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26. The ugly painful truth
The coast was clear.
Éomer, king of the Riddermark, peeked around the corner, turning his head left and right one more time to check, before he straightened his back again and readjusted his appearance, satisfied to find that indeed there was no one there. Turning the corner into the empty hallway, Éomer walked down the corridor with hurried steps, all the while thinking how … well, Southern that particular saying was. Before he had come here, he had never actually used that saying; it was a concept that didn't exist in his own mother tongue as they didn't have any sea or coasts to speak of. But here in Dol Amroth he had learned to understand that for these Southerners the sea was more than just a vast body of water stretching out towards the horizon; it was in their blood and souls and hearts and words – they thought and felt with the currents of the ocean, and their sea-faring culture reminded him more and more of the rumours of pirates he'd heard so much about from his wife. It was not so hard to see that at least some of her Southern wiles seemed to have rubbed off on him – because Éomer, son of Éomund, surely, was not a man to run and hide. And yet here he was, sneaking through this palace by the sea, peeking around corners to check if anyone was coming his way.
Béma help him, he had spent entirely too much time here in the South already!
It had been a week now since that disastrous meeting between the king and queen of the Mark and the prince of Dol Amroth, and ever since he had gone out of his way to not allow himself to be cornered by his father-in-law. That had proven to be far more difficult than he would have liked to admit, because the lord of Dor-en-Ernil seemed to have made it his top priority to do just that – invitation after invitation for tea or a riding session or a private hunt or even a sailing trip were passed on through the many servants, and again and again, Éomer declined, each time more and more awkwardly, more and more running out of polite excuses. Lothíriel, of course, helped with the excuses, though even his queen seemed to be hard pressed by now to find politely acceptable reasons to decline the invitations.
Of course, if it had been up to him, they would have left this god-forsaken peninsula the morning after the tense meeting, but his wife had found excuse after excuse for them to keep on staying. In the end he always gave in to her pleas for more time, partially because it was very hard for him to refuse her anything – and a part of him, surely, felt almost alarmed at the extent to which she had already had him wrapped around her finger, but then again she was also very good at making him forget this momentary alarm – but also because he understood so very well why she would want to stay for as long as she possibly could. Who knew when she would ever return to her home again? Because even though Éomer liked to believe that together they had made a home for one another in Edoras, he would not be so arrogant as to pretend that this meant that she had already stopped seeing Dol Amroth as her true home – and he could understand that connection so very well. Because just like he was connected to the Northern lands with its grass steppes and wild herds of horses, the golden ale and their rustic ways, that simplicity of their way of life, so was she connected to the South with its great sea and white beaches, the bountiful gardens and opulent architecture, and of course the intricate patterns of politics and social shenanigans that wound their ways throughout all aspects of daily life, making it a rich, luxurious, busy and lively way of life. This was her true home and would perhaps forever be so – so, no, he would not force her to leave it behind just yet, not even if being here made him uncomfortable as fuck.
And so, of course, they stayed – and he stayed for her.
Turning yet another corner, Éomer double-checked with a look thrown over with his shoulder whether he was definitely not being followed, and when he found himself still alone and undisturbed by any unwelcome encounters, he could not help but sigh in relief, though his senses remained on guard still – always vigilant. Perhaps it was just his life spent as a warrior that made him so watchful at all times, or it was simply this place with all its eyes and ears and teeth and tongues that made him too uneasy to ever relax. Well, perhaps, there were moments when he could relax, situations that had him lower his guard and let go of all thoughts of caution, suspicion, dangerous politicians, annoying in-laws and scheming traps – situations when all of this didn't matter and faded into the background of his thinking. As it so happened he was on his way to just such a situation: his wife had invited him for a walk in the palace gardens – to have a talk, as she had phrased it.
Right, a talk.
The last time they had gone for a walk in the gardens they had ended up doing a lot more than just talking. The same was true for the shower. Or the balcony. Or – Béma, help him! – the little writing desk in their chambers. Not that he was complaining (far from it), and though he knew it was just a means of distraction, of stalling the inevitable clash with the sombre reality of facts and fiction, of turning a blind eye instead of facing the truth – much like she had done in the week before the catastrophic meeting – at least now they were both clear and open with each other about what they were doing.
