Hey, my lovely guys, gals and non-binary pals!
I know I'm a bit late but I'll make up for it with a nice, long chapter - prepare yourselves for fluff and unresolved sexual tension that gets deliciously resolved ...
Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!
21. Beltane
The first thing she noticed when she woke up wasn't the early morning chill or the light of the sun that stole through the window to tickle her nose; no, the first thing she noticed – when she moved and stretched – was the familiar aching in her muscles that made her blush as she recalled the events of the night before. The heated discussion with her king had ended with a fragile truce regarding the misbegotten son; Éomer had promised to legitimise the boy, if she didn't become pregnant by the end of this year. However, and he had reassured her of that quite fervently, that truce didn't mean that they would be any less eager regarding their passionate attempts at having children – and she had agreed just as fervently. And so, after a very heated discussion, they had sealed their truce just as heatedly.
Humming contentedly, the queen blinked lazily as she allowed her eyes to get used to the blinding light of the sun, soaking in the tentative feeling of warmth it already gave off, and when she could see again, there was only one other thing her eyes wanted to see. The sun had only just risen but the first rays of sunlight already came in creeping through the window and, cheekily turning around, she followed their trail as they fell onto the sleeping form of her lord and husband who lay beside her. In his sleep Éomer always looked peaceful (besides the occasional nightmares that still haunted him, though, strangely enough, that seemed to have lessened of late), probably because no thoughts or doubts were troubling him. Biting her lip, Lothíriel allowed her eyes to wander, and she cherished this rare moment of privacy, when not even the eyes of her husband would watch her, and thus she drank in the sight he presented.
He was flat on his back, the wild blonde mane stretched out haphazardly on the cushion, some strands of hair covering his face, while the rest of him was as naked and bare as he had been the day that he was born – except for the blanket, which, however, barely managed to reach up past his hips. And as she gazed at him, the skin tanned from hours spent training in the sun, the muscled arms and chiselled chest, well, it was a sight that made her mouth water and her breath go short. But as she continued to eye him with desire, she had to confess that he was not entirely perfect anymore: fine scars marred the picture of perfection here and there – some on his strong arms, some on his shoulders and torso, and before she knew it she was already reaching out to touch him.
He twitched at her touch only once and only shortly, his subconscious, his instincts aware of her touch before his mind had any time to register it, and so, for a time at least, she could continue her exploration undisturbed. His skin warm under her fingers and unexpectedly soft, and that surprised her each and every time anew, because one would not expect such soft skin from the look of a hardened warrior such as him. Slowly but surely she traced the lines of his scars with the tips of her fingers and when she had done so, she then traced the other lines of his upper body – the curves of his shoulders, the width of his biceps, the hardness of his chest, and then the path of the golden hairs down, ever down, towards where manly flesh met woollen blanket. Licking her lips, her fingers reached out to lift the blanket and to sate her inflamed curiosity, when a hand shot out and grasped her wrist, stopping her short from any further exploration.
'Don't.', her husband said then, and not without some tenderness, his voice still hoarse from sleeping (or maybe something else altogether), and he smiled that crooked smile that she loved so much as he looked at her sheepish expression, blushing at being caught in her little act, 'I'm afraid, my queen, if you keep this up, I will be giving a very poor performance at the ritual tonight.'
Blushing even harder than before, Lothíriel took her hand back, and as her husband fully woke up and regarded her with those keen green eyes of his, she became aware of her own scandalous state of undress and quickly grabbed her blanket to hold it up to her chest and to cover herself – much to the amusement of her king, who showed one of his wolfish grins, and she wondered then how long he had been watching her in her exploration of him and how long he had chosen to remain quiet, allowing this to go on.
'What will happen at the feast today?', she asked then, switching the subject as elegantly as a new-born foal, trying to cover up and ignore the very large and very lusty oliphaunt in the room, in order to occupy their minds with thoughts of less scandalous affairs.
'Didn't Éowyn already tell you?', Éomer asked then slowly, carefully trying to gauge her reaction, lest she would change her mind and run away from this, leaving him alone without a queen to be the goddess at his side tonight. But she was still here and she didn't show the slightest indication that she would leave him hanging. Of course, his question was a bit redundant and they both knew it, and by the tone of his voice – full of that cheeky smile he could barely hide – she could tell that he could see right through her. Oh, of course, she had, Lothíriel thought, of course, the shieldmaiden had explained it all to her already, and in painful detail too, but today – today she felt scandalous. And so she only smiled, encouraging him to speak of things, one would much rather do.
Folding his hands behind his head, lying on them as though they were a cushion, Éomer complied then, and, looking at something far off that only he could see in his mind's eye, he began to talk, 'Well, for starters, we will be busy with welcoming guests all day long. Beltane is our biggest tradition and hundreds upon hundreds of people come every year to visit Edoras during this time. Their tents are already lining the moat along the walls of our city – but even more will come until nightfall. They all come to see their king and queen – but even more so, they will come to see their god and goddess.'
Halting in his explanation for a moment, he looked over to her and they exchanged a quick glance, and Lothíriel could see it in his eyes then, this plea for her not to run away screaming from this, to ignore the unfamiliarity of it all and to stay by side. And a part of her could understand now why he hadn't broached the subject with her before, afraid what her reaction would be to all of this, and she had to be honest with herself – all of this was still very, very far away from what she knew and believed. But she had made the decision to go along with it, and so she only nodded, encouraging him to go on.
'They will expect to be blessed. Don't be shocked when they address you differently – you're not their queen today; today you are their goddess come again.', at that, Lothíriel bit back her questions about how she was expected to bless these people exactly, given that she was neither a priestess nor an acolyte (not that she knew of any such persons in the faith of Béma anyway) and that when it came to the rites of the Northern faith she was little more than a laywoman. But she swallowed her insecurities and stayed quiet, deciding that she would simply follow his lead and trust him in this.
