I. AM. BACK.

Long time no read, though not entirely my fault - I was without internet access throughout this week, otherwise I would have uploaded this chapter at the beginning of the week.

Hope you like it, because we're slowly but surely getting down to the nitty-gritty.

Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

25. Old wounds under new pressure

The first few days after the welcoming gala were shaped by a paradox of day and night.

During the days the queen would lead her lord and husband through the many wings of the palace by the sea, showcasing the importance of several different rooms he never would have thought needed a room of their own. A reading room? A music room? A drawing room – that was actually not for drawing but for receiving guests? A dressing room – a whole room just for putting on some fucking clothes?

Crazy fucking Southerners.

Another thing his queen amused herself with was by demonstrating to him the function and keys of the several different hidden passageways that wound their secret vein-like net throughout the palace. The queen, of course, assured him that it was a very proper way for servants to move almost unseen throughout the palace, but she also told him the many stories of her ancestors who must have had quite some fun with those secret passageways – and that fun ranged from forbidden trysts to treacherous spies and even to downright murders.

Crazy fucking Southerners.

But his queen also showed him the gardens and the other grounds of the palace, leading him through a maze of green man-high hedges that he would have surely lost himself in, had it not been for his wife taking his hand, pulling him through the myriads of pathways. Every now and again, however, she would let go of his hand, having him chase after her, and, of course, he lost track of her more than a few times, but whenever he had been disoriented to the point of frustration, throwing up his hands in defeat, she would only laugh at him as she jumped out from her hiding place, before dragging him behind one of the many swan topiaries and allowing him his reward – a kiss – even if he had only won by her graces.

Let's just say, he earned many, many, many kisses that afternoon … and then some.

So, yeah, his wife and queen spent most of her days in that first week trying to occupy his thoughts with Southern amusement and to cloud his senses with Southern pleasures. One afternoon she made it her goal to show him the many creative uses of the aqueduct system that the princedom by the sea prided itself in, because while the pipes pumped water continuously throughout every corner of the peninsula, the water was not generally used for luxurious hours spent soaking in bathtubs (though, they did that too). Of course, he had heard of that sneaky little invention before and he had once even seen it up close when he had been in the South the last time, but he had been too sceptical before to use one himself. Now, however, he had been ready for some new adventure.

Embedded into an alcove and decorated with elaborately painted tiles all around was a big overhead opening made up of little holes that would spray or trickle or even gush down water upon the head of a person. They called this a shower, a shower – because it worked like a fucking shower of rain, get it? Crazy fucking Southerners. But the king of the Riddermark forgot his apprehension quickly enough when he noticed his wife taking off her gowns and stepping into the tiled alcove – stark fucking naked – and then, as the water seemed to drown every inch of her perfect body, she smiled at him with eyes that were more than just inviting. Well, what kind of king would deny his queen, huh? His clothes were discarded quickly enough and he had joined his wife under the soft torrent of water. What else was there to say really? Getting clean had never felt so dirty before.

Crazy fucking Southerners and theirfantastic fucking toys.

It was all a trick, of course – a trick to distract him from other, far less pleasant business. Éomer knew he was not the most perceptive man when it came to the intrigue and deception of the Southern courtiers, but he was not an idiot either, and he understood perfectly well when he was being intentionally kept busy, so he wouldn't have the time or energy to pursue his actual goal – or should he rather say target? Because while the days were filled with delights and amusements and other pleasures, the nights were ruled by his vigilance. Ever since that welcoming gala, he would sit and wait in the darkness of their chamber, with his sword resting in his lap while he "rested" in a chair or even just sat leaning against the wall next to the door – it was very rarely that he came to bed, lying next to his wife, and even when he did, it was even rarer that he actually slept more than a few hours.

Night after night after night, he would take up his position, sword ready at hand, senses focused on catching even the slightest sound or movement, always vigilant, always watchful, always guarding her. Every night he waited for some cutthroat or assassin to slither in through the balcony or the fire place or the door – or even through the fucking walls – coming to kill his queen, and every night, her king was ready to defend her against anyone who would dare lay a hand on her. Nobody ever came, but that didn't stop him from continuing his nightly ritual. His queen, of course, knew what he was doing; she didn't fool him for one second when she pretended to not hear him take up residence in the old chair by the bed or when he slid down the wall to sit next to the door. But she didn't acknowledge his nightly habit, neither at night nor during the day, because there was a kind of unspoken truce between them: she tolerated his nightly precautions as long as he didn't go out looking for a certain lord and knight. Not that he didn't fantasise – vividly – about what he would do, if he actually got his hands on the bastard, but a truce was a truce, and he respected his wife and queen too much to take away from her the chance to exact her own vengeance in time.

So, there he was, a Northman down in the crazy fucking South.

He needed sleep, he needed rest, he needed … he just needed a moment of quiet and peace, that was all. A moment when he didn't have to worry and look over his shoulder, a moment when he didn't have to pretend to be all smiles and jovial amusement (well, perhaps, not all of it was pretending), a moment when he didn't have to wait in fear and grim determination for the knife in the dark, a moment when he didn't have to try and fail to keep up with his wife who seemed to slip the mask she was wearing for the whole court on and off so easily.

They should never have come here. They should have stayed up in the North. They should never have left their home. They should never have left their chambers. They should never have left their bed. They should never have woken from that dream of love that were their summer months together. Autumn had come and passed, and now, despite the sticky, humid heat of this godforsaken place, they were in the cruel, chill clutches of winter. Oh, of course, they tried to hold on to each other, and he tried to hold on to her most of all, but … she still seemed to slip through his fingers more and more of late. Turning away from his touch, often enough responding to his jokes only out of obligation, evading his gaze – perhaps, she was just as exhausted as he was from the constant burden of being alert while pretending to be all smiles and good fun. Perhaps it was more than that.

He was just so damn tired.

Today he had been so tired in fact that he had even fallen asleep in the middle of the afternoon. One moment he'd been sitting in the rocking chair by the fire, sharpening his sword, and in the next moment, he'd awakened with a start. Sword and whetstone had been gone, carefully placed on a nearby table by none other than his wife, who, at the sudden sound, had come rushing in from the balcony, closely followed by her brother Amrothos. The fucking pirate had taken his hand off the hilt of his sword the moment he had swaggered into the room, leaning lazily against the wall and watching with mild interest as the queen crouched next to her king. Éomer had tried to get his bearings, tried to shake off the last confusing grips of his surprisingly deep slumber, while Lothíriel had explained that she had invited her brother over for "tea".

