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7. Manners maketh woman

The light of the February afternoon sun, that shone unusually bright and soft through the window, illuminated the royal chambers and the three women within in a tender and warm light, and Lothíriel Queen could not but smile at the two sister handmaidens that sat left and right of her. Madlen, always the respectful older sister, attended her embroidery with a sense of duty unrivalled by any soldier, while her younger sister Aida had yawned her way through most of the embroidery session, wholly unaware that the white horse upon green she had meant to stitch upon the cloth in her hands resembled more a fat cow than the noble steed representing the emblem of the house of Eorl.

As for herself, Lothíriel had only just finished upgrading one of her light blue Southern gowns to a dress fit for a Northern queen, and now she inspected the fabric between her fingers. And as she held it up into the light, in the warm glow of the afternoon sun, the green of the warm wool dress that she had sewn beneath her own light blue gossamer gown bestowed a shimmering turquoise touch to the dress, and the sight left her thinking.

Just a few days ago, Madlen had sent Aida down to the market in Auld Town to get a bunch of new but simple woollen dresses for the queen, and all of them in the colours of green and white and brown, for them to sew underneath the queen's own light gowns from the South. Together with both sisters she had chosen then which warm underdress to use for which upper gown, and some dresses and colours fit better than others, as they had come to learn. Blues and browns did not mix well, but her grey gowns mixed well with the new white woollen dresses, and underneath her fine black fabrics the muddy brown wool gave the airy Southern gown an earthy feel and look to it.

But trickiest of all, proved her blue gowns that she meant to stitch together with some green woollen dresses – she knew well, as the queen of the Mark green was the obligatory colour, and yet she shied away from presenting herself so openly in a colour of the earth as she was a maiden of the sea and the colours of blue had clothed her all her life. Thus, she had chosen only a handful of her blue sea-gowns to be mixed with the woollen green dresses of the earth of the Mark, showing with her style that while she was not yet fully rooted in this new land, she also no longer belonged only to the sea. But some of her rich blue gowns, well, some of them she simply could not stand to have succumb to and be used for this new life of hers, some of them – like the light blue dress she had worn for her brother Elphir's wedding, or the dark-blue lacy gown she had worn for her aunt Ivriniel's third husband's funeral – she chose to keep for herself, if not for wearing then at least for remembering.

Lothíriel was pulled out of her thoughts then when Madlen chided her younger sister sternly after young Aida had fallen asleep for only a second and dared to disturb the serene silence with some very loud and very unladylike snoring, prompting dutiful Madlen to fall into a proud and seemingly endless tirade on proper manners and behaviour which her younger sister Aida barely registered and only graced with a handful of hearty yawns. The queen smiled at the picture of the older sister masking her caring streak and motherly touch with her never-ending reminders of propriety and etiquette, while the younger sister seemed all but oblivious to how much her elder sibling cared for her or much the young woman unconsciously craved the motherly care of her older sister.

'It's a pity the lady Éowyn couldn't join us today. Wedding preparations, I believe, have kept her busy.', Lothíriel spoke then in order to break the silence of the embroidery chamber with a more decent sound than Aida's snoring, hoping to engage both sisters in a conversation to pass the time and task at hand more enjoyably. At her words the two sisters, who couldn't be more different, reacted also very differently. Aida's face brightened, joy and excitement taking hold of her whole posture, and it was unmistakable how much the young handmaiden idolised the shieldmaiden, as much as she idolised and craved all things that were different to her dreary and never-changing everyday life. Madlen, however (who had refused to believe her mistress when she had been told earlier that Éowyn had meant to attend their embroidery session), only rolled her eyes and snorted with barely veiled contempt, her own standards of propriety very unmistakably taking offence at the shieldmaiden's seeming lack of said propriety.

'Yes, what a pity the lady Éowyn couldn't join us. I bet those wedding preparations had four legs and a mane.', Madlen sneered quietly, returning to her embroidery: a handkerchief for her mistress she wished to embellish with the words of the House of Eorl, Ride with honour. Aida, who for all her childish nonsense still picked up on her older sister's sarcastic tone as well as any dame at court would, growled lowly in her throat, angry at the contempt her sister dared to pour over the young handmaiden's idol, and lucky for her Madlen didn't notice her unladylike scowl and subsequently Aida was spared one of her many scoldings.