'For the better part of the day people will keep themselves busy with preparations for the festivities. The maypole will be put up right outside the gates of Edoras, so the people can dance around it later on. All around great piles of wood will be stacked up to be burned throughout the night.', he explained it all with sparse and simple words and yet the scenery unfolded in her mind's eye as easily as the ocean stretched out to the far away horizon, 'Of course, food and drink will be prepared, too – a great hunting part will move out later on to catch the dozens of wild boars that will be roasted come sunset; barrels upon barrels of strong ale and sweet mead will be rolled down the hill to the camps.', a rumbling sound intercut the description of food-related merrymaking and the king blushed at this reminder of a very human need, though it seemed to jog his memory on something else, and as he looked at her the sheepish expression on his face was replaced by tenderness, 'There will also be bread and corn, potatoes and salad served, of course.', he added quickly then, remembering well (though it surprised her that he did) that she very rarely – if ever – and even then only very sparsely ate meat, and she could not but smile at the consideration he showed her.
'The people will prepare themselves as well.', the king continued meanwhile, effectively pulling her out of her daydreaming, 'The women and young girls will wear white linen dresses and flowers in their hair. The men will wear greens and whites as well, and have braids in their hair – ', all of the sudden he stopped then, his face grimacing into a crooked smile as he looked over to her and seeing her raised eyebrow and the hard time she seemed to be having, trying to bite back a smile, well, she couldn't quite say if he was annoyed by it or amused.
'It's an honourable tradition.', he added then with eyes burning, throwing himself into a more or less serious explanation, pretending to warn her with his eyes not to tease him with this, well aware of her source of amusement, and granted, it seemed unusual for their culture to have men braid their hair, but it was considered as a symbol of strength, stamina, emphasising the interwovenness of war, politics and faith in their culture in one piece of fashion style. But he could tell, by the way she tried to hide her grin, that his lovely wife did not really go out of her way to try and buy into his explanation.
'Oh, I'm sure they will be very manly braids.', the queen teased playfully, grinning provocatively at her husband, daring him to take the bait and to come up with an equally witty banter, but the princess from the South should have known better than to expect her Northern warrior to fight back with words, as he was a man of few words – he was a man of action, a man whose deeds so often spoke louder than all the fine words one could say. And so she was quite taken by surprise when her husband, all of the sudden, grabbed her with the quick reflexes of a warrior honed in a hundred battles, flipping her onto her back and began to mercilessly poke her in the ribs and tickle her, making her laugh so hard until she was quite out of breath. Of course, what sort of queen would she be, if she didn't try and fight back? But alas, all her attempts at fending him off (more or less seriously) and trying to score a tickle and a laughter of her own from him were thwarted by his large hands and superior strength, and so all she could do was writhe and twitch in his grasp as they both laughed and laughed and laughed, as much and as hard as they hadn't done in a long, long while.
When he stopped his tickling attack at last then, they were both out of breath and looking at each other. Her king had her pinned down underneath him and seeing the way his eyes burned and wandered all over her made her distinctly aware that the blanket she had used to cover herself with must have fallen off somewhere in the middle of their tickling wrestle. And the way he was looking at her now was so very familiar that it made her catch her breath and blush, but it also made her bold; and so she held his gaze, inviting him with nothing but her eyes, daring him, again, to take the bait. And her king seemed to be picking up on her vibe because his eyes turned to slits and he opened his mouth as if to say something, only to close it again, and the way he was looking at her now reminded her of one those feline predators, those big cats with golden furs and black eyes and this insatiable hunger to catch their prey, that she had seen all those years ago as part of a wandering exhibition, and the very thought sent shivers down her back.
However, her king seemed to remember that they still had the day ahead of them and that he had meant to exercise some patience here, and so he groaned with the annoyance of a man who had to reject the sweetest temptation of all, and closing his eyes he let go of her and let himself fall back into the cushions. Smiling at her with the pained expression of a suffering man, her king sighed as she stretched out next to him, not even pretending to be ashamed of her own nakedness now, no thought spared to covering herself up, and she could see it in his eyes then, that amused look of a man who realised he had created a monster.
'You'll be prepared, too.', he hummed quietly then, lying there languorously, watching her with dreamy eyes as his fingers absent-mindedly played around with a lock of her raven-black hair that trailed down her shoulder, and in the process the tips of his fingers ever so often brushed against her bare skin – all by accident, of course. She smiled at him, mischief sparkling in her eyes – well two could play this game.
'And what will those preparations include?', she purred then seductively, and her voice was just a little bit too forcibly light, a little bit too casual, and they both knew she was a lot more eager to learn than she really let on. Edging just a little bit closer to him, just enough to be out of reach, just enough to be too close, and with one arm used to prop up her head, she was the very image of a Southern temptress.
'Well, you'll wear flowers in your hair, just like the other women, but unlike them, yours will be a wreath, a crown of flowers – you are our queen, after all.', he said after a moment of trying to gauge how far she would be willing to push this game, and he emphasised his words by brushing her raven her over her shoulder, leaving her bare and open to his gaze. But instead of blushing, instead of covering herself up, instead of trying to look away, she held his gaze with unwavering intensity, 'What else?'
'You'll be clothed in a white linen dress, like the other women, with a girdle tied around your waist.', he explained, emphasising his words with his hand brushing over her waist and over her hips, before he effectively and smoothly pulled her closer to him again, and only then did he continue, 'That girdle will be cut later on … when the god conquers the goddess and the king comes to his queen.'
Surely, the meaning implied in those words should have made her blush, but instead it thrilled her, excited her, aroused her, and already she found herself saying, 'And how will the king prove his worthiness?'
'I'll have to break in one of the wild stallions that have been captured over the last few weeks, or at least, I'll have to manage to stay on top of it longer than the other men. No problem, naturally.', her king answered, following her lead, playing their little game however she wanted to play it, intrigued by that new side she showed here. Of course, for the moment, they both ignored the implied meaning what might happen, if he did not manage to outride the other men.
'Naturally.', she purred again, leaving it to be her only comment, feeding into his self-assured ego, not ready yet or willing to disturb this little thing they had right here with thoughts and questions of what-might-bes, 'What else?'
'There will be … symbols and lines painted on your skin … suns and horses … symbols that invoke blessings of fertility.', he answered slowly, almost hesitantly so, his green eyes ever so often flickering up to her unwavering gaze, only for them to be drawn down again, torn between openly, wantonly leering at her naked form and then again averting his eyes from her nakedness, fully expecting her disapproval to show in her face, but he would only find curiosity there. Surely, she had always known what sort of effect she had on him, but never before had she amused herself by playing her games with it, wondering how far she could truly take this, how far she could truly push him. Oh, it was a dangerous game to play, for sure, but a game she was just leaning to enjoy.