They had talked about the meeting and its consequences, of course; his queen had managed to ease some of his anger regarding the demands of the peace contract by emphasising that it was very likely that the king's council had most certainly had a hand in the wording and must have pushed for the delivery of the contract for the time after the shieldmaiden's wedding – to avoid a public spectacle, most likely. However, Éomer had remained sceptical nonetheless, pointing out that this was still the king's will (even if not his word), and of course, his wife had posed the question then – as he had known she would – what would be so bad in the end about a king asking for peace after a lifetime of war? He had let that slide then, unwilling to have this discussion just yet, knowing full well that they would end up on opposing sides of this debate and he just wasn't ready yet to listen to her clever arguments or to see the look of disappointment in her eyes when he would eventually dismiss them.
Of course, they also discussed the meeting with regards to its implications – mostly because she hadn't grown tired of reminding him that taking his sword and heading out to chop some heads off wouldn't solve any of their problems, and that while it would be infinitely more satisfying to paint their hands red with the blood of their enemies, it would ultimately achieve nothing. She was right, of course, as she usually was, though that didn't make it any less frustrating, but the fact remained that even if he were to go out and tackle this problem head-on and in the only way his instincts told him to do, another problem might just as well pop up in its place. The prince had found out about the revenge plot – there was no reason why he couldn't also find out about their little contingency plan back home or that he might try and use it against them.
When she had pointed this out to him earlier this week, he had blanched, cursed and got piss drunk (not necessarily in that order though) – because, Béma!, he had not seen this coming. While she had wrestled his drunken ass into the shower that night, to clear his head with seemingly ice-cold water, he had rambled on and on about how they should have seen this coming, how they were fucked beyond all hopes of saving, or how on earth the prince had managed to learn of the revenge plot. He had actually theorised (if one could call the ramblings of a drunken king theorising) that the prince must have had help, that they were surrounded by spies who could even read their minds, but she had only laughed at him while she rubbed his golden mane dry with a towel. She had emphasised quite poignantly that her father was not a man who needed help from any mind-reading spies to get the information he needed and wanted – she had found it more likely that the lord Agarwaen had not been able to resist to brag about his new title and lands and that her father had merely put two and two together.
They were cornered and they knew it, and yet rather than facing their problems they had decided to ignore them and push them back into the farthest corners of their minds, all the while playing this game of cat-and-mouse, all the while enjoying what fleeting pleasures they could derive from their luxurious trap. It was not very kingly of course, and it wasn't very noble of her, but for the time being they had seemingly decided to just not give a fuck. Their problems could wait until they had left behind this god-forsaken peninsula and everything that came with it, until they were back in the safety of their Northern home – until then all he cared about was the comfort she gave him, knowing that she was his and that she was safe, knowing that in this ice-cold world by the sea he could trust in her at least.
And thus that's how he found himself here now: the king of the Riddermark, warrior of a hundred battles, a man of Northern honour, creeping down some hallways like a mouse evading the trap of a cat while looking for some cheese. He could have laughed at the absurdity of the situation, had the situation not been so dire and had he not been in danger of attracting unwanted attention that might not be as far off as it would appear at first glance. Well, at least all this secrecy and cloak-and-no dagger nonsense was worth it in the end, because what kind of king would he be, if he didn't follow his queen's invitation to meet in secret for a very secret tryst – oh, pardon, for a talk in the gardens.
Turning another corner, Éomer stopped dead in his tracks then when he caught sight of some movement way ahead of him, but he only tensed in response for a short moment until he recognised those skirts and that raven hair and that familiar sway of hips. He couldn't help the soft smile then that spread across his lips as he relaxed again, and immediately thoughts of mischief came unbidden to his mind – who said they had to have this secret talk in the gardens? His wife and queen was right there, and he was more than just sure that if he wanted to talk to her right here and now, she would be more than just up for the discussion. Grinning like a mouse that had spied the fattest piece of cheese, Éomer straightened and readjusted his clothes before walking up to her with silent and determined steps, and though he had to give it to her that her pace was indeed fast in her hurried state, she would not be able to outpace him, and quiet as he was, she would not even see him –
'Lothíriel, a word?'