'I dare say it's a pity Éowyn's not here.', Aida said with strong emphasis, mostly, if not only, to further aggravate her older sister who only rolled her eyes and shook her head, too proper, too grown-up, to allow herself to be baited by her younger sister's words, and instead kept focused on her work. Aida, although more or less disappointed with her failure in baiting her sister, went on nevertheless, and the growing enthusiasm in her voice was quite addictive, 'If she were here, she could tell us all these amazing stories. Of how she defended our women in the Glittering Caves. Or how she knocked our Lord out of his saddle when he was still a boy. Or how she fought that devil-beast in front of the gates of Mundberg – '

'Aida, you have heard that story over a thousand times by now! How can you still not have enough of it?!', Madlen chimed in then all of the sudden, and it was clear that all of her sister's talking had not passed her by unnoticed, despite all her efforts to ignore her out of spite, but as it would seem, annoyance had finally outweighed defiance.

'Well, it's a good story.', the younger sister said with an air of acted innocence, and one could see just how hard she fought not to grin from ear to ear at having succeeded in having her older sibling take her bait and engage her older sister in a talk, despite Madlen's unspoken resolve to ignore her sister's talking. Madlen, meeting her sister's gaze, knew very well that she had been defeated by her younger sibling, and her obvious anger over that made her forget her good manners and prized propriety for a moment and had her answer with the simple anger of an outsmarted young girl, 'Well, alas! But the shieldmaiden is not here, so whether you like it or not, there will be no grand stories told here today. Alas, more's the pity!'

'Perhaps.', Aida said simply, her eyes shining brightly with delight at having succeeded in getting under her older sister's skin once more, rattling her cage of finesse and etiquette, before she turned to her queen and mistress with obvious mischief in her eyes, and Lothíriel, partly taken by surprise, partly infected with her young handmaiden's excitement, felt an old giddiness take hold of her once more that she had thought to have lost such a long time ago, 'But perhaps our queen will entertain us with a story or two from the South.'

'Well, I do not have any exciting tales of battles or brawns.', Lothíriel said slowly, back-peddling, carefully, gingerly trying to temper her young maidservant's fervent hopes, all the while being aware of the older sister's expectant gaze, looking for the very image of propriety she tended to idolise her as. With a sigh, and a soft smile, the queen looked from sister to sister, as though caught between the two sides of her very soul – the girl that thrashed against the current of her life like a wild salmon up a stream, and the lady that knew her place with every tone and move and gesture – and decided that it would be impossible to choose which sister to make happy just as much as it was impossible to choose which part of herself she should listen to. And thus, as so often in her life, she chose to tread the middle ground.

'But I do have some stories to tell about journeys across waters never-ending, waterfalls that flow backwards, knights riding into battle on horses with tails like fish. And I could recite you ballads about honourable knights rescuing their ladylove from thieves in the desert, mermaids who cut their tails into legs to follow their lovers onto the dreary shores, and clever princesses who outsmarted the wisest princes and mightiest lords. Are those the kind of stories you would like to hear?', out of breath, nearly choking on her own excitement, stopping herself short from talking herself into a frenzy, Lothíriel looked from sister to sister, and when she saw none of the apprehension she had feared, she leaned back in her chair, picked up her own embroidery and began to talk.

Over the course of the afternoon she told the two sisters story after story; some of them fairy tales from her own childhood, told by her own mother each and every single night before she had died; some of them ballads she had heard sung by the bards and singers in the Harper's Court in Dol Amroth; some of them tales from the hundreds of books she had read in her youth; and some stories were fables with clever lessons to learn from and others were tales with happy endings or endings to cry your heart out to. And Lothíriel realised that she had truly missed this – the company of women, this companionship of women, the air of storytelling enriching everyday chores with mirth and ease, and each story brought with it old memories of female friends she had left behind, and new friends she may have come to find.

