So, here I am back again, my guys, gals and non-binary pals!
See you next friday for the next chapter!
Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!
Oh, and BTW ... sorry in advance.
12. Drowning in despair and desire
The sun was shining furiously on this lovely late February morning, and yet the rays of light could not yet hold sway over the harsh cold of winter. In the Riddermark the summers were short but warm, spring times filled with the scents of a thousand flowers and trees, autumn days roughened by howling winds and the winters were biting, brisk and bleak. But despite the chilly air Lothíriel did not forgo her chance of a morning stroll down the streets of Edoras, walking all through New Town and ever down, past the Runaway horse tavern in Auld Town and ever down, all the way through the gates of the city fortress.
After she had left the city behind her, she turned left, further down the hill and soon only the golden roof of the hall of Meduseld could be seen. With a sigh she came to a halt and let the satchel she had carried with her fall to the ground, closing her eyes and simply breathe in the cold morning air. The walk down had cost her some energy and she was out of breath, but she resisted the instinctive urge to peel off some layers of clothing; she would not make the mistake of underestimating the cold.
All round her the landscape was still covered in snow and she remembered how very alien and harsh the land had appeared to her when she had first come here. After all, she was a summer child that had only known the warm breeze of the Southern seas, the salty, fresh wind and the burning kiss of the sun as she lay on the beach, getting dry. In the first few weeks after she had come here she had constantly felt cold no matter how many pelts and cloaks and blankets she had put on or wrapped herself in, and she had not been able to image anything beautiful about this wild and harsh land that she could have loved. Especially the snow she had come to hate, but soon enough she had learned and forgot her disgust for snow, after all, it was only water turned to ice, and did she not love the Sea in whatever form it came to her? After all, what did they call her, when they whispered in the long halls and streets of Edoras: Merides, Sæides, the Lady of the Seas?
Sucking in the scent of fresh snow, Lothíriel opened her eyes, her gaze settling on the sight of the White Mountains in the far away distance, losing herself in her troubling thoughts, because it was neither the winter cold of her new home nor the summer heat of her old home that was currently on her mind. Thinking back on it now, she had been surprisingly naive to believe that all it took to solve the problems of the Riddermark was one little council meeting. Granted, her idea had been accepted at long last by the aldermen, and her king and husband had worked tirelessly to put it into practice, but the workings of power were slow, and the workings of agriculture were even slower, and slowest of all proved the trading relationships between North and South. Because while the late winter rainstorms of the South could prove treacherous, they really were no problem for the cunning mariners of Dol Amroth, which would mean a steady supply of grain for the people of the Riddermark, were it not for certain politicians straining the still shy and fragile new trading relationship with more demands than the councillors of her lord and king were willing to accept. It was a rippling effect of frustration escalating ego escalating frustration, and it were the common people that had to pay for it because the shipments of grain were not coming in as they had hoped, and it was hope itself that seemed to be failing more and more in the hearts of the people.
Of course, no one had said that being queen would be easy, but it was something else entirely to see this new-found weariness creep into the gazes of the people she now called her own; a new weariness, because now there had been hope for a change for the better, a hope that would be slowly but surely ground into dust. In a way, then, she could understand that this frustration would seek an easy outlet, and that for those wary Northerners foreigners proved to be the easiest targets, but still, it hurt – the disappointment of those that believed in her, the gloating of those that had expected her to fail; it hurt her more than she would have liked to admit. Especially now that they were getting personal in their attacks.
Sill fresh and raw in her thoughts was yesterday's council meeting, though by now she had had quite a lot of them, and slowly she had got the hang of it – or so she had thought, but yesterday's meeting had taught her how very wrong she had been to believe so. Not only were some members of the council still hesitant to fully commit to her proposal, but adding insult to injury she had also been most cruelly reminded that she herself had not been entirely accepted yet either.
'My Queen, as … pleased as we are that you take your new duties to heart, they mean little as long as you have not seen to your most important duty.'
