Hello, my dearies! Hope the weather is treating you well? I'm currently freezing my ass off. Winter has co - ... wait, wrong franchise.

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15. The Horse-Queen

It was late in the evening and in the hearth a warming fire roared, illuminating the bedchamber, showing the scenery of a sea of cushions and blankets covering the floor in front of the fire place, and in the midst of it all there were the King and Queen of the Mark. Éomer was leaning back on a bolster pillow, in his lap he worked away at sharpening his famed sword Gúthwine; while one of his legs was propped up, the other was lazily stretched out, and it was just far enough stretched out to almost touch the naked foot of his wife and queen who sat in the ocean of cushions opposite him. Lothíriel was playing gingerly but fairly with the dwarf-sized harp she had brought from her home with her and that she had recently taken up playing again. The melody she played was unfamiliar to him, but he liked the sound of it, and the way she quietly hummed to the tune, he liked that too.

Looking up every now and again, Béma, he saw even more of what he liked: his young wife only clad in a thin night shift under a woollen dressing gown, black hair loose and free, legs used to prop up the heavy harp, having the shift slip up those long legs, revealing more of her skin than she would think acceptable, but by the dreamy expression of her closed eyes and half-opened mouth, one could tell, she was so lost in her place of music that for once she didn't seem to care for propriety. Swallowing hard, Éomer eyed her with a gaze that spelled out as much tenderness as it spelled out hunger, and the sword he had sharpened (more as an act of distraction) lay all but forgotten in his lap, as he found himself increasingly jealous of the harp, imagining to trade places with the musical instrument.

'Éomer.'

Her voice had been quiet, soft even, but it had been enough to pull him out of his dangerous thoughts, and, blinking, he looked at her with eyes that saw and were no longer lost in daydreaming. But by the way she had lowered her head and her gaze, the way her cheeks flushed in the prettiest pink, embarrassment colouring her face, he believed for a moment that she had guessed his very thoughts. After all, was it not said that Elvish blood bore Elvish gifts, and by her beauty no one could dispute that distant Elvish ancestry in her blood – but no, he reminded himself while shaking his head wildly in order to return to reality, she was as little capable of reading his thoughts as he was capable of reading hers, or else his wife would have run from him and his hungry thoughts a long time ago.

Éomer was now looking at her, really looking at her, and he realised now that it wasn't so much embarrassment that was rendering her timid as it was insecurity and self-doubt, and he wondered what it was that she wanted of him. He knew it had to be important for she seldom addressed him in such familiar terms, and even after three months of marriage he was still "my Lord" to her. But she had spoken his name now, and therefore he listened attentively.

'Éomer, I want to learn to ride again.', she said then, after taking a deep breath, and her voice had been so quiet and so shaky that, for a moment, he believed to have misheard her, and so he sat up to get a better picture of her bearing, but when she finally looked up, the plea unmistakable in her eyes, he knew that she had spoken in earnest and that there could be no mistaking her intent. Swallowing hard the king thought for a moment, as he remembered well the story of her traumatic experiences in war and the ramifications it had forced on her.

Ever since she had told her story he had been plagued with thoughts and visions imagining the horrors of her experiences; Lothíriel who had worked day and night as a healer in the besieged city; Lothíriel who had been forced to sleep in the stables like a commoner, uncared for, unprotected; Lothíriel who had only barely escaped the tragically violent fate of her friends; Lothíriel who had been run down by a crazed horse in its death struggle. For a few days it had been all he could see whenever he had looked at her, and it had infuriated him; and even now, now that he had managed to banish those thoughts from his mind most of the time, it still enraged him to think of the danger she had been put in, the violence she had faced, the pain and terror she had endured and the brutal tragedy she had only been spared by a cruel twist of fate.

All of this and more went through his head as he looked at her with deep thoughtful eyes, and the fragile hope in her gaze was enough to break the heart of even the most fearsome of warriors or grimmest of kings – but Éomer had quickly realised in the time he had been married that when it came to his wife he was neither a fearsome warrior nor a grim king, but nothing but a man in love. The thought of denying her request crossed his mind, again and again; the thought of rejecting her plea in order to spare her the feeling of shame if she failed, or even worse, the reliving of a nightmarish trauma she still fought to overcome. But then again, denying her request also meant to see that painful image of dashed hopes and inadequacy flash across her beautiful face, and he knew himself well enough to know that he couldn't bear that, and thus his words were careful, sympathetic, but clear nonetheless.

'Is that wise, Lothíriel? I thought you feared horses.'

In a way she reacted exactly how he had expected, exactly how he had feared, with disappointment, with insecurity, shame even, but to his surprise she didn't back down as easily or quickly as she would have done undoubtedly in the past; she was changed, it was only unclear how exactly and to what extent, 'I am the wife of the King of Rohan. I am Queen to a people who praise horses more than anything else in their lives. How could they ever respect me if I cannot even sit a horse?', she added with a voice strained with an unknown emotion, but he knew it to be the burning feeling of yearning to be respected, the cold chill of feeling inadequate, without her having to say the words she really wanted to say: How could you ever look at me?

Éomer closed his eyes, painfully regretting his words, painfully regretting not having foreseen her need for acceptance, painfully empathising with her need for approval. With his arms propped up on his elbows, he wrung his hands not knowing what to do or what to say to her. He could understand her doubts, indeed, he could understand them very well; the dread of inadequacy had followed him around ever since he had been declared king, and it had not lessened, quite on the contrary, it had gnawed away more and more of his confidence over time. After all, he knew he was no king material; he knew how to sit a horse, he know to fight and how to lead men into battle, but he knew little and less about how to lead a country, how to lead his people into a golden future. He doubted not that if there had been a better option for a king, his people would have chosen it, but, alas, they were stuck with him, so all he could do now was his damned best.