One story she told them was the story of the Waterdaughter, and this one had always been her favourite, and only after she had left her home had she truly understood the longing for the sea that this story told of, and that her people were famed for. In the story it was told that Eaulis Nenniel was a mermaid who fell in love with a fisherman by the name of Ceven, and for him alone did she leave the sea, cutting her beautiful fishtail into two pretty little legs, and though every step upon the earth was like walking upon knives, she danced, for she imagined herself happy, for she was in love. But ever did she long for the sea, and ever did she hear her father, Ulmo, God of the Sea, weep for her loss, beckoning her to return home, and when one day her longing became too great, she took but a step into the shallow waters of the beach, and the waves pulled her back into the sea. And as the woman turned into a mermaid again, and her legs became a fishtail once more, she called out to her lover who followed her call of desperate longing and took his boat out to the sea, but he did not heed the storm her father sent in his wrath and was drowned, and it was said that the tears of that poor mermaid had turned the Sundering Sea salty and it was the story of these two unlucky lovers that gave the ocean it's fateful name.

Another story she told them was the fabled tale of the beginnings of her own house, the fair and noble House of Dol Amroth, and it was as sad a story as the tale of the woeful Elven lady Nimrodel who had lost her beloved to the sea, as the story of her house had always been closely woven into the sorrows of the Elves that had journeyed to the West. In that tale it was told that in the company of Nimrodel rode a fair Elven lady by the name of Mithrellas who together with her mistress meant to travel to the Southern havens to take the ship into the West but it was said that on her way there she became lost in the woods of Dor-en-Ernil. It was none other than Lothíriel's own ancestor, Imrazôr the Númenórean, who found her in the woods, and quickly took her as his bride. But even though she bore him two children, and her love for her family was greater than the Great Sea itself, her heart ever longed for the sea once she had laid eyes on it, and one day she vanished, as though the very tide had stolen her away, never to be seen again.

'Milady, all your stories are as grim and blue as the sea!', Aida chimed in all of the sudden, pulling all of them out of the moment of storytelling, and the young handmaiden was laughing with tears in her eyes, clearly touched by the heartbreak of her mistress' stories, but also clearly amused by their seriously melancholic natures too, 'Don't you know any love stories with a happy ending?'

'Aida!', her older sister chided then, rolling her eyes over her sister's impulsive streak, throwing her hands up in a gesture of defeat and resignation, rising and slowly walking over to her, shaking her head, an almost pained expression grimacing her young and far too serious face. Madlen, perhaps because she was older, or perhaps because that was just her serious and compassionate nature, was far more intuitive in those regards, and easily picked up on her lady's own longing for her home by the sea through all the stories she had shared with them, and was clearly mortified at her sister's blunt crudeness, 'How can you be so insensitive all the time!'

'But it's true! It's always never-ending, death-defying love … that ends with one of them dying! How can anyone stand to be so melodramatic all the time!', Aida continued, laughing still as she spoke, and her words of defence barely intelligible through her laughter. Her sister standing next to her had already opened her mouth to chide her sister once more when the queen spoke up in defence of her Southern tales, clearly amused by the two sister's banter, but also melancholic and thoughtful, and a sad smile graced her lips, 'It's not love as we know it, it's the love of dreams and hopes and fears. In real life, love is much simpler, much less honourable and grand, and much less real.'

'So … you don't believe in love, milady?', Aida asked with a mischievous grin, poking her nose in matters again that were none of her business, clearly up to no good. Madlen who noticed the direction her sister's questioning was taking, boxed her quickly in the side with one of her sharp elbows, widening her eyes with a warning glare, but it was already too late and Aida, who rubbed her side, and Madlen, who shot her daggers with her glare, looked up as Lothíriel spoke then, for the queen had already walked into that trap, 'I wouldn't know, dear Aida, I've never been in love.'

For a very long moment only awkward silence could be heard, as Lothíriel froze in realisation, slowly but certainly perceiving the scandalous nature of her words and their implications. Of course, no half-way reasonable person would expect declarations of love from a political marriage, but at court what was said and what was the truth, was usually kept rigorously separate as per code of conduct, and even if the word love was not meant, it still had to be claimed. Thus the queen felt shocked by her own carelessness, but even more so Madlen, as the handmaiden stood there, trembling lip and wide eyes and all, all her illusions of a perfect lady with perfect manners and perfect poise shattered. Aida meanwhile looked like the proverbial cat that ate the canaries, eyes bright with glee, lips grinning from ear to ear, hands clasped in front of her mouth to suppress the chuckles that were sure to come.

