HERE I AM - ROCKING LIKE A HURRICANE!

Long time, no read, my lovelies, but I have returned to you ... now at the turn of the tides (yea, please, pandemic, could you fucking turn down now?!)

Next chapter next friday (pinky promise!).

Enjoy and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

9. Brothers in Arms

The clanging sound of swords echoed across the plains and cut through the otherwise peaceful quiet of this February morning. The sun was shining unusually brightly down from the clear blue sky, and the light was haphazardly reflected off the blades as they met and separated, again and again, in a dance that was both elegant and brutal. In between one could hear the sounds of heavy, laborious breathing and groans of exertion, but other than that, nothing disturbed this moment of brotherly contest between two riders, between two best friends.

Éomer stepped back and lowered his sword, signalling his friend Déor to do the same, calling for a much needed time-out to their sparring session. Trying to catch his breath, the king leaned back against one of the big, protruding rocks that had been erected in a circle some thousands of years ago, before ever a rider had raced through that sea of grass they now called the Riddermark. Looking at his friend standing there, balancing the tip of his sword on the palm of his hand like a green boy playing at being a master swordsman, or rather like one of those court jesters he had seen down in the South, making light of heavy, serious things – it made him realise how much he had missed this: this companionship, this easy tomfoolery, this atmosphere of levity.

It was such a relief to be only a man for once, a friend, a companion, and not a king – if only for a few hours. He had missed this carefree lifestyle of a being rider among other riders, of not having the burden of a whole country constantly weighing down on him, of only enjoying the company of a comrade just like any other. Of course, Éomer knew that this would make it even harder to return to his role as king and that it would make the weight of the crown on his head feel even heavier or to have the troubles appear so much more troubling. With a sigh, Éomer took a long and deep drink from his waterskin, having the water swirl around in his mouth before spitting it out again. His friend, however, as it would seem – and as it always had been, and probably always would be – didn't seem to have a care in the world, and in a way the king was glad and thought, with a smile, that some things and some people just never change.

When his friend Déor, son of Féor, had returned from his month-long scouting mission last night, the two old friends had celebrated their reunion as they usually did: by getting hopelessly drunk on mead and dark ale until they were dancing around the hearth in the middle of the golden hall of Meduseld, clad in nothing but their breeches, with his friend sporting the king's crown and with the king styled with a chequered horse cloth draped around his shoulders. Truthfully, it was a rather ridiculous affair he was glad no one had the misfortune of witnessing, although it was suspicious that the two of them did wake up this morning with their golden hair neatly braided in a long tail down their shoulders. Of course, Éomer quickly suspected his sister and swore revenge, but since both men were rather hungover and felt more than just a little nauseous they postponed their masterful plan of vengeance until they felt like the smell of food no longer initiated their gag reflex. Thus, after dunking their head in a bucket of frozen water to clear their heads, they had decided to energise themselves by having a little sparring session a few miles outside of Edoras.

The old friends had agreed to leave Edoras behind for a while, to just ride out into the open wilderness, and to leave the stifling constraints of ruling behind; to just be a rider for a while, and not a king; to sit upon a horse rather than a throne, and to carry a simple sword rather than a crown. Soon enough that ride-out had turned into a sparring session, and it was a much needed break from what they were used to: to fight for sport rather than your life, and to fight at all rather than to suffer in restlessness; impulsively, irrationally, longing for the fighting days of old – when warriors were needed, when warriors were relevant, when warriors could make sense of the world through the single swing of a sword.

Unfortunately, however, it hadn't taken very long before his friend had managed to ruin this momentary respite for him by starting to share his report from his scouting mission with him. Truly, it was hard enough to suffer the emasculating shame of having his friend take over his duties as First Marshall of the Mark and to act in his place – traditionally, it was the king himself who held the title of First Marshall, but since he had been so swamped with his new royal duties, he hadn't found the time to make the obligatory rounds throughout the counties – but then to sit there and listen to all the ways in which his land and his people were fucked, and then not be able to a damn thing about it, well, it had been simply too much.

