Back again with a new chapter in a new year! *YAY!*

Thanks for all the comments, likes and alerts!

AT wondereye: to answer your questions ...

I. Éomer is pretty stubborn; he thinks he as a king should know best and should do all; also, as a man growing up in that warrior culture, asking for help is a big deal. And, I also believe he doesn't want to burden his young wife with such troubles. He cares for her, he's just not very good at processing that.

II. Remote learning? Like corona-times remote learning? Well, as a teacher I can tell you, it's quite some work. Just because I'm not always in school doesn't mean I've got nothing to do - video conferences with my class as a way of socialising, 1-to-1 video calls if they need help with their tasks, creating their tasks, reviewing their working process etc. Oh, and documenting if the students do any of their work and are available - we have to document everything, because if a student doesn't work or is not available via phone or whatelse, then we have to inform the school and they inform the institutions and then I'll have to order that student to school, where I will teach him 1-to-1. It's a lot. I'd rather want to have the students in school and teach them - it's easier. But I can't change the situation, we all got to work with what we've got, eh?

Enjoy reading and spread a little love leaving a comment!

11. A voice to be heard

Standing outside before the doors of Meduseld, the doors leading to the Golden Hall and the council within, Lothíriel, Queen of the Mark, sucked in quick and nervous breaths of ice-cold air, shaking with more than just the cold, as she waited for the doors to open and for herself to be called in. Next to her, she could hear her sister-in-law sigh in frustration, not used to having to wait; it was clear that her sister-in-law did not share her own feelings of tension, nervousness and uncomfortable inadequacy. And why should she? The shieldmaiden had attended the council meetings for years and years, assuming the role of Lady of Meduseld from an early age on – this was nothing that could frighten her, if indeed anything in the world could. But for Lothíriel; she only had to take one long look at those high and mighty doors, decorated with carvings upon carvings, telling the long and grim and proud history of the Mark, and they were enough to frighten her, and what she feared most of all now, was to disappoint.

It had not been her idea to attend the council meeting but Éomer, and even more so Éowyn, had insisted. Lothíriel knew that for her husband he only meant to make sure that she took credit for her advice, and to appreciate her worth as a partner to him, trying to show his appreciation in what awkward way he could, but her sister-in-law had more than that in mind. For some time now Éowyn had been pressing her to take on the role of Lady of Meduseld and to assume her full duties as Queen of the Mark – up until now those responsibilities had still been handled by her sister-in-law, but no longer.

Who will take care of the people of the Mark when I'm gone? Who will rule the Golden Hall?, she remembered Éowyn asking her once, leaving her little room to retreat from her direct request or indirect accusation, I have played the part of Queen long enough, sister, but it has never been my part to begin with, it was yours, always yours, and it is high time you start taking it. There had been little use in fighting her argument, and in her heart Lothíriel knew she was right, but that did not mean that it made this any easier. After all, if you're told over and over again that your thoughts are of little consequence to the world, it was a miracle to keep thinking at all, but to pluck up the courage to speak out despite all, to try and speak out to a world that would and would not listen – the sheer impossibility of success, the sheer certainty of failure, of rejection, embarrassment, and the realisation of her own inadequacy and inconsequentiality, it made her breath stutter, her chest tighten. A fear like that she had only known once in her life before – but now there was no threat of fire or noises of terror; the terror was in her mind, and she herself was the true reflection of her fear.

Closing her eyes, Lothíriel spoke a silent prayer to Ulmo, her god, her Lord of Waters, and tried to will her doubts and fears away, trying to calm herself, trying to steel herself, to prepare for what was to come. She knew that after these heavy doors were opened she would have to brace the long walk to the throne dais on her own; Éowyn would walk with her, but some paces behind, leaving her the sole object of attention. She knew it was a necessity, a tradition even that the first entrance of a Queen was marked as a special occasion, in particular since it was an even rarer one. Of course, the Queen of the Mark traditionally had always had a seat and voice in the council of noblemen, but only upon the express wish of the King would she be allowed to partake, and even fewer Queens had actually assumed their right of advise – the Queen Morwen, mother of the late King Théoden, was one of the few exceptions, and she had been of Gondorian blood as well. Lothíriel wondered then whether her predecessor had shared her very same fears in that moment or whether she had braced those steps with the toughness that gave her the nickname Steelsheen. No, Lothíriel was sure, the Queen Morwen had been made of steel, the only question was, whether she, ever the gentle Swan Princess, could be made of that same steel as well?