'Where?', she crooned then with a seductive mixture of innocent curiosity and obvious challenge, teasing him to take the bait, and with a hesitant smile her king reached out, a hand that brushed along her arms and neck, mimicking the colourful lines that would soon be painted on her perfect skin.
'Where else?', she repeated then and his gaze flickered up to hers, eyeing her curiously, slowly but surely understanding where this thing here between them was heading; but nonetheless, her king obeyed without question and without hesitation. Holding her gaze he brushed along her chest, his fingertips ghosting over the peaks of her breasts, and ever down he went, to her waist and hips, and as goosebumps spread out across her flesh (and she was sure he could feel that too) her breathing became harder and harder.
'Where else?', she whispered then, voice low and charged, and this time she could barely get those words out before he obliged dutifully as the soldier he was. Now his fingers brushed along her thighs only to sink between them, and they were both breathing hard now, as she was no longer concerned with learning the intricacies of the festivities and he was no longer just brushing. There was a pull and some movement, and then they were breathing into each other, feeling their skin rub against each other. Oh, she was getting close, she was getting there, and she was more than ready to take him with her; he could feel that, in the way her thighs tensed, in the way her breath seemed to hitch, only a little more and –
All of the sudden she stopped him then; not with words, at this point she had no words left – she stopped him with her thighs clamping together, trembling under the tension, with the palms of her hands gently pushing at his chest, gently pushing him away. It was a small move, really, nothing a seasoned warrior such as him could not have overcome with unimaginable ease, but that small move was enough to stop him immediately – too great was the fear, for a moment, that the old reservations had returned, and with no little amount of uncertainty did he look up.
'My lord, was it not you … who warned me before … that this might lessen the performance?', she breathed at last and she could barely get the words out, tense and breathless as she was, and he breathed a little chuckle as the anxiety fell off of him, and she laughed then because he laughed. But when the laugher slowly ebbed away, a different kind of tension remained, an old and darkly familiar one, and then there were no words needed between them anymore, though a few were still given nonetheless.
'Fuck it.', he growled, smiling his grim smile, before he moved to capture her lips in a wild kiss, and kissing still he rolled them around to press her body into the mattress and hovering above her he moved from her mouth to her neck and then to her breasts, all while his hand wreaked havoc between her thighs, readying her for what was to come, and all she could do then was hold on to him for dear life.
The last light of the day had just been swallowed by the dark mantle of night, and it would have left the world to appear in sombre colours of grey and black, were it not for the handful of fires that were set up across the vast fields before the gates of Edoras, returning some of the colours of the day to the world of night. In the light of the fire, among colours of yellow and orange and red, black shadows moved: women and girls dancing around the maypole in widening and tightening circles, children frolicking, men and women dancing hand in hand with quick steps and wild turns. And not so far from the dancing field, groups of people stood, next to the barrels of ale and mead, next to the fires where marinated boars were roasted on big iron skewers; eating, drinking, laughing, talking.
Amidst all this merrymaking, upon the hill before the gates of Edoras, Lothíriel Queen stood, smiling, nursing a mug of mead in her hand as her eyes wandered across the many people, young and old, enjoying the very essence of what life had to offer. The roaring sound of laughter next to her attracted her attention and she looked over to her left where her lord and husband stood, holding on to a giant beer mug of his own, deep in conversation with two councillors. However despite her close proximity she couldn't quite make out what they were talking about, either because of the loud music in the background and the cheers from the jolly crowd below or because her king laughed so hard he barely managed to get the words of his story out – though a few scraps of conversation she did mange to catch. An Elf and a Dwarf enter a drinking contest … that sounded like the beginning of a very bad joke.
Turning her attention back on the festivities, she allowed her mind to wander back to the activities of this most joyous day. Unfortunately, their pleasurable morning activities had been sadly cut short by the interruption of her handmaidens, Aida and Madlen, as they burst in through the door, intent on lending a hand in their mistress' morning routine. And while Madlen had been perfectly scandalised at the spectacle of nature that they had chanced upon, Aida was positively amused by it, earning her another heartfelt talking-to by her older sister ("Aida!"), as the younger sister was practically dragged out of the door frame.
After that both king and queen had chosen to spend the day with less wanton activities and instead sought more pious devotion by undergoing the rigorous treatment of their maidservants. After she had announced to the zealous sisters that she would indeed play her part in the ritual, Lothíriel, for her part, had been bathed and scrubbed, her body draped in a fine white linen dress with a flower-woven girdle around her waist that centred on a wooden buckle in the shape of a horse's head, and her raven hair had been brushed to gleaming perfection, let loose and finally crowned with a wreath of early summer flowers. She only found out later on what sort of care her husband had had to endure for his part in the festivities – she hadn't seen him all morning, so when he had met up with her later in the day, she had had to do a double take to make sure that it really was him and not the god Béma himself. There he stood in his green breeches, held by a belt with a knife tied to it (and she knew that knife would be put to good use later on), and his white shirt; his hair tied in a messy half-bun – and one could actually see the very manly little braids in his golden hair – and a flower crown of his own placed upon his head. She was not ashamed to admit that she burst out laughing first time she saw him like that, though the warning look he shot her was enough to shut her up again and to put her mind back to more regal business.
After that, together they had welcomed the masses of visitors and worshippers that had come to celebrate the feast of Beltane. They provided each of them with pieces of bread and sips of mead as a token of hospitality, and they gave their blessings too, and though it had seemed odd at first, and presumptuous even, to speak in the name of gods and goddesses she neither truly knew nor believed in, she soon found her bearings. The queen had come to find that for the Rohirrim their rites were not nearly as intricate or as contrived as the Southern rituals she had witnessed; mostly, it came down to her hearing the wishes of her subjects and then, as a symbol of their goddess on earth, bless them with a long life or a good harvest or plenty of grandchildren, or even answer with hopeful metaphors or riddles. Harvest even the rain, because upon rain sunshine will follow, and then you will have need of the rain. To leave one's home, is to uproot the tree, but if the soil is unpromising, a new place in the garden might bear fruits where before none have sprouted. An easy task for a lady reared in the wit of the Southern courts.