At first, Déor had rambled on about how "swell" things were going – much of Helms Deep was restored; if not to its former glory, then at least to a certain level of decent defence quality. Next, he had babbled something about farmers "returning" to their farmsteads – of course, he more or less tried to leave out the fact that these farmers returned more or less dead to their more or less ruined farmsteads. Lastly, he had prattled on and on about the "fair maidens" that had entertained him on his journey throughout the Mark – of course, he had glossed over the fact that most of the "fair maidens" were women widowed by war, and that their hosting was little more than a sleeping place in a shed with (hopefully) dry straw as cover and cushion.

But what really got to him were not the single cases of tragedy and loss brought on by the war – what really got to him was the over-arching sense of hopelessness that had gripped the land and its people. Wherever one looked and wherever one listened to, hunger and despair had ravaged the once so proud Riddermark: homeless widows left with no family or home, wandering through the plains, trekking from village to village, begging as they went; parents that starved to feed their children; children that were abandoned by their parents because food was scarce; men who had lost their families in the war, roaming the wild, sword in hand, ready to fight a battle that was already lost; wild boys with no families terrorising villages, having lost everything they now took whatever they wanted, regardless of law or lives or honour.

The more his friend had talked, the more Éomer had felt like a king that had let down his own people – and already he feared the tales about his reign that would go down in history (if there would be a Riddermark still after his seemingly ill-fated reign): Éomer Awierged, Éomer the cursed, the king that doomed his own people, the king that was no king at all. That alone would have been enough to sour the mood of any man, but he wasn't just any man, and even if he had not been born grim, life had made sure to make it thus.

Therefore, Éomer had thrown himself into their sword training, wanting to prove himself at least in that category, but at long last, evidenced by his unusual shortness of breath and the aching of his joints, he had to acknowledge that even in his capacity as a warrior he was lacking of late. He had simply wasted too much time sitting around, talking and debating, or in other words, he had simply grown soft. So, there it was: he couldn't rule, he couldn't fight and apparently, at least according to his beloved sister, he couldn't fuck either.

In that moment, had he been alone, Éomer would have probably withdrawn and shut himself away, to sit on his wooden throne, staring into the fire of the eternal hearth, brooding on the many ways in which he had failed himself, the people he loved and the people that called him king. But he was not alone, and his friend Déor, seeing far more easily into the hearts of men than he would let on, knowing quite well what doubts troubled his king, would not allow him to give up on himself so easily, and so, the rider stopped playing around with his sword and instead swung the blade in a challenge to his friend, winking as he stepped back, pretending to bow, and with a snort Éomer took the bait and pushed himself off the rock he'd been leaning on.

And in between the thrusts and slashes, in between the parries and sidestepping – in between them exercising some of those old bones weary of peace and hungry for adventure – they resumed their conversation, with the king questioning, and with his friend and right hand reporting dutifully and with no flowery speech this time. It became clearer and clearer that the situation was not bettering and that the Mark was in dire need of help, though the two of them could not think of how to do that. It were just too many problems all at once, and to tackle one problem, meant that another issue unattended quickly worsened; it went without saying that the Mark could not survive on damage control alone and that real change and real solutions were needed to be found and were needed to be found quickly at that.

'And what about your wife?', the rider interjected then, all of the sudden, and still too battered by the conversation he had had with his sister, the king immediately took offence, his mind instantly on the defence, jumping to irrational conclusions rather than processing the logical enquiry that was offered.

'My wife?', Éomer asked quietly, his voice dangerously level as he lowered his sword, bringing their sparring session to an abrupt halt and Déor couldn't help but notice the warning tone in his king's voice. Now that was odd, the rider thought, almost with something like amusement, and he couldn't miss the way his king gritted his teeth as he spoke or the underlying threat that swelled in his words as he said them. Déor had heard that tone before, that fiercely protective tone, but only regarding the king's sister (not that the shieldmaiden would need it …), and to hear it used with regards to the new queen, well, it was curious to be sure.