'And what if I fail?'

Lothíriel did not know that she had whispered those words out loud, and she only came to realise it when she felt Éowyn lean close to her, only for her to whisper words into her ear in return, 'You could never fail, sister, for I am with you every step of the way.'

It was in that very moment that the call came from the inside and the mighty doors before her were opened, and the first thing her eyes focused on was the face of her husband and king, watching her expectantly, and it seemed as though the old doubts and fears would grip her once more. But then she felt her sister-in-law's hand squeezing hers with encouragement and heard her last words before she began her walk into the Golden Hall, and it had been all she needed to hear, 'Never forget, sister: you were perhaps not meant to rule, but you were made to rule nonetheless.'

Yes, even a swan could have feathers made of steel and today she would stretch her wings to see if she could truly fly. With slow steps she walked across the threshold and entered the hallowed Hall of Meduseld with unwavering determination; her eyes ever fixed upon her husband and king, ever her goal in mind. Pacing along the aisle of councilmen with sure and proud steps she could feel her sister-in-law following her just as she had promised, just as a personal guard might, and it gave her further courage and strength; strength enough indeed for her to dare let her eyes wander discreetly across the faces of the many men she passed.

Some of them did look as sceptical as she had feared, and some even looked at her with some emotion that resembled anger, but there were others, too; she could read hope in those eyes friendly to her, and then there were those gazes she had known so well all her life. So it must be for the Elves, she mused, whenever we mortals look upon, with eyes so full of wonder and awe. And it was not a very far-fetched reaction, she knew, after all, was it not said that there was Elvish blood in her family?

Of course, some faces she already knew. There was Lord Braenn, one of the highest ranking noblemen in the king's council, and he was one of the grimmest faces in the crowd; but then, there was also the face of Déor, and he was a friendly face for once, and as she knew him to be her lord and husband's closest friend, so did he know stand closest to the royal dais. He was good man, as her husband had assured her repeatedly, and to his credit, the rider had worked hard to befriend her – consequently he became, perhaps, even a little bit too friendly for her taste, though. She had come to know him as an eager, jovial young man who loved to drink and laugh and talk, and she had come to know him as a man who cared little and less for royal protocols or noble conduct – why, even now that rascal dared to wink at her with that smug smile of his!

And as she passed these men she could not but notice – just as she done when she had first come here – the differences between herself and them. They were all clothed in colours of greens and browns and a gold that looked more like the yellow shade of corn, but then again, it all made sense: after all, they were a people best described as the salt of the earth, their lives a meagre, basic necessity, made of common clay, functional but simple, and yet happy in their simplicity – their land and soil was in their blood and thus their dress showed it. But there was no land in her blood, in her blood was only the sea, as it was for all her people. For the people of Dol Amroth, of Dor-en-Ernil, the sea was their true home, forever calling them, beckoning them, and thus their deep-seated yearning shone through in their clothes, their flowing fabrics of satin and velvet, reminiscent of the waves that leapt onto their shores, their colours of blues and greys, silver and black, pure and regal, but also cold and remote.

Before she had come here, she had never before worn wool in her life, nor flax or hemp; satin and velvet had clothed her all her life – nor had she worn greens or browns or gold, for they were the colours of the earth, and she was of the sea. Blue had always been her colour; not the airy blue of airy courtiers, but the darker shades of blue, reminiscent of the darker, deeper depths of the sea. But here she had to start taking roots, and thus she had chosen to leave her watery silky dresses behind, her sea satin gowns and ocean chiffon garbs, and instead put on a dress of rich dark green and linen making, with only a wisp of light blue gossamer on top, rendering her apparel turquoise, somewhere between blue and green, somewhere between water and earth. And while her dress still flowed as freely and elegantly as a waterfall might, her sleeves were tight and practical and showed that she meant business.