'I'm afraid, my lord, I do not understand.'
'Do you not? Are you not a queen? Are you not a wife? Let me speak plainly then: the House of Eorl is still without an heir. I do wonder: what good does a mare unfit for breeding?'
Lothíriel's eyes snapped shut and she hissed at the pain the memory brought her, with her ears still ringing with the echo of the words of the councilman. She was glad she had been able to actually suppress her tears until she had been in the confines of her bedchamber, or else the added humiliation of publicly showing her distress would have been unbearable. She remembered well crying herself to sleep last night, and even her lord and husband must have noticed her weeping and sobs, or why else would he have shunned their bedchamber? Was he disappointed with her too?, she though then, her heart clenching at the thought and she opened her eyes again only to feel the burning sting of fresh tears. It had been over two weeks since he had last lain with her – had he at last given up on her, disgusted by his barren wife? And – biting her lip so hard she could taste blood – she wondered then, would it not be better if she just disappeared?
With that single thought she felt her iron control slip and for a moment she allowed herself to break down as she sank down onto the snow, pulled her knees up to her chest and buried her face in her hands to hide her tears from the world. A great king was in need of a great queen, the old saying came to her mind again, but she thought bitterly, she was neither a good queen nor a good wife. She was just a foreign princess in a foreign land, a bartering tool in the hands of greater men, looked down upon by lesser men who thought themselves great, a little girl from the sea who held no power in the lands of men.
She felt her tears running hotly down her cheeks, and then freezing and turning to ice on her skin. No, she thought then suddenly, stubbornly, her sadness stilling instantly; water was powerful and came in many forms, and no matter which form it took, water remained powerful. Rise with the tides, the little voice in her whispered again, and again she listened. And with that a sudden mad determination gripped her and put her into action: scrambling to her feet like a crazed woman, her feet ever so often sliding on the icy ground, her eyes frantically searching the area for what she had come here to find. A flower with petals of a violet colour whose shades grew ever dark until they met in a golden centre, a flower rumoured to possess powers of fertility. But all the powers of a fertility plant would be fruitless if the field it was supposed to enrich was not ploughed enough to ever bear anything at all. For a moment she faltered then, but only for a moment. No, she thought desperately, shaking her head wildly, as long as she got that flower she could solve her problem, as long as she got with child everything would be alright.
All of the sudden then she heard a sound like the breaking of glass and she felt a shock of fear go through her body as the very ground beneath her feet seemed to vibrate, and even through the snow she saw a crack in the ice appear beneath her feet and then winding itself through the whole frozen surface like veins of white blood. Would it not be better if she just disappeared? The hairs in the back of her neck stood up as the words of her sister-in-law came to her, describing to her the plains of the Mark like a sea of grass, as wide and far as the eye could see, a sea of grass which was ever so often interrupted by little pools of water, fed by the great streams from the north, pools that had little current but surprisingly great depth.
O sweet Lord Ulmo, help me!
What should I do? What should I do? What should I do? What should I do? What should I do?
The questions ran through her head, again and again, until the words started to blur and bleed into each other. Desperate ideas and plans rushed through her mind, one unlikelier than the other. What if she ran? But no, she had no idea how far and wide this hidden pool was, and in her frantic search for the Alcea flower she had not watched the goings of her feet, nor could she gauge the size of the pool from the look and sound of the snow alone. If there was a different look or sound of snow upon a frozen water rather than solid ground, she could not tell – before she had come to the Mark she had never even before seen snow in her life. There was no telling if she was near or far from the edges of the pool and in any way, making a run for it might make the frozen surface break and shatter completely. Would it not be better if she just disappeared?