'Yeah, Captain Crimson Head, your wife – our queen?', Déor clarified in that typically quipping tone of his, and Éomer knew that tone well: it was the tone his friend always used when he meant to tease him viciously; but surprisingly enough, as quickly as that joking tone had come up, it had vanished just as quickly and was replaced with a more genuinely serious tone, 'I mean, I've heard it said those Southerners are cunning and clever in the ways of solving problems – perhaps, she could show us some of that politician spirit her people are famed for?'

'Cunning? Clever? Southerners? I think you mean back-stabbing, conniving and conceited.', Éomer jeered contemptuously as he mounted a mock-attack, twitching in one direction and then another with his sword, meant to surprise and confuse his sparring partner, and it did, though the very obvious shocked surprise on his friend's face had less to do with his mock-attack and more with his words. The king knew he was harsher than he had any right to be, and that it would be unfair to put his wife on the same level with those Southern court cringers and manipulators, but the Riddermark's experiences with Gríma Wormtongue had made them all weary and wary of politicians, and after all, for him showing strength was not yet compatible with asking for help.

'Oh? Is that why the royal sheets have grown cold so quickly?', Déor exclaimed then with no little amount of surprise, swinging his sword lazily back and forth, and now it was the king's turn to be shocked, but then again, he couldn't deny that it was true – he should have known that some people would deduce too quickly that their lord was shunning his new wife (though he had hoped it would remain secret for much longer), and yet, the true reason for it was much harder to explain, 'Well, I guess, if I had a viper in my bed, I'd probably kick it out t – '

'You better hold your tongue now, friend, or I'll smash in those perfect teeth of yours.'

The king spoke slowly, deliberately slow, and yet the words carried a punch with them rivalled only by the beating of a hammer. Freezing with his sword in hand, Déor knew immediately that caution was in order. Now, there was no longer that playful tone between them, and the shift in the air made the rider prick up his ears. The voice of his king was hard and his tone threatening, and for the first time in many, many years, Déor wondered whether they might actually end up with a real fight; and somehow that uneasy atmosphere in that moment had him recall the last time he had seen his friend and king seethe with such anger.

Once, back when they both had been teenagers, green boys in training to become true members of an éored, one of their fellow trainees had made lewd comments about Éomer's sister and, what was even worse, about his mother – jokingly asking if his mother had fucked an Orc. It had been stupid and reckless and essentially harmless, a foolish comment that had meant no actual harm, but somehow, and perhaps understandable given the sad family history, that one, ridiculous comment had had his king fly into such a rage that it had taken all his might and powers of persuasion to calm him down, and to keep him from tearing that other boy into a thousand pieces. Back then, putting himself between his king and the boy that had teased him, well, it had almost had the best friends at each other's throats, and that incident had been quite memorable, as it had taught Déor that no matter the companionship they had, the wrath of his friend was something to be feared, something that wouldn't even stop at friendship. Because, for some reason, when it came to the women in his life, his friend and king was fiercely protective, even to the point of unreasonability, but perhaps that was only to be expected from one that had seen his own mother and first female figure wither away in such young years.

'My wife is an honourable woman and she is not for you to talk about – she is your queen, and don't you forget it, or I'll forget myself.'

'Easy there, berserker.', Déor spoke, half in jest, half in earnest, taking a step back, the sword clasped behind his back to appear as little challenging as possible so as not to further fuel his king's quick temper. Of course, it was curious to witness such fervent protectiveness in a man for his wife bound in a political match – after all, when he had left for his scouting mission almost two months ago, the king had hardly known his wife and now he already defended her as though she were a blood relative. That curiosity deserved some prodding, the rider deemed with a cheeky smile.

'But while we're on the subject of your wife – how'd you find married life?'