It was only later, when the day had begin to draw to an end, and the sun had been vanishing behind the horizon, that her tasks had become more daunting. First, she and her lord and husband had given the offerings to the earth – tokens of corn, eggs and milk – to ask for a bountiful harvest. Then she and her husband had had to ignite the fires together, and with both of them holding on to the torch they had set the pyres afire, to have them light the coming darkness of night with the memory of the Flame Imperishable. Lastly, they had splashed a couple of mares with a few drops of water, to bless them for the upcoming foaling, and this had pleased her the most, as the use of water reminded her of her own faith, and it made her feel less blasphemous for observing such heathen Northern rites. After that, all they had had to do was cut the first piece of meat and drink the first sip of ale – a not too difficult part (though for her the meat was far too fat and hearty and the ale too strong and bitter) – and thus the feast had truly begun.
And now, here they were, the festivities in full swing, girls and women dancing around the maypole, friends and families drinking and feasting together, couples dancing around the fires, while she remained ever at her husband's side as he drank and ate and talked to everybody and all that approached them, shaking hands, exchanging words, laughing together as he patted them on the back. She, for her part, remained mostly a silent observer to the hospitality her lord and husband showed, offering barely more than a mild but generous smile whenever someone actually tried to engage her in a conversation. Not that she was unsociable or taciturn, but while she had been quite the socialite at the Southern courts, small talk in the North was a bit more rustic and a lot more unambiguously direct – and together with the overwhelming events of the day in general (not to mention the things that were still to happen later on), it was a little bit too much for her to process, and so she had opted for the safest course of action here: passive indulgence.
That was not to say that she didn't wish to be more a part of the festive action down the hill or that the merrymaking left her cold and untouched; quite on the contrary, looking at the people about her, sensing the brimming joy emanating from them, the air of life pulsating, vibrating all around her, it filled her with a longing to join in with them. And one thing in particular had her eyes burning with longing and her muscles aching with the desire to move: the dancing. Now, to be fair, these Northern dances would be considered practically little more than jumping and turning when compared to the dances of the Southern courts, with a little too much physical closeness to be deemed entirely appropriate in Southern circles, but still, it reminded her of how much she had loved dancing and how much she missed it. It reminded her of a time when she had actually enjoyed being a lady of the Southern courts, with all the balls and intrigue and small-talk that came with it, when she could have danced throughout the night, when her life had not been decided yet, a short time in her life when she had found a little piece of happiness, even if it was a superficial one.
Perhaps, it was only the nature of these festivities and the renewed hunger for life they brought with them, but in her the longing was reignited to remember what it felt like to be that woman, to be young and free and without a care in the world. And thus it was that she found herself breaking her self-imposed regal silence as she leant over to her husband to address him and see if something could be done about that particular wish of hers, 'Well, my lord, aren't you going to ask me for a dance?'
'No.', he countered so quickly and so definitively, without even looking at her, that she was quite taken by surprise and rendered speechless, but she could not help but smile at the tone of boyish refusal that underlined his words, and so she simply raised her brows in surprise, waiting for him to pick up on it and to elaborate – and truly, he did, as he turned around, the expression of the resolute warrior replaced by the sheepish, evasive look in his green eyes, 'I-I'm not – I don't do – I don't dance.'
'You would deny your queen a dance?', she purred then mischievously, seductively even, her grey-blue eyes burning with challenge, daring him to take her bait. And as she slowly moved closer, leaning into his personal space, she could see him match her movements, inevitably drawn to her and the promise she held on her lips, his eyes flickering to her opened mouth and back up to her gaze – oh, she could tell that he was slipping, when –
'I would never deny you anything, my goddess.', Déor crooned then, appearing – as it would seem – out of thin air before them. And with mead on his breath, a smug smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye, he leaned in closer – almost dangerously close – and while the queen was more or less amused by his antics, the king was positively irritated to the point of annoyance, closing his eyes for a moment, unable to suppress the sigh of sheer vexation that escaped him through clenched teeth, 'Too much, Déor, too much.'
But Déor only chuckled, oblivious to the annoyance of his liege lord, as though the gritted teeth and wrinkled forehead meant nothing to him, as though they weren't the very clear and very obvious evidence of his majesty's swelling anger. Or perhaps, the rider did know and just didn't care? Or perhaps, annoying his king was just the thing this rider loved to do – or how else could one explain it that the man pushed on in his foolish endeavour despite all the warning signs his king flashed at him?
'May I have the honour of dancing with you, my queen?', the rider asked then with a smug cat-like grin and a mischievous wink directed at his queen, and granted, though Lothíriel felt a little bit caught off guard by his brazen cockiness, she mostly just felt amused by it – especially given the ease with which the young man managed to set the king's teeth on edge.
'Why don't you go ask my sister for a dance, friend?', Éomer cut in, leaving Lothíriel no chance to actually answer the question that had been directed at her, and she was stunned at the level of warning that underlay his gruff voice – it was clear as ice to her that her husband, apparently, did not like the thought of her dancing with another man, even if he did not grace her with a dance of his own.
'You know my feet won't survive a dance with the shieldmaiden.', Déor answered while laughing, a pained smile on his face and Lothíriel did not doubt that the poor rider spoke from experience when he lamented the painful dancing skills of her sister-in-law, 'And anyway, you know she can't dance with any man here that is not related to her. She is betrothed after all, and on Beltane a betrothed always plays the part of sweet, swift, chaste Nessa.'
Déor made a good point there, Lothíriel had to give him credit for that. When Éowyn had told her about that particular custom, that, on Beltane, a betrothed woman would not be allowed to dance with any man that wasn't her soon-to-be-husband or her family, the shieldmaiden had seemed positively relieved, and who could fault her for that? The queen had endured her own painful foot-torture when she had tried to teach her sister-in-law one of the Southern dances one afternoon not so long ago. Éowyn had stated that it was a custom based on the story of Nessa, the Swift, the Ever-Young, sister to their god Béma, and she too had been off limits to any man, and it was only after the warrior-god Tulkas had bested her brother Béma in a sparring match that Nessa was granted a dance of her own.
'As if you give a rat's ass about rules or tradition … ', the king grunted meanwhile, pulling Lothíriel out of her reminiscing thoughts and back into a reality where her king was going toe-to-toe – verbally, at least – with his best friend over the right to ask the queen for a dance.
'Hey, I'll have you know that one time in the Westemnet I was very drunk and – how could I have known she was the bride or that – '
' – you gave a speech at the fucking wedding ceremony, Déor, give me a fucking break!'
