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13. Cruel to be kind

In his life as a Marshall of the Mark Éomer had known some very hard and some very long rides. Once, as a freshly sworn-in member of an éored, he had been forced to go on patrols in the West-march, an area that was frequently invaded by the Dunlendings, and on one such patrol both he and his mare had been wounded by their crude arrows – and as he had slowly bled out on top of the mare, he had felt the faithful beast beneath him slowly, painfully, loyally succumb to its wounds. Another time he had come across a herd of wild horses running around in the plains of the Westemnet and obsessed with taming one of them, he had managed to mount the stallion somehow but he had known the only way to truly tame the animal was to break its resisting will, and thus he had been forced to try and stay on top of the horse for as long as he could, and indeed, after a whole day and a whole night, he had succeeded in taming the beast, and Firefoot had been his most loyal friend ever since. Those two rides stood out among his memory as the worst rides in his life, and yet, they paled in comparison to the ride he faced now.

Riding back to Edoras, an endless stream of prayers – spoken not to the divine warrior-rider Béma, but rather to his divine life-giving wife Vána – rattling around in his head, Éomer held on to the reins with all his might, as the limp and lifeless body of his wife and queen slumped against him, her wet and ice-cold back pressed against him, chilling him to the bone, and again and again he put his hand before her nose and mouth to see if she was still breathing. When her eyes had fallen shut there at the frozen lake he had feared for a moment that she was truly gone, but her fluttering heartbeat and desperate breaths had told him that she was still alive and clinging to life with all she had, and thus he had wasted no second: he had put her on the horse, jumped on behind her and banged his heels into the flanks of his steed.

The great Gate came up before him and shouting from above told him that the guards had seen them coming and registered the gravity of the situation: the gate was pulled open and he rode through, never slowing down as he ascended the long-winding road that led up the slope to the Golden Hall of Meduseld. On his way up, more and more people noticed them and he could see the shock in their eyes, the way their hands clasped over their mouth, but he didn't let it get to him – if he thought about what they might think seeing his wife like that, he would be lost.

When the Golden Hall came into view he started shouting towards the guards, barking orders to get the handmaids, to get a fire going, to gather blankets, and when he arrived at the steps to the longhouse at last, the place was in a complete uproar. Dismounting from the stallion, he turned around quickly and pulled his wife and queen off the steed and into his arms, and there she seemed to settle with the weight of the whole world. As he ascended the steps to the Golden Hall, his sister came running out, probably drawn by the commotion going on outside and inside, and when she set eyes on him, and what he carried in his arms, she paled and froze for a second – but only for a second.

'Béma! What happened?', she called as she ran up to meet him half-way, all the while not taking her eyes off her sister-in-law and the picture of lifelessness she presented. Éomer didn't answer at first, his thoughts too focused on getting the unconscious woman in his arms inside, and not wanting to waste his breath and strength on useless words. But then again, he could positively feel the anxiety of his sister radiating towards him, and he knew if he allowed himself to fall into despair, he would drown in it, to not reappear, and he would be of no use to his wife like that, none of them would. And thus he took a deep breath, as they passed through the long hall, leaving the huge hearth in the middle behind, and spoke, 'I don't know … she was in the lake – '

'The lake?! For how long?', Éomer heard the despair and panic in her voice, but did not find the words to answer her, and so he only shook his head wildly as he kicked the door open that led to their chamber. He descended the steps to their bed and put her down gently, and as his sister busied herself with unfolding the myriads of blankets the handmaids had laid out and further stoking the already furiously burning fire, he looked at his wife, shivering in her drenched clothes, with her lips blue and her face paler than snow.

Éomer was trembling himself, his own clothes were soaked and he felt chilled to the bone, and he was breathing hard and flat, although he was not sure whether it really came from the cold and the effort of carrying her, or rather from the worry that slowly ate away at him. He refused to take his eyes off her, lest she would draw her last breath, and his voice sounded rough and hoarse when he spoke, strained, laden, panicked, 'She must have broken through the ice – Béma only knows what she was doing out there – I don't know how long she has been in that water … she was not breathing when she was pulled out … '

'We need to get her out of these clothes – ', his little sister cut him short unceremoniously, already jumping to the task while Éomer shook his head to clear his mind of all his dreadful fears before helping her as best as he could. But the King of the Mark had to suppress the shudders that came over him at the feeling of her cold skin or to keep himself from flinching whenever he felt the lifelessness of her flesh in his arms. Soon enough they had succeeded and wrapped her in warming blankets, rubbing her as best as they could but she was still shivering and her limbs still felt as cold and lifeless as before and Éowyn frowned, thinking hard.