'E-excuse me, milady, we have already taken up too much of your time.', Madlen spoke quickly then, almost stumbling over her own words, as she fumbled to grab her little sister by the hand, half pulling her with her, half shoving her towards the door, and Aida could only chuckle weak defences against her older sister's mumbled accusations, 'And I do think my sister is in dire need of refreshing her manners.'

'What?! What did I do? I didn't do anything!', Aida protested between fits of laughter while her older sister literally tried to push her out of the door.

'Oh, don't pretend, Miss-How-can-I-put-my-foot-even-further-in-my-mouth! You know exactly what you did!', Madlen insisted with her pure poison in her tongue, trying to gather their embroidery hoops and cloths and fabrics, hopelessly mixing them and dropping them in her infuriated state as she sought to prevent her younger sister from re-entering the royal chambers.

'Oh, do tell me, Miss-manners-maketh-woman, what did I do wrong this time?'

Lothíriel listened to the sisters bicker on and on, and even after both had left the royal chamber and the door had been shut fast, she heard their clamouring, all along the halls of Meduseld. But even though she smiled at the amusement it brought her, she could not but chide herself inwardly for committing this blunder, for letting her guard down so senselessly. True, Meduseld would be considerate crude and blunt in comparison to the courts of the South, lacking the distinct finesse of the nuanced game of intrigue, but it still adhered to the same standards of courteous conduct, unspoken rules that needed to be followed word by word, images that had to be upheld, if only for the image's sake, with masks that became faces and faces that became masks. And as the queen looked down upon the fabric between her fingers, blue that tried to turn to green and got caught in-between, she wondered then whether she would hide behind her mask or show her face?

'Lothíriel, are you sure this is absolutely necessary? Because I'm sure I look as ridiculous as I feel.'

The queen smiled more to herself than to the outside world as she watched her sister-in-law walk down the hall of Meduseld with long, striding steps, the book on top of her head that she was supposed to balance with a mixture of grace and poise swaying dangerously like a ship caught between the winds and the waves. But, truth be told, the shieldmaiden was right, she did look rather ridiculous, though whether it was the exercise in and of itself that was the cause of that, or whether her new sister's lack of motivation played into it, she could not rightly say.

'Éowyn, you don't look ridiculous at all.', Lothíriel spoke then, lying with the skills of a snake slithering and coiling through the hot, rough sands of the deserts of the Far Harad, as the book crashed to the floors once more, leaving the shieldmaiden to growl in annoyance and anger, cursing under her breath, luckily so quietly that Lothíriel could pretend not to hear it, and instead moved to pick up the light volume of Southern poems, one of the few dear possessions she had brought from her home by the sea, 'All you need is a little practise.'

'You do it then, if it's so easy.', the shieldmaiden spoke then between grinding teeth, the haughty sneer reminding Lothíriel that despite her high standards of honour and integrity, Éowyn was still a woman and was still human, and to be reminded that there were things she could not do, well, it infuriated her like everybody else. With a knowing smile, the queen put the little volume on top of her own head and proceeded to slowly walk the aisle of the hall of Meduseld up and down, and although her whole body swayed back and forth in rhythm with her strides, the book stayed completely still and calm.

'There, easy.', Lothíriel concluded with a sweet smile that was a little too smug for her own good, but then again, in this new country of hers she so seldom was so completely in her element that she had to savour every little bit of moment when she at last did. So, for now, she forwent all ladylike caution and basked in her own unrivalled skills, even if that made her seem a little too haughty and vain. Taking the book down from her head she passed it from hand to hand, playing around with it absent-mindedly, as Éowyn snorted, surprised and more than a little amused by the cocky behaviour her usually so composed sister-in-law displayed here.

'It looks so easy when you do it.', Éowyn countered, arms folded in front of her chest in a gesture of defiance, although in the same breath admitting (albeit unwillingly) that the strict and formal etiquette of the South, with their adherence to grace and poise rather than pride and honour, proved to be a rather hard subject for her to adept to. The North had always put weight on different manners of social conduct, favouring the noble and simple elegance of truth and integrity over charms and propriety. Here, in the Mark, she had been considered a lady; perhaps not for her curtseys or social graces, but for her noble bearing, her proud love for her country and their ways, her steadfast convictions. But none of that would do her much good in the South, the shieldmaiden mused bitterly, and this had been a realisation that had been dawning on her more and more ever since her sister-in-law had offered to give her another crash course in 'Southern manners', as she had put it.