Tea?! Sure. Did that fucking pirate mean to stir his tea with that bloody sword at his side, too?

Sitting back, Éomer had scowled at the Southerner – he still refused to think of this man-child as his brother-in-law – who, from him place leaning against the wall, had his arms crossed lazily before his chest and continued to smile at him with the smuggest smile he had ever seen. And even if he had wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off the bastard's face, he had nodded grimly then, giving thanks for the protection that pirate had surely given them (for his sister's sake only, undoubtedly, but still …), though the teasing wink the fucker had given him then, had made him want to forget his gratefulness and simply give in to his initial desire. But, of course, he didn't.

Pushing himself off the wall and yawning dramatically, the pirate-prince had decided to graciously take his leave then, but not before crooning that hewas expected in the prince's study. However, when Éomer (who was grimacing his way through a black drink his wife and queen had pushed into his hands, meant to wake his spirits, but rather turning his tongue to black fucking tar) had demanded to know what that meeting was about, the fucker had only laughed and snarled (without even looking back) that he "wasn't in the prince's fucking confidence … or in his good fucking graces, for that matter". And with that annoyingly theatrical exit he was gone.

Well, good fucking riddance.

So, that's exactly how they found themselves here now.

Standing outside the prince's study, they had been waiting for nearly half an hour for the heavy wooden doors to open, waiting to be received in audience – an audience on the prince's invitation they had been requested to attend. Like some naughty fucking children, Éomer thought grimly, locked out of the room to wait patiently for the reprimanding at their parents' hands. But while the king of the Riddermark was nursing a headache born out of too many sleepless nights spent in rigid vigilance, his wife seemed perfectly relaxed and confident in her poise, and with her back straight and her hands neatly folded before her, she appeared to be the very image of the perfect little lady. But Éomer knew her better than that; he could see the way her whole body seemed tense, the way she strained her ears to catch what was being said at the other side of the door, the emptiness in her gaze as she tried to decipher the sounds from the other room, the mask of propriety she wore to hide her very obvious curiosity and her obvious alertness.

Well, but that was definitely more than could be said about him. Slouching on the stone bench outside the prince's study, the king of the Riddermark leaned against the backrest, put his head back and sighed once more as he closed his eyes. That turned out to be a bad idea though because the moment he closed his eyes, he could feel the claws of sleep tugging at him again, and with an annoyed groan he sat up again, shaking his head once more to clear the fog in his mind and to get his head back in the game. He needed to focus if he wanted to stand a chance in this meeting or talk or whatever the fuck it was that the prince needed to discuss so fucking urgently to summon them to his study.

But Béma, help him, he was just so damn tired – if he could just close his eyes for a second …

It was in that precise moment that the doors to the study were opened with the gentle push of a man who just needed to rub it in that he was in complete control of the situation, a man no one would be able to hurry into any rash decision or reaction or show of emotion, a man as cold as the sea that seemed to run in his very veins – and out of the study walked Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, Lord of Dor-en-Ernil. With a smile the self-righteous snob inclined his head, asking with feigned sympathy if they had been waiting long, before he fell into a long and overly self-important explanation on the many significant matters that called for a prince's attention – not to mention being part of the royal council of the King of Gondor …

It was safe to say that Éomer had started to block out the prince's sheer endless drivel of pleasantries almost as soon as it had begun, leaving it to his wife and queen to deal with the well-practised lines of polite greetings and shallow courtesies – because he was already annoyed to the point of anger again. Is that why he had been summoned here? To exchange pleasantries? To do mindless small-talk? If he had known that's what awaited him here, he would not have –

'I'm not a little princess anymore that you can order about and sent off to bed, father.', he heard his wife speak then in an unexpectedly harsh tone, and that was surely enough to pull him out of his tired, annoyed sphere and put him right back in the middle of this apparent trial of strength between two formidable foes. Of course, while Éomer was still trying to piece together when exactly they had taken this sudden turn from the exchange of pleasantries to this unyielding insistence, he did recall his father-in-law asking his queen – all quite offhand and in passing, naturally, always so casually – if she would like to join her sister-in-law, the lady Adaneth, and the children for tea in the drawing room. To him, of course, that had sounded like a very pleasant means of escape and surely preferable to any dreary talk of politicians or princes, but then again, he had only been half-listening, because his wife and queen seemed to think otherwise, as she pushed back her shoulders and lifted her head to hold it high, eyes blazing with defiance, 'I am a Queen of my own kingdom, and only my king may command me – who is also my husband.'

The prince may have looked taken aback for a moment, but Éomer had to give to him – though the unwavering smile on his lips twitched to remain poised and intact, he showed no other signs of surprise or even discontent. Without missing a beat, the politician-prince turned to the king to address him with a subtle tilt of his head and Éomer could just read the unspoken request in those sea-grey eyes, eyes that had long turned to steel, 'Your Majesty?'

Now, Éomer was not so self-righteous as to pretend that he wasn't very much amused by the situation before him. His father-in-law, a prince, a politician, looking at him with eyes expecting an answer in his favour, looking very much like a man used to people acting in his favour. In contrast to that, his queen was not even looking at him, instead gazing at her father with proud, steadfast eyes, as though there was not an ounce of doubt in her where her husband's loyalties truly lay – and she would be right. Of course, Éomer did not claim to know the whole truth, but he knew there was bad blood between father and daughter, and he understood at least some of the reasons for that – a distant father figure with heartless expectations and demands, a prince that had acted in the interests of his own scheming politics rather than to deliver justice – and thus he only smiled as his eyes, for a moment, wandered over to his wife with tender reassurance, 'My lord, what can I say? My queen is my wife, and my wife is my queen.'

At that the smile on the prince's lips literally turned to stone and the iron-controlled grip he usually had on his whole facial expressions momentarily slipped to reveal something like genuine shocked surprise, but then the moment was gone, and the prince was all politician again. With a practised smile, he seemed to shrug off the momentary defeat and merely invited them into his study – no doubt, with the well-oiled gestures of a sly fox that knew well how to use any and all means to bounce back from a blowback.