'Take off your clothes … '

'What?!', Éomer froze and looked at his sister as though she had lost her mind, his eyes widened in confusion and shock, and he could see his own gaze mirrored in hers, although it was quickly overtaken by annoyance. She might have been complaining to him for weeks now how much she wanted to have nephews and nieces, to tell them of her triumph as a Shieldmaiden, but even she couldn't be so desperate to be an aunt as to take such desperate measures.

'She needs warmth … body heat. Now, come on!', the shieldmaiden spat back at him, and brought to reason by her words, he started to strip down. Turning around, he took his clothes off so quickly he nearly tore them off; first his leather belt along with his sword went to the floor, then boots and jerkin soon after. He was just removing his woollen tunic when he noticed his little sister loosening the laces at the back of her gown, about to strip out of her own clothes herself.

'Éowyn, what are you doing?'

He had been staring at her for some long moments before she became aware of his terrified eyes upon her, and she recognised his stupefied expression, his mortified gaze only too well. He had asked as though he needed confirmation, or rather hoping she would belie his worst fear but in her impatience her answer sounded harsher than perhaps intended.

'What does it look like, Éomer King? Now would you stop being a fool, if you please?'

After that, no more words passed between the two of them, and after they had stripped down completely, they laid down beside Lothíriel, huddling together for warmth under the many layers of blankets. Éomer lay behind his wife and Éowyn only shook her head over his starched attitude, of needing his wife's weakened body almost as a puffer between; as though she were a woman like any other. She was his sister and they had grown up together; it was not like he had never seen her naked before.

The woman between them was shaken by another heavy tremor and automatically both Éomer ended his thoughts of embarrassment and indecency as well as Éowyn ended her inner monologue at scoffing at her brother for his conservative sentiments and foolish feeling of embarrassment, and instead they moved closer together. Éowyn rubbed her sister-in-law's shoulders, her arms, her hands, trying to rub some heat into her limbs, while Éomer embraced her from behind, pressing his body to hers, completely engulfing her in the warmth of his arms. And together they worked to save the woman they both loved.

When Lothíriel had at last fallen asleep, drifting off into a seemingly peaceful unconsciousness of sleep, and they noticed her deep, relaxed breathing, Éomer and Éowyn finally allowed themselves to relax as well, sensing that the worst was over and that she would be fine. Brother and sister looked at each other across the frame of the sleeping woman they both so deeply cared for, and whispering, keeping their voices down so as not to wake her, they started to talk.

'Now, what happened, Éomer?'

'I told you, I don't know.', he shot back quickly, not liking her accusatory tone, his voice barely more than a hiss as he went on, 'The lake was frozen, and because of the heavy snowfall last night there was no way she could have seen – ', he stopped suddenly with a loud curse, his sister reprimanding him to be quiet – and had she not been his sister, a woman raised among men, she would have blushed to hear such foul words.

'Béma! I just don't understand what she was doing out there!'

'I do.'

Her answer was quiet, barely audible, but it was enough to pull Éomer out of his own thoughts and to focus at his sister. Her gaze had glazed over and she swallowed hard as though the guilt was choking her, and he listened quietly, intently, as she began to explain, 'The book, the one you gave her … about herbs and mushrooms, berries and roots … the one about herblore – she told me about this rare flower, just yesterday, a flower that was supposed to be a fertility cure. I told her to look for it before the gates, I thought she knew about the frozen lake.', she sighed bitterly, 'Seems as though curiosity almost killed the cat, or should I rather say swan?'

For a long while then they were both quiet, lost in their thoughts and worries, and unspoken between them went the understanding that none of them was innocent of the whole affair, and yet, that no one was truly to blame – it was simply a cruel slide of the game of life, pushing their pawns to rash decisions with lasting consequences. Would it have changed much, had Lothíriel never read those books? Would it have changed much, had Éowyn not given her that well-meant but blunt advice? Would it have changed much, had Éomer not chosen to shun his wife over the lack of equal passion? Would it have changed much, had the myriads of prying ears not chosen to speak with accusing tones and pointed with malicious glee? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps everyone was a little bit to blame, perhaps no one was to blame. They would never know, all they had was an answer to a thousand questions they didn't know one of them was asking in secret.