After her first few failed lessons (an embroidery session a week ago came to her mind), the shieldmaiden undoubtedly had needed more than a bit of persuasion, and even now, that charmingly Southern persuasion of her sweet sister-in-law slowly but surely was wearing off once again. But for better or worse, Éowyn had challenged herself to master the manners of the South, and if nothing else would do it, the bait of the challenge had always been enough to keep her hooked.

'Well, it is easy, if you know how to do it.', Lothíriel insisted, all of her smug smirking gone, instead she wore this intense expression again, somewhere between pride, trust and support, as though the queen had never doubted for a second that even an unladylike woman like her sister-in-law could master the feminine wiles of the South, as though the queen truly believed in this companionship of women she had daydreamed about to her earlier. Walking up to her new sister, Lothíriel put the little book on top the shieldmaiden's head, a warm little smile decorating her lips, befitting a mother watching with pride the first steps of her daughter, 'Remember, it's not about strength or purpose, it's about grace – you're not supposed to be walking in forceful strides down this aisle, you're supposed to be floating along it with the purpose of a feather carried by the wind.'

'A feather carried by the wind does not have any purpose, Lothíriel.'

'As far as we know.', the queen countered quietly, making light of her new sister's protests while she slowly rounded her to stand behind her, and the shieldmaiden rolled her eyes and shook her head at the lady's jab, but that was all she could do, and Éowyn uttered a defeated sigh, knowing full well that all her evasive tricks would not spare her from having to attempt this all over again, and thus she lifted her head in a sign of determination. Behind her she could feel her sister-in-law take her wrists and help her spread out her arms, to further help her keep her balance, her summer lips blowing soft sea air against her neck as she spoke with the sultry tone of sultry southern days.

'Imagine yourself on top of a horse, feel its movement, adapt to it, move with it, not against it – allow its movement to pull you along, surrender to it.', Éowyn closed her eyes, breathing in, breathing out, as shivers prickled her skin, images flashing before her eyes, and as her sister-in-law slowly, softly let go of her wrists, the shieldmaiden felt the absence of it like rocks weighing her down, but as the lady behind her spoke once more, the warm voice lifted her up to unknown heights, and she felt light and heady, 'Now walk.'

Lothíriel smiled at the comparison; for herself she had always thought of the waves of her beloved sea carrying herself back and forth, tide in, tide out, but with her sister-in-law allegories closer to home had to be picked, and as she saw the shieldmaiden slowly but surely allow the imagery to take hold and manifest in changes in her style of walking she knew she had succeeded. Whoever said that a woman from the North knew not how to be a lady from the South clearly had underestimated the clever wiles of a clever teacher.

'Lovely!', Lothíriel called out, half-laughing, half-smiling, clapping cheerfully and encouragingly, as the shieldmaiden rounded the hearth and slowly and elegantly made her way back to her, head held high, back straight, steps seemingly floating upon air – a picture of ladylike serenity. When Éowyn stopped in front her, however, she simply took the book from her head and bowed – not a lady's curtsey, mind you, but a noble man's bow: bent posture, drawn-back leg, outstretched arm and all. The queen squealed in delight and clapped once more, delighted in her amusement, but curious in her apprehension.

'Well, I would say, we have our next lesson cut out for us.'

'Oh, really?!', Éowyn smirked sceptically as she straightened again, her eyebrows raised in question, and there was just an expression in her gaze that screamed challenge – well, two could play this game, 'First, you criticize my gait – '

'I wasn't criticizing, I was merely advising.'

'Is that what you Southern ladies call a euphemism?', the shieldmaiden laughed strategically, and Lothíriel felt thrilled by that laughter, a sound low and sultry, rich with a lust for life that was infectious, seductive even, and she could easily see now why her cousin Faramir was so infatuated by this woman from the North, 'You said – and I quote – my way of walking resembled the elegance of a horse trotting across the Northern plain.'

'I thought you Rohirrim worship horses.'