Both men were breathing hard at this point – Déor from laughing more or less bashfully and Éomer from annoyance. Lothíriel looked from one man to the other, and intuitively she felt that this was about more than an old squabble of a soldier embarrassing his commanding officer, or a best friend vexing his king. Before, she had sensed that her husband, obviously, did not like the idea of her dancing with another man, but now she began to understand why that was, or at least, she thought that she did.
Was he jealous?
She was unsure how that made her feel. Obviously, he was her husband and she was his wife, but that possessive streak was something she wasn't used to and she wasn't sure she liked it. Naturally, he didn't have any reason to be jealous, right? The question now was whether he had any right to be jealous? She was his wife, yes, but a dance with another man should be well within her rights, right? Even if that other man was her husband's best friend, and even if said man was an infamous charmer and lecher. Did he fear she would fall prey to another Northerner's charm – if one could even call it that? That was curious, indeed, she mused, and wondered, how far she could actually push this, deciding to play along, faintly aware how dangerous this game was that she had begun to play.
'I'd be delighted, sir – that is, if the offer still stands and if my king does not object?', she countered sweetly then after clearing her throat, and both men immediately became aware of her presence again, and she actually had the wicked sense to turn to her lord and husband with the most saccharine of smiles, and she noticed with no little amount of satisfaction the tightening of his eyes and the clenching of his jaws as he grunted his permission through gritting teeth, trying his best – and failing – at the art of pretence, 'By all means, be my guest.'
And that was all it needed for Déor who proceeded to waste no time and took her by the hand without hesitation, effectively pulling her along towards the fires, further down the hill, towards the other dancing couples. However, glancing at the other couples dancing made her uneasy all of the sudden, though she couldn't quite pinpoint exactly why; it was only meant to be a little joke, a little jab at her overly serious husband, an impulsive decision born out of her idea to make fun of this sudden jealous streak he had shown, and yet, somehow, it made her uneasy.
'I'm not sure I can do this.', she protested then, once they had arrived wherever Déor had wanted them to arrive at, as he stopped so suddenly she nearly ran into him, and now that he was turning to her, cheeky eyes that looked at her expectantly, hands that already moved to position her for the dance she so foolishly and rashly had promised to a man not her husband. But when she saw the rider smile his smug smile and caught the mischief in his eyes, she straightened her back and lifted her chin, reshaping her answer into something more suitable for a queen, 'I don't know the steps.'
'Neither do I.', he countered light-heartedly, shrugging it off with the ease of a young stallion throwing off a rider, and had she not been trained all her life to keep per poise in every situation, her jaw would have dropped at that confession – that she would see this day come, when a Northerner managed to fool a Southern lady like that. But before she had time to properly process the ease and success of his scam, he was already talking again, 'Don't worry, my queen, I won't let you fall.'
Of course, that didn't convince her – especially because she couldn't quite fathom how a Northerner would be so extraordinarily good at the Southern wiles of bluffing – but the rider did not really give her much of a chance to shy away from her promise of a dance, because all of the sudden he put his palm flat on her back and pulled her close, way too close. And when he took her hand in his, the other securely pressed against the small of her back, she could tell that her husband had not been exaggerating when he had called his closest friend a charmer without decency.
Oh, he was good, he was very good indeed. Not his dancing, mind you, in that he was just as clumsy and sluggish as she was at first, with his feet suffering the most, though he tried to laugh it off most of the times, but he had a soothing kind of charm that made her feel terribly comfortable, and once they got in tune with the rhythm, their feet began to move in unison and they were dancing, just as wild and just as jovial as all the other couples. Still, despite becoming more and more comfortable with every passing second, her body instinctively falling into the pattern of steps and turns, her muscles remembering the intuitive flow of action and reaction that dancing brought with it, making her feel more in her element than she had in a long, long while – but still, despite easing her fear of making a fool of herself at a Northern dance, she still felt slightly uneasy, and that was in no small part thanks to her dancing partner who continued to grin and wink at her ever so often.
'Master Déor, you seem to be quite enjoying yourself.'
'I'm dancing with the most beautiful woman here – what's not to enjoy?'
His response threw her more than she would have liked to admit, and not just because it was a terribly cheesy and cheap pick-up line that she was pretty sure he used on every women he came across – normally, something like that wouldn't have worked on her, and she was trying to convince herself that it wasn't working on her now – but because she had meant to brush him off subtly, to let him know that his advances (if they even were advances which she categorically ruled out on mere principle alone) would not bear any fruits. But, apparently, that rider was not one for subtlety, and even if she wanted to deny it, citing all the dry stiffness Northerners possessed that made them incapable of courtly banter, she had to admit that this was actually happening – he was flirting with her.
Now, that wasn't exactly a problem and nothing she shouldn't be able to handle. At the Southern courts, flirting had just been part of the courtly banter, something to pass the time, something to be used as part of the wiles to get what she wanted, to asses your opponent, or to extract information or to give you some leverage over someone. She had been raised on this kind of small-talk, had been trained to perfection to succeed in this verbal art, had learned from the very best of her craft – after all, her aunt Ivriniel hadn't amassed her mountain of wealth and titles by the graces of her good looks. But things in the South were different, simple even, paradoxically speaking, because everybody had an agenda, because everybody had something to hide and nobody really trusted each other – delivering threats and ultimatums or teasing out information by way of flirting and witty banter was just the default state in the South, so she had learned how to handle that.
But here in the North she had not been prepared to do that; here in the North everyone seemed so honest and so direct and so honourable – she would not have guessed anyone to know how to play this game and yet here she was with a man little more than a knight, a man not her husband, a man she knew to be her husband's best friend, and he was flirting with her. Part of her suspected that he was using his charms on her to try and gauge the sincerity of her faithfulness to her lord and husband (a trick she had seen used in the South more often than not, though in the South it would be foolish to conflate loyalty to one's spouse with faithfulness) – she didn't really want to entertain the idea that the rider was actually flirting with her because he was actually interested in her in that way, because that … that would be a dangerous line of thought to follow, for both of them.
'You should have a care, good sir, or my husband – your king – might mistake your meaning.', she said quietly then, a smile on her lips, but a subtle warning just audible enough, distinctly aware of the people around them that might be in earshot and curious to listen in on the queen dancing with a knight.