When she arrived at the dais, she bowed deeply before her king to show her respect before climbing the few steps and taking up her place beside him. The thundering sound of the closing doors signalled the true end of her traditional entrance, and with a sigh she felt some of the tension and poise falling off her that she had clung to so resolutely just moments before. She felt almost out of breath, as if she had run all the way from the gates up to her seat in the Golden Hall, but she had mastered her entrance with the grace expected of her and she was glad for it. Risking a quick look at her sister-in-law (who had discreetly placed herself behind her seat) out of the corner of her eyes, Éowyn winked at her cheekily, and she knew then that her traditional entrance had been a success. With a small, triumphant smile on her lips, Lothíriel shifted her focus back to the council meeting that had just been opened by the King and allowed herself to fall into the patterns of social and political conduct she knew so well by heart. Head held high, straight up, chest out, hands neatly folded, eyes keenly ahead: let the show begin.

The King sighed in frustration and sat back, closing his eyes for a moment to calm his anger that threatened to well up again, as it so often did. Béma! Whoever said that it was good to be the king had never ever actually been a king, he thought sourly, and teeth-gnashingly he opened his eyes again. Looking ahead, he focused his attention on the heavy doors of the hall of Meduseld that would open momentarily and give way to the Queen and her entrance. It had been a long morning already and he had spent the better part of it arguing with the councilmen about his decision to include his wife and queen in the ranks of the council. Not that this council of his was usually tame and easily swayed to his decisions, but on this particular morning they seemed to be especially non-forthcoming. Whether it was the fact that she was a woman or that she was a foreigner, some of the councilmen seemed positively affronted by the idea of his wife and queen taking her place up beside him, and had argued their position with unmoving firmness. Damn them all, he thought in cold anger, cursing their stubborn pride, he was king, and his word was the law, in this as in all other matters – and if he sought a woman's council, he would damn well get it.

At that moment the doors of the golden hall were pulled open, letting the sunlight flood the deep room, and with it the Queen of the Mark entered. At first, she seemed small, insignificant even; yes, despite all her willowy height, she seemed small, her whole posture exuding an air lacking confidence, an air that spoke of fright and the feeling of inadequacy. She truly seemed like a fish out of water here, internally flapping, twitching desperately, trying to escape this situation, gasping for air, grasping for retreat – but she would find none.

There was no going back from here, only going forward. And you could see that realisation slowly dawning on her; thus reluctance made way to acceptance, acceptance made way to determination. But there was also something else, something more, and you could just see it in her eyes, the flicker of it, like the silently strong current beneath the glassy blue surface of a calm sea. And like the swan buckling up, spreading its wings, she appeared to grow taller with every second, her presence growing confident, strong, awe-inspiring, her eyes so full of focus as she finished her walk towards the throne dais with sure step, as she herself seemed to throw a shadow large enough to fill the room.

As she took her place beside him, he could feel the tension in the room, but it was not the sort of tension he had dreaded – instead, there was almost an atmosphere of awe reflected in the faces of his councilmen, as though after years and years of brooding debate they had been enlightened at last to be faced by true power and grace. And to be frank, he could not blame them for it – as her eyes had searched his on her way to her seat beside him, he had been hypnotised by the sheer will power conveyed in those dark blue eyes, as deep and knowing and unknown as the ocean itself. He realised that in this moment he had, perhaps as the first person ever, caught a mere glimpse of the great queen she truly could be, and it was magnificent and terrifying and awe-inspiring all in one.

Risking a quick look to the side, he saw that all too familiar mask descending on her features, the mask of utmost poise and manner, a proper lady, but more than that, a proper politician, as there was a cool, deliberate determination in her stature that showed that she would be making decisions with her head rather than her heart or – as was the case for him, more often than not – the guts. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that she very well knew how to navigate the treacherous swamp of politics, or that her ears heard more than was said, or that her tongue was sharp enough to easily cut the throat of every seasoned warrior in this room. But most of all, he mused, she knew how to be patient and to wait for the most opportune moment to strike. She would truly rise with the tides.

At the beginning of the council meeting they wasted away their time with pleasantries: the councilmen congratulated the queen on having taking up her place among them, thanking her and wishing her well, although Éomer knew only too well (and he doubted not that his wife knew this as well) that none of them truly meant it. But soon enough they returned to the usual order of business, and then all they talked about was the shortage of corn or the bad condition of the earth, the number of destroyed settlements that needed to be rebuilt. They had no food to last another winter, the orphans and widows and survivors of the War of the Ring could not be accommodated; the survivors, without order, sought their own ways so survive: small bands of thieves and robbers had formed in the Eastemnet that plundered already ruined villages and settlements – what was to be done with so many people? How to clothe, how to house, how to feed them? Where would they get the corn, they had no money left to buy anything and not enough men to re-build their homes?