Inside the study (with the doors firmly closed behind them like a trap, like yet another show of strength), the prince continued to be all smiles and hospitality, offering refreshment after refreshment – and though Éomer felt tired and weary to the bone, he refused yet another cup of that black liquid his wife had made him drink before. Settling on a treacherously comfy settee, the king sighed with no small amount of annoyance, wishing that the prince would just finally get on with it and get it over with – and just when he had been about to open his mouth and express his impatience at this pompous, time-wasting show of polite hospitality, the prince (never once shutting up) pushed a scroll into his hands.

Frowning, the king slowly unrolled the scroll, and already he could sense, out of the corner of his eyes, his wife and queen becoming restless. Because while he had taken a seat on the settee, she had remained standing behind the backrest of the settee, with one hand lazily resting on his shoulder. But he knew that move, that whole posture was a mere show of strength and unity, and even the very placement of her hand was designed to demonstrate how very comfortable they were with each other, how very much they were in each other's trust, how very much they completed each other – and it was meant to signal that together they could not be fazed by anything.

In truth, he knew there was nothing calm or trusting in his wife and queen in this moment; rather, she was taut as a bowstring. Strangely enough, while he had always been vigilant and on his guard in those nights when danger from without seemed imminent, his wife and queen had always seemed surprisingly untouched by it, as though without fear, as though believing that such danger held no power over her. However, in contrast to that, she always seemed watchful and alert in those situations that no Northerner would identify as particularly dangerous or threatening – what could be so dangerous about a pompous peacock talking, just talking?! But here she was: shoulders straight, jaws clenched, eyes fixed on her lord father while her delicate little fingers gripped his shoulder with surprising strength – what was there to be cautious of in a situation like this?!

'I, Aragorn II, Elessar Telcontar, High King of … blah, blah, blah … ', Éomer started to read out loud, quickly skipping over the sheer endless list of titles these official documents always felt the need to put in at the head of such letters, wasting not only precious space on parchment but also precious time for any reader, before they at last got to the good bits, or at least, the parts important enough not to skim over – however, in this case, even the important parts seemed convoluted at best, as the king soon enough found himself confused by the (perhaps intentionally?) obscure wording of the piece of text, ' … make hereby known my desire for peace between the lands of Calenardhon and – what is this?'

'Calenardhon was once the name of the Riddermark – Rohan, I mean.', his wife and queen jumped in then to explain, without missing a beat, as if it were second nature to her already, before the prince and politician before him – who had already opened his mouth to speak – could have ever had the chance to sugar-coat or twist the words. However, under the hard gaze that her lord father flashed at her for the split of a second, the queen turned to princess again, and with eyes cast down she added the Southern name for the Mark – almost as if she were afraid what that momentary slip might have revealed of her true, heartfelt allegiance to her new home. And Éomer, though surely not the most politically perceptive of men, clearly understood when information were withheld on purpose or when situations were attempted to be rigged to his disadvantage – so that's why the prince didn't want the queen at her king's side. Thus, without breaking eye contact with the politician before him, the king handed the letter over to his eagerly waiting wife who did not hesitate as she slipped into her persona as a queen and started to read out loud.

'I, Aragon II, Elessar Telcontar, High King of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, the true and rightful Heir of Isildur, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, Evinyatar, make hereby known my desire for peace between the lands of Rohan and its neighbours to the north-west – '

'The Mark doesn't wage war with any neighbours to the – ', Éomer cut in then, leaning forward in a reaction of mild confusion that he tried to laugh off, but his reflexive amusement quickly vanished along with his pained smile when he grasped the true meaning that was implied in the letter, and after a long pause he finally looked up at the prince who eyed him with an unreadable expression, and then the king boomed with the voice and temper of the warrior, 'The fucking Dunlendings?! Those fucking wild fuckers?!'

'I wasn't aware that's what we're gonna to call them.', Imrahil answered, flinching at the sheer violence of the volume and the viciousness of the vernacular – not unlike the queen, though she had leaned to hide it better – and being visibly uncomfortable, squirming even, reverting, as it would seem, back into the persona of the squeamish prince. But Éomer wasn't fooled by that; he had once seen this lord trample a wounded, screaming Haradrim man with the hooves of the white horse on which he had nobly ridden into battle – he knew for sure that Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, Lord of Dor-en-Ernil, was anything but squeamish, and thus under the hard, unyielding gaze of the king, the prince gave up his pretence and just like that the mask of the politician slipped back into place.

'What the fuck is this?'

'It would seem that the King of the Reunited Kingdoms asks for peace … for all, everywhere.', the prince answered with the well-practised, self-assured smile of the politician, a smile meant to soothe any and all discontent, to slowly but surely turn ir into grim but definite agreement. It was obvious that Imrahil was a man who was used to being right, who was used to getting his way, and who was good at getting people to act in his favour – well, Éomer thought, there's first time for everything.

'He asks for peace? Doesn't sound like much of a question to me.', Éomer snorted contemptuously in response as he leant back against the backrest, and while he was smiling, it was a rather deadly smirk. Now, the king of the Mark was not exactly overly good at deducing the subtle nuances of the Southern word games and intrigue, but even he could figure out what was really meant with those sugar-coated phrases and whitewashed lines.

'King Elessar wishes for peace then, if you'd prefer that phrasing.', the prince conceded then, without missing so much as a beat, and with his smile not wavering for one second, it was clear as the sky outside that window to Éomer that this prince had no doubt left in his bones that he would be able to sway this little horse-king to his side. That realisation amused Éomer almost as much as it infuriated him, but it most certainly did not surprise him: most Southerners believed people of the North to be little more than easily manipulated fools who were too stupid to realise when they were being lied to or outright tricked. Well, the king of the Riddermark was no fool and he would be damned before he let anyone fool him.

'Hmm, right. Let me ask you something: did the King of the West come up with this wish for peace before or after my sister's wedding?', Éomer asked then, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he regarded the prince with watchful eyes, intent on catching the slightest signs that would confirm his suspicion, and when he saw the politician open and close his mouth without saying a single fucking word, he knew, he just knew that he had been right to not trust these Southerners, 'Right – before then. That scheming fucking bastard. He smiled in my face, at my own sister's wedding; he smiled while this filth – '

'The decision was made by the king and his council to make the requests after the wedding.', the prince clarified as he thrust out his chest and lifted his chin high, so that there could be no doubt whatsoever who was on the king's council and who took extraordinary pride in that position.