'The king could never mistake my meaning.', Déor responded then, his voice warm and low, almost intimate even, and at that she stopped their dancing to be able to look into his eyes and to get a good assessment of this situation. She was faintly aware that this abrupt ending of the dance was quite unusual and less than subtle, drawing more than a few pair of eyes (and one pair of eyes in particular she could feel burning their gaze into the back of her skull). The audacity of this man, she thought exasperatedly, trying to suppress the feeling of panic at the thought that he was actually insinuating what she thought he was insinuating, and instead opting to dismiss his flirting with the cool attitude of the queen – well, he clearly was a man with a death wish.
Déor meanwhile did not take her abrupt reaction as a form of public humiliation (as any Southern lord probably would have) but instead only smiled his cheeky smile, making her hope, once more, that he had only meant to play a trick on her, before bowing low and taking her hand to blow a kiss on it, as though he were a proper Southern gentleman, born and reared, 'You are our goddess … to give us life.'
And off he went, winking at her one last time, before throwing himself at the next girl that happened to come his way and seeing him smile and wink at that poor girl just as he had done with her put her mind at least a bit at ease – he was a damned charmer, just as her husband had told her, a damned lady's man, and even though his words might have carried a dangerous meaning with them, she felt relieved knowing that he was just turning on the charm with any woman he knew and not just with her, she felt relieved knowing that he did not really mean anything by it.
Turning around, once she had regained her composure, she could see her lord and husband gaze at her with dark eyes, and he did not even try to hide the jealousy in his eyes, and she wondered, again, whether he was right to be jealous, or why it made her stomach flutter to think that he would feel so deeply for her. But before she had any time to ponder on these questions, another man approached her, asking for a dance, a councilman in fact; and not knowing how to refuse him politely she took his hand to allow him to pull her into another dance. And so it went on and on; she could hardly finish one dance before the next request was made, and though it felt unusual at first to be he centre of such attention here in the North after weeks and weeks of mere tolerance by these very same councilmen, she soon put that out of her mind and simply allowed herself to enjoy the dancing.
After a (very) long while she returned to her husband's side at last, and, quite out of breath, she gladly accepted the mug of mead he held out to her, and only once she had emptied the mug in one go, did she realise how thirsty the dancing had really made her, and promptly she asked for another, which her husband handed to her without question. She was not minding how much the exertion of the dancing and the effect of the mead had gotten to her, leaving her breathless and giddy and less mindful of her words, and indeed much less alert than she usually would have been.
'I don't know what's gotten into them all! A few weeks ago most of these men wouldn't have given me a second glance, and now they're practically throwing themselves at me!', she exclaimed in a tone of voice that was somewhere between sigh and laughter, and a part of her surely realised that the alcohol had gotten to her, making her talk without thinking, and apparently the alcohol must have gotten to him too (after all, he had been drinking cup after cup after cup while she had been dancing), though for him it made him silent rather than extraordinarily talkative, even more than usual. But while he played around with the mug in his big hands he was looking at her with a strange expression, and had she been more alert, she would have shuddered to see that look in his eyes, though not from fear or suspicion or any other feeling of discomfort.
'Well, you are their goddess … to give them life.', he spoke slowly then, enigmatically, so lowly she would have almost missed it, but she did hear it, even through her alcohol-induced haze, and she was so thrown by the eerie similarity to what the rider before had said that she did not register her lord and husband stepping closer until she heard his voice whispering into her ear, 'Lothíriel, I didn't dance with you not because – ', he started to say, trying to explain himself, but when he found his initial words inadequate, he sighed, relenting, choosing to stick to the simple, raw truth, 'It's not dancing that I want to do with you.'
She shivered at that, at the words itself and at the way his raspy dark voice had delivered them, and turning to him fully, she saw that he was right there next to her, looking at her with this burning stare again, and … she forgot how to breathe. It was still new and quite overwhelming to her to be looked at like that, with such lust and such raw want and to feel herself react to it not with apprehension or disgust but with lust and want of her own, and though they had been standing next to each other for most of the evening, there had always been this invisible wall of public propriety between them, but now … now he was looking at her with that intensity she had come to know so well, his gaze flickering to her slightly parted lips and she knew what he wanted because she wanted it, too. Leaning forward to bridge the distance between them and their hungry lips, she thought back to this morning and thought wickedly that it was high time they finished what they had started then, when –
'Milady, whatever are you doing here?!', Madlen exclaimed exasperatedly, and both husband and wife literally sprang apart, with the king cursing not so quietly under his breath and the queen overwhelmingly confused as both sisters came into view (Aida a little too tipsy to say anything remotely inappropriate for a change), 'We have been looking for you! We have to get you prepared, we have to get you ready for the ritual – you do know it takes more than a little wreath of flowers to turn a queen into a goddess!'
Lothíriel, too overwhelmed for words, did not put up much of a resistance as Madlen took her by the hand, shaking her head disapprovingly, meaning to usher her away with the help of her little sister (although said little sister looked a little bit shaky on her feet and seemed to be of little help in the endeavour) and to prepare her for the last and most important act of the festivities, but before the queen could be entirely whisked away, Éomer grabbed her other hand and pulled her close once more, whispering into her ear only one last word that left her shivering with anticipation, 'Soon.'
The full moon was in zenith as it shined down upon the clearing in the heart of a little grove just a few miles outside of Edoras. It was not a natural grove but had been planted there over a hundred years ago by the Rohirrim for the express purpose of this ritual. Before that, she had been told, the ceremony had been conducted in Fangorn forest actually, but at some point they had relied more and more on this little grove right here – like with most men and most cultures, rituals became hollow echoes of what they once were.
All of this and more went through her head as Lothíriel stood there in the middle of the clearing, waiting for her husband, her king, her god. She was trembling as a chilly wind blew through the trees, and no wonder, she was only clad in a thin, flimsy, almost sheer shift, barely more than a shirt, reaching barely down to her knees, and with her bare feet and bare arms, the cold – even in an early May night – was more than just palpable.
