So, here we are, at the turn of the tides (for good or worse in these Corona times ... =0)!
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Lothíriel was still thinking, still lost in thought, still contemplating the words and advice her sister-in-law had given her only a few days ago, while she was busy preparing herself for the night. The advice had sounded so simple, so seemingly easy to put into action – to just talk to him, to open up to him – and yet for her nothing seemed more difficult. She had never been a person who found it easy to approach people directly, and to be forward in her advances, or to engage in conversations of depth and meaning with a person she neither knew nor fully trusted, and with him it seemed even more difficult.
It was not that she feared him. Although in the beginning there had been fear, it had vanished as she had experienced his kindness and respect. It was more that she felt intimidated by him, as he was a man of fierce and grim determination and prowess; she knew him as a warrior capable of great deeds, and of great violence, and she knew him as a man bound to duty, sacrificing himself and his own wishes for the good of his people. He was a man who had seen much and more and who saw easily into the hearts of men, and she often wondered if anyone could withstand his gaze and hold up in his eyes to the standards he set for himself and for others.
She knew she felt herself lacking in his eyes. Éowyn had told her that a great king was in need of a great queen, but the greatness her sister-in-law saw in her was something she would not see herself. After all, who was she, to her husband, or to his people? Only some little Southern princess whose eyes had seen very little of the world, whose father's words and command rang bitter and foreboding in her mind, who feared almost everything, from men to horses to frank speech, and most of all she feared herself – feared to not be able to live up to the expectations of others, or her own, feared to disappoint and to let down. How could someone like that ever be a good Queen to such a good people? How could someone like that ever be a great Queen to such a great King?
She knew she had to be brave and she knew she had to be strong, but having grown up as a princess of the House of Dol Amroth, and having grown up at the courts of the South, strength and bravery had not been the characteristics expected and respected in a true lady. She had been taught to sing and dance, to please and smile – to be a perfect daughter and later a perfect bride, and to represent with perfection the image of an accomplished lady, but no more. Unfortunately, she had already failed at that on those rare occasions when she had dared to break free from her corset of ladylike expectations and limitations.
When she had been too young yet to be considered a lady, she had dared to venture forth in the seafaring spirit of her people and along with her brother, Amrothos, closest to her in age, if not always in spirit, she had mastered almost every boat or ship and sailed them all around the Bay of Belfalas, ever dreaming of bracing the waves of the never ending Great Sea. And later on, while the other ladies had engaged in their intrigue and gossip, planning on ensnaring eligible bachelors of great social standing in their nets, or endured to be married off to men twice or even thrice their age, she had found her true calling in the arts of healing – and had she not been a healer of great skill and in great demand in Minas Tirith when the Greatest City of Men had been under attack? Her father, however, had remained unimpressed by her skills, and more than that, he had been outraged, chiding her that a lady's place was not on a ship steering the wheel, and that a lady's place was not amidst the death and ruin of a city, getting her hands dirty.
Ever since she had been old enough to wear a lady's gown – having outgrown her maiden dresses once her maiden blood had started to flow – her father had not allowed her to forget where a lady's place was, and where her place was supposed to be. No more sailing for her, instead a carriage awaited her, full of other women who were only allowed to talk about the same boring matters; no more racing astride a horse across the beach, instead she was forced into a tight corset under a fine gown, sitting meekly on top a meek mare, squeezed into a fine side-saddle. She had learned to cook and embroider, had learned to dance and sing to the tune dictated to her, had learned her histories and lore, so she could recite them at a moment's need.
Over time she had learned to use her appearance as a weapon, for it was the only weapon she was allowed to wield. And though her tongue and mind had been sharpened through hours of partaking in verbal sparring duels, as though they were her whet stones, her verbal sparring partners had been the other ladies of the court only, and their morsels of gossip, for in the presence of other lords and gentlemen her lord father had discouraged her from sharp or witty speech, believing her as a princess of Dol Amroth to be above such idle womanish fancies.
All in all, because of her sex, she had been excluded from any real physical activity, and had been excluded from any real exertion of her intellect. Oh, yes, sure, she had had an extensive education in matters of history, politics, economics, philosophy, literature, art and mathematics, but only insofar it would allow her to run a household with success or to not appear dimwitted in upper-class conversations, and it was never meant for her to actually exert real influence or wield real, strong power.