'Requests?!', Éomer snapped then, and while before he had rolled his eyes in annoyance, he now jerked his gaze back towards the prince before him, dreading what other foul deals this politician was trying to sell to him now.

'Yes, requests. Along with your kingdom, Ithilien has received a formal letter as well. As did Dol Amroth.', Imrahil explained matter-of-factly, though there was a tone hiding behind that neutral demeanour that very much implied that the prince expected a king to be able to deduce such facts from a diplomatic letter such as this, and it was very clear to read in his gaze what he thought of the king for failing to do so. Thus the prince seemed to pride himself even more on his own achievements in the field of diplomacy, and he did not particularly strain to hold back the smugness with which he presented said diligent achievements, 'I, of course, already entered negotiations with the Corsairs of Umbar, as I intend to fulfil the wishes of His Highness to His fullest satisfaction.'

'I see.', Éomer snorted contemptuously and smiled grimly as he squinted his eyes and focused on the prince, and the subtle message in those charming words was not lost on him, 'And now, I guess, you think you can talk me into agreeing to this mindfuck of a peace contract?'

'Well, I would very much like to assure you of the many advantages that making peace with the hill tribesmen of Dunland may bring to us all.', Imrahil immediately countered, taking a step towards him, hands opening wide in a gesture of positivity and clever salesmanship, already working tirelessly and at the same time almost effortlessly at trying to sell an old and decrepit nag as a strong and perfectly healthy racehorse. It was safe to say that Éomer wasn't going to take the bait, and as he smiled his dangerously level smile and slowly rose to stand, the king of the Riddermark was more than just prepared to tell a few Northern truths to this Southern lord.

'And what advantages might these be exactly?', Éomer questioned then with a smile that was as wide as it was cynical, as he took a step towards the prince who – and the king had to give him credit for that – actually had the good sense to appear reasonably concerned for himself, 'Allow me then to educate you on the precise nature of these hill tribesmen – as you call them.', and he paused to take a deep breath then before he lunged into an onslaught of a very thorough and very dark explanation, 'They are mindless savages; they raid and pillage and burn and break – everything and everyone in their path. They know neither reason nor mercy, and the only language they understand is violence. You want us to make peace with them?! There can be no peace between wolves and men, there can be no peace between murderous thieves and the hard-working honest folk they prey upon – there can be no peace between these barbarians and the Mark. There never has been and there never will be.'

While Éomer had been painting this crude and brutal picture of a very Northern reality, he had been slowly advancing towards the prince who, for his part, had visibly struggled to remain where he was and not to shirk away from the intimidating presence or unforgiving gaze of the king before him. But Imrahil was a man unaccustomed to feeling not in control and thus he always – always – pushed to regain control of any situation, even if that situation was the uncontrollable temper of a warrior-king, just barely contained beneath the surface. Men that were used to being right, after all, rarely understood when they were about to make a mistake; all the signs were unknown to them, their instincts not honed to pick up on them – and thus it were those men, men that were used to being right, that usually made the gravest of mistakes.

'Of course, such tragic history is not easily forgotten or forgiven, but surely a prudent statesman such as yourself would consider all the options and opportunities before – '

'Options?! Opportunities?!', Éomer thundered then, as he took yet another threatening step towards the prince, and with nostrils flaring and eyes burning, the warrior quickly took over the king, and then the dam broke and all the torrents were released all at once, 'Go ahead! Tell me the fucking opportunities that await my people when they lick the boots of the savages that burned their farms and ripped their families apart! Tell me the fucking options that await my people when they kiss the hands that hacked their children to pieces! Tell me – '

But the king got no further than that. From one moment to the other his wife and queen was standing before him, and leaning her whole body weight into him, she actually used it to hold him back and to gently push him back. Any other woman might have been terrified at the sight of a man like this, but not her, never her, not anymore. Without hesitation, she cupped his face then, to pull his murderous gaze down to her, and he was met with her compassionate expression and sea-grey eyes that pleaded with him to have him return to her as the man she knew he could be and not as the man who stood before her now, fuming. And under the intensity of her tender gaze, the wrath slowly but surely fell off of him, and he closed his eyes then, trusting her to pull him out of his state of fury, trusting her to calm him down – like only she knew how to do.

The prince meanwhile had retreated all the way to the other end of the room, until his legs had been met with the unyielding edges of his study table and then there had been no further retreat for him – and there he had remained, shocked and shaken. Before he had not understood the depths of wrath that the man before him held – oh, yes, surely, he had seen it in battle, that reckless fury of a man without hope and without restraint, but never before had he been faced with the might of the warrior's anger, and it was a truly humbling, sobering experience of sudden truth and instant understanding. Surely, any other man would have taken this harsh crash with reality and backed off, but Imrahil of Dol Amroth was a man of unrivalled ambition that stopped at nothing to achieve his goals, and above all else, he was a man who knew how to manipulate every situation to his advantage. And what he saw was not a man of frightful anger and a quick temper – what he saw was a man of passionate compassion for the people he ruled and loved and cared for – what he saw was a weakness to be exploited, what he saw was an opportunity to strike and win.

'It is a grievous burden that you carry, your Majesty. A tragic burden indeed – and not an easy decision to make, for sure – a sacrifice, no doubt. I can understand your … misgivings.', Imrahil started slowly then, after he had carefully readjusted his clothing and found his bearings again, slipping back into the persona of the politician as easily as a snake might shed one skin to slither into another, 'But perhaps one should not so easily dismiss offers of peace when they present a chance for all – one should not be so quick to dismiss a favour among friends and family, and such a favour, surely, could not be considered a sacrifice too great to make … or reciprocate.'

At that Éomer looked up and there was a moment of confusion, of processing and then he seemed to understand. A favour among friends and family, and what else could one call the shipments of grain – and now it all became clear how that favour was meant to be reciprocated. The king looked down to catch the eyes of his queen, to make sure she would signal him that he didn't hear what he really just did hear, that he didn't understood what he thought the prince had meant, but his wife would not meet his gaze – she only blanched as her eyes widened in shock. Had she known about this? No, no, she would never have deceived him like this – he would never have been deceived like this, surely …

'I can only hope for your sake that you didn't mean to say what I think you just said, because otherwise … ', the king started but the prince cut him off before he could finish, though not to address him this time – this time he turned directly to the queen, and even though she had her back towards him still, even though her entire focus still seemed to be on her husband and king only, there was no doubt whatsoever that she was intently listening to every single word.