All of the sudden the sound of someone clearing his throat interrupted the long monologue of the councilman; usually, the monologue of a councilman was only ever interrupted by the drawing of swords or words of anger or the command of his king, but never before had a sound so soft and small, so unassuming, dared to interrupt a seasoned councillor's speech, and succeeded at such. Stunned into silence (except for the councilman who'd been speaking – it took him a few more beats to realise that no one was listening to him any longer), the council instantly turned to the source of interruption, their faces showing surprise, confusion or even frustration.

With this all eyes were on the queen, and it was clear how uncomfortable she was with all this attention directed at her; perhaps she had thought to escape this attention, or that her attempt at speaking would remain unsuccessful, but whatever she had thought, she had made the first step now, and thus she had to walk that path all the way down to the end. With a last look at her sister-in-law, whose wink emboldened her to trust in herself, the queen turned around, her eyes focusing on what was ahead, to see the task done. Taking a deep breath she took her first step, then another, and then she was slowly making her way down the dais, towards the centre of the hall – after all, to be believed was to be seen, and to be understood was to be heard.

'Perhaps, my lords, the solution for these problems may come in very different shapes, and in ways unexpected.', she had halted next to the big fireplace, and paused for a moment, seemingly looking for the right words to explain her position, but as the councilmen gathered around her bit by bit, leaning forward, hanging on the very words that might never come, you could just comprehend the true nature of her hesitation. Éomer smirked a sly grin under his short moustache, exchanging a knowing look with his sister, who looked like a proud mentor witnessing her protégé's debut, but the king knew full well that this display of power and patience was not truly of their own making. Here they saw for the first time the full showmanship of a seasoned and cunning politician, and it was wondrous and sobering at the same time to behold; he doubted not that her carefully chosen words would have them all believe whatever she spoke, and thus, how could he ever believe anything this sweet, sour politician's mouth spoke? She knew well how to entice and to manipulate, and she knew when to do it and when not do to it. Had she already wrapped him around her little finger, already caught him in her net like a trout, already caught him in her sling like a young filly? But no, the king thought, shaking his head, returning to the present, he had given this plan his blessing, and who was he to frown at her methods of persuasion?

'… the flora of the Mark excels in its variety of healing herbs and useful plants that grow all across the Plains of the Mark. In the South such herbs would be hard to come by which makes them only more needed, and more valuable. I know a great deal of merchants and healers that would pay a fortune for such a plentiful supply. This, my lords, is an asset we have to take advantage of, an opportunity we cannot miss.', pausing, she glanced around, allowing herself a small, almost invisible smile, when she found none of the hostility she had feared she would be met with, and thus she continued, emboldened, 'However, what I propose is more than just a financial tweak. I know for a fact that the Southern regions and principalities have recently decided to strengthen their commerce and trade by uniting the guilds of healers into one – that means that all healers receive their permissions from the government as well as their medicines and herbs. If we were to strike a bargain with the Southern healer guild through the governments, we could set the prices ourselves – why not let them pay us in corn and crops rather than copper and gold? And could we not also use that opportunity to utilize the restlessness that has taken deep root in the heart of this country and its people? To feed and care for them by their own hand? To give meaning to those that gave up on life and the meaning of it?', murmurs swept the hall but she didn't let that dissuade her; by now she had managed to talk herself into a mindset of optimism and hope, wherein each and every man would agree with her and see the sense in her ideas; and thus she went on oblivious to the stirrings of misgivings that she had caused in the ranks all about her, 'I propose that those left without a home could attend to the planning, arranging and organisation of the trade, starting from the reaping of the herbs to its processing and finally its transportation and sale in the great cities and settlements of the South: Minas Tirith and – '

'My Queen, you would have us selling weed?', a booming voice interrupted then and Lothíriel whipped around, coming face to face with a grim-looking councilman Braenn who had seen enough winters to have earned himself some stubbornness, if perhaps not wisdom. With a condescending sound, somewhere between a cough and a laugh, he continued to question her proposal, 'For what? The pitiful charity of some Southern lords?'