But that wasn't what he wished for her; and even though he could understand her need so very well, and even though he knew that in a way she was right, that indeed his people would never fully accept a woman incapable of embracing their most basic cultural tradition, he was unwilling to acknowledge this reality. He knew if he acknowledged her doubts, if he acknowledged the doubts of his people, it would break her, and it was only a few weeks ago since he had almost lost her, and he had come to realise that he could not bear that. So, where did that leave them? Where did that leave him? It left him with no choice but to move forward.

'Lothíriel, you don't have to prove anything, the least to me …', he spoke quietly then, but he looked up as he said it, his eyes searching for hers to make sure she heard this, to make sure she really understood it, that she felt that he truly meant it. And he reached out, wanting to take her hand in his, because her brows were still creased in confusion and her forehead still marked with lines of disbelief, but he really didn't know her well enough yet to understand where her confusion came from or where her disbelief pointed to.

'Yes, I do.', she simply said, voice barely more than a whisper but firmer than steel in her resolve, and as she pulled her hand away, out of his reach, eyes hardening with a confidence he had rarely seen from her, and he could see it written so clearly in her eyes then, that iron determination, befitting more a Northern queen than a Southern princess. I have to prove this to myself. But of course, that was not what she said, even if it was what her gaze all but screamed at him, but she was still too caught up in the confinements of her upbringing to be so open about something so personal, and it was the very frustration she felt over that, that made her voice harden, her volume rise and her words lose all their polite reservation. Rise with the tides, the new voice inside her reminded, and the only thing she needed to do, was to respond in kind, 'I want to learn it! I will learn it. And if you're not going to help me, then I'll find someone else who will – so stop trying to talk me out of it!'

It took them both a few heartbeats to fully comprehend the gravity of what had just happened, but when they did, the overwhelming feeling of shocked surprise was palpable. With regard to her, Lothíriel slapped her hands across her mouth, staring at him in wide-eyed horror, mortified by her own surprisingly reckless temper, terrified of his reaction. But with regard to him, Éomer was taken by surprise, and he was also shocked, but then again, he had never before seen her act or speak so rashly or with so much passion before, so atypical for that little wife of his, and yet he found that he liked it. And thus, when she lowered her head and lowered her eyes, fearful of his reaction, fearful of this anger she had already seen, her king surprised her as he so often did – he simply laughed; not the false laughter of the Southern courtiers, not the revolting, ale-infested roaring of some drunk soldiers irritating everybody around, but simply the free and heartfelt laughter of a man amused with his wife.

Looking up, confused by the unexpected sound, Lothíriel blinked at him with big, perplexed eyes as he simply leaned back onto the bolster pillow, arms behind his head, the picture of someone entirely comfortable in a situation. And when at last his roaring laughter had subsided and turned to a gentle smile instead, he closed his eyes, knowing perfectly well that his wife was still waiting for the judgement to come, or for his behaviour to make any damn sense, and even if he gleefully enjoyed her confusion, he also didn't want to torture her with waiting any more than she already had, and so he simply said smiling, 'Then I will teach you, my Queen.'

And as he watched his wife turn her attention back to the harp in her lap, playing leisurely again, Éomer smiled, more to himself than for her, although he wasn't exactly sure what he was smiling about. Perhaps it was the unexpected outburst of emotion she had just shown that still amused him or perhaps it was the fact that even after all this time, she was still able to surprise him, and herself for that matter. He had thought he knew her so well, that he had already seen all of her, but perhaps, he was only just beginning to peek behind the mask she had so carefully worn since he had met her, allowing him to see what was underneath the image of the poised princess she had clung to all her life. Whatever it was, Éomer decided that he liked it, that he could hardly wait for more.

In the last few weeks the two of them had got to know each other, more deeply, more intimately. Sometimes they had spent hours discussing the trade plans she had initiated or she would tell him of the exact ingredients of a potion meant to heal the gout or would read to him from the books he had given her or tell stories of her homeland, while he tried to explain to her how a sword blow from above could never be parried well from below or what the exact advantages and disadvantages of a bridle with a bit were. They also talked of their childhood, how he had always wanted to follow in his father's footsteps and how proud he had been to become the Third Marshall of the Mark, just like his father. And she, she would tell him of her exploits as a sailor when she had been little, how she had commanded her little sailing boat together with her brother Amrothos, through sun and rain, bracing the wrath of the waves.

The very idea of it conjured up images in his mind and he had to smile once more, but this time the smile was of a different nature. To imagine her now, as she was, in her silken night shift under a woollen dressing gown, commanding her sailing boat, pulling at the ropes, steering the rudder, it brought up other images in his mind, images that left him breathless, and, again, he was reminded that while husband and wife had come closer, they were still not truly close as husband and wife.

Éomer knew he had followed his sister's advise in all its facets, save one. It had been more than a month now since he had last come to his wife's bed; too great was the dread of watching her endure his advances with those sad, understanding eyes, too great was the pain it would cause him now to cause her pain. Of course, that didn't mean that there had been no intimacy between them, though he did not doubt it meant something different to her than it did to him.