Rubbing her arms to try and warm herself up, she was careful not to smudge the intricate lines and symbols painted on her body in colours of green and bronze and she remembered the awkward half-hour it had taken Aida and Madlen to get her prepared. She still blushed in the hardest of reds just remembering the embarrassment of having to stand there, stark naked, more or less patiently waiting as her handmaids painstakingly slowly painted the lines and symbols onto her – onto all of her, her arms and legs, her chest and her belly, and her … well, all of her. All she had was her wit trying to diffuse the awkwardness of the situation.
'What's taking you so long down there? Are you trying to paint a horse's head or something?'
'I could do that.', Aida answered, her tone more serious than she would have possible, given that the young handmaiden was still hiccuping from the copious amounts of mead she had consumed earlier in the night, but her epiphany was short-lived and, as usual, undercut by her older sister, earning her another heart-felt "Aida!".
A sudden loud noise, quite like thunder, disrupted the silence of the night air, and it was enough to pull Lothíriel out of her memories. Although she knew that the sound was only the loud banging of the beating of the drums, far away by the fires before the gates of Edoras, she felt strangely agitated all of the sudden, but perhaps that was only because she knew so well what that sound meant. Closing her eyes for a second to take a deep breath and to calm herself, the queen walked over to the pond at the other end of the grove, needing to occupy herself with anything, anything at all to keep her thoughts from wandering to strange places.
Looking at the dark glassy surface of the water, she saw the full moon above her reflected in it, and for the first time then did she see herself as she was, and the image she presented was enough to make her even more nervous. Standing there with her hair loose, wrapped in a shift so sheer and so revealing, and covered from head to toe in foreign symbols in the foreign colours of a foreign land, well, it was positively scandalous, and it was not just her sense of propriety that rebelled against her appearance but her sense of piety as well – after all, who was she, a Southern princess, a faithful believer of Ulmo, to engage in some heathen Northern rites?
She felt her whole self flinch at the picture of blasphemy she presented, feeling all the more agitated because of it, and the ever swelling sound of the beating of the drums did little to ease her tension or to cool her red, heated face down, and so she took a few steps into the pond, to cup a little bit of water into her hands, to have a sip of it, to wash her face with it. She knew the Northerners would roll their eyes at this, amused by her constant washing, but what these Northerners often failed to understand was that for her the act of washing was more than just a habit of cleanliness – it was a ritual of her own, a ritual of cleansing and purification. And, highly aware of the potentially blasphemous symbols she was covered in, she used two fingers to draw the trident, symbols of her own god and her own faith, and, silently, she prayed with feverish thought.
Ulmo, Lord of Waters, Lord of the Deep, father to as man children as the sea gave birth to her waves, give me a child and I shall call myself blessed for all eternity, remaining faithful to the sea even in the lands of men …
The sound of ever-growing thunder pulled her out of her prayers but as she looked to the other end of the clearing, she realised that it had not been thunder at all. Nearing the clearing in a devilish gallop came her lord and husband at long last, riding in on a huge steed as if he were a knight in shining armour, though he was far from being a knight and it was not armour that he was wearing. In fact, he did not even wear breeches, as she came to realise once he stopped the horse, he apparently had managed to tame, at the edge of the clearing and jumped down from it; instead, she saw that he was clad in nothing but a linen shirt reaching barely down to his knees, shaped only by a belt with a dagger attached to it. Other than that he was as barefoot and underdressed as she was, and she wondered when he had lost the rest of his clothes – before or after he had tamed the wild stallion?
A part of her was very glad to see him here, having tamed the wild beast that towered next to him. She knew full well what it would have meant, had he not succeeded at such, and though no one had ever outright stated it, she understood very well that had any other man bested him, it would have been this other man tying the stallion to a tree, walking over to her, and not her husband. Of course, she also understood that there was no man foolish enough to seriously try and outmatch Éomer; no man would willingly risk drawing his king's wrath upon him. But then again, she remembered her dance with Déor, the smug smile, the cheeky wink, the double meaning in his words that was in fact very clear in its meaning – if any man was audaciously crazy enough to dare pull such a stunt, it definitely would have been him.
But it was her lord and husband that walked over to her now, she chided herself, shaking her head to shake off any thoughts of other men with mischievously easy grins, and of him alone her thoughts should be. Of course, there was another part of her that felt almost alienated by the unfamiliarity of the situation, and she wasn't sure if it was simply the heathen nature of it all or if it was more than that. She knew from what Éowyn had told her that weddings were often officiated on Beltane, and given the focus on fertility that this holy day held, it was quite understandable – however, seeing her husband unsheathe the dagger from his belt as he came closer, she was more than just a little glad that her wedding night had not been on Beltane or else she would have been frightened to death.
When he stopped in front of the pond at long last he was smiling, though there was some dark emotion undercutting that smile as he looked at her expectantly, and when she stepped out of the pond she could understand the emotion burning in his eyes. Before, when she had sipped a few handful of waters, when she had blessed herself with the sign of her faith, a lot more water had actually spilled onto that white "dress" of hers and now it was glued to her body like a second skin and revealed more of her than it really covered up. Looking at her husband she saw the hunger in his eyes as his fingers fumbled around with the blade in his hand, and the woman she had been before this marriage would have been terrified at that image of a wild, half-clad man with lust in his eyes and a dagger in his hand. She wasn't terrified now.
By the time she stepped in front of him, they were both breathing hard. For a moment, she was too nervous, too overwhelmed, too excited to lift her gaze and instead stared at his chest that rose and sank dramatically. She knew it was silly; she was no shy maiden anymore and she had been with him again and again after their first ride out together; this here shouldn't have her freeze like that, unable to do anything other than standing here and trying to remember how to breathe – but it did. Because – whether she believed in it or not – this here was different, special, sacred even, and even though it wasn't her faith or her religious custom, she could tell what this meant for these people, what this meant for him.
To give us life …
To give us life …
To give us –
Her name on his lips was like a soft whisper, so unexpectedly soft the wind could have carried it away with it, but she heard it nonetheless and it was all it took to make her react, and with a last shiver the hesitancy fell off of her and she looked up. Her king looked at her with eyes that burned with all the things he felt for her; there was love, gratitude, awe … and then there was lust. He wanted her. He desired her. He needed her. The gaze of his eyes made her catch her breath and it was enough to make her knees feel weak, and she was sure she would have fallen and sunk down to the earth, had his hand not shot out then to grab her by the waist and pull her close. Steadying her, the fingers of his left hand held her still, almost spanning her waist, keeping her in place as walked the thin line here between husband, king and lover.