Muttering gripped the crowd, half-whispered protests erupted, heads shook fervently, denying the perceived degradation of accepting charity from pompous Southerners; and in between all of this stood Lothíriel Queen, stunned into silence and intimidated, unsure of how to proceed. The King's eyes turned to slits and his mood soured. Éomer could see how much effort it really cost her not to lose her composure then and there and he realised in this moment that she may have had all the learnings of a politician, but none of the practice. Surely, she had learned all the ways of politics, how to outweigh all the advantages and disadvantages of every decision by instinct, how to manoeuvre, plot and strategize – he was sure, she knew all of that by heart, but he doubted anyone had ever expected her to argue her point before, or at least not in such a manner, or to stand her ground and defend her opinions, her very own ideas.

Éomer exchanged a stolen glance with his sister, whose mouth turned into a thin, strained line that must have mirrored his own, who nodded in agreement before they both returned their attention to the centre of the hall and the queen within. When said queen started anew this time, she seemed to stutter a little but except to the trained ear, no one would have noticed.

'My Lords, I can assure you it is not charity, if it is for the benefit of both parties – they would gain the materials they need, and we would be able to establish trade, replenish our food stores and find work and use for many people bereft of both.', she expressed with hands outstretched in a gesture of good will, before she let them fall to her sides, pushing back her shoulders, lifting her chin in defiance and making herself tall as she focused on the single councilman who had interrupted her so rudely, 'And it is not weed, my Lord, these are herbs with healing properties that even the most uneducated of women know about.'

The councilman twitched back at her words, his cheek flushed with red, obviously affronted at her slide, and Lothíriel allowed herself a small, triumphant smile at her first successful blow, even if doubts nagged at her whether it had been such a smart move to aggravate and offend one of the most seasoned councilmen. But she ignored that little voice of doubt and concern. Rise with the tides, she reminded herself with the words of her house; to be victorious one could not always play nice or fair, and to challenge the still waters could call upon the wrath of the sea.

'And what about the brigands and the bands of thieves, my Lady? How do you propose to establish trade with them lurking about?', the affronted councilman Braenn threw in, ready to spar with her again, 'As we here understand it, you wish to send our men-folk away for the selling of your precious herbs, to leave our rebuilding unattended and our borders unprotected – so who will deal with those ruffians and thugs?'

And with that, Lothíriel was sent reeling again. Truly, the problems of the Mark could not be satisfied with one solution alone, and she began to have her doubts that for this councilman any solution would ever be good enough. But, shaking her head, she also shook away her thoughts of this especially grumpy councilman – self-doubts would not see her through this, only courage and self-reliance would. Rise with the tides, she reminded herself, rise with the tides.

'I understand your concern, my Lord, and do not mistake me, I would never dare rob the Mark of their precious ruffian-handling men-folk.', she began once more and once more she proved herself a Queen too much to be handled by even the most seasoned councilman, and when snickers echoed in the hall, she knew that at least her sister-in-law seemed to appreciate that jovial remark. But she chose not to dwell on her second victory and instead continued, serious and focused, 'But given your concern, my Lord, would you not consider your women capable of rebuilding their lands with their own hands? Yours is a sturdy women-folk that does not shy away from hard labour.'

Agreeing whispers rushed through the golden hall of Meduseld, old heads bobbing in nodding, each of the old men complimenting each other on the industrious women their people offered, with all of them ignoring that it was the land – and not the self-complimenting men – that made those women capable and vigorous. Lothíriel, now feeling that she had earned more than enough agreeable reaction to her ideas, continued with her boldest proposal yet, 'And, after all, my Lords, since you all agree that your women-folk is of such sturdy, laudable nature, would it not be thinkable for those women bereft of husband and family to actively partake in the trade; to organize the sowing and harvest, to lead the delivery and supervise the transportation themselves?'

'Now you would have us send off our women onto some trading trips while the Eastemnet is crawling with thieves, robbers and other scum?', the old grumpy councilman chimed in, laughing whole-heartedly, looking around to the other councillors to express his obvious dismissal of her proposal as ridiculous and unacceptable, hoping their faces would mirror similar misgivings, and the barely suppressed chuckles all about her told Lothíriel that they did.

'How are they supposed to defend themselves? Truly, you cannot mean to send women to do man's work – '

'If you are truly worried about how defenceless the daughters of the Mark are, must I remind you, my Lord, who it was that fought in our ranks, defended our dying king and slew the dreaded Lord of the Nazgȗl before the White City of Minas Tirith?'

