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10. Trouble in the Golden Hall of Meduseld

On the stony floors of Meduseld even her usually soft and soundless steps now echoed wild and loudly because of her hurried pace, making each step bounce back with an almost profane volume from those nigh sacred walls. Usually she would have been more cautious about making such noise, but usually she would have been more cautious, too, about roaming freely along the halls of Meduseld. But of late – and if she were truly honest, ever since her husband had gifted her so sweetly – her reservations slowly seemed to make way to curiosity and a will to explore and to experience. She wanted to learn more of the country she was one head to, wanted to learn more about the capital she resided in, wanted to learn more of the culture she had married into, the people she had come to lead.

At first, her steps in doing so had been small – and quite literal at that. Where before she had seldom left her chambers she shared with the king, she soon started to explore the other premises of Meduseld more often and more freely, and once she moved about the Golden Hall with ease she pushed out further. Soon she took her first steps down the King's Road in Edoras that led her into New Town, the part of the capital usually occupied by the nobler or wealthier people, where often the advisers of the king used to dwell when not called upon. But New Town had not satisfied her thirst for long; and after she had paid visits to almost every noble family in New Town, after she had spent hours and hours with pleasantries and echoes of haughty aristocratic chatter, she had sought for a more earthly, more meaningful exploration of her new home.

Using her learning of the language as an excuse she had started to accompany her maidservants to their daily chores: stays at the washing rooms of the royal household, trips to the market, visits to the kitchens. In doing so she not only managed to brush up on her language skills by way of natural conversation but was also granted a rare insight into the doings and workings of Edoras and its people – the way politics and economics, social structure and traditions wrought themselves through every aspect and part, nook and cranny, corner and place of the capital. She experienced first-hand the different economic structures – where in Dol Amroth coins of silver and copper had been means of exchange, here a bartering system took precedence, as almost no one had the means or need for coins – or the seemingly foggy social differentiation – as there was a vivid intermingling of the different social ranks among the market in Auld Town, the part of the capital further down the slope of the hill, closer to the wooden ring of the wall, inhabited by the more rustic people and craftsmen of the city.

After a while she began to understand that education was a fine thing to have but it was very different from learning, and that knowing was not the same as understanding. It was one thing to know of the judicial or administrative workings within the capital, or without, so different from the Gondorian structures, and then to actually see them in practice – witnessing a live auction of some work horses at the Auld Town market let the Southern art of striking a deal appear overly convoluted and stiff.

And through every action of daily life and part of the day traditions and customs seemed to flow, akin to the roots and branches of a mighty tree – the faces and shapes of horses, carved into wooden beams, carved into stone, but also the sun and its rays shining through every product of daily use. The young Queen of the Mark began to realise that the Rohirrim worshipped their God Béma, the great Rider and Huntsman, through their daily life, and the sun was as much part of that worship as their horses. To open the windows and doors in the morning to let in the light of the sun was to invite luck and blessing into one's house; to touch the horse's wooden head, carved into the main beam or gate of the house, or even a simple iron horseshoe hanging at the wall, was a blessing before leaving or entering a home; to live close to the stables was considered a blessing in general; and the mire given off by the horses was said to have miraculous abilities – dried and burnt it warmed and cleansed the house of evil spirits, used for the fields it was supposed to bring a bountiful harvest, and smeared upon the wooden door frame of a newly-wed couple's homestead, it was meant to bring blessing and fertility to the young union.

All in all, she could safely say that she had learned more about this land and its people in these days spent in the company of her maidservants than in all her reading and tutoring in preparation for her marriage. That was not to say that her reading had been without merit; however, it had taught her more about how the world saw these people and their ways than really enlightening her about their actual way of life. In the eyes of the world it was an easy thing to mark these people down as uncultured, backward and uncouth – and she was ashamed to admit that her views had not been much different when she had first come here – but once you allowed your eyes to open up, you would learn that they were cultured and well-mannered, though in their own ways.

However, one thing she could not but frown upon, and that was their art of healing, or at least, that which they chose to title as such. It had been more or less a coincidence that she had chanced upon her latest vein of interest; one afternoon as she had accompanied her maidservants Madlen and Aida to the Auld Town market, she had witnessed a horrific incident: while some stable boys, who were supposed to attend the horses they led through the market centre, had played foolishly around the steeds, one green boy had received a kick to the chest, so hard it left him flying and ended with him having a few broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder and a pride justly shattered.