'As I am your man, I am your god.', she heard him say, his voice strained and laden.
'As I am your woman, I am your goddess.', she countered then, her voice shaking as she repeated the age-old words, following the steps of the ritual with unwavering precision; and she didn't even flinch when she saw him lift the dagger towards her, feeling the blade even through the fabric of the linen dress she was wearing. And when he slipped the blade under the girdle made of flowers around her waist and cut it as easily as thin air, she swayed forward for a second – for a second, weightless. She was faintly aware of the dagger that he flung away, already forgotten, his focus already back on her, always on her.
'To give us life.'
'To give us life.'
He had barely let her finish, the words barely fallen from her lips, when his mouth already descended upon hers. He kissed her hard and needy, the movements of his lips sloppy and imprecise, but they were enough to sweep her off her feet as the force of his onslaught had her staggering backwards, but he never let her fall, he never let her go.
They had said the words, they had cut the girdle, they had followed all the steps that led them here, to make the ritual complete. After that … well, for what happened after there were no protocols.
With her arms coming around him, she held on to him for dear life as she kissed him back just as hard and needy as he had, with everything she had and then some. And now they were a mass of tangled lips and locked limbs, hands that didn't know what to touch first, hands that were everywhere at once. His mouth latched onto her neck, kissing, licking, sucking as his head went down to her chest, while her hands roamed his back down to his arse to press them so hard together that she could hear him groan in the space between her breasts.
When they sprang apart to get rid of what little clothing they had, they were both smiling at each other – not like the sweet lovers the bards sang of, but like wolves starved for a bloody piece of meat. Without much grace she pulled her dress up and over her head, flinging it away from her – she would have no need for it anymore. And waiting, impatiently, she watched as he followed suit, her eyes burning as she saw the white fabric give way to rippling muscles under tender skin and she knew that he felt her hungry gaze, because she felt his own hungry gaze move over her naked body.
With a sigh she sank to the forest floor, stretching out among the thin bed of sparsely scattered leaves, inviting him with eyes that spoke of pleasures to come, and her king needed no further cues as he knelt down before her, watching her with the eyes of a worshipper, watching her for a moment writhe around before him, clearly enjoying the way she yearned for him, reacted to him – and only then did he come to her. Climbing on top of her, taking up residence between her lovely long legs, he chuckled at her impatience when one of her hands already shot out between them to take matters into her own hand, but he would have none of it. Grabbing that sneaky little hand he pushed it up over head, pressing it into the hard ground, making her catch her breath at the strain before he lunged forward to steal that breath from her lips right back.
They had said the words, they had paid their respect to the old customs, there was no rush now, they had all the time in the world – there was no reason this couldn't be fun, too. With a wolfish grin he released that sneaky little hand of hers and allowed his wicked mouth some sneaky business of his own as he kissed a path from her slightly parted lips down her body. From her neck he wandered down to her breasts, blowing on her nipples to feel the goosebumps spread out across her flesh before he took them into his mouth and sucked at them until she cried out. Only then was he satisfied enough to continue his journey down.
When he took his place between her thighs she gave a shaky little laugh, but stopping him was the farthest thing from her mind. Now, this wasn't the first time he had done something like that, and she had to admit he was getting better at it every time, and while in the beginning she had had to show him exactly what to do and how to do it, he was now confident enough to listen to the signs her body gave him, and, Ulmo save her, did he listen well!
Her back arched as he licked and kissed and sucked, and all she could do was sigh and moan and cry out while he held her in place. She could hear him chuckle against her sensitive flesh when her fingers went into his blonde mane and pulled at his hair with little sense for any tenderness or care, and the humming sound he made vibrated through the rest of her body, from her head to her toe. Feeling the stubbles of his beard scratch against the inside of her thighs then she knew that for now he was satisfied enough with the havoc he had wreaked and was now ready to return to her arms – oh, and how she received him then.
Paying no mind to the fact that he almost looked like a wolf after a kill, muzzle still wet with the remnants of his feast, she pulled his head down to her hungry lips to score some moans of her own from him as she kissed him hard enough to draw blood. He was writhing on top of her, writhing in her arms, writhing between her thighs as she put her legs around his waist to keep him in place, to keep him there, to remind him what this was all about. His arms snaked around her body, not minding that the knuckles of his fingers scraped across the hard floor, and when his hands found her arse and held on to it, he finally came to her.
They both gasped at the sensation, the overwhelming feeling of complete connectedness, as though only now they were whole at long last. But their break for adjustment only lasted a moment before he began to move and for her to move with him. Holding on to him as he thrust into her, she allowed the sounds of her pleasure to fill his ear, just like the unintelligible words he mouthed lost themselves in the tangle of her raven hair. They needed no time to find their rhythm, they were in tune with each other almost instantly, as they were no longer shy strangers trying to discover each other, they had become wise lovers, familiar with every touch and kiss and breath and sigh – they knew how to please each other, knew what each of them wanted; there was no need for experimentation. Or at least, there was no real necessity for experimentation, but, hey, there was no reason this couldn't be fun, right?
Leaving the arms of his queen with an impatient moan from her and a regretful groan from him, the king knelt before her, and seeing the way she tried to rub her thighs together, to try and recreate the delicious friction she already dearly missed, made him chuckle. However, his low laughter soon ebbed away at the image of the wanton goddess she presented – he was done teasing her. With a few quick movements he flipped her around, pushing her down on all fours as he positioned himself behind her.
And the queen, well? The queen remembered the way this had frightened and disgusted her, to be taken like that, how degrading it had felt to cower on her hands and knees while he knelt behind her to claim her like a beast – but now? With a smile she purred as she stretched out her arse for him, smiling and biting her lip in anticipation as he touched her arse with trembling fingers, positioning her, positioning himself before he came to her again.
As the stallion mounts the mare.
FUN FACT #1: I enjoyed writing this long-ass chapter, though it took me a little while to get my head back in the game for writing the last scene - hope you did enjoy it, though!
FUN FACT #2: As you've probably figured out by now I will just keep on fleshing out the details I envision for these cultures - wait till we get to the South!
FUN FACT #3: From now on I won't promise Fridays as my fixed date to update - it'll just stress me and disappoint you when I can't deliver. Next chapter, I hope, will be ready next weekend, though!