Silence fell upon the hall after the copper sound of a woman's voice had cut through the condescending words of the old stubborn councilman, and then all eyes looked to Éowyn, sister of the king, shieldmaiden of the Mark, who had taken an angry step forward, her eyes alight with challenge, her stance wide and sure, her arms akimbo. Lothíriel swallowed hard as she eyed her sister-in-law giving her a confident wink; seeing the shieldmaiden stand there with full confidence it was not hard to understand how this blonde-haired woman could easily become Lady of Meduseld without being Queen, and the rightful Queen was once more reminded how much she was truly lacking compared to her sister-in-law. Even the councilmen appeared to see in the shieldmaiden more of a Lady of Meduseld than Lothíriel ever would be, and Lothíriel felt a pang of jealousy as she saw the stubborn old councillor who had defied her at every word bow low and lower before the Lady Éowyn. None of them would ever look upon her with even the fraction of that reverent respect, the Queen mused with bitterness, and, casting her eyes down, she hoped none would ever see the cold rage of black and blue waves crashing against her moral walls in her hard gaze.

With a sigh from deep within that was supposed to shed all her heavy and useless feelings of bitterness, Lothíriel looked up again, pushing her shoulders back and lifting her chin high, reminding herself that despite all, she was Queen and no one else, and that she would have to see this through to the end. Turning her focus back to the matter at hand, she saw the stubborn old councilman rise again, his back straightened, his smile as sweet and sly as any wolf's as he began to speak once more.

'Clearly, my Lady Éowyn, you are a marvellous exception to most women, who are inexperienced …', the councilman glanced at her with his condescending look as he paused for effect, only to be met with her hard, unyielding gaze, ' … with weapons and fighting, and thus are defenceless.', and then turning towards his lord and king, the stubborn old man sought to end this discussion once and for all, 'We cannot send off our women without men to protect them, my Lord, and we cannot send away our men, for who would secure our borders when they're gone?'

Taking all of this in, Éomer King moved forward, elbows resting on the throne's arms, his chin resting on his interwoven hands, his eyes lost in thought, but only for a moment, before his gaze searched for that of his queen once again. Lothíriel sighed deeply, thinking hard to remember all that she had talked over with her husband in private, and in the enclosed and confined intimacy of their chambers those ideas seemed oh so logical and practical and simple – but now, due to her incapability of expressing her thoughts and holding her ground, her ideas seemed neither promising nor persuasive. She felt the panic rise in her, desperation licking at her throat, tightening, closing in, and already she felt herself go short of breath, and was it not said that despair made the helpless go mad? Or how else could she ever explain blundering her way into this next misstep?

'There are other ways in which we could ease the pain and desolation of this country.', she started quickly then, almost stumbling over the words in her fervour, anxious to gain the attention of the councilmen again, but she could tell – from the sluggish way they turned to her again – she could just tell that she had long lost them on the way, 'The men of the Mark are renowned for their skills at breeding the best horses far and wide, and why not re-establish trading relations with Gondor or the Elves of Lórien – '

'The Eorlingas do not sell their horses any more than we sell our dignity or our honour. But how could we ever expect a Southern lady to understand?', the old stubborn councilman Braenn spat back at her, zeroing in on her like the hawk that spotted its prized prey, and Lothíriel realised then that she had walked right into a trap of her own making. Of course, she knew that the councillor did not speak the truth; the Rohirrim had been trading in horses far longer than even their home country existed, but this wasn't how they chose to see it. If she called it trade, they called it selling short; if she called it a win-win-relationship, they called it charity – it didn't matter what she said or did, she would remain an outsider and her ideas out of the question. It would appear the only truth those truth-loving horse-people saw or valued, was their own.

Lothíriel took one look at her king and husband then and she knew that she could still appeal to him, and he would listen, but that would mean that she would be giving in (the councilmen would never accept a king's decision coerced by his begging wife), and she knew, if she gave in now, she would never again be given the chance to be the queen this country so desperately needed. Rise with the tides, a small, powerful voice in her whispered then, and she remembered the day she had been caught in a murderous storm with her little sailing boat, how the winds had howled against her, torn at her sail, how the waves had crashed against the sides, rocking her violently, threatening to topple and drown and swallow her whole. Then and there she had decided not to give in to the might and force of the ocean, and she had lived to see the sun again, and if she could brace the violence and wrath of the seas, then she would also brace the prejudice and pride of old men so full of honour they could no longer listen to wisdom when they heard it. Rise with the tides, the small voice whispered again, and this time she chose to listen.