The king knew that he had talked himself into a trap, and by Béma, it hadn't been the first one since he'd become a married man nor would it be the last one. Sure, his friend tried to appear casual in his line of questioning, but he wouldn't fool him – he had known Déor all his life, and if there was one thing he knew for sure, then it was that his friend was not one for subtlety. Déor was a rider that was as curious as he was bold, and both had helped with the women and with the troubles it frequently got himself in, but that was not unusual as Déor was considered what people around here called a "pretty boy": a wanton, cheeky lecher that as of yet had managed to charm every woman he had met out of her undergarments and every friend out of money, mead and secrets.

'Save your breath – I'm not in the mood for words of advice.'

'Good grief, Slayer, when were you ever?', Déor joked sardonically, even having the audacity to wink at his king without shame, soldiering on relentlessly and mercilessly in his quest to uncover the newest, latest, tastiest morsel of gossip to chew – as for Éomer, this conversation began to resemble more and more, painfully, the one he had had with his sister not a week ago and he didn't like it, he didn't like it one bit, 'But perhaps it would do you some good to unburden yourself, my king?'

'I'm not going to talk to you about that.'

'Why not? I'm a very good listener – '

' – and an even better talker, I know.', Éomer threw in, cutting him off, shutting him up, remembering well the last time he had divulged some intimate information to his best friend. Back then, after he had become king, he had tried to explain to Déor that for the sake of his kingship they had to change some things in their friendship, if only for appearance sake, to show that they were now not only drinking buddies and comrades anymore, but that one of them was a king and the other a subject. Of course, for some reason, that had led to his friend mockingly falling to his knees whenever his king had happened to stroll past him and ending every other sentence with "Your most elegant, royal, majestic majesty". Needless to say, that shut up the king pretty quickly after that about boundaries, royal protocols and changed relationships, 'Save your words, I've already had enough of them from my sister.'

'Really? The shieldmaiden used words to hammer some sense into you?', Déor asked slowly then, almost carefully so, but not for fear of provoking his king, but rather because his scepticism regarding his friend's answer was even more bogged down by his amusement over it, and the tone in his question made it abundantly clear that the rider was not buying the euphemisms with which his lord and king tried to shield his manly pride from taking any not too manly or prideful hits, 'How'd that go, I wonder?'

His reaction was slow and subtle at first but quite telling nonetheless. At first, the king didn't seem to react at all, staring into the thin air before him as though trying to stare down an enemy locked in sight. Then he slashed his sword through the air a few times, swinging it against the nothingness before him, although Déor reckoned his friend and king was actually imaging more than just thin air as his opponent. And then at last, he stopped, lowered his sword, and looked up into the sky above him before releasing the heaviest sigh he had ever heard, 'She punched me in the face.'

'That well, huh?', Déor hummed slowly, not an inch of surprise making his voice waver. Walking over to a large, protruding rock inside the stone circle, the rider leaned against the stone, leaving his sword to slowly but surely burrow a little hole into the snow-caked ground beneath him. All the while he was watching his friend and king slice through the air with his own sword, Gúthwinë, battle-friend of a hundred battles, though, as it would seem, now it failed to properly do his master's bidding, and the frustration over this seemed to flow through all the motions and stances the king made, accentuating each with a series of grim grunts. However, the rider couldn't quite shake the feeling that this frustration had less to do with the underwhelming fighting performance of a once nigh-unbeatable warrior and more to do with brotherly annoyance or sisterly grievances, or rather, the catalyst thereof.

'So what'd you do?'

For a moment, the king was quiet and stopped swinging his sword, lowering it slowly to have the tip touch the white earth between his boots, and he seemed very interested in that particular patch of snow all of the sudden. Funnily, it was the only reaction Déor really had that he had actually heard him, and the rider, knowing his friend so well, could see the gears in his head shifting, debating with himself whether to be honest or to brush it aside, and it was the first real sign that told him that his king had really fucked up this time.