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
From one moment to the next the prince of Dol Amroth seemed to appear out of thin air, stepping into his daughter's path, deliberately reserved and unassuming, and though Lothíriel did not appear to have been surprised by his sudden appearance, the king of the Riddermark very much had been. Wondering wildly how he could have possibly missed the presence of the politician, given the fine senses he had honed as a warrior (though, those senses probably had been clouded by less noble thoughts), Éomer acted on pure instinct as he vanished behind the corner he had come from, and it was just as well because by now father and daughter had turned around to face each other, and had the king not acted as he did, he surely would have been caught.
'My king is waiting for me, father.', Éomer heard his queen say with that distinct tone in her voice that told him she was barely suppressing a smirk there, a smirk that meant to express her haughty feelings of superiority, bathing in the defiance she continuously – politely – rubbed in her father's face. At that Éomer couldn't suppress a grin of his own at the feisty attitude his queen showed just there, and when he saw a curtsey with that sardonic expression of hers, he knew his lady was back with a vengeance, and he was already looking forward to having that talk in the garden, when –
'He'll be able to spare you for a moment, daughter.', the prince cut in then curtly, making the queen freeze mid-curtsey before she straightened her back with a sigh and folded her hands before her. It was clear that the prince would not be so easily brushed off, and she knew it, though she made no attempts to hide her obvious annoyance at this.
'Now, tell me, are you trying to make a fool of me on purpose? Is it that business with the knights again? Is that it? You're trying to get back at me for not indulging your little justice fantasy?', Imrahil snarled then and he did not hold back at all there, stunning Éomer at the sudden shift in his demeanour, as the prince went from curt but courteous diplomat to downright cold-blooded politician within the blink of an eye. The queen, however, never so much as batted an eye while she stared down her father with that unyielding gaze of hers – she even smiled at him, though that smile was anything but merry.
'You flatter yourself, father, not everything is about you.', she countered and already she tried to turn away again and to leave him standing where he was, but the prince would have none of it. The hand that shot out and grabbed her arm then, effectively pulling her back, could not be considered gentle or careful, and Éomer felt his hands instinctively, reflexively clench to fists at the sight.
'Listen to me, Lothíriel, I will not be made a fool of.', the politician hissed between the clenched teeth, tightening his grip on her arm to force her to look at him, and that she wouldn't cave in under the pressure of his anger, seemed to infuriate him even further, making his words less diplomatic and a whole lot more rude, 'What is it you think you're doing? Going about dealing out death sentences? Laughing in the face of diplomatic catastrophe? Playing the ladylove? That's not why I sent you up there!', and with that he pushed her away from him, baring his teeth as much in anger as in disgust for his daughter's behaviour, shaking his head in impatient disbelief, 'What have you been doing up there in the North?!'
'I've been learning to ride again, father.', she shot back then as she turned to face her father, a cruel smile haunting her lips as she subconsciously rubbed the arm she been held back with against her will before. And Éomer had to give to her, she knew how to bite back, and the triumphant pride she took in saying those words – words that surely implied more than just horseback riding – filled him with equal pride and no less amount of passion.
'So I've heard.', the prince scoffed, the look of obvious disdain on his face as he leaned back to assess her with piercing eyes, and while he had been momentarily blind-sided by her words that paraded her triumphant defiance boldly in front of him, it became clear very quickly that he was not a man that took such a slight very lightly, 'So, tell me, daughter, after being the Northman's riding horse for almost a year now, how is it that you're still as barren as that grass steppe of theirs?!'
'You can't talk to me like that!', the queen shouted back at him then, and the king's ears, that had been ringing from the prince's words before, were now completely shattered. And though the momentary lapse of queenly poise was quickly covered up, as the lady cleared her throat and tightened her jaw, holding her head up high, it was still not enough to stop the lord's lips from curling into a triumphant smirk, even while she spoke with a more composed tone this time, 'I'm a queen in my own right.'
'Oh, no, daughter.', the prince replied coolly, shaking his head with the calm and smile of a man who was going to prove her wrong, and he did just that and he wasn't particularly gentle about it either, 'You are his queen – and make no mistake: you will only be that as long as he wills it.'
'He would never set me aside, he – '
'No? Because he loves you? Is that it?', the father interrupted, unfazed by his daughter's attempt at contradicting him, untouched by the shock on her face, uncaring for the disastrous implications such an assumption might leave in its wake. Éomer, for his part, was holding his breath, shocked to hear the truth spoken so clearly and so loud for the first time, but he was even more shocked to find that – given the way her sea-grey eyes widened in surprise – she truly seemed to not have known how he felt for her; and the sadness he felt at that realisation was even worsened by the embarrassment he felt: that's not how he had wanted her to know.