Turning her back on her king and husband, she forewent all assurance and support in favour of her own strength, and as she pushed back her shoulders and lifted her chin the mask of the politician fell away to reveal the face of the queen. With sure words and a clear voice she addressed the men around her, 'My lords, I understand your misgivings. It is true, I am a Southern lady who has seen very little of the world – your world – but I am a Southern princess no longer. I am your queen and your people are also my people whose well-being is my chief concern here, and thus I pray, do not so rashly dismiss opportunities that are presented to you by a voice young and unskilled.', with a pause, she closed her eyes and took a breath, in, out, readying herself for the final blow, 'If you truly believe that my proposition is not a solution to our people's problems, then I will happily see you discard it. But, if you only wish to disregard it due to my presenting it, then I say to you: do not let prideful prejudice blind you to your people's sorrows – our people cannot survive on honour alone. The choice is yours, my lords, and I pray you choose well.'

Lothíriel did not dare to turn around and look at her husband as she undid the hooks and eyes of her dress, slipping the first layer of light blue gossamer off her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground to pool at her feet, and for a moment she was reminded of the waves playing around her toes buried in the white beaches of Dol Amroth. When she looked up, however, to her reflection in the mirror, she was clothed all in green wool in her main dress, and the sight sent shivers down her back. Where was the swan-princess from the palace upon the island in the sea? Where was she gone? All she saw now was a horse-queen in a sea of green and she hardly recognised herself.

Looking into the mirror her eyes caught sight of her husband at the other end of their chamber, and for a moment she lost herself in thought, watching him. He was already half-undressed; waistcoat and shirt had fallen off, and the muscles in his chest danced as he sat down on the bed to take of his boots, the muscles in his arms flexing, and for a moment she wondered what it would feel like to be wrapped up in those strong arms, to be pressed flush against that broad chest. Would it make her feel safe? Would it make her feel held? Would it make her feelings of disappointment fade away into the comfort of a loving partner's reassurance?

With a deep sigh Lothíriel closed her eyes, willing the thoughts and feelings away, and when she opened them she was shocked to see the look of her husband meet hers in the mirror, if only for a moment. Gasping for air, the queen cast her eyes down, feeling the red of her shame heat her face, as she busied herself with undressing further instead of losing herself in watching her husband and king. As she loosened the hooks and eyes at the back of her green main dress, to slip it down the length of her, she could not but feel the gaze of her husband on her, and for a moment, the old insecurities gripped her once more. She feared that on this day – her very first day as a true queen – she had failed her king and husband and her people, and she was not exactly sure whether it was disappointment or anger that she feared most to see in his green eyes, but when she heard him speak up then, she was surprised to find neither.

'The meeting went well. I would hope that we could put your ideas into action as soon as possible.'

Had she heard correctly? Or had it just been her wishful thinking putting those reassuring words in his mouth? Lothíriel turned towards him, to see him sitting on the bed, inspecting his boots for holes, 'But none of the councilmen agreed to it – '

' – and none of them rejected it either. They are stubborn, but that does not make them any less perceptive to wisdom.', he answered, looking up, and when he did, he found his young wife and queen staring at him perplexed, as though he were talking about flying horses or singing stones, and the way her forehead wrinkled in frowns and her nose scrunched up in confusion, was a sight so amusing, he fought hard to keep his voice firm and steady (and from bursting out laughing), 'Trust me, Lothíriel, they are old men, and like all old men wanting to be relevant, they'll want to waste some time discussing it before they agree. If I asked them to state the colour of the grass, they'd be unwilling to call it green until they've wasted a lifetime discussing it.'

Complimenting himself on his own joke, he could not suppress the chuckle any longer as he got up to walk over to her, but as he looked at his wife, expecting to see her join in with his amusement, he found only a shadow of doubt turning the blue of her eyes to steely grey. It was then and there that Éomer finally realised that she was not as joyful and excited as she should have been; instead she looked worried, ashamed even, as though she were a child that had done something wrong, fearful now of the coming judgement of the elder. Was it possible that no one had ever asked for her ideas before, that no one had ever listened?