Little moments of everyday life, little touches that became a daily routine. In the evening when she would help him remove his boots, in the morning when he would help her lace up her gowns, or fingers that touched during dinners when plates were exchanged, her hair that he loved to brush (and sometimes he even allowed her to brush his own hair); at night, in bed, when her body sought his for warmth and she was too sleepy already to be aware of it, at night, when nightmares drove them into each other's arms, the songs on her lips the only thing that could chase the haunting memories away; or the rare hugs she gave when she was excited, or even the light brushes of her lips on his cheek when she thanked him for something he had done. They were a thousand touches and one, with a thousand meanings to her, but with only one meaning to him: the sweetest torture of the most pleasurable kind.

For days now he had fought with the impulse to tell her how he felt, only to decide against it, only to decide that it would be useless. Of course, he knew that his wife was capable of love, it was merely unclear whether she was capable of loving him. After all, he had never given her much cause to love him. It was true that he had never been cruel to her, but none of his actions could inspire much love in any woman's heart either: he hadn't cared for her, seen her merely as a curiosity, a means to an end – he had never cared enough to win the affections of the woman inside of her, so why should he hope for it now? Of course, he had tried, but it was too little and too late.

But for all this rationalisation, it would not and could not change the achings of his own heart or the hunger he felt for those desires to be reciprocated by her, and so he suffered in silence, starving for her innocent affections. Yes, indeed it was torture for him; all those little touches, warm gestures and smiles, eyes that shone bright with kindness – but, sadly, only with kindness, for it would seem that his wife, though no longer afraid of him or distant, saw nothing but a friend in him, and not a husband in the meaningful sense of the word. In the beginning of their relationship he had craved nothing but a good basis for a political marriage, he thought bitterly, and now it would seem that his wish would come true.

And then at last, he was smiling no longer.

As he watched her play with the harp in her lap, eyes closed in appreciation of the music, losing herself in it once more, delicate fingers gently pulling the strings, eliciting soothing sounds, like drops of rain falling softly to the ground, he swallowed hard. He felt as though the musical drops of rain were the depths of his feelings slowly but surely wearing him down, and there would be no saving for him, no shelter from this storm, he was lost, completely and utterly and irrevocably. He had been a fool – a fool to think that he could become intimate with another person without becoming close to that person, a fool to think that he could care for a person without starting to care too much, a fool to think that he could love another person without despairing over the desire to be loved in return.

It was fairly simple: he was fucked – royally fucked, if he may add, he was a king after all – and not just him, because it was one thing for him, as the love-stricken fool that he was, to accept the bittersweet crumbs of affection she was able to give, but it was something else entirely for his kingdom. Because while he as a husband may love his wife enough to be willing to put her needs before his, he was still a king and the needs of his kingdom would not submit so easily to his love for his wife – and the truth was, a king was in need of an heir or else the kingdom may fall apart, so what happened to a kingdom whose king was too much in love with his queen to force her to love him and to come to his bed?

The sun was shining almost furiously on this particular late March afternoon, as though it tried to make up for the unusually long and harsh winter the lands had just suffered through and now wanted to remind each and every creature that crawled, slithered, flew or walked that spring at last had come to the Riddermark. The air was filled, it seemed, with the scent of a thousand flowers and the sounds of a hundred birds, merrily chirping their songs to the sun, as Lothíriel slowly but surely wound her way down the King's Road through Edoras. As she passed through New Town and Auld Town, leaving behind the Aethelmund tavern and the market, she greeted many of her people, some of them curtseying and bowing, others greeting her with well-meant wishes or even compliments for her new attire, some trying to entice her with richly-spun wool or gold-shining honey and mead.

However, even as she smiled and nodded, awarding each and everyone with the proper attention they deserved, she did not let it keep her from descending down the sloping road, always her goal in mind. But she would be lying if she said that she wasn't tempted by their well-meaning offers and their kindness – not even three months ago she would not have believed to ever walk among these people and be seen as more than a stranger with strange looks and strange customs – and to bask in the amount of acceptance and respect they showed her.

Who wouldn't be?

But as tempting as it was, she had not left the Golden Hall of Meduseld today to play the Horse-Queen. No, indeed; as she fumbled around with her clothes – woollen stockings under a wide riding skirt, woollen tunic under a leather vest and a leather jerkin, all in varying degrees of green and brown and black, all topped off with some black leather boots, a woollen shawl, riding gloves and a leather belt adorned with a silver buckle in the shape of a horse's head – social mingling and representation had not been the reason she had left the comfortable warmth of the hearth or the amusement of her books behind, and though she felt slightly out of her comfort zone with her clothes, she soldiered on relentlessly.

Éowyn had laid out the clothes for her when she had told her sister-in-law of her idea to get back into the habit of riding again, and, unsurprisingly, the shieldmaiden had been thrilled. Without much further ado Éowyn had offered to give her some riding attire of her own, however, when Lothíriel had inspected the choice of dress her sister-in-law had in mind (trousers, trousers, trousers!), she had politely asked for a more moderate choice of clothes – and thus she had ended up with her new less than formal yet still decently proper attire. Of course, in the South ladies had riding attire, too, but witnessing the shieldmaiden's frowns regarding her mentioning of a side saddle, Lothíriel had quickly realised that none of her own riding clothes would do for a ride astride. Yes, things were very different around here.

Lothíriel had just passed the stone well before the tavern when the stables came into sight, and with it, Éomer, and she saw right away that he – like her – had decided to take the day off from all things considered royal. Clad not in his usual light armour but in woollen trousers, simple boots and a linen long-sleeved shirt under a warmer short-sleeved tunic, all held together by a leather belt with his sword hanging by his side, he seemed not like a king but like a simple man momentarily free of all burdens, with only the simple tasks of a common stableman on his mind, and for a moment, she allowed herself to simply watch him.

