppose I have spent too much time in the company of men to have learned this art.'

Lothíriel knew much and more of Éowyn's backstory to understand her comment. She knew that her mother, Théodwyn, had died young; shortly after her father, Éomund, had been killed in an Orc skirmish, her mother had withered away in grief – Éowyn had been younger than her when she had lost her own mother. It was something they had both in common; they both had grown up without mothers, with brotherly or fatherly affection and care of sorts only, but whilst she had had governesses and ladies of the court to culture her and keep her company, the shieldmaiden of Rohan had been left in the sole company of men – always expected to act the lady when she had truly only ever learned to be a man.

With a deep sigh, Lothíriel tore herself out of her deep and sombre thoughts, reminding herself that wallowing in pity and melancholy of past woes was never a good way to go ahead and get things done, and so she fell back into her old rhythms – head held high, chest out, back straightened, hands neatly folded on top of each other: a picture of a prim and proper lady. After all, if she wanted for her sister-in-law to at least become acquainted with the social conduct of the Southern courts, then she had to set a perfect example. Her shieldmaiden-sister may carry a shield and sword to protect herself, but Lothíriel knew, a lady's gown was her armour.

'Now, sister, shall we return to our lessons?', she started then, her voice as soft as the rain of her home country, reminding the shieldmaiden of the lessons of etiquette training she had initially (and perhaps foolishly) agreed to. At first, Éowyn had been amused by these lessons, after all, she had been able to talk for hours on end about her country that she loved, the culture in which she had thrived, the renown she had won as a shieldmaiden, but then rules and limitations had been introduced, and all of the sudden, her colourful words had been chastised, her rapid-fire chain of descriptions had been clipped, and her freedom of speech altogether was meant to be to squeezed into a tight corset of flowery, senseless, euphemistic speech. It was not at all what the shieldmaiden had expected, and if she weren't so bored, she would be infuriated by it – but then again, it was a challenge, and Éowyn shieldmaiden had never shied away from any challenge before.

'After all, cultured speech is not learned by cussing foul-mouthed – '

'If you think that was foul-mouthed – '

'It's not what I think, but what the ladies of the court think.'

'Those hens can't think … ', Éowyn snorted while leaning back in her chair with an air of utmost success and a punchline viciously dropped, for a moment unaware of how deep her little joke had struck, but as she looked over to her sister-in-law, as though to expect a gleaming smile and winking eye of shared amusement, she was foolishly mistaken. The Queen was looking at her new sister and wild student with a dead eyed-expression and a mouth-line so thin and sharp the shieldmaiden almost feared to cut herself at the edges. Looking down, humbled, Éowyn mumbled an apology, becoming more and more aware that not all Southern ladies were of the same kind, and that compared to her new sister-in-law she had more than a long way to go.

'Once we've – finally – struck up some proper conversation here ', she said, eyeing Éowyn with a warning gaze, 'I think we also may have to take a look at your curtsey.'

'There is absolutely nothing wrong with my curtsey.', the shieldmaiden snapped back, completely taken aback, unprepared for this all-out attack on her every mannerism. To be fair, Lothíriel would not exactly use the words "nothing wrong" with regard to her new sister's curtsey; if anything she would deem it quite passible, or to be precise, compare it to a clay cup rather than a silver chalice – drinking could be done from both, but one exuded wealth and nobility, the other practicality and humility. This fine but significant distinction seemed, however, utterly lost on Éowyn as she concluded her fuming rant, 'My curtsey is perfectly fine, thank you very much!'

'Éowyn, what I meant to say … ', Lothíriel started then, realising that her blunt head-on tactic may have been not such a good idea after all, and that an agitated horse needed comfort and a soft hand rather than orders and stern insistence. But Éowyn was well past the point of being cooled down by soft words, as she sought to talk herself into a veritable rage.

'I'm sorry, but no! I might not be all the lady other women are, but I am not a savage either. I learned to be a lady of the court just as well as any noblewomen of the Riddermark, and just because our sophistication doesn't reach Southern heights, doesn't mean we are backward trolls.', she made a short pause to take breath, and then with a sigh that sounded more like a growl she went on, 'I am what I am. I cannot and I will not change that. And I dare say, if the fine Lord Prince of Ithilien had wanted a primly meek Southern lady, he would have found himself one!'