Although she had withstood in that particular instance from intervening, she had soon regretted her decision. She soon came to learn that though most women were already quite learned in the healing powers of several different plants that grew in the Plains of the Mark, only few had ever learned the deeper and more complex art of healing: consequently, most women still believed that burning out fresh wounds would stop the bleeding (while this act was more probable to be the cause of infection and fever), and their technique of setting a broken arm or leg resulted, more often than not, in the lifelong lameness of the limb. Ever since her discovery she had set it as her mission to train the women in Edoras interested in the practice of healing to achieve a more advanced and educated approach to healing. Yet, it was not so much a stern tutor lecturing children, but rather an exchange of knowledge, for where she was schooled in the more surgical and higher arts of healing, the women of the Mark stood unrivalled in their knowledge of the power of plants and herbs, and therefore in their frequent sessions they sought to learn as much from each other as possible in order to perfect their craft of healing.

And thus it was that she was now on her way back from just such a session – the Æthelmund Tavern in the centre of New Town had been the most generous host of their schooling sessions, making the way back to Meduseld pleasantly short in the still brisk late winter chill. It was then, as she was passing through the hall of the side-building on her way to the royal chambers, passing by the doors that would lead her to the throne room, when she heard loud voices, so loud in fact that it stopped her in her very tracks. The voices came unmistakably from the throne room, and though they were crying and shouting with an angry volume, it took her a while, due to her still poor understanding of the Rohirric language, to comprehend the words that droned even through the heavy wooden doors. Hunger. Hopelessness. Lawlessness. Death.

At that Lothíriel Queen found the hairs in her neck stand up, goosebumps spreading across her back, and some drive pricking under her skin. Usually she was not fond of spying – she was too well-bred after all in the upper-crust manners of the South to lower herself to such level – but sometimes she could not help it, in particular not when her interest was so peaked. With the stealth of a cat she opened the door, slowly, cautiously, so as not to make a sound, and to only have it slightly ajar, just open enough to allow herself to peek inside and to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside.

Inside an image unfolded that spoke not of the benevolent power relationship between ruler and ruled, of a king receiving the pleas of his subjects with open ears, an open heart and a clear head. Instead she was witness to a scene that made it unmistakably clear that something was seriously wrong in this land, and had been for some time. There inside the throne room she gazed upon what she believed to be some sort of council meeting but the dynamics seemed somewhat askew. A handful of royal advisers – easily discernable by their higher quality clothes and straight backs and heads held haughtily high – stood in front of the throne dais, assembled in a semi-circle, heads not bowed in obedience or lifted in pleading, but chins pushed up defiantly; the sight giving off somewhat of a menacing vibe. The King, however, Lord of the Mark, did not sit upon his throne to counter this image of defiance with regal poise but rather stood there at the topmost steps of the royal dais, face set in a colour of blood-red, eyes black of anger, left hand unconsciously gripping the sword at his side, the crown lying discarded on the wooden horse throne.

Seeing all this, the Queen felt immediately ashamed at her spying, for she realised this was a sight no one was supposed to see, and a scene no one was supposed to witness. Instinctively, she felt her Southern principles revolt at the mere thought and idea of it. A ruler challenged by the ruled was a thing unthinkable, and even more so unspeakable, and yet this situation here was unmistakable. A king was supposed to be more than a man, an old voice inside her chided, but a king was still a man like any other, another, newer voice answered not without compassion. And nowhere was this as clear as here in this scenery that unfolded before her, and she realised now how little she actually knew of the state of this government and how dire the situation actually was, and how little she actually was the Queen that this country needed. Éowyn had been right: a great king was in need of a great queen – and she had been shamefully remiss in her duties.

Lothíriel, compelled to know more, to learn, to understand, to become the queen she needed to be, leaned in closer, opening the door even further, even dangerously so, hoping to decipher anything that would help her to be a help to him. But listening was not always understanding, as she realised to her own dismay. The advisers were talking fast, almost stumbling over their own words, and although they were talking loud enough for her to hear it all, she could not understand their meaning, not fully at least, the language barrier proving to steep to brace just yet. She knew that they were angry; that much she gathered from the furious tone in the voices of the king's advisers or the angry looks the King shot back at them; but apart from that she only caught snippets and pieces of information.

However, just because she barely understood the scene unfolding before her, that did not mean it held any less of an interest for her. Her eyes focused on the shape of the king; as he was wont to do, whenever he was in public (or within the confines of public attention), he wore his armour – not a full battle armour, of course, but rather the armour of a Marshall of the Riddermark; a title, she had come to realise, that he favoured more than the crown of king. As her eyes lingered on the shape of her husband, she remembered the Southern ladies who had crooned and swooned at the sight of the Swan knights or the guards of the citadel in Minas Tirith, their gleaming valour shaped by silver-steeled armour, and how much she had abhorred those wanton hens with their wanton eyes, and how little she could understand their wanton gazes.