Perhaps, she thought desperately, if she reduced the weight on one spot and instead spread it more evenly, perhaps then she could crawl herself to safety – but when she moved to get on her belly another cracking sound and another split in the ice made her hesitate. Would it not be better if she just disappeared? Looking up then towards the city of Edoras she knew the only chance she had was to cry out for help, hoping that anyone would hear her, but as she opened her mouth, taking in the air she needed to shout out loud, the ice beneath her broke.
The icy coldness of the water hit her so hard all air was sucked out of her lungs and she forgot how to breathe. Would it not be better if she just disappeared? As she was rapidly pulled down by the underwater current, the weight of her heavy clothes only made it worse. Of course, she tried to fight her way back up to the surface, trying to remember how good a swimmer she was, trying to remember how often she had braced the salty might of the Sundering Sea and its waves, but she only felt the icy cold wrapping itself around her as her feet kicked and trod water, her muscles rocked by spasms, painfully trying to contract, to move, to swim. Would it not be better if she just disappeared? Sinking deeper and deeper, the white of the lake's surface turned from white to grey and ever darker and darker, and then there was only the dark cold of nothingness all around her, and she had no more strength left to swim, no more air left to breathe, and no more hope left to fight, and so she gave in. Rise with the tides, the little voice in her screamed, but she would hear it no longer. Would it not be better if she just disappeared?
Pulling at the reins with little force and a command in his own mother tongue, Éomer king made Firefoot, his prized steed and friend, slowly decrease his tempo, turning from gallop to canter to trot and then to a slow walking pace. Leaning forward he patted Firefoot's neck, grateful for the distraction his trusted steed had provided, and that had been much needed this morning. Sitting back up, Éomer looked towards Edoras coming ever closer, and with a sigh he resigned himself, giving Firefoot a gentle nudge in the flanks and the stallion trotted onwards to the city in a quicker pace.
His mornings were usually reserved for a good ride, since the afternoons were too often now occupied with council meetings and the dreary and dry nature of ruling, but this morning he had more than ever needed to clear his mind – or rather to cool his head. A part of him was still fuming with fury from the last council meeting and the insinuation of the council member, Lord Braenn, and listening to his young wife cry herself to sleep last night had nearly broken him, even more so because he had not known how to comfort her, and so he had rather slept in the throne room of Meduseld to give her space rather than to intrude on her privacy. Or perhaps that had been wrong too.
Éomer knew it had been only a matter of time before gossip and accusations would be made, though it would be a difficult thing indeed to explain why his wife was innocent of the reason for her childlessness. It had been some two weeks now since he had last lain with his wife, and he had his sister to thank for that; whatever it had been that those two women had chatted about, he had been at the receiving end of it. All of the sudden, his sister tried to school him about things no sister should talk to her brother about, especially not an unwed, younger sister who should know nothing of men, and even less of what occurred between men and women in the night! But there she had been, nagging on and on, presuming to suggest things that belonged more to a brothel house, or a minstrel's poetic seduction, than a political marriage bed.
It had been too much and in his overwhelmed mindset he had rather chosen to abstain from his more private rights as a husband – much to the confusion of his young wife. Indeed, it had not been long before she noticed the change in him. But truth be told, she had not been the only one confused. Nothing happened in Meduseld without the servants noticing it, gossiping about it – he was a King after all, and a King needed an heir, especially a King that was almost the last of his House and line. And he knew that such gossip was never far from his wife's ears, and he knew of the pressure a woman in her situation would have to endure then. But it could not be helped, and he knew in his heart that it was neither his sister's nagging nor the gossip nor the pressure that had him shun his marital duties, but rather something else. It was his wife.
Not that she was unpleasing – Béma! She was a woman unlike any other, and the very thought of her made his breeches tighten. No, it was rather her reaction to him. Her form shaking like a leaf in the wind, eyes the colour of the sea large with fear, and those plush lips – lips he so wished he could kiss – sealed tight in fright. He had hoped that once the initial hesitation and awkwardness had fallen off, she would be more open, more engaging, more lively. But still, every time he had come to her, rather than anything else, she had endured him – there was simply no other way to state it. Still, as bad as it was, it was nothing compared to their first night together.