With that the shieldmaiden of the Riddermark slumped back into her chair with the full force of her anger and crossed her arms before her breast, sulking with surprising intensity. Lothíriel blinked quickly at this display of rather unladylike, rather childish behaviour, unsure how to proceed from here, fearing that she may have nipped her new sister's willingness to accustom to the South right in the bud. Biting her lip nervously, the queen sought to clean up the mess then that she had made, 'Forgive me, Éowyn … sister, I presumed too much. I should not expect you to change for me or anyone. I should not have spoken the way I did. If I made you feel as though you were not the lady that you are, then please, forgive me, that was not my intent.'

'Enough already, Lothíriel, stop grovelling; we both know I'm not really a lady – not truly, anyway.', Éowyn spoke at last, a smile trying to wriggle free of the sulking face she was showing, waving off her sister-in-law's humbling gesture, before shaking her head, and sighing deeply, 'I know you're only trying to help, but … I don't know, the more you're trying to help the more I realise I do need help, and I'm not used to that.', Éowyn laughed at that, but it was a hollow laugh, cheerless, without any mirth, instead there was a melancholic note to it, 'I'm not like you, and I don't think I'll ever be a lady like you … '

'No one expects you to be.', Lothíriel threw in quietly, carefully, humbled by the vulnerability she had felt in the shieldmaiden's voice, almost hearing the walls of strength and honour and not-caring crumble that Éowyn had built around herself for some many years, shocked to realise that she was probably one of the few people her sister-in-law had ever opened up to about her insecurities. And in that moment, the queen came to understand that the shieldmaiden before her truly had the ability to be strong – not because she knew how to wield a sword and slay a foe, but because she allowed herself to open up, even at the cost of being vulnerable. Éowyn, however, she realised, did not yet see this as a strength, as she smiled a painful smile, trying to cover up her emotional slip up; no, her new sister still had a very simple understanding of strength, and the queen feared that it would cost her a lot of pain and outbursts of anger and moments of tears and misery to understand that strength came in many a different form. All of the sudden then, Lothíriel was torn out of her thoughts, quite unceremoniously, when Éowyn cleared her throat, and rather theatrically at that, clearly trying to switch the subject, and the young Queen from the South, ever the polite one, obliged, seamlessly playing into the game.

'So, tell me, Lothíriel Queen, how do you find life in the Mark?', Lothíriel smiled, secretly amused at her sister-in-law's attempt at court speech and the overly formal manner in which she addressed her, but she tried, and she gave her credit for that. Of course, she could not but notice that the shieldmaiden also meant to mock this formal tone, after all, they were sisters now. But Éowyn, as all the Rohirrim, was usually always direct in her address, and she saw more than she let on – she knew that for her, as a Southern Princess, such forwardness, as was custom with the Rohirrim, was still new and sometimes awkward, and perhaps she hoped that if she met her half-way, she would find it easier to open up.

'Oh, it's lovely, to be sure. The clustered courts and herds of people in the South can become so stifling and overbearing sometimes. Here, there is so much quietness that I feel quite at peace. It has been ages since I have had such leisure to think.', her answer so far had been very diplomatic, and she could see in her sister-in-law's face that she would not be content with that and expected more of the truth to follow, and so, with a sigh, she complied, 'Of course, so far, I have not had time yet to enjoy the far-off places of your beautiful country, but I wish to see it, for sure. There is a … savage charm to it.'

'And what about the King of the Mark? Is there a savage charm to him as well?', Éowyn laughed at that and while Lothíriel blushed, she had to give it to the shieldmaiden, for it was true that her words had provided her with a lovely target. And while the heat of awkwardness slowly crept up her neck, she fidgeted for words which would be able to convey a truth that was polite enough to veil the truth.

'He is a great man, for sure, whose mere presence demands respect. It is not hard to see why he is a king so loved by the people of Rohan.'

'And what of the man? What do you think of my brother as a husband?', Éowyn, true to her nature, left no room for her to hide behind pretence, and instead poked on and on; and though surely she only meant well, she should have known how hard it was for a Princess of the South to admit to hard truths, 'Does he treat you well?'

'He has been nothing but kind and respectful; I am glad and grateful for it.', Éowyn eyed her brother's wife with suspicion; it had not been lost on her that the young woman in front of her could not meet her eyes or that the trembling in those hands threatened to ruin the lovely stitching patterns, 'He is rather quick and … disinterested when he does his business.'

'Does his business?', caught off guard, it took Éowyn more than a moment to understand what her sister-in-law meant, and feigning a coughing was all she could do to keep herself from laughing out loud; after all, she could see how much effort it took for her sister to admit to such unceremonious truths, and she did not mean to hurt her sister. Therefore – she had to admit to that – she could have chosen her next words more carefully.