He had not seen her yet and thus carried on in his tasks unaware of her gazing. He had his sleeves rolled up as he took the bundles of straw to the stables, scattering them for the dozens of horses standing in their stalls, merrily chomping at the yellow meal, and she could tell by the way the muscles in his arms danced or by the way his face was flushed from exertion that he had been working here for a while now. Lothíriel knew that she should be ashamed of herself for staring at him so openly, but she could not help it: watching him work away in the March afternoon sun, seeing him move in his element, completely at peace, completely comfortable, dressed not as the grim warrior but simply as a man of strength and kindness, well, it made something strange flutter in her stomach, and she could not look away.

All of the sudden, however, she was torn out of her daydreaming and ogling when she heard her name being called, and jumping back to reality she saw her lord and husband wave to her, calling her name, and when she didn't wave back or walk over to him, he simply jogged up the hill towards her. Feeling herself blush bright-red, she was horrified for a moment that he would immediately pick up the indecent reasons for her flush, but perhaps he only thought it to be her nerves bothering her, and he wouldn't have been so wrong about that either. She was nervous; to be perfectly frank, she was scared – talking about it, preparing for it, anticipating it, well, that had been one thing, but seeing the horses shake their manes and scrape the floor with their hooves, just seeing them, that was quite another thing, and she swallowed hard to keep her panic at bay.

But when he reached her and greeted her, she only smiled, albeit a little shakily; and when he commented on the good weather for their ride, she simply nodded, not trusting her voice to resemble anything befitting a queen. But she realised as he continued to do small-talk that he was trying to make an effort, perhaps trying to ease her slowly into the task ahead; and although he was terrible at this polite small-talk, he gave his best and she gave him credit for that: he even commended her on her riding attire, although she suspected that Éowyn might have told him to do that, but she could see that he was making a genuine effort nonetheless.

Indeed, she could tell that he did like her in these informal clothes; she could see it in his eyes lingering on her hair, which she kept in an unusually loose braid, and on the leather belt around her middle, the one with the silver horse's head for a buckle, and she understood immediately why his green eyes softened especially at her wearing that piece. It had been an heirloom of his family – she believed to remember that it had belonged to his mother – and Éowyn had given it to her as a wedding gift; and this was the first time she ever wore it. The warm smile he gave her as he met her gaze was enough to make her heart flutter in her chest, although she didn't yet understand why.

'Shall we?', he said then, his voice forcibly light but she could sense the tension underneath, reminiscent of a person who would do or say something, anything, just to say or do anything other than uselessly standing around, not knowing what else to do. But Lothíriel smiled, knowing that he made an effort, her own panic retreating a little bit just at the thought of that, and she nodded as she took his arm that he held out to her, and thus they started to walk.

'So, I just wanted to say how very grateful I am for this, my Lord. I do consider it a great honour to be taught by the Horse-Lord himself.', she started chattering away as they slowly descended the hill towards the stables, and it was a comforting thing, meant to take her mind off her worries and fears, trying to help her relax by distracting herself with mindless pleasantries. And perhaps her king was more perceptive in that regard than she had ever given him credit for, or perhaps he was just as much in need of distraction as she was; whatever the reason, Éomer eagerly leapt at the opportunity her banter presented, 'Well, my queen commanded me to find a suitable teacher, so I did.'

'Please, don't remind me of that.', she pleaded as she first tensed and then seemingly slumped in her walking, her eyes closing with a frown and a sound of utter embarrassment rumbling low in her throat 'I'm still mortified at how I spoke to you last week.'

But Éomer only laughed, although it was unclear whether he laughed about her feisty attitude last week or her squirming over her painfully embarrassed reaction to the mere mention of it; but whatever reason he may have for his mirth, she was glad for it, even if it were at her expense – it was good to see him laughing, 'Don't be. I'm used to a woman ordering me about.'

'Really?', she asked, unbelieving, full of the good-humoured scepticism and penchant for teasing only her brother Amrothos had ever brought out in her before, and he only winked at her with a cheeky smile, 'Oh yes, I grew up with Éowyn.'

The laughter that followed lasted but a few moments, the last carefree moments that had distracted her, leaving her unawares of the speed by which her feet carried her, highly aware instead of his arm that led her forward, but by then the stables loomed big and ominous before them, and Lothíriel remembered then. Instantly her laughed ceased and her whole body tensed, her breathing became shallow, uneven, and as her heels dug themselves into the ground and her whole body tensed, her fingers clenching at his arm, and then even the king noticed the change in her.

Analysing her with a quick look, noticing her rigid posture, her clenched jawline, her widened blue eyes trained on the wooden structure before them, Éomer remained calm. Slowly untangling her hands from his arm, the king instead took her right hand in his, his fingers gently squeezing hers, and when he felt her respond in kind, he knew that despite her panic-frozen state she was still aware of him, she was still with him, and he could work with that.

'Lothíriel, I want you to listen to me, I want you to listen to my voice. I am with you, do you understand?', he spoke quietly but with a steady tone, deep and calm, and when she nodded slowly, he proceeded carefully, leading her along, trying to ease her into their undertaking, 'Good, very good. Now, close your eyes – tell me what do you hear?'

Screams. Shrieks. Hooves prancing frantically on marble stones. 'Neighing. Snorting. Horses chomping at the bit.'

'Very good. And what can you smell?'

Smoke. Blood. Dirt and faeces and panic. 'Straw. Dung. The smell of horses.'

