I. AM. BACK.
It's been a long fucking while, eh? But fear not - now that school's out and the summer break is here, I hope I'll be more productive.
This chapter has been a bitch to write, and not just because it's long but because it is heart-breakingly heartfelt. It hurt to write this chapter. I ain't shitting ya.
So, I can hear the angst-train a-coming, so all on board!
Thanks for all the reviews and likes and the sweet support!
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27. Those that do not hate, do not love
When the door to her chambers closed behind her, Lothíriel allowed herself to take a moment to calm down and collect her thoughts. With her forehead pressed against the cool black wood, and her hands supporting herself (so she wouldn't slump down like a lifeless wraith drained of all energy), the queen took deep breaths – in and out, in and out, one, two, three. In her ears her pulse throbbed almost painfully, running a race against her heartbeat as it would seem, and above it all was the very own rhythm of her trembling limbs that had her fearing that she would collapse in a heap of sorrow and despair any minute now.
But no, she was still standing.
Ever since her talk (if one could call it that) with her father had ended, ever since she had torn herself away from his arms (running away from them actually), she had wandered through that palace by the sea she had once called home, her feet carrying her aimlessly through the many halls and corridors while her thoughts chased each other relentlessly. As the light outside the large stain-glass windows had fallen to the side, with the shadows growing large and larger, she had instinctively, unconsciously, found her way back to her old rooms.
Her old rooms that she had lived in as a child, rooms she had grown up in, rooms in which she had spent hours daydreaming of better days to come, rooms she had used to hide herself from the world, rooms she had seen as her prison and her refuge – rooms she now occupied with her husband and her king. And it almost seemed as if them returning to her home, as if them staying in her old rooms … well, it almost seemed as if some of her old life bled into her new one. All of her secrets, all of her fears, all of her darkness, all of her shameful weaknesses, they all came back to her now in the end, they all came back to haunt her and to infect and destroy the new life she had tried to build, up there in the far away North.
Ah, there was something so morbidly poetic about it, to think that she could have ever been free of the ties that bound her to her old life, only to find that some things could neither be forgiven nor forgotten, only to find that some wounds could never be healed, only to find that rather than redeeming herself from the mistakes she had made and regrets she had collected over the years, she would drag down the one person in her life that could have lifted her up. It was all tainted now; no matter how much she would try and pretend otherwise, no matter how much she would hope for the better, now matter how much she would care for him … it would all be tainted now by the things she had done, by all the things she had allowed to happen, by all the things she had been.
Where had it all gone wrong?
Oh, she knew that it had been many different decisions that had let her to this point, and some of those decisions had been forced on her, that much was true – her upbringing, her suffering at the hands of men, the heartless expectations her own father had put on her, the pressure her new position and title brought with it. But then again, there were some decisions she herself was not innocent of.
Where had it all gone wrong?
It had been she herself, after all, at the ceremony honouring the deeds of their heroes of war, who had shaken the hands of the very men who had murdered her friends. She could have refused, she could have withstood her father's wrath and disappointment (after all, she had withstood it before, and smiled while doing it), she could have taken the scandal following it with pride and a head held high. But she didn't. She caved in to the pressure and the expectations, she caved in to the manic hope of playing the long game of pretence – but to be fair, in the end, she had not wanted to lose face in the eyes of the world, in the end, she had not wanted to risk losing that slither of power she had amassed over the years and years of intrigue and scheming. That had been her decision, and her shame.
Perhaps, that had been the real reason for her elaborate revenge plot, she thought ruefully then. Perhaps, it had not only been the crimes committed against her friends that had propelled her into such an intensely passionate hatred. Perhaps, in the end, it was her own guilt choking her that had led her to go to such extreme lengths to achieve her vengeance. Perhaps, it was this desperate desire to redeem herself, that single-minded focus, that drove her to ignore all warnings and to care so little about the lives she wrecked in the process. A better person might have refrained from causing even more pain in the world, a better person might not have fought fire with fire – but she was so tired of being the better person, and even if she had no fire to fight with, she had her water, and like her element she was relentless and merciless in her determination and direction.
Where had it all gone wrong?
That too had been her decision, she mused bitterly, that she would stop at nothing to achieve what she had set out to do, and, perhaps, that was the reason, too, that she may have been an unwilling but ultimately consenting participant in her father's schemes. Because it was one thing to say that her father had pressured her into trapping her husband and king in a game he did not know how to play, that she had been pushed to lure him into her arms, to have him wrapped up around her finger so completely, to gain his trust and confidence so it could be used and abused – but it was something else entirely to say that she had been a victim of her father's plotting. She had played her part, and she had played to win, but she had not minded that someone always had to lose in this game – and who was the one to lose now?