'Daughter, it would seem your husband needs the guiding hand of his queen.', the prince said with a seemingly warm smile, though all the warmth in that smile was a mere veil to mask the smugness underneath, because, surely, a man such as him could easily see through the tough hide of the warrior and see the one weakness beneath it, the one thing that would make him vulnerable. What good would all the strength in the world do a warrior in a fight of wits and minds? So, clearly, the prince sought to capitalise on that weakness by using the one weapon the king had no defences against – and there was no doubt in the prince's mind that a long-ranging gamble would at long last pay off and that the wife who had been a princess first would sway her husband in her father's favour.

'Do you mean to say that a king is in need of guidance from his wife? And what guidance could I possibly provide, unlearned as I am in the ways of men and power and kings and queens?', Lothíriel answered then as she slowly lifted her head and turned to her father to fix the prince with a deadly glare and an unforgiving, sweet smile; and in that moment the prince realised that he had miscalculated, because the daughter he had known had long since stopped being a princess and had already become a queen, and the queen she was, was not yet done with the lessons she taught, 'Give me time, father, I'm sure I'll find a way to be the queen my king needs me to be.'

The smile that spread out across Éomer's face was the biggest the world had ever seen, and he wasn't exactly sure what had caused it to be this big: the expression of obvious shocked surprised that wiped away the prince's smug grin or the unwavering sign of loyalty from the queen at his side – his queen that had chosen her husband and her country over her father and her home? Of course, the king was not so naive to believe that she had acted out of pure selfless love for him or their country; he knew her well enough by now to understood that this right here was not a political act, so much as it was a personal victory – the personal victory of a daughter over her own father. But in that moment Éomer didn't care for her reasons or motivations; the only thing that mattered to him in that moment was that she had taken his side over her father's, and even if it meant something different to her – to him, it made all the difference in the world.

With a curtsey that oozed of feigned charm and respect, Lothíriel sought to cement her victory, and what sort of king would he have been not to follow his queen's lead in all matters of decorum? Bowing purposefully low and with no small amount of ridiculously overstated deference, the king had to confess that he did not work all that hard to hide the smug grin on his lips as he stood tall again or the wink he gave the very exasperated prince as he moved to leave and follow his wife and queen who was already heading towards the great doors of the study.

'One last thing.', the voice of the prince called out once more, when their hands were already at the door handle, and immediately, Éomer felt the chills creep up his spine, and he knew, he just knew that while the prince had suffered a defeat, the politician was still very much ready to strike, 'It has come to my attention that several of Dor-en-Ernil's finest knights and lords have been granted estates and titles in Ithilien recently – among them, Lord Agarwaen. Now that's curious, don't you think?'

At the words Éomer froze; dread slithering through his veins as his palms all of the sudden felt terribly sweaty. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see his wife and queen slowly turn around, the mask of the lady slipping seamlessly into place, and he was just so mesmerised and at the same time terrified at how easily this all came to her. Because while he was shitting his pants over here at the realisation that the prince seemed to know exactly what his daughter and her Northern husband had been up to, Lothíriel faced it all with the sweet, ice-cold smile of a practised liar, cool and apparently completely unfazed by the possibly disastrous consequences if her plan would be revealed to the wrong people.

'Curious? To grant such esteemed individuals the honours they deserve? I should think not.', his queen lied effortlessly through her perfect teeth, though, perhaps, she wasn't so much lying here as she proceeded to go toe to toe with her lord father, but rather very much speaking the truth through the veil of false phrases and the double meaning they carried, 'I think it's about damn time they got what they deserve.'

'Agreed.', the prince countered, inclining his head in agreement as a dangerous smile appeared on his face – or at least, Éomer believed to hear a smile in the tone of his voice, though he couldn't be sure, he was still facing the door after all, still hoping to leave this situation sooner rather than later. And at first it seemed that this would be it; and he was already prepared to give off a sigh at the sight of his wife curtseying to turn to leave once more, but the prince apparently was not done with them yet, 'Though it does seem curious that such honours would be bestowed by the Lord of Emyn Arnen – and not by the King of Gondor?'

'Curious indeed.', his wife and queen said then, and though she was smiling, there was a certain edge in her voice that belied the calm demeanour she worked hard to portray on the outside. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Éomer hoped his face didn't betray the fear that boiled beneath his surface as he turned around – he would not leave her to face this on her own – and he had to strain his ears to catch her next words over the wild beating of his heart, 'Though, perhaps, it is only natural that the new Prince of Ithilien would care so much for the heroes of war, given that he himself has been saved by a man named hero – '

'A man that was also named traitor, turn-cloak and oath-breaker – if not worse.', Imrahil interjected coldly, cutting her off, and Éomer could tell by the clenching of her jaw and the tightening of her eyes that his wife and queen was slowly but surely losing her grip on her cool exterior, and for a moment the king wondered then if she would actually confess her plan right then and there, laughing in the face of the consequences, just to prove a point, just to prove to her lord father that he had long lost the control he had once held over her – and so, holding his breath, Éomer watched as his wife smiled that smile that made the blood in his veins freeze to ice.

'Indeed, it does seem strange how a man can be both hero and murderer at the same time, does it not? Rather poetic, don't you think?', she mused with a dangerously and deadly level voice as she slowly but surely took step after step towards her lord father, all the while fixing him with an unwavering glare that warned him not to push this topic any further, and though Imrahil held her gaze with unyielding force, Éomer could not but notice the way the prince swallowed hard at the realisation that his own child would go to such great lengths to get what she wanted. But then the tension that had been gripping the room, that had become too thick to breathe in, was cut by the unlikeliest of sounds: laughter – clear, warm, female laughter.

'Oh father mine, but I fail to see how such a matter would be of any interest to my king or his kingdom.', Lothíriel threw in sweetly, though there was nothing sweet or gentle in her gaze or her smile, and as she curtsied for the last time before turning to leave, she left no mistake that she would tolerate no further discussion on the subject, 'I'm sure the Prince of Dol Amroth will soon be bored and lose interest in such a curiosity.'