'I called her a tomboy in a woman's dress.', Éomer spoke slowly then, at long last, and Déor could see how hard it was for his king to bring himself to talk about this – though, as he raised a sceptical eyebrow, he knew that this couldn't have been the thing that made the shieldmaiden snap (she wasn't called a shieldmaiden for nothing, and in all honesty, "tomboy" probably sounded more like a compliment to her than "lady" ever would), and so he waited for his friend and king to continue, and sure enough he did, 'I screamed at her. Told her she was jealous that I was married … and she was not.'

Déor blew out some air in a short but poignant whistle as he sat down, clearly getting uncomfortable. Having known the siblings long enough, he knew full well that they had a way of fighting that could frighten even an Orc to death, and it was no secret that the shieldmaiden was angry over her prolonged engagement, but as it would seem, even rubbing that in her face hadn't been enough for the king, as he saw his best friend take a deep breath in order to continue, 'I taunted her with it. Threatened to challenge her … her betrothed to a duel, if they had – '

Éomer stopped at that, unwilling to go on, and for that Déor was more than just glad, because, as he saw his king blushing, actually blushing, he didn't need to hear more to know what his friend had feared might have happened between his sister and her fiancée, and it was every brother's worst fear. To get to know first-hand that his little sister was a real woman now, with real desires and a very real lover – well, there was a reason the custom of bundling had fallen from grace in the last few generations, because while for some it was too little intimacy, others feared for (and often rightly so!) too much intimacy too early, 'I taunted her saying if she were such an expert, she should lend a – '

'You fucked up.', Déor stated matter-of-factly, shutting him up before his friend and king had any change of finishing that sentence.

'I fucked up.', the king repeated, just as matter-of-factly, slumping down next to his best friend, and for a while the two men remained silent, each suspiciously thorough in inspecting their swords for rust or other damages, each deeply lost in contemplating their own thoughts with varying degrees of brooding involved.

It wasn't particularly hard for Déor to understand now why the shieldmaiden had reacted the way she did; to be perfectly frank, he was more than just surprised that the shieldmaiden had only slapped the shit out of her older brother and not taken his head clean off his shoulders for his remarks. It was no secret that when it came to their pride and quick temper the two siblings were in no way inferior to each other.

'Alright, now I know what you did.', Déor said then, cautiously, after a while, a long while, hoping that the worst of the storm had passed by then, 'So, what'd she say?'

At that, Déor could see his best friend squirm, clearly uncomfortable with divulging what had previously riled him up so much that he would insult and provoke his little sister to the point where she used physical violence. Not that physical violence was particularly uncommon for these two; Déor remembered, having grown up with them, brother and sister being at each other's throats more often than not – challenges and dares that got out of hand, childish jealousy that resulted in toys stolen and broken, infantile vainglory that led to scuffles on straw-covered stable floors. But the thing was, despite all that, they loved each other fiercely, it was just that some love was expressed in more volatile terms than others, even if that volatile condescension was only for show.

'Come on, Éomer! You can't just saddle that horse and then don't mount it – so what'd she say?', Déor turned to his friend and king and saw his face constrict almost painfully, but other than that he stayed strong and he stayed silent, and so the rider threw up his hands in defeat, whining like the impatient, overly inquisitive boy he still was at heart, 'Fine! Don't tell me! I'm sure we find something else to talk about!', and though he was a charming trickster, he was not a particularly gifted actor, so his pretending to think hard on what to talk about next was not very convincing, not even to a born and bred rider of the Mark, 'Oh, I know! Did I tell you about that lovely hanging I had the extraordinary pleasure of seeing? Oh, yeah. I passed through that lovely little village – I've quite forgotten the name – and they'd just strung up a pair of wild boys.', and while he had always been quite the fast talker, by now he was talking himself into a veritable rage, 'Yeah, not quite fourteen years old, part of a ragtag band of ruffians looking for food and valuables – they'd raided that village and set fire to a bunch of huts, having their winter stocks practically go up in a puff of smoke.', and then he laughed, but there was no joy behind that laughter, 'So the village elders sentenced them to be hanged. Boys of fourteen, hanged.'