'And now, she's evading. Is that what you Southern ladies call a conversation?', Éowyn smiled, shaking her head, gazing at her sister-in-law with a mixture of respect and annoyance before putting the book of Southern poems on a nearby table. Turning around she saw her new sister looking at her; her expression calm, though the smile of her lips was a little too challenging to be considerate proper, but by the way she stood straight and poised, hands neatly fold in front of her she seemed all the perfect lady she wished to appear as. It would be infuriating, really, if it weren't so bloody entertaining.

'You know I still don't quite understand why I have to re-learn how to walk and talk – and apparently how to curtsey – when I know how to do all of these things. I am a lady, just like you. I mean, well, I can be, if I want to – but I am also a shieldmaiden. I'm not going to hide that I'm a strong, independent woman who can think and fight for herself.'

Lothíriel smiled, nodding slowly, but as she mused about her new sister's idea of a strong woman, she could not but entertain bitter thoughts and bitter offences, since for the shieldmaiden only the warrior woman seemed an example of strength, but the queen knew that there were many different forms of strength among women, just as it was for men. In fact, in her life she had known very few women not to possess some strength, sometimes in spite of and sometimes even because of their position as women. And Lothíriel remembered her aunt Ivriniel, too, who had been married no less than three times but despite no child ever being born and none of her husbands living too long, she had somehow managed to outsmart the smartest laws of inheritance in the South. Apart from her, it had been unheard of that any woman would inherit title, lands and wealth of all of their late husbands, when usually it all went to the family, or to the children, or back to the crown.

'Yes, I'm a strong, independent woman, and I would like for my manners to reflect that.', Éowyn repeated once more with emphasis, concluding a flaming speech in which she had detailed all the many facets of her strength superior to other women, and very effectively pulling Lothíriel out of her own thoughts. The queen looked at her sister-in-law with watchful eyes, appraising her defensive posture, the way she stood there: arms akimbo, stance widened, chin lifted so high she wondered whether the White Lady of Rohan could still see beyond the tip of her own nose any more.

'You're a shieldmaiden, I get it.', Lothíriel said poignantly, sighing heavily, and her hands seemingly folded themselves together neatly before her as she instinctively fell into a teaching position, 'You know how to fight, you know how to defend and how to attack, you know how to best any man in combat – I get it.', and here she paused to breathe in deeply, to let those spoken words echo in their minds, to remind them so well of what it was that this shieldmaiden was truly capable of, to put even more emphasis on these words still to come, to point out so clearly what it was that this shieldmaiden was incapable of, 'But could you also best any woman in a fight?'

At her words, Éowyn frowned, her eyes squinted, and gave all the visible signals of confusion. Perhaps, the shieldmaiden had simply been thrown by her question, or perhaps, she was truly confused by what the queen asked – but all the same, Lothíriel could barely hide that smug smile she always felt bubbling beneath the surface when she had at last managed to rattle her usually so sure and unshaken sister-in-law.

Content with her momentary victory, the queen continued, 'I don't mean a fight of swords and shields and spears – I know no woman could hold her ground against you in such a fight. I mean a battle of words and wits and manners, a battle that is not decided by strength but by grace and wiles.', with another pause, Lothíriel sought to give her next words the necessary weight she needed to make her new sister understand her point of view, 'You're the strongest person I know, Éowyn – I did not say strongest woman, mind you, I said the strongest person. And yet … and yet, you're not even half the woman compared to the ladies I used to know. You're not even half as powerful as those ladies you so look down upon.'

Lothíriel paused again, gathering her thoughts, but as she became aware of the shieldmaiden's sceptical, annoyed expression, she realised her new sister was not quite receiving the message as she had intended to, and quickly she jumped in before the ship – as the saying went – sailed, wrecked and sank to the bottom of the ocean, 'I'm not saying these things to offend you – '

'Oh, good to know.'

' – I'm saying these things to spare you any harm or humiliation.', the queen continued, respectfully ignoring the shieldmaiden's quietly cynical commentary as she began to lay out the realities of the South compared to its perceived or mediated image, 'Listen, Éowyn, I know you don't want to learn these things or do these things my way – I get it. But when you get to the South, untrained, unprepared, let me walk you through how things will proceed from here.', Lothíriel took a deep breath, as she distilled a very particular portrait of her Southern home and its peculiarities in her mind, ready now to showcase its proper uniqueness, 'When you get to the South, being exactly what you appear to be, you know what people are going to think?'

'I don't care what people think of me.'