'I do admit, he is besotted with you. But don't fool yourself, daughter – give it another year or two with no child, and believe me, he will have no other choice but to set you aside.', Imrahil meanwhile went on to say, the tone of his voice hardly more than belittling and hearing it was enough for Éomer to shake with rage, even if he managed to keep it under control so as not to betray his position, though he was all the more surprised to find that he was not the only taking offence at the mocking tone in the prince's voice.
'No, you're wrong. He would never do that.', the queen countered then, and there was a grim smile on her lips, a desperate need in her eyes, that sheer belief that she was clinging to, that she would not be betrayed or abandoned, that she would not be proven wrong or foolish for holding on to such rustic principles of honour and trust and loyalty. And in that moment, the king felt for his queen like he had never felt before, his breast swelling with love and trust and pride, so much that he thought he would burst from all the things he felt for her right then and there, but then –
'No? And why is that exactly?', the prince snorted contemptuously, barely holding back the cruel show of laughter as he proceeded to go in for the kill, 'Don't tell me you fancy yourself in love with him?!'
In the momentary quiet that followed Éomer was holding his breath, waiting – desperately – for her to affirm the assumption, but even though she was clenching her jaw and tightening her eyes in a gesture that showed so clearly the streak of defiance in her that he so rarely had the chance to see, she held back, suppressing the impulse of saying it just to spite her lord father. But even though the king admired his queen for standing tall and standing strong when she could have easily stooped low and opted for a petty response without any heart in it, he could not help it nonetheless that something constricted painfully in his chest at her silence.
'I know it because he respects me.', the queen responded then at long last, and every word of what she said was meant to emphasise the gravity of these concepts in the Northern spheres (even if the South did not seem to hold with these principles), and the king felt his breast swell with pride once more at the trust she showed him, and the loyalty she showed her new home by leaning on their basic principle of honour, 'I know it because he promised me.'
'Oh, foolish girl – and you believed him?', the prince countered then, and now he was laughing for real, though there was no mirth in that laughter, only cruel calculation and a sense of ravenous opportunism, quite like one of those beasts of prey that only smiled to bare their teeth, and like them, he seemed to have picked up the scent of something far more vulnerable behind her confidence, figuring out her weakness hiding behind that strength, and now that he had tasted blood, he went in for the deathblow, 'Don't be naive, Lothíriel, he is a man, and a king at that! If you cannot give him an heir, he will have to set you aside for another woman who can.'
In the silence that followed those words, her father simply let them sink in, watching with satisfaction as she scrambled to keep her composure, scrambled not to fall apart in front of unkind eyes. And when Éomer saw her heart break in that moment, his own heart broke alongside hers, because as much as she wanted to deny the prince's cruel words and shout at the top of his lungs that he would stand by her side from now until eternity, he yet knew that in some twisted way the politician-prince had been right. Before they had left for the South the council had grown rather restless again of late, demanding an assurance for a long-term security for the Mark that the king had just not been able to give. He knew quite well that it would not be enough to simply solve the short-term problems they had; the future of the Mark depended on the principle of reliable leadership, and how reliable could a royal house be without any future of their own? That's how Déor had phrased … or well, that's how he had tried to phrase it, what he had actually ended up saying was a lot less civil and advisory and a lot more along the lines of "what are best friends for, if not for helping with problems no one else could help with"? It was safe enough to say that he –
'Even you little ploy with the peasant boy won't change that.', the prince added then, managing not only to pull Éomer out of his increasingly petty thoughts, but also very much stunning the queen into complete shock. Because while she had been rattled before, uncertain even of the success of her back-up plans or fail-safe nature of her strategies, she was now positively shaken to the core, as though the very last cord of her safety net had just been cut, leaving her to fall into an abyss of despair. And, undoubtedly, the prince could see that; sniffing out that very particular streak of doubt and fear she had never quite managed to move on from, and judging by the way his eyes scanned her desperate features – the way her eyes darted from left to right, scrambling for something, anything to restore the hope and security she had felt only a few minutes ago – it was clear that the politician had every intention of capitalising on it.