'I'm sure he will be.', the prince answered then with a smile and a bow. And even though Lothíriel didn't get to see that because she had already turned and left the study room (leaving her king scrambling to follow suit), there was no doubt in Éomer's mind that she understood intimately that her father knew exactly what they had been planning. There was no telling if the prince intended on exposing her or her plan, but Éomer had heard enough today to understand what this exchange had really been about, and even though he was no politician, he was still a warrior, and he knew a threat when he heard it.

The way back to their quarters was much longer than he remembered it to be, and while at the beginning he had been trying to talk to Lothíriel, his wife and queen had remained silent and tight-lipped for most of the way back. At first, he had been almost jogging after her to catch up to her, trying to strike up a sensible conversation about the meeting that had just taken place, trying to make heads and tails of the situation, pointing out how utterly fucked up it all was and turned out. But she would only hum in a non-committal sound, evading his questions with elusive answers, deflecting his attempts at getting her to give him a single piece of advice. Only once – when they had crossed the shadowed parts of a wing – had he managed to corner her, demanding an answer to the myriads of questions running rampant in his mind, and this time he hadn't allowed her to just fob him off with a diplomatic answer along the lines of: You are the king, surely you know best. This time he had demanded a real answer, hoping that she would be swayed by his promise that he would listen to her reasoning and heed her counsel, that he would trust her – but she had only gazed at him with eyes that told him he shouldn't.

After that, there had been no more attempts on his part to discuss the massive revelations from before. He had been quiet for the rest of the way, not saying another word, and Lothíriel had followed suit, whatever her reasons – and thus they had both walked side by side back to their chambers, together and yet apart, each of them lost to their own troubling thoughts. The rest of the way had rushed past him in little more than a blur – he didn't notice that the sun had falling to the side, leaving the halls they passed through drenched in foreboding colours of red and orange, nor was he aware that he had long overtaken her in his steps, leaving her now to scramble to keep up with him.

It had all turned to shit.

In a matter of days, in a matter of minutes – one moment they had been happily fooling around and then reality had slapped them around so hard that they had both been regressed to their default mental states. He had fallen back into his old patterns of a quick temper and little trust, hesitant and suspicious of anything new or seemingly outlandish, and though he still believed to have been in the right when he had refused the prince's offer, there was a grain of doubt, nonetheless, in the back of his mind, slowly grinding the self-assurance with which he had convinced himself that he had done the right thing.

And she … ?

Lothíriel had vanished behind the mask of the lady again. Back in the meeting she had presented herself as the noble queen and loyal wife, though he doubted not that most of her words and actions back there had been a mere act designed to infuriate her father, to get back at him for past offences. But now she was quiet and withdrawn once more, much like she had been when he had first met her, but unlike her distanced behaviour in their first weeks of marriage, this emotionally reclusive demeanour was much more based in distrust rather than in fear, though he did not know where this distrust came from or why she would be so distrustful of him now all of the sudden.

Éomer knew that his wife and queen had been raised a certain way, as it was with most ladies of the South, and he also knew that there was bad blood between father and daughter, largely but not exclusively because of this, though he still struggled to see the whole picture of it. It was something she had only reluctantly talked about back then in those early months of spring when they had really got to know each other, and even back then she had always remained surprisingly vague and taciturn when it came to her lord father. Of course, he now knew a lot more about the strange power dynamics in this noble family and he understood a lot better why his wife would be so tight-lipped about that father-daughter relationship. Years of emotional neglect and cold pressure and cruel lessons, coupled with the disappointment not only in her father figure but also the only political role model she had at the time – none of that could have particularly helped to establish a sense of much trust in her for the people around her, always suspicious of the actions and words of others, always wondering what tricks they tried to play and what ulterior motives they tried to hide.

Was it any wonder then that she would lash out by defying her father like this? That she would boldly refuse to play along with her father's polite chicanery, trying to separate her from her king under the pretence of pleasantry, just so the prince could more easily exert his influence on her lord and husband? That she would have none of it and demonstrate bravely and foolishly that she was no longer the little girl scared of her father's looming shadow, that she would set out to assert her own confidence as a woman and as a queen? Was it any wonder that a woman like her, who had always been forced to keep her thoughts and wishes to herself and under the tight leash of her father, would one day act to rebel against it, and with little thought at that to the consequences for her or the people close to her?

Did it make her an exceptionally selfish person to think of herself for once? Did it make her cruel that she would hold on to her own desires rather than to consider the greater good? Did it make her careless that she would pull him – her husband and king – into this mess, that she would be willing to endanger the security they had built for their kingdom and their people, just so she could get back at her father for the wrongs he had done to her or retaliate against anyone she deemed deserving of her revenge? Could he really fault her for that? Could he really fault her for acting as any human being would?

Éomer knew he would not have acted differently, and though he knew he should feel ashamed to think so, he could not help but admit that, had he been in her situation and had lived through the life and experiences she had, perhaps he would have even smiled and laughed while acting only in his own self-interests and rejoiced at avenging the wrongs committed against himself and the people he cared about. He knew it was not a very kingly thought, but he was not so hypocritical yet as to pretend that he could forgive and forget as easily as it would have been expected of a woman like her – he had not spent nearly enough time in the South for that.

Of course, he did not doubt for a second that her aggressive defiance back there in the meeting had been more show than genuine demonstration. He had no doubts whatsoever that despite her rebellious act back there suggesting that she would subordinate everything and anything to her quest for revenge or her impulse to get back at her father for his failings as a prince and as a parent, that she would ultimately act according to the greater good. Perhaps that was why she had blanched like this – because she had realised how much it might cost them if they were to disregard the greater good in favour of their own grudges and desires? Perhaps that was why she was so quiet and distant right now, lost in her own thoughts, because she was struggling with the realisation what her defiance could cost the people of the Mark?

Éomer was sure, and he could not help the feelings of bitterness taking root in his heart, that his wife and queen would surely relent and claim the greater good while advocating for the safest options – to bow to her father's wishes so as not to risk the charitable shipments of grain or the fragile but necessary trade deals they had established. He had not doubts whatsoever that eventually she would advise him to cower before the prince's demands, citing the necessary sacrifice he would have to make as a king for the good of his people. Would she do that out of the goodness of her heart, out of her duty as a queen, or would she rather do it to not risk the exposure and failure of her plot for revenge? And, in the end, would it really matter why?