'Do you mean to say my brother does not find joy and pleasure in you as his wife?', even while speaking those words, Éowyn knew she had said the wrong thing; seeing her sister-in-law blanch terribly, eyes widened and tongue stuttering in an effort to defend herself, she knew she had nearly arrived at the heart of the matter, albeit almost overwhelming the sensitive Southern Princess with the strain of forming a respectable and acceptable response.

'My Lord seems … he always seems quite pleased after … after he came to me.', the Princess stuttered helplessly, before her shoulders slumped, and she admitted with a meek little voice, 'H-he can be rather loud.'

Like the stallion he is, the shieldmaiden thought dryly, though judging it best to keep that assessment well to herself. That answer though was enough to shut up even someone like Éowyn, who was now nodding slowly, trying to process what her sister-in-law had just said. Granted, her dear, bull-headed brother had not been the best to gather information from either, usually reverting to monosyllabic answers and non-committal grunts, but from what she had been able to worm out of them both now, their marriage bed was far from lifeless, if unfortunately loveless.

'I see, and your pleasure? Does he tend to it as well?'

'I don't understand.', Éowyn blinked at her sister-in-law's response but realised, slowly, that she was closing in on the root of the problem between the Lord and Lady of Meduseld, and she had to keep a blushing smile from her face as she went on to explain matters someone else should have long explained to the married woman in front of her, 'A woman, too, can find joy and pleasure in her marriage bed, or in the arms of anyone else, if she wishes to.'

Lothíriel first opened her mouth as if to speak, but then closing it, she remained silent, and one could see the wheels frantically turning behind her eyes. She was not sure if she really understood what her new sister meant, for none of her governesses or ladies-in-waiting had ever told her of that, and truly she would have been scandalised to have partaken in such a conversation; only the maidservants had whispered and giggled about it when they thought no one could hear them.

'Is … is that proper?'

'Proper?', Éowyn nearly stumbled over the word, forcing herself for a second time today not to laugh, reminding herself that not everyone shared her openness about these matters, and that she could not ridicule her sister-in-law for the rigid taboos she had grown up with, 'It's how we are made, sister. There is no sin to it. Why else would we have these feelings if we weren't supposed to have them?'

No sooner had she said that, then Éowyn already regretted it; immediately Lothíriel's face changed, showing a transformation of emotions – first, confusion, then, realisation, then, shock, and then horror. Staring at her with eyes wide open, the fear written in them as clear as the sky, fear that the fault lay with her, fear that she would be incomplete and that there was something wrong with her because apparently she did not find the same joy and pleasure in her husband as he had found with her; it was the fear of being seen as a bad wife, of failing her husband in that regard, and she remembered well that her husband was her king. Éowyn who seemed to sense her fear immediately jumped in to reassure her.

'Do not fear, sister, do not be ashamed. There is nothing wrong with you, even if you have not experienced these feelings yet. The fault is not with you, it is my ass of a brother who should feel shame at having so rudely neglected his duties as a husband.', Lothíriel's brows creased at those words and even more so at the notion that a husband was not infallible; had her father not always told her that her king was her husband and her husband was her king? It was inconceivable for her, not only that a husband was in the wrong, but more so, that a king could be in the wrong – but then again, remembering the incident all those nights ago, she had come to learn that a king was only a man, and that a man was only mortal.

She realised how many things there truly were of which she had no notion and no understanding; she had come into this marriage with little ideas other than her fears, and she had never imagined there to be more for her, but now, her imagination seemed to run wild. She remembered vividly the joy on her husband's face, the stern mask of duty falling to reveal the truest pleasure, and to imagine that she could share that, that she could experience that, and more, that she could be given that by the hands of the husband she so barely knew. It was a strange sensation that made the hairs in her neck stand up; she closed her eyes for a moment to have a vision flash before her eyes, seeing herself locked in sensual embrace with the man she called husband, with nothing but a look of wild abandon on her face.

Lothíriel Queen gasped for air, shaking her head lightly, trying to make the vision disappear and to make the trembling of her body stop. Out of the corners of her eye she saw Éowyn move to stand by the window, opening it, to let in the fresh and cool winter air, and she hoped that it would keep her lustful thoughts hidden from her sister-in-law. She was shocked, scandalised by herself – never would she have believed that of herself, to have such lustful thoughts, and such thoughts of herself and … her husband. She knew by her upbringing that she should feel shame, but remembering Éowyn's words, she wondered – for the first time – what shame there really was in having thoughts such as these? None, a small voice inside of her answered, a voice she had never listened to before. But no, she decided, shaking her head, these were questions for another time.