'Oh, yes, I know. Did you really think I wouldn't find out? You miscalculated, Lothíriel, and it will cost you dearly.', the father hissed as he slowly advanced on his daughter, his frame standing strong and tall all of the sudden, his presence overwhelming, oppressive, crushing even, leaving the princess with nowhere else to go but to step back … until the marble stone walls left her trapped. She was breathing hard now, almost hyperventilating, and Éomer was just about to say fuck it and to abandon his hide-out and to run to his wife and queen and to stand by her side, when –
'Unless, of course … ', Imrahil added then slowly, and all of the sudden the menacing aura from before seemed almost transformed, as the prince had turned to politician once more. And the queen who had retreated into the shell of the frightened princess looked up, so deceptible in her despair for any sign of hope, eagerly jumping at the tiniest morsel of bread, like a starving man not minding the rot that had already set in, 'Unless, of course, you can cement your position, and ours, as was your task to begin with!'
For a moment all was quiet, save for the echo that sounded throughout the corridor and carried the loud the words all the way down it. The queen and her father had been stunned for a second by the sheer volume of the words but they shook off their shocked surprise quickly enough – none of them even aware of the king hiding only a few metres away from them. Éomer, however, did not so easily recover as they had done; the king, for his part, had grown very quiet in that moment and even though an icy cold seemed to numb his limbs and cloud his mind, he listened on.
'I-I did, father, I did!', the queen stammered then as she tried to defend herself and her actions, stumbling over her own words in the process, but she managed to make her point nonetheless, 'I got the king and the council to agree to a plan to further trade relations. I got them to agree to being indebted to you for corn and other supplies. I … I … I got the king to fall for me – for Ulmo's sake, is that not enough for you?!'
In the shadows of his hideout, the king listened and the king learned and the king at last understood. Or else, he believed he did. At her words, Éomer felt the cold grip him, the cold of shock, the cold of realisation, the cold of heartfelt pain, but then it became the cold of betrayal, the cold of hateful anger. She had deceived, betrayed, played him – from the fucking beginning.
'No, it's not enough!', the prince countered then with sudden fury as he gripped his daughter by the shoulders and pushed her roughly against the cold marble wall; and holding her there with his unyielding grip and the complete lack of mercy in his glare, he continued to thunder, 'You have to make yourself indispensable to the king. You have to become the whisper in his ear, the word on his tongue, the fucking thought in his head – when he looks to you, and only you, for advice, then it is enough. When he would do anything for you, when he would lay down his fucking crown and throne and fucking horse-stinking kingdom at your feet – and mine – then I tell you it is fucking enough!'
With those words the prince wrenched his hands away from his daughter in a decidedly cruel and unfatherly manner, leaving her to sway, with only the wall to lend support, and slowly but surely she slid down the wall until she lay in a pool of her own dress and her despair. For a moment, the queen was no queen at all, lying there at her father's feet, she had become the princess again that was too overwhelmed by her own fears and sadness and hopelessness, the princess that fought to hold back the tears pricking in her eyes and yet lost while her lord father would not even look at her. But while the prince waited in apparent impatience and annoyance for the daughter before him to get a grip of herself and her emotions, he did not mind the woman at his feet slipping from desperate sadness into desperate fury, and so he was more than a little surprised to find her cowering at his feet still but now with angry tears in her sea-grey eyes – eyes quite like his own – as she shook her head wildly and snarled at him, defiant to the end, 'No, I won't do that.'
'Don't challenge me, daughter, you won't like the consequences.', Imrahil warned, the surprise he had felt at her continued defiance slowly waning off, though he remained puzzled by it as it exceeded all sensible limits of stubbornness and went against every logical impulse of any politician – and despite whatever foolishness and naivety he had accused her of before, the prince knew his daughter to be a politician above all else. So where did this newly-found defiance come from? That fool's bravery? That fool's sense of honour?
'I don't give a fuck about the consequences!', the queen shouted as she scrambled to get up again, not minding the weakness of her knees or the hoarse shaking of her voice as she dispensed with all phrases of politeness or manners of civility, 'I have done what you asked of me, but no more. I will not betray my husband for you any longer. I will not put my marriage in your services any longer. I am done.'