'I know, that's what you keep saying, and that's exactly your problem. But let's pretend for a moment I don't believe that delusion of yours, shall we?', Lothíriel countered quickly, inexplicably infuriated by her sister-in-law's stubborn stance, her wilful deception of her own self, all in the name of adhering to that ideal of strength she had created in her mind. The queen wondered where her own frustration stemmed from exactly – did she only feel offended by the shieldmaiden's low opinion of ladies because she herself was a lady, or was it perhaps something deeper, something far more complicated; a look into a mirror, perhaps, that was so old she barely recognised her younger self? Shaking her head to rid herself of these thoughts, Lothíriel tried to concentrate on the moment, tried to focus on the task ahead, tried to shut out all doubts she might have about the tactics she was using; after all, was it not said that you had to fight fire with fire, and that you had to be cruel to be kind?

'People will think there goes a wild shieldmaiden of the North, a specimen too blunt for anything other than honesty, whose ears are too deaf for the wagging of tongues, and whose mind is too dull for the poison of snakes. They will think you the big fat uncivilised rat among the sly hungry cats, a tasty morsel just ripe for the taking.'

'You know, Lothíriel, you make it sound like a war is going on down there.', Éowyn threw in, laughing as she spoke, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, laughing – like all warriors – at the danger she wanted to meet head-on (with an insane grin and cocky attitude for good measure), because she had never learned how to face danger any other way, because fear seemed humiliating to her quest for honour and renown, ignoring that fear was more natural than all that bravery, 'And you make it sound like I'm too stupid to know when I'm being lied to or taken advantage of – you forget, as we Northerners do not lie we are not easily deceived.'

The queen rolled her eyes at that statement, sighing in frustration as she shook her head. Yes, how often had she heard it! This stupidly simple, arrogantly naive notion of a fool's logic! Those who do not lie are not easily deceived; those who do not fight are never injured; those who do not believe in love are not in danger of falling in love – yes, a simple man's way of creating a simple world out of a chaotic, treacherous, unreasonable universe. Éowyn, however, seemed not to share her apprehension, or perhaps she simply she didn't want to, and instead merely emphasised the same point she had made before, 'In any case, it's not a delusion – I truly do not care what other people think of me. And anyway, words are just words.'

At that, Lothíriel smiled; not a sweet smile of a girl splashing waves, nor a warm smile of a kind soul, but a saccharine smile so sweet it tasted bitter, like poison masked by honey, the scent of a rose garden filled with thorns – it was the smile of a woman who had learned wise truths through bitter hardships among the snake pits of the South. And it was with such a smile that the queen regarded her new sister then, rounding her like a hawk circling its prey, and to Éowyn's credit, she sensed the naivety of her own comment, even though she was too proud yet to admit it, even to herself, 'Oh my sweet shieldmaiden, and exactly therein lies your mistake, and I fear you will find out quickly enough what devastating effect words can truly have.'

Lothíriel smiled, more to herself than to her sister-in-law, taking a deep breath as she prepared to sew the seeds in the shieldmaiden's character that would hopefully blossom into roses hiding sharp thorns, remembering well her aunt Ivriniel telling her the very same story after she had come to live with her after her mother's tragic death, beginning her own very peculiar societal education. No, even the swan princess of the sea had not been born with her shield of etiquette, her sword of sharp tongue or her spear of intrigue, but she had learned, by Ulmo, under the guiding hand of her aunt she had learned much and more.

'I don't presume you have ever heard of the tragic tale of the House of Niëreth? The house of Niëreth was a noble blood line from which many a mighty knight and fair lady had sprung, all with the silver hair and silver eyes of their ancestors, almost suspiciously so – they were so noble and so powerful that it incited greed in the hearts of lesser men … and women. And soon enough rumours were spread and secret nasty words were spoken, and folk began to question their silver hair and silver eyes. You must understand, most people don't understand that strong blood traits can reproduce across many generations, even without watering down, and so people thought that there was only one explanation for their silver hair and silver eyes. Despite the lack of evidence, people believed what they wanted to believe – and instead of mighty knights and fair ladies they saw unnatural creatures with unnatural tastes, and soon enough measures were taken. Legends don't speak of the beginnings of their downfall, they only speak of their violent and tragic end. It was words that put nooses around their necks, words that put pitchforks into peasant hands, words that ignited pyres, words that took their honour and wealth and lives. It wasn't actions that incited that, it were words.'