'I should never have given her those books – ', Éomer had been quiet for a while, and in that time he had come to his own conclusions, and bitterness and regret ate away at him slowly but surely, leaving him to look for a simple solution to a complicated problem. But his sister had never allowed him before to seek the simple solution, and she wasn't prepare to back down now.

'Now, you listen to me, King of horse droppings! You will not go and blame yourself for trying to make her happy, are we understood?'

'If I had not given her those stupid books – ', the King of the Mark tried to argue but the shieldmaiden would have none of it and cut him short, as she was wont to do.

'If you had not given her these books, she might have done something really stupid!', for a moment, both were too shocked to find words, and when the sleeping woman between them stirred, troubled by the loud voices raised around her, both brother and sister turned their thoughts to her, calming her with soothing words and caresses back into a deep sleep.

'You mean – are you saying this was no accident?', Éomer at last brought himself to say, his voice strained with an emotion his sister couldn't quite place, his eyes lingering a little too long on the shape of his wife, his gaze a little too soft, and Éowyn's heart broke at his stubbornness, his refusal to admit that he was in love, and the hurt and confusion in his eyes was almost too much to bear for her, and thus she found it hard to speak, but she had to speak all the same.

'I don't know, I can't be sure – but, Éomer, she probably knew how to swim before she could even walk. What do you think?', Éowyn spoke quietly, as if the silence would swallow the sad truth of her question, but it didn't, and she could see the realisation hitting her brother all at once, his face scrunching up in pain, and yet there was defiance still, as he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, refusing to accept it, and thus she started again, not willing to allow him to retreat into his refusal once more, not willing to allow walls to hide painful truths and blossoming feelings any longer. Too much hurt had already happened because of it.

'Oh, brother, are you blind? Have you not seen how unhappy she has been these past weeks? Have you not noticed how very much alone she is?', the shieldmaiden asked quickly, her questions a series of stabs and slashes, and she could see that each and everyone hit its target, as her brother and king frowned deeply, his mouth a line so thin and sharp she could have cut herself at it, but she knew it was not enough to make him think in order for him to understand, she needed to make him feel, and so she chose her next words carefully, intentionally, 'Brother, don't you remember our mother? She died of a lonely heart – would you have your wife suffer the same fate?'

'That's not the – she has you – ', Éomer protested immediately, shell-shocked and infuriated by his sister daring to bring up the sad fate of their mother, resisting the very idea of it, and the very thought pained him, and even more so was he frightened by the idea that his wife should yearn for him that way, or that he would feel such horror at losing her like that. No, he thought, shaking his head wildly, no, they were partners, this was a political marriage, there was no place for her longing in this union, there was no place for his concern in this union – this was never how things were supposed to be. Everything was supposed to be so easy, and now all was muddled, complicated by these feelings.

'She is a stranger in a strange land, Éomer, she has no one. Her home, her friends, everything that has been dear to her, everything she has known, is gone.', Éowyn interrupted him, trying to make him see, trying to make him understand what had pained her to watch for weeks now, and as she looked at her brother she could see that he could hardly bear the accusation in her eyes, and had she been a kinder woman, she would have stopped then and there, but sometimes you just had to be cruel to be kind, 'Yes, she is alone, and the one person who is supposed to be there for her spends his precious days attending council meetings and playing around with his horse – '

'I am still King, Éowyn, don't you think I have some duties to attend to?'

'Oh, spare me your self-pity and excuses! You seem to have enough time to attend to some marital duties, and you seem to enjoy them well enough, too – or at least, you did; word has it, not any more?', she countered with a snarl, and in their anger, brother and sister had always been well matched, and not even a crown or a betrothal would ever soften those hard edges in their character, 'What about her?! What about her pleasure, her enjoyment? Have you learned nothing worthwhile in your man-whoring?! '

'Watch your mouth! Have you forgotten who you're talking to? I am still your Lord and King.', Éomer spat back then, feeling the anger rise in him, feeling himself unable to take any more of her accusations and blame, even more so because he knew her words to speak the truth, and to hear it stated like that, without any excuse, without any context to soften it, well, it tore his guts out, and as he so often did, in his pain and sorrow, he resorted to anger, to push people away, 'This is a private matter between me and my wife. Keep out of it, Éowyn!'