Now, however, she understood the appeal: there was a type of man certainly flattered by the shape of armour, and she could not deny that her husband was that sort of man. It was true that she did not favour spying but she could not pretend that she did not take pleasure in watching that husband of hers, especially when she, for once, was not disturbed by him staring at her. After all, he was not an unattractive man; not as fair, perhaps, as the Southern gentlemen, with their slick, dark hair and fine features, but there was a certain beauty to his wildness – it would indeed be a hard thing not to fall to him.

While the young Queen drank in the sights, bereft of thoroughly understanding the words spoken in angry voices, the conversation inside the throne room, meanwhile, went on; and while the advisers addressed the king with furious words, nothing rivalled the fury of the king himself. From one moment to the other, Lothíriel was thus caught off guard. With a bang the king appeared to end the council's discussion as he slammed his fist onto the armrest of the wooden horse throne, silencing everyone one in the room. Lothíriel, flinching at the sound, twitched back with her whole body, the hand that had until now so carefully held the handle of the door lost control, and with that the handle slipped soundly from her grasp, making the door swing wide open, creaking as it went. If the Queen had thought to slip away quietly and unseen from this little spying adventure, she had been mistaken. All of the sudden, everyone was was aware of her presence, every pair of eyes focused on her, and, for a split of a second, before she turned heel and fled, she even met the shocked and mortified gaze of Éomer, her husband and king.

Wrapped up in furs and pelts, blanket pulled up to her chest, propped up against the backrest of the bed, Lothíriel Queen watched silently and thoughtfully as her king and husband undressed, just as silently and thoughtfully. All in all, it appeared to be an evening like any other; her being already in bed, waiting for him to undress, to take off the garments of reigning, to take off the sword-belt, to put aside the blade, and to join her in the bed they shared. However, this was not an evening like any other, and in more than just one way.

Lothíriel followed her king and husband with watchful eyes as he undressed further; her sharp gaze did not miss that while he took of his waistcoat and shirt, he refrained from taking of his breeches, and the young Queen did not mistake this meaning. For a week now her husband and king had not been sharing her bed – at least, not in every way that mattered – and she doubted not that her sister-in-law had made good on her promise to try and "rectify" the problem between the married couple; it would only seem now that her king and husband had taken badly to the advice.

Of course, while she could not deny that a part of her was certainly glad to be given some break from his frequent advances (after all, they brought her little pleasure, even if they brought no discomfort), she also could not deny the problems it created. After all, this marriage was an alliance for peace, and for this to last, something lasting had to come out of it, and for this to happen, a husband could not shun his wife, especially if that husband was a king and that wife was a queen. It was only a matter of time, she mused, until the servants would start to notice (if they hadn't already noticed it!) and the rumours and gossip would start.

However, there was also another reason that her king and husband shunning her bed was on her mind; there was another part of her that felt strangely melancholic about it, as though she actually missed it. Closing her eyes for a moment, thinking back, images flashed in her mind of eyes squinted in lust, hands that touched with sensual precision, flesh that moved with primal intent. When she opened her eyes again, she felt the red of her shock and shame taint her cheek, scandalised at her own thoughts, frustrated at her own shame. Searching for anything to distract herself from the tumultuous feelings inside her, she sought to direct her thoughts elsewhere, leaving her to ultimately return to what she had witnessed today.

Ever since she had stumbled upon the council meeting earlier today – and had been caught in her curious spying – her thoughts had circled around the incident, again and again. Granted it had been fairly little what she had understood, but the furious tone and menacing vibe of the situation had been dire enough to stay in her thoughts all day. Whether it was simply curiosity or the newly-found need to be a queen worthy of the title, Lothíriel felt the urge to address what she had witnessed; but her shyness and hesitation made it hard for her to speak. Rise with the tides, she reminded herself, the words of her House, that had been imprinted on her the day she was born, leaping up in her mind, like a wave, almost like an incantation – Rise with the tides!

'I heard voices today. Was there trouble in the Golden Hall of Meduseld?'

Éomer, who had sharpened his sword with a whetstone in order to help clear his mind of today's troubles, stopped in his doing, for a moment too surprised and perplexed to process that his shy young wife had chosen to address him of her own accord. Usually, she was quiet and reserved, and only talked when spoken to, so for her to address him first, and regarding such a troublesome incident as well, it seemed truly unlike her, and yet he found himself liking it. A part of him wondered, however, whether or not his beloved sister had given some advice to her as well, though he shuddered to think how intimate her advice might have been. But, remembering the "conversation" he had had with his best friend Déor, the king felt his hesitation wavering, recalling, painfully, that they were in this together.