'Good. Now, Lothíriel, remember: there is no danger here; you know these sounds and these smells, you know them, you know what they mean, they are familiar to you, and what you know you need not fear.', his voice was steady and strong, like the drumming beat of the waves lapping onto the shores, and she held on to that thought, and to his hand, her connection to that shred of sanity her panicked memories tried to gnaw and claw at, 'Remember those sounds and smells, Lothíriel, hold on to it.'

Somewhere in the far away back of her mind she registered that her feet were moving, that his hand clasping hers was pulling her gently along, that he was taking her with him, but she kept her eyes shut, not trusting her fragile courage not to falter at what her eyes might see, not trusting that her nerves wouldn't crack and fail at the image of horses upon horses upon horses. So instead, she trusted her other senses to guide her along, for her ears to take in the familiar sounds – the first crunch of the straw under the heel of her boots, the sound of a tail whipping through the air, chasing the buzzing flies away – or for her nose to take in the familiar scents – the faint smell of manure under the overlaying smell of sweat. By the time he spoke once more, she knew she was already in the stables, already surrounded by horses in their boxes on all sides, but she kept her eyes closed and her heart steadfast in her trust, her hand steadfast in his.

'Very good, Lothíriel. Now – reach out; slowly, let him come to you.'

She did as she was told, barely even thinking about it, her left hand reaching out into the air, while her other hand squeezed his, and then she just waited. She heard the sound of a horse whickering, snorting, hooves scraping over straw-covered ground, felt a wet hot breath tickling her fingertips, and then her hand touched flesh – warm and taut and soft, and it moved. The breath she had not known she had held broke free in a deep sigh that was as much relieve and excitement as it was joy, and her blue eyes sprang open to behold a new world.

Before her in a box stood a mighty steed with a dark grey hide, growing lighter and lighter towards the head, and its mane was golden like his master's and his eyes kind; and although only a shoulder-high gate was separating them, for the first time Lothíriel felt no fear, and that was the most surprising thing yet. She had thought she would be terrified (and she had been before), paralysed, sent spiralling back into old fears; but now she felt only at ease, light even, as though the weight of another world, of another lifetime, had been lifted off her shoulders.

'Very good, Lothíriel, yes, let him get the scent of you.', she heard her lord and husband say, and his voice came to her almost as though she were within a dream, but she nodded nonetheless, and complied. Her hand touched the steed's nostrils and again she could feel its hot wet breath licking at her fingers, remembering somewhere in the back of her mind the importance of scent for animals. She smiled then, more to herself than for the world, as the mighty steed sniffed her fingers and then proceeded to dart out its thick tongue, scraping across her fingertips, tickling her. Animals truly were a marvel, she mused, being able to tell so much with something so little as a whiff of scent, and within in a heartbeat they could easily tell friend from foe, sense danger or opportunity – they were superior to humans in that regard, humans who were so easily deceived, so easily beguiled …

'Good, very good. He seems to like you.', she heard her king say then and his voice tore her out of her thoughts which had become rather sombre at the end, and she welcomed the chance to return to the happier, simpler moment of the present. Stealing a quick glance over to her husband, and seeing him smile so brightly as he patted the steed before them, she knew that it was not only the horse that had taken a liking to her, but its master also. In that moment she was sure he would do anything and everything to make her happy and it made her heart ache with the knowledge how much he truly cared for her, even more so because she knew not if she could ever feel for him the same way he so obviously felt for her. That was not to say that Lothíriel felt indifferent to her husband, but she had simply spent too much time forbidding herself the very idea of love that the feelings she now had she could not have named had her life depended on it.

'His name's Firefoot. He's been my friend for many years now.', Éomer chimed in then, feeling her gaze on him, and whatever he saw in her eyes quickly prompted him to break the silence that stretched out between them, to say anything and nothing at all to not give too much space between this undefined thing between them, 'You two have met before, actually ...'

'Yes, I know, I remember.', she answered quickly then, a little bit too quickly, she thought, as she beheld her husband's darkening gaze out of the corners of her eyes, and for a moment she felt a pang of guilt, though she was not sure whether the guilt was linked to the mere reminder of that tragic day on the ice or whether the guilt ate away at her for having put her good and kind husband through that painful ordeal in the first place. In that moment, her throat felt tight with all the words she wanted to say to make it better, to relieve the pain she knew he still felt whenever he was reminded of it (and she didn't fool herself, she knew he thought often and more about it, even if he tried to hide it from her), but she knew that there was nothing she could say to make it so. And so she simply said nothing, because there was simply nothing she could say.

Éomer sighed, his gaze softening for a moment, before he ducked under the gate and entered Firefoot's box, intent on making himself useful as he gave his wife the time she needed to reacquaint herself with the company of a horse, though he could not help stealing a glance or two at her out of the corners of his eyes from time to time. Lothíriel, turning back to the horse that eyed her with the innocent look of a curious beast, stroked its head and its mane with gentle hands, marvelling at its beauty, completely oblivious to him, or the stench of the stables around them or the world outside these four wooden walls.

In some way Éomer was strangely relieved that her attention seemed solely captured by his horse, and he pushed the little sting of jealousy out of his head, and to be perfectly honest he was surprised to seeing her taking so quickly to the company of horses again. A part of him had actually feared this day and this confrontation, feared that she would scream and cry and roll together in a tight ball of fears and nightmares and would never unwind again, but instead he found her opening up as easily as a flower in spring, yearning for the first rays of the sun.