But, perhaps, the better question would be what he would do. Would he listen to her reasoning and her advice, knowing that she would advise him not exclusively because of her perceived sense of duty as a queen but rather because she desired revenge and would even be willing to sacrifice his own integrity and honour to fulfil her wish for vengeance? Would he cave in and give in to her and therefore give in to the prince and his demands? That thought was enough to have him shudder with disgust, and not only because of the implications of sacrificing his own honour or the honour of his people in favour of a cheap peace and humble offerings of charity – but even more so because he just could not recover from the shock of realising just how wrong he ultimately had been about the prince Imrahil.

This had been a man who had fought alongside him in the battle for the fate of Middle Earth, a war between good and evil, a war in which the lines between good and evil seemed to have been drawn so easily and so clearly. This had been a man who had realised that his sister Éowyn had not been dead and thus had been responsible too for her being saved. This had been a man who had stood at his side at his uncle's funeral, a man who had expressed his deepest condolences and feigned the greatest sympathies. This had been a man that had embraced him at his own coronation, a man that had congratulated him on the day of his wedding, a man that had given his own daughter's hand in marriage to him …

Could he really have been this wrong about a man he had grown to call friend? Could he really have been this blind so as not to see the trap in which he had been lured? Could he really have been so unwilling to see that he had been slowly but surely tricked into a corner out of which only uncomfortable exits led? Here he was now, a king of his own kingdom and yet little more than a vassal to another lord's demands, a mighty warrior of a hundred battles and yet defenceless in the face of the wiles and tricks and blackmail of a cunning politician.

He was trapped, he was cornered, and no matter which path he took, there was always someone who would pay for it. If he followed the path his honour as a Northerner commanded him to take, then his people might ultimately suffer for it, because he did not doubt that the prince would know how to exert his influence and to covertly withdraw his charitable offerings, to put pressure on him and to force him to fall in line. And if he further refused the prince, how far would that politician go to achieve his goals? Would that father actually go so far as to endanger the life of his own child? Would he really betray his own daughter to the men that had already proven to be savage monsters?

No, he thought with sudden fierce wildness, I won't let anything happen to her, I won't risk –

'Éomer, what are you doing?', he heard his wife and queen ask all of the sudden then somewhere behind him, and just like that he was torn out of his increasingly maddening thoughts and put right back into the here and now. Shaking off the last remnants of madness that seemed to have gripped him just a few moments ago, he immediately understood the unique tone of anxiety in her wavering voice. Because he had been so lost in his own troubling thoughts, he had not noticed that they had already returned to their chambers and he had remained unaware of what his hands were doing, and thus he was more or less shocked to find himself already buckling on that sword belt of his, with every intention of making good use of that sword he always kept perfectly sharpened at all times.

'I'm gonna go out for a walk.', he simply answered as he gripped the hilt of his sword in a motion that spoke plainer than words, and he knew quite well that his wife was too smart for him and that she would not buy into his lame excuse, but then again, he had not really tried that hard to cover his obvious intentions and he did not really care if she saw right through him. A part of him hoped, perhaps, that she would simply let it slide, that she would simply look the other way while he did what he thought he had to do, and that, for once, she would simply allow him to be the man he no longer wanted to be, that she would simply accept that this time he did not want to be the better man. But, of course, he knew that she wouldn't.

'W-with your sword?', he heard her ask then and he closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, already feeling something constrict almost painfully in his chest at obvious level of fear shaking her voice. For a moment then he actually reconsidered what he intended to do, but he knew in his heart that he could not bear it to simply do nothing, knowing full well the danger she was in, though he decided that he would not lie to her as he respected her too much for that, and so he turned around slowly, bracing himself against the look of disappointment in her eyes by gripping the hilt of his sword as tightly as he could.

It had to be done. Whatever needed to be done to keep her safe, he would do – without question, without hesitation …

'He threatened you. That fucking lord what's-his-name at the party … he threatened you.', he answered slowly, choosing his words carefully to make her understand why he had to do this, and he had to give it to her, she caught on very quickly, but to his infinite confusion he realised that her comprehending his intentions – rather than swaying her to his side – seemed to surprise her. Not because she didn't think him capable of such an act of violence; oh, no, he could see in her eyes very well that she had no doubts of his willingness to commit murder – what seemed to surprise her though was that he would be willing to do it for her, and the very thought of it, that she still did not understand the depths of his feelings for her, was enough to make his heart break for her, and for him.

'Your father, h-he knows about your … your plan. He knows.', he added then, shaking his head to shut out the conflicting feelings in his heart, trying to clear his mind, trying to focus on what had to be done, so it could be done. And the maddening need he felt inside, trying to justify what he intended to do, drove him to desperation and made his voice shake with the feeling of it, 'What if your father warns him? What if – '

'Nothing is going to happen to me.', she claimed then calmly, taking the last few steps towards him, and the passionate assurance in her eyes as she cupped his face within her hands to have him look at her, really look at her, was almost enough for him to believe her then – almost.

'You can't know that.', he protested, shaking his head to free himself of her touch and the false hope it promised, but it was hard not to believe her words – probably because he wanted nothing more than to believe that she would be safe – and perhaps she even sensed that need in him and thus she did not hesitate to contradict him.

'I know my father. If he had wanted to warn them, he would have done it already.', she swore then, and though her words were spoken with no little amount of fervency, there was a tone of cold calculation in them, and Éomer understood. He had learned a lot more from her than she could have guessed or that he would have liked to admit, and they both knew that the reason her father would not betray her so easily was most certainly not out of love for her. No, indeed, the prince's considerations, surely, had less to do with any paternal feelings of loyalty or affection and a lot more to do with the power that leverage could hold in such a stalemate. So, it would be logical that the prince might hold on to his secret bargaining chip for as long as he possibly could – to make the most of the situation, to squeeze out of them whatever he wanted for as long as he wanted – but not fucking likely.

Éomer closed his eyes then as he tried to turn away, trying to fight against the impulse of simply giving in to her, trying to fight against believing the easy illusion of hope she was working on selling to him, but it was hard … so hard not to give in to her words and the promise of assurance they held. And thus, torn as he was between the need to do what he thought was right and the desire to believe her words that she would be safe, he felt his heart breaking somewhere in the middle, and he was sure that it showed in his gaze when he looked at her again, addressing her again, pleading with her, 'Please, just … just let me do this thing and be done with it.'