Putting away the sword he stood and sat down next to her on the bed, trying to gauge her expression, and when he found it to be genuine, he took a deep breath and began the long and sad tale of the woes of the Mark. After the war had ended, most of the supplies and hoards had been exhausted in the sieges or stolen in the raids; attacks and skirmishes had not only cost many lives of many able-bodied men, but also ruined whole settlements, farmsteads, fields and livestock. And although the summer after the war had already passed into legends, the harvests had not been nearly enough to sustain them all. Families had been torn apart, leaving only ruin and dark thoughts and darker actions behind. Women bereft of husband or provider had been forced to live as beggars and wanderers. Children bereft of their parents had taken to loose bands surviving by means of lawlessness, stealing what they needed, turning into wild children, lost to all civilization and civility. Men bereft of their wives and children had formed bands bound by grief and despair, reacting with wrath at the unfairness of the world, and turning that wrath into thieving and terrorising. All in all, they did not know how to feed or clothe or house the survivors of the war, nor how to combat the lawlessness that had taken root in the more remote plains of the Mark.

After listening to Éomer's sad tale, they were both quiet for a long time. Lothíriel watched her husband and king lost in his troubled thoughts and in that moment she felt her heart break for him, and for the country and its people she had for so long left to their own devices. She wanted to believe that had she known how dire the situation really was, she would have acted sooner, but then again, when she had been made to come here, she had not really cared to know much more of the land than she had already come to believe, choosing to see only the unwelcoming and uncouth exterior of the country and its people, and thus to shut herself off, rather than to recognise the beautiful country it was with the many troubles it faced, and thus to open herself up to help.

In that moment she would have been sure to drown in her regret and shame, but rather than wallowing in her own misery, she chose to counter those feelings with action and advice. A great king was in need of a great queen, after all, she reminded herself, and a queen needed to be more than just the wife of the king, she needed to lend ear and give counsel, she needed to support right choices, even if they were difficult, and to oppose wrong ones, even if they were easy – in short, she needed to rule with him. And thus Lothíriel found herself trying to slowly ease herself into the role of queen, found herself trying to cheer up her downtrodden husband and king, by offering words of wisdom – not direct counsel yet, and credited not to herself though; after all, not every man took kindly to a woman presuming to spout advice.

'I've heard it said that a good king is much like a good father: kind and forgiving, but also strict and stern when needed, but never cruel. All children must obey their father, but they should never fear him. Fear breeds only anger and hatred, and where hatred reigns treachery and foul deeds are never far away. No, all children need to be able to believe in their father, and to trust him, to protect them, to provide for them, and to pass just judgement on them.', ending her little monologue, the young Queen looked up, trying to gauge the reaction of her King, and when he nodded slowly, encouraging her to go on, she beamed at him, taking breath to continue.

'A king is father to a thousand children, and they are all his to protect, all his to provide for. Would a father let his children starve? No, he would break the bread, into smaller and smaller pieces, and share so that all would be cared for.'

'I'm afraid, Lothíriel, even rationalisation won't help us feed all our children.'

The young Queen blushed at his words, shy eyes cast down. She knew he had not meant it like that but the very thought of having his children made her heart beat faster, though whether it was out of fear or out of excitement she could not say. Rattled and thrown, stumbling over her words, looking for anything to say, Lothíriel was rendered practically speechless, and it took her more than a few moments to regain her composure. Licking her lips, she added quietly then, shyly even, as though to admit defeat, 'You are their king, you will find a way.'

Looking up, she finally met the gaze of her husband and king and a strange emotion shone in his eyes, but rather than it being a look drenched in pity and ridicule, it showed surprise and no small amount of admiration, and he was smiling – not a grin, not a smirk, but a genuine smile, full of warmth that reached his eyes and reached her heart. She knew he was not a man to smile easily, but he smiled now, and he smiled at her. That sort of smile was enough to forget about a kingdom of troubles, but not for long.

'I had no idea you were interested in such things.', Éomer finally said, breaking eye contact, and breaking their momentary connection, as she too was torn out of the moment, averting her gaze, trying to recompose herself. As he cast a quick glance over to her, he still fought with the revelation of her hidden depths, but then again, had it not been he himself who had chosen not to include her counsel? He who had kept all those troubles from her? He who had thought her too fearful, too weak, too meek to care for anything other than her own troubles? Perhaps, Déor had been right all along, and the king doubted not that he was just one of many to underestimate her.