'To hell with your Lord-and-King!', she hissed through clenched teeth, trying to keep her voice down, despite her seething rage, as her green eyes – so much like her brothers – fixed him with a deadly glare, 'I happen to care about her, I happen to care whether she is happy or not – ', and then she paused again, to regain her composure as he had thought, but instead she closed in for the kill, 'Now, what about you, Éomer? Do you care? Do you care at all?'

For a moment, he wanted to explode again, to rage and shout, to deny it with every fibre of his being, to say that he felt nothing, even if only to spite his intrusive sister, but instead he swallowed his anger, fearing to wake Lothíriel in her much needed state of sleep, and as he watched her lying there in his arms, he knew he could not deny his feelings, even if he wanted to. After all, was it not said that the Rohirrim did not lie and therefore were not easily deceived? He had been lying to himself for far too long, deceiving himself – but no longer, no, no longer.

'Of course, I care about her.'

For a moment Éowyn was too surprised to speak, all her usual sharp wit and blunt speech stunted. She had always known her brother to fight and struggle, his smiles as grim as his mood, seeing life as nothing but a bitter obligation somewhere between duty and honour, and always expecting others to share his bleak outlook on life – she had never before seen her brother admit defeat. But here and now – in the way his eyes softened as he looked at his wife, the way his voice grew small, tender even – he had given up at last, at last he had given in. It was a touching thing to behold, humbling even, to see a life-long warrior fall in love.

'Then why do I not see it?', she spoke then, softly, swallowing hard, fighting to keep her own emotions in check, 'Why do you not let her see it?'

'I'm trying … '

'You're not doing enough!', she countered then will all of her force, despite her better judgement, her gentle intentions, despite the sleeping woman between them, and seeing him wince at her words, she knew that at last he was truly ready to listen, 'Oh, Éomer, do you not know your wife at all? Have you never wondered about her shyness, around you, around men in general? Have you never noticed how terrified she is around horses?'

Of course, he had noticed her reserved behaviour, the way she stiffened whenever she was in the company of men, the way her face turned to stone whenever he returned from one of his morning rides – naturally, he had assumed that she was uncomfortable in the company of men because they were councillors (and councilmen were particularly singular people), and that she made a face because he thought the stench of horse particularly repulsive to her sensitive Southern manners. Of course, he had wondered if there had been more to it, but he had never had the courage or the insensitivity to ask her about it.

'Your wife is unhappy, alone, afraid, even if she won't let you see it.', at her words, the king looked to his wife again, watching her sleep in peace, the tragedy of an hour before a mere shadow of a memory, and in that moment he knew that his sister's words rang true. Lothíriel had always tried to hide her embarrassment from him, her discomfort, so why not also the sadness and loneliness she must have felt and endured in quiet all these weeks and months? Did she think to spare him the burden of her sadness? To keep him from blaming himself? Or perhaps she thought he wouldn't even care? And that thought pained him most of all, that she would think herself so insignificant to him – and to think of her sweet, melancholy compassion and care for his thoughts and well-being, always, always, put before her own needs, it moved something in his heart that could now never be unmoved.

'Talk to her, brother. Listen to her. Spend some time with her.', he heard his sister speak, but only faintly, although he were in a dream, and she speaking through a wall of mist, but he heard her all the same, 'Look at her, and really see her. Touch her, for Béma's sake, make her happy! And not just as a wife, as a woman. You owe her that at least.', the king nodded slowly, watching his wife with tender eyes, not prepared to leave her out of his sight again, as his sister spoke on, and she knew, having known her brother since birth, that he was truly listening now, and would never again forget her words, 'When I am gone, you might just be all she has left – do make sure that is enough.'

FUN FACT #1: This week's been hell at work. Working overtime and even students there to teach!

FUN FACT #2: I just can't resist having Éowyn nag at her brother! It's just so much fun! Cruel to be kind, indeed.