But here in the Riddermark, in contrast to the courts of the South, queens were meant to be partners to a king, and not just the royal mares that bore royal foals; here, she had to show the strength and will to lead, and not just to follow. But how could she ever be expected to succeed in something she had been barred and discouraged from all her life? With time and with learning, a small voice inside her answered, and she knew that voice, for she had heard it before, in her childhood, in her time as a healer, and now again through her conversations with her sister-in-law. Truly, it was an easy feat to learn the language (at least, that's what she hoped!) and to memorise the different counties and laws and ways this country was run, but it was quite another thing to actually act on it: to converse freely and frankly with those strangers around her and to take the reins of power at her husband's side, to step in when he was absent and to lead these people, her people, with the strength and wisdom expected of a leader and a ruler.
All in all, she knew it would be hard work for her to become a great queen to such a great king, and though she was willing, she was also uncertain. She knew she had the support and belief of her sister-in-law, but she was not so sure when it came to her husband. Did he support her efforts of grooming herself for her role of the Queen of the Riddermark? Or did he merely appreciate her trying to learn the language and mechanisms of his country, smiling as if it were a passing fancy of little consequence? Or did he even dislike her new interests, seeing it as a Southerner preparing to intrude in Northern business, or even a woman meddling in the affairs of men? It was as impossible to discern his thoughts on her interests and efforts as it was to deduce his thoughts on her in general; granted, she knew that he appreciated her as a wife when it came to … to her appearance, but apart from that, his wild green eyes gave away nothing. He was simply as unreadable to her as those books and scrolls written in a language she had little hope of ever mastering.
Lothíriel uttered a sigh that spoke of her heavy heart and she resumed to brush out her hair.
But while the Queen of the Riddermark was busy with her nightly preparations and her troubled thoughts, she did not notice the King of the Riddermark stealing himself into their chambers. Éomer opened and closed the door with care, slipping inside, keeping her unawares of his presence, and one might have been easily led to believe that his cause for such stealth was to not disturb his lady-wife in thoughts or sleep, but it was not so. Under his left arm, carefully hidden from sight, a stack of books and scrolls was pinned, and he now sought to tiptoe past his wife to more or less secretly place them on top of the bed, but he was not quite so lucky. Although he possessed the grace and stealth of a mighty warrior, he was more a soldier than an assassin, suited for open battle rather than secrecy and surprise, and thus his presence did not remain unknown for long.
Éomer had only just started to descend down the two steps leading to the sleeping area of their chambers when his young wife seemed to sense him and turned around, startled as usual, staring at him with eyes as large as the ocean she seemed to have called home. It seemed that the King of the Riddermark would have been found out, now and then, had it not been for his quick reflexes, hiding the stack of books behind his back, as quick as the horses who seemed to run in his very blood. And although his wife did not miss that he tried to hide something from her, she was too shy yet, and too well-bred, to inquire further. Instead, she averted her gaze, as usual, trying to escape his piercing eyes, and resumed her nightly preparations, and he could sense more than he could see how she physically shied away from him as he descended the steps to walk over to the bed.
The king of the Riddermark sighed, and he was not sure whether it was the relief of not having his secret spoiled just yet, or whether it was the disappointment and regret of his wife still shying away from him, or perhaps it was a bit of both. In that moment the wild horses of the northern plains of the Riddermark came to his mind, and he almost dared to liken those animals shy of contact to his wife, but then again, those beasts did not shy away out of fear but out of choice; his wife did fear him, and she did shy away because of that fear.
A part of him, surely, could understand her sentiment, after all, he was an intimidating man. He talked little and he smiled even less, if ever – not a very enticing or socialising characteristic. Of course, that hadn't always been the case. He vaguely remembered a time when he had been happy, remembering happy afternoons spent grooming a pony together with his sister, or an evening listening to his father's warrior tales, his mother humming along with it, always a smile waiting to spring onto her lips. But after his father had been killed there were no more smiles. He remembered his sister crying in confusion, too young yet to understand the finality and dread of death, what it meant that their father would never come home again. He remembered his mother crying, and after the crying she had become quiet, staring into nothingness, with life barely holding on to her – death, at that point, had been a mere formality.
After that, there hadn't been much reason for smiles in his life. But instead of allowing grief to conquer him, he had sought refuge in his training. From then on, riding and practice with sword and spear had determined his days, and between that and his studies of warfare strategies and basic economics he had had little time to waste thoughts on either sadness or happiness. He knew he was content. After the passing of his parents, he and Éowyn had come to live with his uncle and under the tutelage of the king he had fulfilled his life-long dream of stepping into his father's footsteps and becoming a Marshall of the Riddermark. He had wanted no more; he had been content. Serving his king, serving the Mark, scouting this country that he loved in the brotherhood he had found among his éored, it was all he had wanted, and fame or riches had been as meaningless to him as power or influence. Yes, he had been content; not happy, perhaps, but content.