'What did you do?', the king asked then, interrupting his friend, though there was little more to interrupt, as the rider had finished his tale with the sad fanfare of a dying fire; but it was not the unusual courtesy of hearing him out that surprised Déor the most, it was the quiet, almost defeated tone with which he spoke and just like that, all the pent-up anger the rider had been feeling up until this moment was snuffed out. And it was quite troubling because normally his king wasn't that calm and collected when faced with the deterioration of his land and his people.

'There was nothing I could do for the two boys on the gallows.', Déor explained then, more calmly this time, but not because the issue had lost any of its painful feeling of regret or anger but because it was no use crying over spilled milk and what's done was done, 'The rest of their band I ordered to remain at the village and help rebuilt it and to replenish their winter stocks – as compensation. In return the village had to take them in – feed them, clothe them, house them.', and with a sigh the rider finished his sad tale as he threw a pebble across the field, and at least that action felt like it had some impact, 'It was all I could do. It wasn't much but it was something … '

'Good idea. I would have done the same.'

Déor looked over to his king and just seeing the way his friend hung his lead low, arms rested weakly on his knees, well, it was enough to break even a grown man's heart – he had always known Éomer to be particularly prone to self-doubts but this here was practically a depression show. Resting his head against the large rock behind his back, Déor closed his eyes, and for a moment allowed all that frustration to fill him – it was the very first time that his friend and king gave himself up like that. Usually, his king always provided him with a lovely target, to tease him, provoke him, challenge him, to cheer him up even, but this here … he seemed defeated, so lost he wasn't even desperate anymore. It was a truly chilling sight to behold, but that image was exactly what the rider needed in order to spring back into action again.

'Yeah, great, I'm practically king material.', Déor threw in lamely, with not even enough passion to elicit a smile from himself, let alone his king, 'But I don't think you really wanna talk about my scouting mission either. Frankly, I'm too scared to mention your sister, so unless you wanna continue to sit here and brood like a – '

'She saw me.'

'What?! Who did?'

'My wife.'

'Well, given your relationship, I'll take that as a step closer towards new royal foals. Now you only need to – '

'No, you damned bugger, she saw me have a nightmare.', Éomer interrupted then, jerking his head to the right to fix his friend with an almost surely deadly glare. That was enough to shut the rider up, having his mouth round into a silent but comprehending "oh". Of course, a part of him was even glad about that verbal slap because now there was at least a bit of that old fire sizzling beneath the broken and depressed surface. That other part of him, however, understood immediately where this conversation was going and he wasn't sure he was prepared to go there. The war and the blood and the fighting and the sorrow had had an effect on all of them, and though they had each other's back and knew well enough that much and more of the horrors remained in their heads, they rarely talked about it. It was stupid, really; a foolish act of stoicism, as though what they had seen and done had not affected them; but perhaps, it was more than that – perhaps it was the fear that once this dam was broken it could never be repaired, and that the torrents would have them all wash away and drown in them.

'She didn't run.', the rider heard his friend and king say next to him, and the words had been quiet, little more than a whisper, and he could hear the confusion in them, and that confusion he understood so well. After all, what kind of woman would wish to stay when faced with a monster (or, at least, the monstrous memories of past deeds), let alone fall for a beast?

'No? Good woman.'

'She was scared of me, and she had every right to be scared, but she didn't run.', his king continued then, and it was as though he hadn't heard him, as though, by now, he was completely lost in his own thoughts, trying to understand something that had seemed so impossible to him, 'She … she comforted me.'

'Oh, really?', Déor crooned, daring to wink at his king like a madman with a death wish.