'I wish only to be a good wife to a great king.'

Éomer blinked at that, and watching his wife's bowed head, her bent posture, how the whole of her body seemed to shrink, as though she could ever make herself small in his eyes. Considering her words, a part of him felt anger at her feeling the need to make herself small, but another part of him remembered his friend's advice, and he wondered whether or not he had really been the only one to be at the receiving end of his friend's wise words. A great king was in need of a great queen, he thought, but a queen could only be great if her king possessed the greatness to allow her to become great – would he be a man of such greatness?

'You are not just my wife, Lothíriel, you are my Queen also.', he paused, licking his lips, taking his time, wanting to encourage her, to impress on her that her counsel would be of value to him and to the Mark, that they needed her, that he needed her; but he was not a man of big words, and the right words had never come to him easily, but he was a man of honour who had prided himself in always telling the truth, and thus he spoke the truth now, 'You have a voice in the council, too.'

'I'm afraid I am too quiet for the council to be heard.', the king was taken aback by her words, and he realised then that she was truly afraid; afraid to speak lest she would be silenced for her forwardness, afraid to leave the safety of her shell lest she would judged, afraid to take the reins of power lest she would fail. Éomer could relate to that last fear at least, or did he not think himself unworthy of ruling? And yet he ruled, as best he could, but that did not mean that he was not painfully aware of his own shortcomings; he was more warrior than ruler after all. But she – she was born to rule, coming from a family with politics in their blood, she who had been prepared all her life to know all, to see through all and to instinctively understand; and yet she held back, pulled back by her fears and own feelings of unworthiness. If a great king was in need of a great queen, then a great queen was in need of a great king as well. Resolved and hardened in his decision, Éomer spoke again, and this time he swore to show the greatness she deserved.

'You are their Queen. If you choose to speak they will listen.', at that his young wife and queen looked up, and perhaps it were the words he spoke, or the fervour with which he spoke them, but finally she seemed to believe him. And yet she still seemed visibly unsure of how to proceed, since for the first time she was asked on her opinion on matters that, well, really mattered, and thus he added, with every ounce of assurance that he had, 'Tell me then, and I will listen.'

Lothíriel gazed back at him, trying to gauge his expression, the sincerity of his words, but it was not necessary, for she knew him as a man of honour who spoke only the truth, and nothing but sincerity and truth was in his eyes, and thus out of belief grew bravery. Giving herself a push then, she began to speak, tentatively at first, but growing confident ever more, 'Well, I know it might not be a lasting solution but I know for a fact that the grain stores of Dol Amroth are always full to the brim and the region of fair Lebennin is known for its rich produce. What I mean is that … '

'You mean charity?'

'Not charity. Rather an exchange of goods wanted by both parties.', she paused at that, unsure if she should proceed, struggling with her conflicting desires until she gave in, and with a painful bitterness she thought how proud and smug her father would be right now, 'I'm sure there are enough products that the good people of Gondor are in need of and that the South has a hard time in procuring.', looking up, Lothíriel saw that he still wasn't convinced, and she knew that this scepticism was largely fed by his pride and him not wanting to ask for help or to appear weak. It was a belief she knew many a man held, and she knew even more that it was a belief that had already cost many a man dearly. But to think that to be strong was to be hard, and that softness and compromise were signs of weakness, it was a way of mind that was a gateway to be hard and soft in all the wrong situations. Lothíriel felt saddened by this, but rather than giving up on him or condemning him (as she would have done before), she felt propelled into action. After all, a great king was in need of a great queen, and to learn you needed to be taught first.

'My lord, this is the union for peace, is it not? The alliance meant to bring our two countries closer together?', she started softly, carefully, anxious not to appear too forward, anxious not to appear too preachy, after all, no one liked to feel like they were being patronised, or feel as though they were simple or lacking. And indeed, her strategy seemed to bear fruits, as her husband and king nodded slowly, his eyes showing him listening intently, and thus she added, cementing her first true steps in turning her warrior into a king, 'Then by all means, let them grow close.'

'Go on, I'm listening.'

FUN FACT #1: 10th chapter! That deserves some reward! Everyone may ask me 1 personal question and 1 question regarding the story / writing process. But let's try to avoid spoilers, shall we?

FUN FACT #2: Lothíriel's father will be important later on - until then, learn what you can from the bread crumbs I'm providing ...

FUN FACT #3: By now, I have already published over 100 pages of this story - currently I've pushed past the 200 pages mark. So, let's just say this story went end too soon ...