All of that had changed, however, when his cousin Théodred had been slain, and once again he had been torn from his comfort zone and thrown into the chaos. Théodred had always been the heir, and he had always been groomed as such. Éomer, however, had never had the makings of a king: he hated endless talks about politics, more comfortable in making decisions on the battlefield than in a throne room, more comfortable on the back of a horse than the seat of a throne. And yet, he had been compelled to take a responsibility which he believed himself unfit to bear. But it could not be helped, and for this country that he loved he would bear almost anything.
However now it almost seemed more than he could possibly bear: constant worry had weighed down on him, doubt troubled him and despair ate away at the strength he sought to show. He knew he was not the king everyone expected him to be – after almost two years the Riddermark had still not recovered from the shadows of war, and though the people looked to him for guidance, he could see it in their eyes that their hope and trust faded. And even his sister, though angry over having to prolong her engagement, had remained with him longer and longer, trying to help him run the country, trying to help him become the king they needed, and yet, even she seemed doubtful enough to push him towards a union with a woman coming from a line of stout politicians and princes.
A great king is in need of a great queen, she had told him back then, and as she was wont to remind him again and again, but obviously that idea had not come to fruition as that wife of his seemed scared of her very own shadow. But then again, a sheltered young woman leaving her home to live in a strange country with a stranger was expected to be scared, especially if that stranger of a husband talked little, smiled less and seemed an overall grim man with grimmer thoughts and grimmer antics.
Éomer still shuddered in shame when he thought of the incident in the library.
Usually he stayed away from alcohol, detesting the loss of control, but that night he had sought to drown his sorrows, troubles and doubts in it, despairing over the fact that while the House of Eorl only might come to an end under his reign, his country very well would. Back then he couldn't understand why she of all people had come to the library in the middle of the night, daring to witness his weakness and shame, and his dizzy, mead-fused mind had snapped in anger, shouting at her, pushing her, and shocking her when he had allowed himself to break down in front of her, if only for a moment. He remembered the look on her face; yes, she had feared him then, but even worse than that, she had pitied him. And while Éomer might not be a vain or arrogant man, he was proud, and pity was the one thing he could not bear, and thus he had refused to bring up the incident, refused to talk to his wife about it, hoping it would be forgotten, and, judging from his wife's behaviour, she, apparently, had hoped for the same thing.
Of course, it was only later that he learned why she had come to the library in the first place, in the middle of the night, and perhaps, if he had talked to his wife more often instead of ignoring her he would have found out a lot sooner that it was only a question of time until a book-lover like her would seek out the library of the Golden Hall. Put to shame by his abysmal neglect and his drunken behaviour he had sought to make up for it but he had never been a talker, and sure enough he had talked himself into the next blunder.
And there he was now, his head still reeling from the painful slap on the back of his head that he had received from his sister as she had cornered him a few days ago, to give him a stern talking-to for ignoring his wife's needs, as she had called it, hammering into him (and quite literally at that!) that he had to start treating her and her interest with some semblance of concern at least. A horse needs to run free once in a while, otherwise it will wither away, she had said, he thought bitterly, suppressing a humourless laugh. It had been no good trying to tell his sister that his wife was neither a horse nor interested, as it would seem, in ever running free or leaving the Hall of Meduseld. Show some interest; if she likes to read, give her books, she had advised – of course, finding books was the easiest thing among a people who were famed for their songs, not for their writing. But in the end he had complied, because, despite all her nagging, his sister was right, as she usually was. Of course, his sweet sister had given him some other advise too, but he shuddered just to think about it and instead steered his thoughts back to the present, task at hand.
And thus it was now that he found himself heading towards the marriage bed, with a stack of books and scrolls pinned under his arms, meaning to place them on the sheets with as much discretion as he had left. He imagined himself to be stealthy, he imagined himself to be inconspicuous, but then again, he didn't grow up in the courts of the South, he had never been groomed in the arts of secrecy, and his idea of subtlety was a series of grunts and head gestures. Needless to say his gift-bearing did not remain unnoticed for long.
As soon as he had placed the bundle on the bed he turned around; he sought to distance himself from it, to turn around and pretend the stack had nothing to do with him, as though anyone would believe the books and scrolls had simply appeared out of thin air; but, unfortunately, he was once again met with the blueish grey eyes of his wife, now tightened in suspicion and curiosity. Of course, he could have addressed the issue right then and there, it being the most direct approach, but that would have required words to be spoken, and he was not a great talker, after all. Hence, Éomer, king of the Riddermark, simply shirked from her questioning glance and turned to a stool to undress himself, leaving her to unravel the secret for herself.