'Not like that, you bloody lecher.', Éomer growled with no little amount of threat in his voice, and the rider knew immediately that it was time to back off, and instead let his king, for once, do the talking; and without interruptions or lewd comments his best friend continued at a much calmer tone, but with no less amount of confusion over the strange incident and its outcome, 'It was strange. She … she seemed to know exactly what was going on with me.', at that he made a pregnant pause, as though still trying to make sense of it all, and with a strange look at the light reflected from his blade he continued, 'She suffers from nightmares, too.'

'Really? What kind of nightmares could a Southern princess have?'

'I wouldn't know, now would I?', Éomer snapped, glaring at his friend, warning him with just one look to tread carefully, 'But I'd sure like to know.'

Of course, in that situation every other man would have known to keep his mouth shut and his head low; every other man would have nodded, silently and gravely, sharing in the manly brooding that was going on – but Déor was not every other man, and he had never known when to shut up, 'Well, in that case, I have some radical piece of advice for you: why don't you talk to her about it?'

'And tell her what?', Éomer roared then, exploding at long last, turning on his friend with as much rage as there was desperation, 'What it feels like to chop somebody's head off? What it feels like to hear the screams of the dying? What it feels like to plunge your sword into a man's heart and see the life drain from him? What it feels like to see the people you love most in this world dead? What it feels like to ride into battle, expecting to die … and then not die?!', and then he was quiet for a moment, and the sudden onslaught of silence felt even more chilling after all that shouting; but what was even worse was the quiet brokenness that followed, 'No, she doesn't need to hear that. Nobody needs to hear that.'

For a moment, all was quiet then, excerpt for the screeching of a hawk that flew somewhere in the sky above them, and in that moment, Déor was tempted to leave it at that and to say no more – because what else was there to say? The rider wouldn't be so hypocritical as to pretend that he couldn't understand the mindset of his friend or the misgivings that lay underneath it. The trauma of war was harrowing enough, but a cruel twist of fate made it even worse: as battle-hardened heroes they were expected to be above it, to bravely deny the existence of fears, because if they were to admit that they were afraid, that even the shadows in the night could make them cry out like babies, could they call themselves heroes any longer? And even if they cared little and less about that, about what a man was supposed to feel and not feel, how could they share any of the terrors that gripped them still and would perhaps forever do? Who would understand? Who would not be frightened, disgusted even by the wild thoughts that ran through a warrior's head? Who would be brave and kind and foolish enough to take their hand and willingly enter the hell that was their mind?

Indeed, it was a useless thing to dream of what ifs and what could bes. There were simply some things one could not talk about, even if one should. And that was exactly the point that bothered the rider the most and that had him speak then with, perhaps, less tact than he should have used – because if two lost souls could find peace by finding each other, why should they insist on staying on their own lonely path?

'That's a nice sentiment, brother, but she's your wife – not some random woman you wanna impress.'

'What are you talking about?', Éomer countered, for a moment too confused to react with his usual anger, but, sure enough, that anger was returning in full speed – furious glares and wavering voice and all. But at this point the rider didn't care any longer; he had been friends with his king for so long that his wrath could no longer frighten him – or at least that's what he told himself, and so he persisted: like a daredevil poking a bear with a wooden stick.

'I'm talking about that false sense of bravado, that narrow-minded show of stoic strength – is that why you're keeping her from governing, too?'

'I don't know what you mean.', Éomer scoffed, instantly reverting back into his defence mechanisms, instinctively shutting the gates to the emotions and fears he had shown earlier, 'The only one keeping her from being a queen is she herself.'

'Well, perhaps, she could be one, if you'd only let her in on the problems we're facing.', Déor interjected, feeling his own anger rise to match his king's fury. Of course, he could be projecting here. Perhaps, the queen's absence from the public or her absence from her role was mere coincidence, but he knew that if the queen was broken in her own way, she might feel as insecure about ruling as her king did, and if that were the case, she would need all the support and encouragement she could get – and right now, he doubted that this stubborn stud of a king had any idea how to support or encourage his young wife. But, perhaps, he should keep his nose out of this, perhaps he had no business poking around in matters that were too big for him, but he had seen first-hand what self-doubts and a smouldering inferiority complex could do to a person with potential, and he was determined to not let it happen again.