'Mae govannen, mellon-nîn. Annon allen.', he heard her whisper from the front of the stall then, and looking up from his business of preparing the saddle, he watched mesmerised as she actually dipped her head in reverence and then to his infinite surprise, Firefoot, his mighty steed, friend of a hundred battles, companion of a thousand hard rides, brother of a life as a warrior, appeared to lower his head too, as though to bow and respond to her gesture in kind. Had he blinked, he would have missed it, and he wasn't too sure entirely if it really had happened, but then again, he remembered, Elvish blood bore Elvish gifts, and no beast as yet could have ever withstood the sweet tongue of the Elves. Éomer sighed, shaking his head; perhaps he should not be so quick or so vain as to believe that her quick recovery was his doing alone, perhaps all she had needed was to be reminded that there was good in this world, that innocence need not be a fault and that beauty was something to be revered rather than possessed.

'If you like you can also feed him.', he threw in as he strapped the saddle onto Firefoot's back, jerking his head in the direction of a bucket full of carrots, turnips and corn, and by the look of her eyes brightening up and her smile widening, it was clear that she needn't be told twice. And thus while he tied down the saddle, securing everything in its place, the air was accompanied by a constant stream of words and whispers while she fed the steed carrot after carrot from her own hand. Some of it he even understood, but most of it was some form of Elvish and thus indecipherable to him. He couldn't remember having ever heard her talk this much, not even during their hours and hours of planning the trading business or even their evening chats in front of the fireplace, and it reminded him once more, painfully, how little he truly knew of his wife, and that there had been a whole other life she had lived before she had come to him.

Shaking those thoughts off his mind he moved towards her to put the final touches to Firefoot in preparation for the ride-out, and with shy smiles and whispered apologies they danced around each other for a moment as he worked to tie the bridle onto the head of his steed. Lothíriel continued to make cooing, soothing noises and sounds in all the languages she knew – and it was almost outlandish how much she had already gained his own horse's favour in so short a time, going so far that his own steed seemed a little unwilling to let him fasten the bridle if that meant any disruption of his interaction with the Horse-Queen before him. But he managed in the end, he was a Horse-Lord after all, and in more than just the name.

'Alright, we're all set now.', Éomer said then at last with a sigh as he leant against the gate lazily, smiling at her as he patted Firefoot's side appreciatively, 'Let's get you up on that horse.'

In that moment, the king might as well have asked his queen to perform a handstand whilst naked, because from one second to the next her eyes went wide and she stood all but frozen with fear, looking at him with what seemed like a mixture of sheer terror and vulnerable embarrassment. Swallowing hard, he could see it took her more than moment to recover, and when she spoke there was disbelief in her voice as well as no little amount of trepidation, 'Y-you mean – are you saying – I'm supposed to ride already? Today? Now?!'

'Of course: learning by doing.', Éomer said teasingly, and he had to keep himself from bursting out laughing at the way her eyebrows jumped up in shocked realisation, 'Why else did you put on that fancy riding outfit if not for riding?', he proceeded to wink at her and pushed himself off the gate to give her room enough to enter the stall, provoking her to take the bait, to forget for once that she need not be a lady with him. But the king had forgotten that he was talking to his queen.

Lothíriel scoffed at him, clearly taken aback by his teasing and his bait, and she swallowed hard to not retort in kind with words not so gentle, words that might not befit a lady or a queen. Why did you put on this fancy riding outfit if not riding?, she imitated his voice mockingly in her head. Well, even the fanciest, most practical riding attire need not mean its wearer would ride, just like any lordling might wear the best armour and still have no intention of ever fighting. Like most things in the life she had known in the South, it was done for show – a show of strength, of power, of control; and like most times, a show was only ever a show, and if you dared to peak behind the curtain, well, there would be nothing to be found.

All of this and more went through her head as she watched her lord and husband wink at her with a smug smile, baiting her. In a way, his behaviour was a show too, an act to lure her into the stall, because she knew very well that for all his teasing he was genuine in his belief for her – for him, his smug show was just an act, but there was truth behind it. The only question was now: was her show just an act too, a riding attire meant for representation, or would there be some truth too behind her act, some genuine intentions that would turn to genuine actions?

Lothíriel gave her answer in a deep sigh that seemed to come from the very depth of the sea as she gathered her skirts, ducked under the gate and entered the box in one swift, elegant movement. And as she planted herself in front of him then, chin held high and arms akimbo, as if to prove her aloofness and superiority, despite looking utterly ridiculous in her fancy clothes amidst the straw and dung of the stables, he could not help it then and so he simply burst out laughing, laughing so hard his sides hurt, laughing as he had not done in years. But he caught himself quickly, he was a king after all, and even managed a bow to apologise for his indelicate laughter, though his queen did seem to take it quite well, and he even thought he might have seen her smile a little too.

'Okay, enough funny business for now. You go up first.'

'First? You mean – I'm going to ride with you? Like, on the same horse?'

'Well, yes.', Éomer answered, taken aback by her utter disbelief, her apparent squeamishness, and he crossed his arms before his chest. He wondered whether she was going to question and oppose everything he told her to do, and his growing impatience was tugging at his calm and ease, making his words sound less supportive than he may have intended to, 'Forgive me, Lothíriel, but I won't let you ride on your own until I know for sure you can handle it. So?'

Lothíriel twitched back at the brusque manner of his answering, but perhaps it were only her sensitivities that perceived his manners as brusque, although it would be difficult to explain her reason for coyness without making herself a target for yet another jovial comment about the (perceived) pompously delicate Southern propriety. Because while it may invite ridicule, it was indeed considered very improper. In the South she would be allowed to ride side-saddle with a man riding beside her or a man leading the reins, but man and woman on the very same horse, their bodies rubbing together with a beast underneath?! Well, it was outrageous, if not scandalous! But then again, he was her lord and husband, so there was no room for scandals or for her to deny his order. And so she sighed and simply nodded.