He could still see her before him, in all her naked glory, standing before the bed, head bowed in fear and shame, awaiting his command. He had not wanted to command her then, and he did not want to command her later, but it could not be helped. Although he had tried to speak to her softly, to guide her, he doubted not that his voice had sounded gruff and that his words had come off as an order. And although he could see how hesitant she was, how much effort it took, she had obliged without protest, and had silently slid into the bed.
Lying there, staring at the ceiling of their marriage bed, she had almost looked like a doll – pretty but lifeless – and something in him had recoiled then at what he would have had to do. He had had no wish to force himself on her, but his or her say in the matter had been of little consequence. They had been wed, not for themselves but for their countries, for their people, for the peace, and something had to come out of it, and for that, their marriage had to be consummated – and though, waiting could have been a choice, it would have only meant to postpone the inevitable.
In the back of his mind he knew, though, such sensible thoughts had not propelled him into action. He had wanted the woman in the bed, had wanted to make her his, to touch that raven hair and grip that arse, to cup her breasts and sink between those milky thighs. It would have been understandable for any man to feel aroused by such a sight and such imagination, and even though he was a king, was he not a man like any other? And thus he had climbed into the bed, climbed on top of her, to do what was expected of them both.
She had hardly seemed to notice him, or rather she would not let him see it, still lying there motionless under him, her thighs pressed together, her hands at her sides balled into fists, and still she would not look at him. He had tried to make an effort – he had never been a lover, the experiences he had had, had been quick and wild and with women of other standing and other constitution – but he had tried to make an effort. He had tried to kiss her then – and judging from their kiss at their wedding ceremony, she had not been too appalled by his kissing – but she had turned her face away from him, evading his lips and rejecting the effort he made. Éomer had not tried to kiss her again, accepting her refusal, as was her right – they were husband and wife after all, not lovers, and for what they were expected to do, kissing was not necessary.
With a sigh he had willed himself to go on, to ignore that they both seemed rather unwilling in this situation, remembering their duty. Moving back a little to kneel before her, he had used his hands to coax her legs open, and alone to feel the calloused skin of his palms against the soft flesh of her thighs had made him harden. A sharp intake of breath from his wife had been all the reaction he got from her, other than that her hands had been still at her sides, balled into fists so tightly her knuckles turned white and he had almost feared her fingers' bones would crack under the pressure. Her face had been still turned away from him, looking at the wall; no, focusing on the stool he had left his clothes and sword on. For a second he had wondered then – after all, he did not know that wife of his at all – whether she thought to run him through with that sword after he had run her through?
Then, after he had made her open herself up to him, he had moved forward again, hovering above her, leaning on his strong arms, his hands placed next to her head, and now even she had been breathing hard, and it had been one of the few signs that this whole affair did not entirely pass her by untouched. She would not look at him, and he could not look at her as he came to her, and though her face had been turned away from him, he could yet see the different emotions that had flashed over it.
First her brows had creased in confusion, then in discomfort, and when he had pushed past her barrier of resistance in one quick motion her eyes had snapped shut and her whole body had seemed to flinch. Her head had rolled back, and her face had been a mask of a pain as she had cried out then, and the sound had been piercing his very heart. Truly, he had had no experiences in taking a woman's maidenhead. Instantly he had thought to remove himself and to leave it at that, but he had known how ridiculous the very idea was: what was done, was done, all he could do now was to see it through to the end. But that did not mean that he couldn't spare a thought for her as well.
Keeping himself still, he had waited for her to recover herself and to calm down, doubting not that half of the pain was mere shock. And as her breathing had slowed again, and feeling that her king and husband had halted in his actions, his young wife had opened her eyes then to face him. Her gaze had been dazed with wild questions, and some of them he could read so well: what is happening? What will happen? Is it done? Or will there be more pain until the end? Éomer had wanted to explain it all to her, to still her fears, but he had never been a man good with words.