'You do not seem happy, my Lady, as you should be.', he stated softly as he searched her gaze, not wanting to embarrass her further or even shaming her for her lack of happiness; he had learned by now that she was a delicate soul, and her manners prone to be offended by his apparent lack thereof. So he made an attempt at sensitivity, hoping she would feel comfortable enough in his presence to open up to him, and to his surprise, she did.

'I fear it was not my place to speak in the council meeting today.', she said quietly, almost in a whisper, not brave enough to meet his gaze, lest her fears would be confirmed, 'The councilman – '

'Lord Braenn is an old, bitter grinch. Even when I was still a boy he was already old and withered, and even then he had never taken kindly to change, of whatever nature it might be.', Éomer had spoken without thought, and in the silence that followed he noticed his wife looking at him with rapidly blinking eyes, and he realised the rudeness of him interrupting her ever so often and the shame of it made his ears burn with fire.

His mind raced with ideas of how to undo his blunder, of how best to comfort his young wife and queen in her miserable feeling, his eyes frantically searching to and fro. Looking down then, he only now became aware of their various state of undress: him in nothing but breeches and she in nothing but her shift, the flicker of the fire all but shining through her, and for a moment his mind conjured up images of other ways of how to take his wife's mind off these troubling things – images that left him short of breath, but then again, it had been almost two weeks since he had last shared her bed.

Clearing his throat and shaking his head, Éomer sought to banish those thoughts from his mind by focusing on her misery and insecurity rather than his need for pleasure. His sister had advised him to take an interest in her emotional state, to support her, to be there for her, and he recalled his own realisation that a great king might be in need of a great queen but a queen could only be great if her king allowed her to become great. Thus taking his sister's advise to heart he spoke again, and when he did his voice was laden with a gentleness and hoarseness that came from a wholly unknown emotion, but as he thought of his sister, perhaps not such an unknown emotion after all.

'It is a good idea, Lothíriel.'

Hearing him say her name like that made her look up, and when she did she was met by a gaze so full of warmth and kindness it took her breath away. She swallowed hard and it took all her effort not to shy away from his piercing look, if in fact she even could have looked away. She felt her heart beat faster as she stared into those deep seas of green, and because she had no words to say, she only smiled, and though it was a weak smile and considerably small, it was yet an honest one, and that meant more to him than all flowery words and false confessions of love. Seeing her smile like that felt right and he wanted to capture that moment, never letting it go – his sister was right, that wife of his deserved to be happy and it was his duty to make it so.

For a long moment their eyes locked, and he was mesmerised by the yearning he saw swimming in those deep pools of blue – not the yearning a husband would have liked from his wife, but a yearning nonetheless, and at least she no longer looked at him with fear and suspicion. Drawn by that new emotion in her eyes, he felt instinctively pulled towards her, his body almost moving on its own, the muscles in his arms already flexing, an entirely new heat flushing his face. And then he remembered his sister's other advise and his own clever idea of abstinence and just like that the heat from before turned to ice, and mortification drenched him in sweat.

Turning away and breaking off the eye contact, he swallowed hard, trying to cover up his emotional slip, and apparently his wife seemed to follow his example. Clearing his throat once again, Éomer king looked for anything and everything to distract himself from the tension between them and thus spoke again with regard to his utmost respect and gratitude for her abilities, 'You did well today. From now on I would have you sit the council with me every day.'

For a moment she was too stunned to say anything, but then her shocked surprise slowly waned and she simply smiled, too flustered to find the right words, and nodded in thankful agreement, and in the silence of their chamber, she finally had the courage to take his hand in hers – after all, they were in this together – and in the warming light of the fire their fingers intertwined.

FUN FACT #1: I tried my best to not let the council meeting get too one-sided. Lothíriel's ideas are not without their faults and the councilmen have every right and duty to question it. But as this is Lothíriel's story I cannot deny that I wrote this scene as someone who is partial to my queen!

FUN FACT #2: The council meeting scene was the idea that encouraged me to write this story in the first place. It just popped in my head one day and I figured out the why's and how's as I was taking notes for this story for months and years.

FUN FACT #3: I'm a contradictory person. I like historical epics and Marvel movies and Mel Brooks movies just as much as I like Bollywood movies. I like playing the guitar and indoor-climbing just as much as I like writing and embroidery. I hate coffee. (=_=)

So what makes you a contradictory person? ;)