'Your marriage?', the prince scoffed, shocked at the audacity with which she dared to address him, and though he tried to laugh if off there was no real laughter in it, his face quickly returning to its menacing expression from before as he continued to question her, 'And what kind of marriage would that be?! A marriage without a child to prove its validity or – '
'This marriage is already valid – ', Lothíriel hissed then through clenched teeth, interrupting the prince's taunting line of questioning, but this father was too much of a politician to show much care for the plight of his daughter as he used her words of protests as a mere stepping stone on his way to make his point.
'Oh, I'm sure you already did what every wife would do – but what do you really have to prove that?', Imrahil pointed out sardonically, 'Where there witnesses at the bedding ceremony? Blood on the sheets to fool the superstitious peasants into thinking that everything was properly consummated? I don't think so.', and though up until now her father had done nothing but taunting and cornering her, there was a strange expression in his face as he continued. All of the sudden his eyes seemed to soften, along with his tone and words, and had she not known better, she could have sworn that the emotion in his gaze was something like compassion – but no, she reminded herself fervently, her father was not a man known for compassion.
'Don't fool yourself, Lothíriel. In the eyes of the world this marriage will only be truly valid once an heir is born.', the prince concluded, and now there was that familiar control again with which he always kept his voice level and commanding, though a note of something almost like kindness or pity (even though she knew this to be impossible) seemed to linger, 'Until then it would be in your husband's rights to dissolve this marriage. As it would be my right.'
'No, you wouldn't dare do that.', the queen hissed, eyes wide with panic, but the prince only raised his eyebrows, as though no one had ever before dared to try and tell him what he could and could not do, and so it was not unsurprising that he countered his daughter's increasing despair – that had her voice shaking with quite some lack of self-control and a disgraceful lack of composure – only with a tired expression of mild annoyance, clearly viewing her emotional outburst as little more than an inconvenience, 'You wanted this marriage! You wanted the influence that came with it, you wanted – '
'I wanted my daughter to be a queen, so she could be of use to her family.', the prince interrupted, corrected, silencing the queen without so much as raising his voice, ignoring the pain written all over her face, his fatherly heart untouched even by the daughterly tears falling from those eyes widened by despair, 'But if you cannot cement your position – one way or another – then this marriage is essentially useless to us, and what point would there be in watering a sapling that just won't flower?!'
And then the dam broke. All clever arguments, all feisty defiance, all stubborn honour was forgotten, as it had failed, and now all the once so proud queen had left, was to cry, and cry she did. With trembling lips that barely held in the sobs, the daughter crumbled against the wall, and the marble barrier was all that held her up at this point, as she allowed herself to break down at the realisation that she had been effectively backed into a corner from which there was no escape. The prince, for his part, turned away from the havoc he had wreaked, readjusting his clothes, rearranging his hair, and it wasn't so much that he ignored the image of pitiful sadness and despair out of spite or annoyance, but rather because he would not let his eyes look upon it for fear, perhaps, that it may touch and thaw his ice-cold heart. Because this prince might act all he liked as the cunning and opportunistic politician that he was; at heart, he was still a father, even though he had not allowed himself to be that for many, many years.
Perhaps it was only natural that on the path to power, one might lose sight of the ties that bound one to the other or might neglect those little emotions that kept the heart in his chest barely alive. Perhaps it was in rare moments like this one that Imrahil questioned the choices he had made and re-evaluated the sacrifices he himself had made, and that he had forced upon others, all in service of his own ambitions. Perhaps that's why he would not look upon his child now, because then the doubts might start to creep in, leaving him to wonder whether this was all worth it or whether the sacrifices had been too great. What kind of father would try and use his own children as pawns in a game for his own gains? Was it all worth it in the end – the salty tears, the damaged souls and embittered broken hearts? But no, he reminded himself, repeating his own mantra as he had done so many times when scruples had sneaked up on him, it all had to be worth it when the sacrifices had been this great, to become the great man he already saw himself as he could not cater to the whims and sensitivities of others – not even those of his own flesh and blood.
'The peace contract – I can trust then that you will handle your little horse-king in the crown's favour?', the prince asked at long last, after he was sure it was safe enough to turn around, when the biggest onrush of her tears had dried up, when he had found his composure again and that inner sternness that would shield him from any feelings of pity or indulgence at the sight of daughterly tears. Of course, the reminders of those tears were still there, still fresh on those daughterly cheeks but surely enough those tears, too, were quickly enough wiped away by hands (albeit still weakened by despair) strengthened by years and years of poise and drilled in discipline.