Lothíriel, turning to the horse then, looked the mighty steed up and down, for a moment worrying how she would actually manage to get up on that stallion with no mounting block in sight, but by then her husband had already rounded her and stood before her next to the horse's head, stooping low, his fingers interlocked to form a small space with his palms, small but just big enough for one of her boots to fit in. Following his instructions, Lothíriel flushed with embarrassment as she held on to the reins and mane with her left hand, grasping the saddle horn with her right hand, as she lifted her knee and put her left foot in between her husband's hands; and as she pushed herself off the ground with her right leg, he gave her yet another boost with his strong hands, and that indeed proved to be enough momentum for her to bring her right leg across the steed's rear end and to swing herself right on the horse's back.

Lothíriel smiled; she had ridden astride a horse before, but that had been years and years ago, before she had been a lady in the true sense, and even back then she had only ever mounted a horse with a mounting block, but never right off from the ground, and it was a thrilling feeling to have succeeded in something she wouldn't even have permitted herself to think about mere months ago. Of course, she knew it was a menial thing at best, a basic requirement for anyone claiming to be a rider that they would manage to mount a horse from the ground – she knew it was nothing grand, and yet she could not help that thrilling feeling of accomplishment that made her cheeks burn in the attempt not to grin like a sated kitten bathing in the afternoon sun.

Éomer smiled; dusting of his palms he looked up at his wife barely suppressing her proud little grin and as she smoothed out her riding skirt to have it flow elegantly and appropriately all the way down her legs, showing only the peaks of her boots, with her back straight and her head held up high, well, she truly looked like a proper Rohirrim horsewoman – and that sight filled him with pride in return. But he shook his head then, meaning to shake off his own stupidly proud grin – he hadn't come here today to gawk, and so he simply moved to unlock the gate and push it open before taking the reins from her and slowly leading the horse out of the stables.

Lothíriel relaxed as she allowed him to lead her and the horse out of the stables, thinking to herself that this riding business might not be such a terrifying idea after all, but then he bade the beast stop just outside the barn, loosely tying the reins to a post, before turning back to the stables to close the gate. Blinking rapidly, Lothíriel became all of the sudden very aware of being alone on top of a fierce beast with a will of its own, of the fact that the beast was barely tied to the post and that she did not hold the reins – although she didn't fool herself, if this hot-blooded stallion wanted to run wild, even her delicate hands holding the reins would do her little good.

The queen shifted in the saddle, suddenly very uncomfortable and afraid, and when the beast then snorted beneath her, chomping at the bit, shaking out its mane, Lothíriel did look back, eyes searching for her husband who seemed to take all the time in the world, and in her emotionally charged state she sought to suppress her nervousness in the only way she had learned to – by conversation, 'Are you not afraid that he would just run off … with me? Or that he would buckle and bolt and unhorse me … just like that?', she thought to hear a soft chuckle from somewhere behind her, and looking back she saw her husband walking towards her still in that agonisingly slow strut, the relaxation radiating from his steps contrasting with her stressed mental state, 'I know I certainly would; if someone had me on all fours and tried to ride on my back, I – '

Lothíriel's eyes snapped wide open as her mouth snapped shut; and as she proceeded to blush in the darkest and prettiest pink, Éomer returned with slow steps, and smiled cheekily, for he did not miss the unconscious meaning of her words, but he stayed graciously quiet on that issue, generous enough not to tease her with the way her mouth had run wild with her, and for that she was more than grateful. So, when he arrived back at the horse again at last, he simply untied the reins and took them in his hands, wordlessly motioning for her to move forward and make space for him, before he reached around her, grabbing the saddle horn, and put his foot in the stirrup and then swung himself swiftly and with an unknown grace into the saddle behind her that belied his fearsome strength and grim prowess.

'Firefoot is a good horse, the truest companion a rider could ever wish for.', he spoke then, as he moved to get comfortable behind her, his boots sinking into the stirrups, right hand holding the reins, left hand holding her, his fingers embracing her waist like a spider's net, secure, all encompassing, and she could feel his warm breath brushing the skin under her hair, making her shiver, 'Trust me, right now there is no place safer in this whole wide world than on the back of this steed.'

And then he gave one click of his tongue and a gentle nudge with his heels and the mighty steed immediately fell into a slow walking pace that carried them the rest of the way down the sloping street that Edoras had adapted from its position on top of a single hill, all the way through the gates, and then it was just the wide, open country that stretched out unbound and unrestrained before them. Leaving the city fortress behind they rode farther into the plains of green, this sea of grass swallowing them bit by bit, nature welcoming them as civilisation fell behind and out of sight and thought and memory.

Lothíriel looked about her with great curiosity, and thanks to her safe position, cushioned between man and beast, she could gaze at her surroundings with great leisure, and she could see now that spring had come to the mark, as it would seem, almost over night, and life had returned to its nature and pulsated now all round them. The very air seemed fresh and spicy, as if a great rain had washed the earth clean to have it smell of all kinds of flowers and plants among the strong scent of grass. Up in the sky birds of prey circled with ease and intent, looking for a tasty morsel to bring to their roosts; rabbits hopped across the plains, tricking the foxes that stalked them; doves and other birdies twittered somewhere far off, circling each other, looking for a mate to spend a lifetime with.