'It's alright. You will be alright.'
It was all he could bring himself to say, and though the words seemed dull and uncouth, insufficient, it seemed to be all she needed to hear; immediately, the fear in her eyes had melted away with the first shock, and instead uncertainty took its place, unsure of what to expect next. And Éomer, feeling that this was at least a path that they could both follow, had held her gaze as he began to move again; slowly at first, tentatively even, trying to gauge her reaction, and with every soft push she had sucked in her breath, but now there was no pain haunting her eyes, and the realisation of it had seemed to dawn on her bit by bit.
Of course, at that point Éomer had hoped she would respond to him the way women usually responded to his embrace, but she had seemed practically overwhelmed and fully occupied with the lack of pain, and even though he had tried to initiate more intimacy then, she had again turned her face away, and at that point he had simply accepted it and decided to make the best of the situation, now entirely focused on fulfilling his task: best to get it done quickly.
Clearing his mind of all thoughts, Éomer had pushed on then, his eyes fixed on her exotic, raven hair more than on the rest of her, and though whenever he had felt her stiffen beneath him, he had slowed in his movements, trying to proceed gentler, he had seemed to heed the woman in his arms with little attention otherwise. Passionless he had gone on, moving forward with steady pace towards the finish line, barely aware of the almost quietly gasping woman under him, and truly he could have been alone, it would have been almost the same in that moment. And as he had spent himself in her then, with three, four more hard pushes that drew sharp intakes of breath from her, they had remained for a moment as they were. It was only then that she would truly look at him, and in her face he could see the innocent uncertainty from before. He had nodded then slowly with a grave motion of his head, and with an even graver mood he had removed himself then, earning him a last gasp of overwhelming surprise from her, before he went in search of a towel to soothe the possible pain and discomfort she might have come to feel.
Truly, their first night together had been not at all what he had planned or hoped for, but it could have been much worse – it was only unfortunate now that the nights that followed had not been much of an improvement. His young wife had remained motionless, passionless, lifeless for much of their encounters in their marriage bed; aside from the occasional gasp, and the lack of painful initiation, she was as she had been in their wedding night: hands balled to fists remaining at her sides, face turned away from him, eyes that did not see him.
After a while, Éomer had made his peace with it; and though his wife seemed unable to be roused to passion, he gave himself to his passions freely. She was a woman of great beauty after all, and she was his, and he had soon become comfortable in enjoying her as any husband would enjoy his wife. And though sometimes he seemed to break her composure with his forwardness and his means of seeking passion – having her hold his gaze or voice more than just gasps – he had arranged himself with the fact that while he was enjoying his wife in every way, she was merely enduring his nightly advances. That was not to say that he did not wish for more; Béma!, he could spend years imagining her responding to him, to have her lovely mouth coax and suck and bite, to have her arms hold him closer, spur him on, to have her thighs open up and swallow him whole …
Sudden erratic movement pulled Éomer out of his thoughts and daydreaming. The steed beneath him started to grow restless, pacing agitatedly to and from, throwing his head forth and back, starting to prance and rear, and soon enough Firefoot had thrown off his master. The King of the Riddermark landed ungently and inelegantly on the snow-covered ground, but he had to thank his years of fight training and the soft underground for a relatively safe landing as he rolled off into the snow and came to rest on his knees and hands. Shaking his head, recovering from the unceremonious fall, Éomer was about to shout at the horse for his lack of manners, but then again, it was his own fault – to think such thoughts on top of a stallion. No, he had only himself to blame for that, he scolded.
'Very funny, you joker.', the Horse-Lord spoke then with seething bite as he rose and moved to grab the reins, but the stallion became evermore agitated, stepping back, neighing wildly, whipping his head about, making it impossible for Éomer to get a proper hold of him.