At his words Éomer could see her eyes softening as she looked at him – and, perhaps, the man he had been before would have flinched at the pity in her eyes, but the man he was now had long since abandoned such haughty feelings of pride when it came to his wife – and for a moment he could see the different desires in her warring with each other. He could actually see the same impulse in her eyes that were wrecking him: to simply give in to his words and the easy way out they seemed to promise – but then she lowered her eyes, and the broken contact allowed her to regain her composure and to hold on to her unyielding mindset, 'This won't solve our problems.'

'It might!'

'It won't.', she simply countered then, her voice quiet but firm, and when she looked up again, he could see in her eyes the same resolve he had seen so many times before and he knew that she wouldn't change her mind. Of course, a part of him understood very well that she was right – killing this one man would not make all of their problems go away, and even if the immediate threat to his queen's life might be averted like this, it would not save them from the prince blackmailing them with the welfare of their people. But still, Éomer suspected that rather than logical reasons, more personal ones were motivating his wife to stay his hand. Could she really be so driven by the need for revenge that she would even risk her own life in the process? Would she really care so much more for her own vengeance than for the pain it might cause him if she came to harm in the pursuit of it? And if she cared so little for his own needs and wishes, why then should he put his own needs and wishes last?

'I don't care.', he protested then, shaking his head as he took a few steps back, trying to escape the look in her eyes or the pang of conscience he felt at the thought of refusing her what she had worked so hard to achieve. But he shut out just how wrong it felt to go against her wishes and instead focused on the bigger picture, the end that would be achieved by these bloody means – her safety – and that end surely justified these murderous means? It needs to be done, it needs to be done, he repeated over and over again in his head, clinging to it like a mantra, 'He threatened you.'

'He can't hurt me.'

'He can't – are you crazy?', he growled then, and he had barely let her finish her tired claim, when he had interrupted her with words and actions: closing the distance between them with the quick reflexes of the warrior he was, his hands reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders. He wasn't exactly careful or sensitive here either, as he used his strength to keep her in place, to keep her from looking away, to keep her from trying to escape – and though a part of him revolted at the very thought of hurting her like that, he ignored that bad feeling he had in his gut. He had to make her see the facts, he had to make her understand, he had to keep her safe – whatever it took, he would do it; and so, he did not choose his next words very carefully, but rather let them be as crude and cruel as he felt they needed to be, 'He assaulted your friends: violated them, played with them, butchered them – or have you forgotten?! And you're telling me he can't hurt you?! You're in danger, you get that, right?!'

For a moment, she seemed too shocked say anything at all then, her eyes widening as she took in the words he pressed through clenched teeth, and when her gaze dropped and glazed over, he knew she was processing the information he had all but screamed at her. Indeed, it seemed as if she were yielding to his reasoning at last – her face taking on that vague expression of something like sympathy, as though she understood at last what this was really about for him, as though she understood at last how much he truly cared for her. So, naturally, it shocked him then to find that for all her sympathy for his feelings, she remained as unrelenting and firm and selfish and uncaring for them as she had been before.

'My friends were neither queens nor princesses – even if he wanted to act on his threats, do you really think he would risk it?', she pointed out slowly, carefully, with every word as calculated as her mind seemed to work. Speechless by her cold, calculating demeanour, Éomer released her instantly, as though her skin was made of hot, glowing embers that had burned him, and, trying to bring some space between them, he walked past her towards the hearth. He simply couldn't be near her right now, he just couldn't look at her when she was like that, and he doubted whether he would ever be able to get used to seeing her like this, like the scheming, coldly calculating politician that she could be: uncaring of any feelings other than her own, caring only for her own goals.

'Trust me, he can do nothing – not without compromising himself.', she added vehemently then, relentless in her single-minded self-assurance, and … and Éomer just couldn't handle it anymore. Feeling his breathing go shallow, his eyes widened as he stared into the flames, memories flashing before his inner eye, images of other reckless fools that had believed themselves to be safe, that had underestimated the danger and overestimated their own cleverness – they had all ended in blood and pain and death, and the mere thought of her meeting such a fate made something constrict painfully in his chest. With one hand gripping the marble mantelpiece and the other gripping the hilt of his sword, Éomer gritted his teeth to keep himself from wincing out loud.

Why could she not see that he needed to do this for her?

Why could she not understood that he needed to do this so he could sleep peacefully again?

Why could she not see that he –

'If you respect me, if you trust me, if you care for me at all – you will not do this.'

And there it was – such sweet, innocent little words, and yet they managed to get past all his defences, and where all else had failed, they succeeded. With a sigh, Éomer closed his eyes, and yet, despite all his reluctance, he at last gave in: unbuckling his sword belt with a motion made up of despair as much as of anger, he let it crash down to the floor, not minding the loud bang that echoed through the chambers. Gripping the mantelpiece with both hands, the mighty king let his head hang low, to hide the tears pricking in the corners of his eyes.

'I can't let anything happen to you. I can't – ', was all he managed to press out between clenched teeth, before he felt her arms slip around his middle and her face press into his back, letting her warmth slowly seep into him to calm him down, and even though he tried to fight it, he instinctively, reflexively relaxed into her touch. And with her embracing him like that, he was sure that she was whole and well and safe, and that she was his, and even though that knowledge made his heart beat faster (with an emotion he had long suspected but never spoken out loud before), it also reignited his fears of losing her, and so he whispered, facing the fire, 'I can't lose you too.'

'You won't lose me.', she answered with a whisper of her own then, spoken into the shadow of his back, and though it were only words, only a promise, it was enough for the moment. And in the darkness of their chamber, illuminated only by the soft glow of the fire, they kept this promise between them as a pledge of their mutual trust and respect and affection for one another – like two halves of a whole, stronger together in their bond, never to be parted.

FUN FACT #1: It's so good to see Lothíriel back in action and good to see Éomer make good use of the things he picked up from his wife! I call that a dedicated husband.

FUN FACT #2: So, now, in case you're wondering, I am actually following canon here - according to some online Ardapedia sites, such a peace contract was indeed demanded of Rohan and Ithilien.

FUN FACT #3: So, I guess you all thought I was kidding when I said I would tackle the differences between the sanitary systems of Rohan and the South? Well, you were wrong. *twirls non-existing moustache*