With a deep sigh that was as much regret as it was relief, Lothíriel realised how very wrong she had been in her opinions of the Mark, because where once the cold and icy desolation had shaped the face of the Riddermark, now a green paradise seemed to have sprung from, blossoming practically overnight. When she had come here all those months ago it had been the very heart of winter, and as such the land had indeed offered nothing but bleak sombreness, but she came to see now that there was indeed beauty in this new home of hers. Perhaps not the exquisite beauty of the South, with their white beaches and palm trees, their olive gardens and peach trees, the white and pink and purple colourfulness of the lilac tree rows, but there was beauty to be found here in the North too, even if it could not be found in rich colours and decorations. It was a wide, open country whose beauty lay exactly therein, in the freedom it promised. Why, she imagined, as she looked at the horizon, one could ride all the way towards that distant point where earth and sky would mate and still nothing would be found to mar the infinite atmosphere of liberating nothingness. Yes, she imagined, if one where to long for nothing but freedom, this country would truly be beautiful beyond words.

All of the sudden she was jolted out of her thoughts when the beast beneath her started to go off in a trot that left her bouncing frightfully, and her husband – ever the observant one – felt her stiffen and reacted immediately, pulling the horse to a halt, from now on intent to go on in a slower pace. Of course, she tried to explain that she had merely reacted as she did because she had been startled, but that didn't stop him from then taking it upon himself to teach her the right way to move with the horse during the different paces. Naturally, she protested and insisted that she knew all of this and was merely out of practice, while he in return insisted that he would teach her nonetheless.

And so it came that for the better part of an hour he pressed his hand to her stomach, pulled her intimately close towards him and encouraged her, with explanations whispered in her ear, how to move with him as he demonstrated the necessary movements, and she felt her cheeks sting from the embarrassment and the liking she took to it. She was sure, however, that she was not the only one taking a wicked liking to it; she was sure her husband had more than just a riding lesson on his mind when his hand instructed her to movements when words could have done so just the same; she was sure that at least a part of him used this as an excuse to touch her more freely than he would have otherwise permitted himself, and certainly more than he had done in more than a month now. By all accounts, she knew she should be scandalised by his forward ways, annoyed by his well-meant patronising, and yet she found that she was not; nay, as she mimicked his movements, she found herself holding her breath, longing for him to touch her again.

Éomer slowed the horse down again, letting it wander freely at a leisurely pace, allowing it to catch its breath after the short canter he had put him through, although he could already feel the stallion beneath him begin to stir again with impatience. Éomer knew that the steed craved to run wild – up until now all those little sprints had merely wet the appetite, but not filled the stomach yet; it wanted more, it wanted all. It was an instinct inborn to all animals, heating their blood – spring boiled in its blood, and he could feel it in himself, too, a desire to bury his heels in the flanks of his steed and to push him to the limits; after all, rider and horse were linked, as one in their needs, and he noticed that the same desire made her heart beat faster as well, though her curiosity was still at war with her fear, but he could sense that her curiosity was slowly overcoming her fears.

'You want to go faster?', he asked quietly then, and with his lips so close to her ear she felt the skin prickle where his breath caressed her, and with his arms reaching around her to hold the reins she practically sank into his embrace, surrounded by all of him, and, well, she found it hard enough to keep her breathing calm and controlled, let alone speak, and so she only nodded.

'It's alright, I've got you.', he assured her then, his voice even, seeking to soothe, seeking to ease, because although he could sense well enough the way her body tensed in his arms, he clearly misread her reasons for it. Because while she did feel nervous fear gripping her at the thought of the hard ride ahead, she also welcomed it, ready to push herself past her comfort zone today, since today she felt as though she could accomplish anything with her king by her side. And yet, it was also her king who was the reason for her body's reaction – him being so close to her and all, well, having her body tense up was all the weak resistance she could muster up not to melt into his arms like a wanton little hussy. She smiled at that realisation, and at his attempt at reassurance, more than ready to pick up on his line of thought.

'You won't let me fall?'

'Never.'

And with that he banged his heels into the stallion's flanks, having it neigh loudly before jumping forward in to a canter and soon enough the horse was speeding up into a fully fledged gallop that took them quickly across the green fields. Holding on to the mane with all her might, Lothíriel did feel fear at first, but she knew she was safe – her king was with her, his hands held the reins tightly, his arms surrounded her safely, his body behind her making it easy to move with him and the steed beneath them, and soon enough all fear was forgotten and she just allowed herself to go. A laughter started low in her throat and burst out of her to change into a jingling clear sound that seemed to fit in perfectly with the other sounds nature offered at this sunny March afternoon. During that ride she became a child again, carefree, light, full of the ease she had believed she had lost a long time ago; a child that ran after butterflies and birds, more or less seriously trying to catch them, a child that saw the goodness and beauty in this world, a child that knew nothing of suffering and heartache. And even her king was infected by her excitement, sensing the change in her, listening to her heartfelt laughter, thinking he might never have heard a more beautiful sound in all his life.

FUN FACT #1: I sat on a horse only once in my life and I remember it being a wholly terrifying experience for me - I so did not feel in control. Unsurprisingly, I'm a terrified driver as well.

FUN FACT #2: So, yeah, Lothíriel's getting back up on that horse. Literally. So, yeah!

FUN FACT #3 (as a certain someone demanded the return of Fun Fact #3): The next chapter's title will be Méara Cwén - if you can figure out what it means, I'll give you a clue with regard to the upcoming chapter. So, get cracking, my lovelies!