'Easy there, boy, what's gotten into you?', he asked quietly, trying to calm himself so some of his calm demeanour would ease the steed and help him to quieten down again. Slowly he drew nearer to his old friend and companion, making sure to avoid eye contact as he knew the confusion and frustration in his own eyes would only agitate the horse further. But when he finally caught the reins in his hand again, the stallion reared up, standing on its hind legs before he broke free of his grasp, turned on its heel and ran towards Edoras.
Éomer chuckled silently with bitter amusement at the picture of the Horse-Lord being thrown off his own horse and marching on foot back to his own throne room, as he started to jog lazily after Firefoot but he stopped dead in his track, dread creeping up his spine as he noticed the direction his steed was taking. Now he ran in earnest, and already he felt his breath go short, having spent too much time on the back of a horse.
'Firefoot!', he shouted with an emotion somewhere between anger and despair, 'Get back here, you stupid old nag!'. But no matter what he shouted, the stallion would not listen to his master, and this was something that had never happened before. Out of breath Éomer arrived at the frozen lake, but it was already too late: Firefoot had already set foot on the dangerously thin ice, and his master dared not to follow him. With rising panic – and no small amount of confusion – he watched as his trusted steed took some ten steps onto the ice before sliding down onto his legs as though he wanted to take a nap right then and there on the ice but instead he shook his massive head and neck back and forth and with it the entire body of the animal edged forward until it stopped and simply bowed its head.
The whole situation seemed rather crazy, if not downright impossible, had it not been for the fact that it got even crazier, for as much as it would seem a mere case of a tamed stallion acting up, Éomer came to realise that there was indeed sense to this wild insanity, wondering not for the first time how much more intelligent the Mearas were compared to lesser horses. Verily, as the steed bowed his head, the reins fell into a hole broken into the ice, and as he moved his head up again, the reins reappeared, and with it two hands gripping them, and then arms, a head, and there was Lothíriel – appearing from the icy water as though she was truly born of the Sea – and her small hands balled to fists never let go of the reins.
Éomer stood shell-shocked, watching horrified as the stallion slowly walked backwards, pulling the Queen with it, pulling her towards him, and only when the steed reached the edges of the frozen lake, did the King manage to force himself out of his stupor. Almost stumbling over his own feet in the freshly fallen snow, he slid down next to where his wife and queen lay, and at last her hands let go of their iron, desperate grip. The King searched her face for any sign of life, but by her pale white skin, her blueish lips, lips that did not part even for breathing, she seemed all but dead to the world, and to him.
For a split of a second only the King of the Mark fought with the realisation, and then he sprang into action. Like a madman he began his work of calling her back to life: he pressed onto her still chest with his huge palms, again and again, mimicking the rhythm her fluttering little heart should have, and then again he in turns pressed his mouth onto her ice cold lips to breathe some air back into her lungs, to breathe some life back into her limp and lifeless body. Éomer didn't know how much time passed, time lost all meaning as he fought to bring her back, he fought and fought and fought, and it seemed that he was fighting a lost battle – but then she came back to life. With violent coughs and painful gasping she came back to life, spitting out water, sucking in air with the desperation of a dead woman clinging to life, and her eyes were wide and wild, filled with confusion and surprise, regret and shame – and then her eyes fell shut.
FUN FACT #1: So, yeah, I said "Sorry", didn't I? Should've taken that serioulsy ... 0_0 Next time (because there will be a next time, believe me!), you will be more prepared.
FUN FACT #2: So, as a running gag with me and my writing, this chapter is also inspired by a real-life event. When I was little, and we had a terrible winter (like with snow and ice and the whole shebang - gee, climate change fucked up a lot ...), my dad - an alcoholic - decided to take my sister, my brother and me on a trip out on a frozen canal. Guess, who broke in? So, trust me when I tell you that even the best swimmers cannot swim properly in ice-cold water.
FUN FACT #3: There's no third fun fact this time, I've spoilt you rotten already. ;)