So, it was understandable, that the tone the rider took with his king was hardly acceptable between monarch and subject, but it was not only his friend's happiness that was on the line here, or his wife's slumbering potential, but also the fate of their whole fucking kingdom, 'I mean, Béma forbid, you would ever ask anyone for help!', and then the rider laughed again, another one of his humourless laughs, because, honestly, there was really not much to laugh about here, 'Seriously, what do you think is going to happen if this country goes to shit?! She's one of us now, and if we go down, we'll take her down with us – and all your kind sentiments won't spare her that.'

For a moment, all Éomer wanted to do was explode; to grab his best and oldest friend by the collar and to pummel him to the ground, to smack that smug grin that he always wore from his lips and to knock those perfect fucking teeth out, too, for good measure – but he did none of that. Of course that didn't mean that he wasn't fuming inside about the dark futures his friend was painting or what this would mean for his wife. But perhaps it only had him riled up so much because a part of him knew that his friend was right, though he was too stubborn to admit that yet. So, instead of beating his best friend to a bloody pulp, he took a deep breath through the nose and actively tried to calm down, 'Thanks for the defeatism. I really needed that.'

'You're welcome, your most elegant, royal, majestic majesty.', Déor countered then without skipping a beat, and the smug grin and the shameless wink and the teasing title had the king groan with no little amount of annoyance, partly regretting not having kicked the wits out of his best friend when he had had the chance to do it, but now it was too late, and all he could do now was to endure it, 'I'll always be there whenever there's some ass-kicking needed.'

But although, chuckling, for a long moment, at his king's growing annoyance, Déor soon remembered his self-imposed mission, 'And it's not defeatism; it's the sad, honest truth. We're fucked – you know it and I know it. And it's precisely because we're fucked that I think it high time to look for guidance in uncommon places.'

Turning to his friend, he could see his king thinking, and though he was sure he could almost see the exact moment when his king saw reason, he doubted not that he still had some misgivings about the whole idea of involving his wife in his rule and in his most private thoughts, and so, as he slowly rose to stand, brushing the snow off his – in his opinion – perfectly formed arse, the rider mounted one last attack, to persuade his king to open his mind and his heart to the possibilities presented by his young queen, 'Come on, Éomer, she's your wife – not some slimy bastard with a forked tongue.'

'Rather with no tongue at all.', the king scoffed, at long last allowing himself some humour to lighten the dark mood from before, though he probably should have taken better care to phrase his words more carefully or to think beforehand what his friend might make of them.

'Oh? So, that's why the royal sheets have grown cold!', the rider teased then with a smug smile planted on his pretty face, which resulted in freezing the smile on his king's face into place, before having it turn into a mask of fury again. And just like that the king was up and running after his best friend with his sword drawn and swinging, shouting at the top of his lungs as she chased him out of the ring of stones, 'Just you wait, you bugger, till I get my hands on you!'

FUN FACT #1: I've suffered an Otitis externa (and that also hindered my writing), which means my ear was hurting like hell when I swallowed or talked or wallowed in my misery - oh, and I was deaf on my left ear for a week. Yeah, so that was fun in school when I kept asking my students to talk louder. ;)

FUN FACT #2: So, someone asked why Éomer didn't discuss any of his marital issues with a friend and that reminded me that I hadn't written one for him yet - so, there you go, I hope you like Déor, because I sure as hell do! *writer's excitement intensifies*

FUN FACT #3: School's closed earlier because of Corona which - ironically - left me with a lot more work than I'd usually have the week before Christmas. But, fuck that, my birthday is in less than a week and I am hyped as shit!