Using the same trick her sister-in-law had used before, she cleared her throat in the most theatrical fashion to signal that she fervently wished to switch the subject, feeling the current topic becoming too much of a breach of intimacy for her to handle just now, and thus with a cheeky smile she asked, 'Now, what about you, sister shieldmaiden? Are you nervous for your wedding to my cousin Faramir?'

'Not in the slightest.'

Whatever Lothíriel had expected to hear then, it was not that, and she was once more surprised by her sister-in-law's contrariness and her unusual character. Caught off guard and rendered speechless, she realised then that the romantic love the bards in Dol Amroth always used to sing off, the romantic love she would not dare to imagine and that she had given up on long ago, this sort of love really did exist, just not for everyone, only for a lucky few.

'I cannot wait for the day to arrive.', Éowyn continued then, and with her eyes closed and her head tilted back, standing by the open window like some figure of a portrait showing a ladylove and her favoured bard, Lothíriel had a vision of what love could truly be, 'I'm counting the days until I'll see him again, and yet each day seems as long and tedious to me as a life-age.', she sighed, and it was not so much a sound of longing love as it was of annoyance, 'I really cannot understand why my dear hard-headed brother insisted upon this ridiculously long engagement period.'

As Lothíriel watched her sister-in-law, so clearly enraptured in a love as deep as the foundations of the very earth, so completely and utterly content with herself and the world around her, so terribly happy despite all, she felt a pang of some dark emotion pulling at her heart, and had she been a stronger woman, she would have admitted to herself that it was envy – yes, envy for the love her sister-in-law had and that she would never know.

A part of her hated her in that moment, hated her for having all – her sister-in-law had never wanted to find love (at least not the love the bards sang of, but rather a love born out of reverence, as a young green boy might love and worship a hero), and yet she was to have it; and she, who had only ever wanted to be happy, would now be condemned to a life lived without joy. Had her wish really been so outlandish, so unfulfillable? Had she really asked too much? The sheer unfairness she perceived in this, and the deep longing buried inside of her, filled her with the hollow feeling of envy, and yes, a part of her hated her beloved new sister for it. But then again, the other part of her felt truly ashamed for her feelings, for her envy and for her blame – and to be torn between these two parts of her, and these conflicting feelings, it was simply too much; no, she couldn't bear it.

'You really love him, don't you, sister?', Lothíriel tried to suppress the tone of bitterness that stole into her voice, speaking of all those emotions she had sought to bury and deny, but Éowyn, perceptive as the horses her people prided themselves in, seeing through all false guise, did not fail to notice it. Immediately she turned around, trying to read her expression, eyeing her with a gaze that seemed to look right through her.

'I know you hardly knew my brother when you two were wed – were you afraid?'

This time the shieldmaiden spoke with a softness in her voice that seemed so unlike her and yet was only the barest inch of the compassion she held for the people she loved; and as she spoke she re-took her place beside the Princess turned Queen, taking her soft hands in her calloused hands, offering comfort. Lothíriel felt the tears threatening to flow, choked up by her new sister's true show of compassion, already ashamed of her feelings of envy, angry at her own weakness and ingratitude. With a bitter laugh, she tried to brush it off, feeling all the more undeserving of the love and empathy of so true and caring and wonderful a woman as her sister-in-law.

'I was but a child. I knew nothing of men.', she spoke with a hoarse voice then, impatiently brushing away her tears, finding it difficult to speak her true feelings out loud, always trapped by her upbringing as a lady, the expectations to be a dutiful wife, to accept her lot in life, 'Do not think me ungrateful, sister. I know that in so many ways I am blessed: I married well, I found a new home – and a new sister – and I am well provided for. What more could the heart long for?', and while she asked that question, she had already resigned herself to the answer, as her features hardened by a streak of bitterness and she turned away, 'Kindness and respect are the best basis for a marriage anyway.'

Éowyn who watched her sister-in-law turn from her, eyes cast down, head hanging low, her whole posture revealing that she had already given up on any hope for true happiness in her life, and in that moment her heart broke for her. It was then and there that she finally understood the pain and heartfelt compassion, the deep respect tainted by regret, that Faramir had felt for her back then on the walls of Minas Tirith – and she understood at last that pity was not an expression of emotional charity but an expression of compassion and understanding. She wished she had understood it earlier, but she understood it now.