'It's not that simple, father.'
'I don't care, and I don't care what you have to do – see it done.', the prince simply said, and now it seemed as though the old coldness had returned to his voice, all the softness and warmth from before tucked away again behind the image of the haughty prince and the ruthless politician; now he was her father again as she had come to see him as, 'You owe that to your family who put you where you are today, who made you what you are today – or have you forgotten?'
'Oh, fear not, father, I've not forgotten who I am.', the queen answered then just as coldly, as she slowly but surely rose to her full height again, rearranging her clothes and hair and the rest of her appearance, and it was as though the return of his cold demeanour had given her the strength to find her poise again. And a part of her even suspected that this had been his whole intention to begin with: to get her riled up just enough for her to find that inner strength again that fed on her anger and resentment and her will to appear untouched just to spite him. But no, she was not in the mood right now to give him such credit, she did not want to give him the satisfaction to believe that he knew her so well and knew just what buttons to push to make her pliable for whatever scheme he needed her to put into action – she did not want to give him the satisfaction to see just how desperately she would have craved a kind word from him, or how much it drove her to extremes when she was met with those cruel, hard eyes of his. And so she added with biting sarcasm that yet did nothing to hide the bitterness in her voice (because, in a way, it was neither sarcasm nor hyperbole), 'I am what you made me. I am your creature through and through.'
'Good.', the prince answered curtly then, nodding subconsciously, satisfied enough with the victory he had gained here today, and so he simply shrugged off her barely veiled contempt with the superiority of a man of power who knew that he had won. For a moment father and daughter were silent then as neither knew exactly what to say, as everything that needed to be said, had been said, and all other words ran the risk of exposing the true depths of their feelings – feelings that they would surely interpret as hatred and disapproval, disdain and disappointment, but which underneath spoke in fact of much more complicated emotions and connections than a mere rift in a father-daughter relationship.
Lothíriel had been shaken to the core by this encounter and by this point she was barely holding on by a thread to what little strength she had actually left. The battle was over and she had lost, but she was too stubborn and too proud to show how much this battle had wounded her. But perhaps it was also more than just stubbornness or pride that hardened her heart and steeled her mind, because now that the battle was lost, it was upon her now to go and deliver the news to her husband and king and that … that would prove to be an even greater challenge. And just the thought of it, the image of seeing his face fall apart at her actually trying to persuade him to take this rotten deal and to go against his better nature and his morals and his honour by making this peace … it was enough to make her heart break all over again. But even though her father had already defeated her, what he did then destroyed her completely – he comforted her.
'Take heart, daughter. See this thing through to the end, and I promise you, I shall never press you or your husband for another thing – no more deals, no more favours, no more leverage. And you would finally be able to find that happiness you seek so much … with him.', the prince spoke and the queen froze at his words, unable and unwilling to comprehend the comfort he offered, though it was not so much the words that stunned her but the sincerity with which he spoke them. No, she reprimanded herself, she would not be so naive as to fall for a few kind words from a man she knew very well to be anything but kind; no, she told herself, she would not fall for this new trick, she would not believe his lies. But her father looked at her with eyes filled to the brim with sad understanding, and it broke her to see his eyes filled with such emotions – he had no right, no right to feign such emotions with her, he had no right to play the father, when all her life he had been anything but that. And the strain she put on herself to fight against her own foolish heart wanting to lap up these few meagre morsels of strange sudden kindness, drove her over the edge, making her laugh cruelly when all she wanted to do was cry, making her eyes spark with hatred when all they wanted was to see that parental love in her father's eyes that she had always craved for as a child, and even now –
'That amuses you? That I would care for your happiness? Why?', Imrahil asked then with regards to her scoffing at his attempts at kindness, and though his inability (or unwillingness?) to understand her exasperation only managed to infuriate her even further, the prince remained calm, and the way his eyes seemed to soften with something like pity broke what little remained of that poise she so stubbornly clung to, but only once he spoke again, daring to add insult to injury, would she explode, 'Despite all, I'm still your father, am I not? Any father would care for the happiness of their child.'