When Lothíriel had ended her chilling tale of fallen beauties and fallen gentlemen, she looked up, expecting to have to meet the defiant gaze and defiant speech of her sister-in-law, but instead, the shieldmaiden seemed to have been rendered virtually speechless – mouth hanging open in shock, eyes blinking rapidly, forehead etched in frowns – and the queen fought hard to suppress a smile. The thought that a simple moral story could stun a grown woman – a woman who had faced darkness in battle, who had desired death over pity and a life without purpose – into silence, well, it did bring Lothíriel some amusement, but the queen knew that everyone reacted differently to learning that their narrow outlook on life was turned upside down. Most people reacted with despair, depression even, fear gnawing away at all their resistance and opening them up to change, but some people reacted exactly to the contrary, they reacted with anger, hot wrath masked by haughty pride hiding the confusion beneath – and Lothíriel knew that Éowyn shieldmaiden was not most people, and that the fighting spirit would not even leave her body on her dying day.

'Well, that's … terrible.', the shieldmaiden finally brought herself to say, and the disgust in her voice was more than palpable, and although the queen was pleasantly surprised to find her sister-in-law so openly moved by the moral story, she doubted not that it stemmed rather from her ingrained contempt for backstabbing and intrigue rather than out of awe and even fear for the power of even the most quietly whispered word. But, Lothíriel thought with a little smile, in every beginning there was a seed buried deep within the ground, and no matter how long it would take for it to grow into a flower with nice petals, sweet fragrance and sharp thorns, the seed was sown nonetheless.

'It's an unkind thing to be sure, but you and I both know, the world isn't kind.', Lothíriel agreed then, and although she spoke with the authority of a queen, it was the voice of a lady that uttered it, 'The moral of this story is that if you openly show your greatest strengths, they'll be turned into your greatest weaknesses.'

'What's your greatest strength, I wonder, sweet Lothíriel?', the shieldmaiden asked pointedly, but the queen only smiled, and it was the smile of a cat drowsing in the afternoon sun, purring satisfied, eyes squinted mysteriously, full of secrets, and it was clear that she would not divulge even a single one of them, and as the queen only winked at her, her smile as mischievous as before, Éowyn sighed heavily and spoke once more, the last gasp of her defiance.

'OK, so you're saying I should start caring about other people's opinions of me, imagine their whimsical views and intrigue, because you people down in the South have nothing better to do with your boredom other than wagging your tongues in gossip in the hopes of destroying each other's reputation and lives?'

The queen smiled; so there it was: the last prancing of the wild horse before taming, the final struggle of the hawk before accepting the feeding. Lothíriel could have taken offence at her sister-in-law's insulting words, but she did not, because in a way, she was not wrong – the feeling of power could propel people to do terrible things to each other, and the lack of power could prove people to be even more cruel and vile, after all, a snake could bite just as easily out of hunger or out of fear, and so the queen only smiled as she commented, 'Well, what else are we to do in the absence of killing each other?', and as she laughed a laugh that was no laughter at all, she emphasised once more, 'Words, after all, are never just words.'

Éowyn slowly nodded at that, her lips thinning into a sarcastic smile before uttering a sigh of magnificent proportion, and Lothíriel could sense that, step by step, the defiance was making way to compliance. But instead of pushing on and on, pushing her over that invisible line of acceptance, pushing on like any warrior would, she simply waited – she had lured and baited her enough to know that she had already caught the shieldmaiden in her net, and even if she might wriggle like a feisty trout, she was already hers, hook, line and sinker, and all she had to do now was wait.

'So, it's not about strength, it's about grace?', the shieldmaiden said then at last, and the queen simply smiled.

FUN FACT #1: I have a soft spot for fairy tales, even the creepy, sexist ones - so, tell me, which fairy tale was I playing at here? And which one is your favourite or was?

FUN FACT #2: You might wanna remember Aunt Ivriniel, I'll be inserting covert intel about her here and there until you can puzzle out the whole picture ...

FUN FACT #3: Hi, I'm a feminist, so trust me to bitch about the perception and representation of women. In stories. Repeatedly. Occasionally. You never know ... ;)