'Oh, sister.', Éowyn whispered then with sad sympathy, taking her new sister's face in her hands, caressing it, slowly bringing her to look at her again, and to brush away the last of her tears, 'I am truly sorry for you.'

'It will get easier in time, I am sure of it. I will learn to adjust, I can manage.', Lothíriel brought forth meekly, as though she were a bird with broken wings who had given up on the dream of flight, resigned to listen to songs of freedom while the other birds flew high. Embarrassed by having allowed herself to break down so completely in front of another, the Queen tried to turn away, to hide her train-stained cheeks, and she was just about to apologise for her pitiful show of weakness, seamlessly reverting back into old habits she had been forced to grow up on, when Éowyn already beat her to it, jumping in with a passion born out of fierce compassion.

'No one should have to accept a life without love or joy.', the anger in the shieldmaiden's voice took her aback, and even more so her passionate demonstration of sympathy. In the society she had grown up in, in the South, undesirable feelings of doubt or despair were usually not shown and were an even greater embarrassment to witness, for they were seen as a sign of weakness and a lack of discipline, a lack of composure. Because of this, she had always held back with her feelings of hopelessness and her thoughts of loneliness, believing them too inappropriate to be shared; and never would she have dared to believe to be met with such open and warm empathy. The sight of it overwhelmed her, and she thought her very heart would burst out of gratefulness for her new sister's words and deeds, and simply for her just being her. She wanted to thank her, but she simply couldn't find the words to express her gratitude, nor did she feel that she could trust her voice.

'I know you're not happy, sister.', Éowyn spoke with a surety then that seemed beyond her years, and continued with a laugh bereft of laughter, 'I know my brother is not happy – although he tries to ignore that.', and then she fell silent again; her brows creasing, eyes glazing over – she was clearly lost in thought, but then, 'But perhaps I can remedy that.'

'What do you mean?', Lothíriel looked up, clearly confused by her sister-in-law's cryptic words, and all of the sudden the dark thoughts and sombre feelings of their conversation seemed forgotten; instead, she now dreaded whatever scheme Éowyn was up to now.

'Only this: perhaps my bullheaded brother is not as uncaring as you think, and only acts so disinterested and withdrawn because he is unsure of how else to act around you. It would not have been the first time my brother acted the shy fool in the presence of a beautiful woman he was unfamiliar with.', Lothíriel stared at her in disbelief, the enthusiasm and conviction of her sister-in-law clearly lost on her; she simply couldn't bring in line the image of the man shy around women with the powerful and intimidating image of the Warrior-King she had come to see him as. She remembered only too well her fear at their chance meeting in the library all those nights ago, and never could she forget her words of judgement, spoken about her husband and king before she had ever met him, he is a warrior and that is all he will ever be, and she feared now that her prediction might have come true. Éowyn who must have read the scepticism on her face went on to defend her point.

'Trust me, Lothíriel, around loud and confident women – women he knows – my brother is as comfortable as a young filly in the Plains of the Mark; but around women he does not know, especially if he knows not how to act around them, especially women of unnatural beauty, because he is afraid he might scare them off, my dear brother is a hopeless case, always making it worse than it already is.', Éowyn made a pregnant pause here, winking at her like the proverbial cat that ate the canary, 'Surely, it takes a strong, sensible woman to handle my brother, sister.'

Remaining sceptic, Lothíriel looked for the right words to express her wariness without seeming unappreciative of her new sister's idea, 'I have always been under the impression that men prefer their women quiet and docile, demure and obedient – not outgoing and outspoken.'

'As true as I am my brother's sister, trust me, I taught him well to value a woman's strength.', the shieldmaiden said with a triumphant laugh but seeing that the shy Queen was still unsure of what to do, she continued, 'Talk to him, Lothíriel, approach him. He will appreciate it, and sooner or later, he will be more considerate towards you and your needs as a person, and as a woman. As for me, I think it's high-time my beloved big brother and I have a serious talk.'

FUN FACT #1: I love embroidery, and in the cold autumn and winter months, in front of the telly, it's my favourite way to keep my fingers busy (so they can't grab any more crisps!).

FUN FACT #2: Unfortunately, sex talk, unsually - and even nowaydays - seldom involves pleasure or consent, only reproduction. I thought I should remedy that. There you have it, now you know why this chapter simply had to happen.