'Oh, yes, my lord, and what a fine father you are!', she scoffed then with a wild laugh and a menacing grin, angry tears blurring her vision, but she could see enough still to notice that he didn't react to her provocation with the fury and cold-heartedness she had come to expect from him, but rather graced her spiteful words with nothing but compassionate resignation. Lothíriel was seething with despair and wrath at this point, and she was sure, had she had her brother's dagger with her in this moment, surely she would have put it to good, deadly use.
How dare he look upon her with kind eyes?
How dare he reach out with sympathetic words?
How dare he act like a father now?
Now … now that she was this crippled thing that had never learned to love or trust.
How dare he –
'You've already lost your heart, Lothíriel, make sure you don't lose your head as well … or that of your lover's.', Imrahil spoke then, interrupting her spiteful stream of thoughts, and for a moment she was too stunned to react, because, surely, he could not have implied what she suspected he implied, but then her father only looked at her with unwavering eyes as he continued, 'Oh, yes, I know. I have eyes, I can see. Perhaps, daughter, it's time that you start to open your eyes as well.'
For a moment then father and daughter simply looked at each other; in his eyes was that strange understanding that had also echoed in his words, and in her eyes was the same disbelief and shock from before as she tried to process what he had just revealed to her about herself. But the moment lasted only for a few seconds and then it was already gone, as the prince readjusted his clothes and hair, returning his appearance and demeanour to the state it had been before their explosive conversation, hoping to put it out of his mind, and already he turned to leave again, with only a nod towards her speaking of the far-reaching nature their talk had had.
But then she did something she hadn't done since she had been a child, something she hadn't done ever since her mother had died: she flung herself into her father's arms, and there, she embraced him tightly, with both arms holding on to him for dear life and her face pressed against his chest, seeking the comforting space under his chin, just as she had tried to do as a child, desperately craving solace, even from the unlikeliest of people. The prince, for a moment, was too stunned to react, but then the hesitation turned to resignation and his stiff arms melted away into movement as they slowly came around the trembling, confused, desperate woman in his arms.
The reciprocation of her embrace had the daughter stiffen in her father's arms, if only for a split second, but then all resistance vanished and she simply allowed herself, allowed them, to believe the lie. Right now, all she wanted was to believe that they were truly just a father comforting his daughter; and even if it was all a lie, even if afterwards they would still be two adversaries on opposite sides … at least for now they were just a father and daughter loving each other, at least for once they wanted to believe the beautiful lie, and so they did. And it was so strange, so strange to think that her father of all people – her father who had been grim and haughty and heartless all her life – would care for her and her happiness in his own wretched way, and that he would know her own heart better than even her husband did, better even than she did herself.
And so they held on to each other, and both of them held on for their own reasons, and they knew that, but in that moment they didn't care because for once it didn't matter. She clung to him for a comfort she knew he could not give and he clung to her for a feeling of parental love that he could not allow himself to feel. But it didn't matter. It that moment they simply allowed themselves to take what they needed and offer what the other craved, and even if it was all just a hollow lie, it was, at least in that moment, better than the truth. And so, for just one moment, they could be just what they had never managed to be, what the world had never allowed themselves to be, what they themselves had never allowed themselves to be – for now, for this one moment, they could be simply father and daughter.
Éomer, king of the Riddermark, could have had the chance to witness this moment of rare familial love, he could have witnessed the revelation he might have hoped to hear for almost a year now, he could have seen what no outsider had ever been privileged to see – but the king had taken leave long before his eyes could have witnessed it, but not before his heart had turned to stone.
FUN FACT #1: I'm curious if you guys / gals / non-binary pals actually saw this twist of "Lothíriel's betrayal" coming? Or did it shock you as much as it did me when I came up with it about over a year ago? I mean I left little clues and insinuations throughout the story, though I was never quite sure if people actually caught up on it.
FUN FACT #2: Imrahil is a poor excuse for a father, but he is still a father. I'm convinced that some wretched part of him really does love his children, though he had never quite learned how to show it and so he simply ... gave up on it altogether. I'm psyched that we will be seeing more of this complicated father-daughter-relationship in chapters to come.
FUN FACT #3: Alright, buckle up, people, the angst ship has just left the harbour and we're all on it! Next stop: Angry heartbroken man's man confronts the woman who stole his heart and broke said heart. We will all go down with this ship!