That was not to say that he was not desperate to witness her reaction or that he did not watch her every step as she stopped brushing her hair and slowly went over to the bed, intrigued, now that it was safe since she believed her husband and king was no longer directly gazing at her. Éomer noticed that she was hesitant (once she had stopped before the bed) to actually touch the stack of books, as though unsure whether it was really there, or whether it was just an imagination. As she stretched out her hand at last, her fingers halted for a second, just a second, before finally reaching the bundled stack.
Éomer halted in his undressing, fully captivated by the expression of pure wonder that radiated from her; the way her fingers gently touched the covers of the books, caressing them with a reverence he had not witnessed before; the way she undid the bindings that held the books together, as though they were already precious to her beyond reason. And when she picked up the thin books one by one at last, handling them with utmost care, the king could see an expression of such tender devotion in his wife's face as he had never seen before, and a part of him felt almost jealous of the affection she bore those scribbled pages, and he wondered then what it would actually feel like to be at the receiving end of her affection.
Granted, he had never been a man craving for a woman's love; he had left those daydreams to the bards, to the green boys and gentlemen, while he engaged in more earthly relations. And yet, now, watching her, seeing her as the lovely creature she was, capable of great devotion and affection, he could not but feel that she deserved to be loved and to share the love she had, and he so wished that he could be the one to show her this affection and to receive her affection in return. But alas, he knew that was a dangerous path to follow – for as sweet as love was, it was also bitter as steel, and he had seen first hand how terrible it was to love something that death could touch, and though he doubted not that he was a stronger person than his mother, he knew that love could weaken even the strongest man. And a king could not allow himself to be weak. But even the mightiest king could dream, could he not? And even the mightiest king was only a man.
'I don't understand.'
With that Éomer king was torn out of his thoughts, remembering where he was, becoming aware of his hands being frozen in the process of undressing himself, and his young wife staring at him with eyes wide, opened in confusion, with the very objects in her hands that had been the cause of her confusion. Clearing his throat rather theatrically, he tried to diffuse the tension as he saw his young queen lowering her eyes, blushing, having now become aware of his beginning state of undress, too. He loosened his sword-belt, putting it away, starting to take off his waistcoat, and then his shirt; doing everything, just so that he wouldn't have to meet her eyes as he spoke.
'Since my lady complained about the lack of books I thought it best to take matters into my own hands.', he said quietly, trying to speak with a tone that sought to cover the fact that he had tried to please her, but the truth was hard to cover up, and he knew it, feeling himself becoming flustered, seemingly unable to find the right words, oblivious that words were not necessary, 'Most of those books are about healing and herb lore … my sister mentioned your interest in such things … '.
Éomer fell silent abruptly when he turned around: his wife stood right before him, one of the little books still clutched in her hands, looking at him with those deep blue eyes, eyes he thought to drown in. He was acutely aware in that moment of two things: first, he realised that he was clad only in his breeches, having thrown off his shirt without remembering it, and secondly, he realised how close they truly were, close enough to see the grey in the blue of her eyes. He felt himself swallowing hard, his Adam's apple jumping tensely as he was looking for the words he seemed to have lost along the way.
'Not all of them are in the common tongue, unfortunately …', he mumbled awkwardly, unsure of how to respond to her approaching him, '… but I thought that could help – I mean, if you do learn my language, I thought it could, I mean, I thought I could help … like that …', he stammered on, losing himself in needless explanations that clouded up more than it really cleared up, cursing himself for the mess he was making of it all, 'It's nothing of note … '.
'It means the world to me.', she cut him off then, and the deep sincerity in her voice was all it took to render him speechless, and when he finally allowed himself to look at her – to really look at her – he could see the affectionate gratitude in her eyes and a smile of shy but true warmth spread on her summer lips (lips he fought hard not to kiss then and there and frighten her off), and for a moment he thought he forgot how to breathe.
'Thank you … Éomer.', she added and at that he was sure his heart skipped a beat.
Never had his name sounded so sweet, and to hear her say it, after so many weeks of respectful distance, it made it sound all the sweeter. And when she took his hand then, and her delicate fingers grasped his large paws with such careful touch, he felt his heart overflow with some strange emotion at this small but significant gesture of advance. Yes, even a king was only a man, and any man could dream. So that's what it felt like, a voice inside him whispered then, to love and to be loved in return.
FUN FACT #1: I am quite the bookworm. The first book I ever read was The Animals of Farthing Wood - by closer inspection literature a little too graphic for children, but hey, the nineties! So, what's the first book you ever read? And what's the book you're reading right now? (For me: Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker)
FUN FACT #2: Relationship milestone! Lothíriel addressed her husband by his name for the very first time! *YAY!*
FUN FACT #3: So, yeah, in my characterisation Lothíriel knows how to sail - and you can bet we'll be utilising that later on. Picture it: Éomer. Boat. Waves. Landlubber.