Where had it all gone wrong?
Immediately, her first thoughts went to her husband and king. She had seen the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't looking – and lately, even when he knew that she was looking, he still looked at her the way he did, like … like a man in love. It had been easy at first to mistake it for kindness, to dismiss it as nothing but the warmth one partner might show another, as they were both partners and companions in this marriage and this rule – but no, she thought, there was no mistaking this. There was a tenderness in his eyes that simply had nothing to do with a political marriage, a tenderness that simply wouldn't do, a tenderness that it was dangerous to have.
Where had it all gone wrong?
That too had been her doing, she thought bitterly. She could have kept her distance, she could have simply become his friend, she could have simply become his partner – there had been no need for her to become … to become this. She should have fought harder to keep her composure, she should have tried harder to remember who she was, she should have held on more closely, loyally, to what she had learned all her life. After all, her aunt Ivriniel had always warned her that all men were eventually the same, and that no matter how much they would claim otherwise, she had told her that they could not be trusted, that they could not be relied upon, that they would never be able to understand her.
Where had it all gone wrong?
But, Ulmo help her, she had wanted to believe otherwise! She had wanted to trust in the tenderness in his eyes, the surprising gentleness of his touch, the warmth of his words, the fierce loyalty of his whole being with regards to her. She had set out to make him hers but she had ended up losing herself in the process, because no matter what she tried to tell herself, no matter how hard she would lie to herself that she had only acted on her father's behalf, that she had only done as commanded – the truth was, she had done this for herself. She had wanted there to be at least one person in this world that didn't want to use her for her position or power, one person to see her as who she wanted to be and not who she was underneath, one person to see her as a woman capable of love, deserving of it even. She had wanted to be loved.
Where had it all gone wrong?
And in the end … she had fallen for her own trick.
All her life she had been trained for this – and she had been trained by the best – and yet, when the time came to put her training into practice, she had fucked it all up. Sure, she had made him fall in love with her – even if she still tried to fight that fact – but what good would it do her, and them, now? She should have watched her own heart more carefully. Because her father was right about one thing: if she wouldn't be careful, she would lose her head as well, and if she should fall now, she would only drag him down with her, down into the darkness she called her own.
Where had it all gone wrong?
'I take it the business between you and your father didn't pan out as expected.'
At the sudden sound of a voice, Lothíriel jumped around, only to find none other than her husband and king sitting in an armchair in the far away corner of the room. The queen was startled and shocked to find him there, and even more so that she hadn't even noticed him being here when she had entered the room, but then again, she must have been too caught up in her own thoughts and troubles to pay much attention to her surroundings. Of course, she had hoped to find at least a few moments of peace and retreat before she would have had to face her husband; of course, part of her had expected for him to come looking for her, since she had missed their rendezvous in the gardens, but she would not have expected it to be so soon.
Lothíriel froze then, all of the sudden, and she wasn't sure what it had been that had alarmed her so, but instinctively, reflexively, she looked at him then, really looked at him. Éomer was sitting in an old but very expensive armchair – it was the very same she had loved to sit in as a child, reading her books, dreaming her dreams, hiding her tears from the world – and though he was partially shrouded in shades of darkness, there was no mistaking the menacing nature of that smile. Or perhaps, she only thought it to be a menacing smile because of the sword he was playing with, because of the way the tips of his fingers twirled the hilt of it round and round in slow, deliberate circles, perfectly aware of the screeching sound the tip of the blade made as it scratched over the marble surface of the floor in the process.
So, yes, all of the sudden, that smile took on a very menacing tone and just like that her old defences went back up, her instincts telling her to tread carefully. She became fully aware then of the way his eyes followed her every move and analysed even the most minute of changes in her facial expressions. For some reason in that moment she was reminded of those beasts with golden hides and golden eyes that she had seen once during an exhibition from the Far Harad; those beasts "smiled" too, but only so they could flash their teeth in a warning, and when they bared their fangs, it was the quiet moment before the kill.
He knows, she thought quietly, an eerie sense of calm numbing her even though she knew she should be very much concerned at the very least, but for some reason there was just nothing there where there should have been fear. Perhaps, it was because she had already been pushed past the brink of her emotional tolerance for bullshit today, perhaps, it was because she was just so tired of being pressured and threatened and dominated by the men in her life – perhaps, she was simply too exhausted and emotionally drained to care. Whatever the reason, she found herself walking on, balancing on that insanely thin line, pushing on like a madwoman, when she should have been very much afraid.
What is wrong with me?
'My lord, I believe I have no idea what you're talking about.'
'Don't feed me that horse-shit.', her king hissed from the other end of the room, and the words pressed out through his clenched teeth were the only sound that cut through the silence as his fingers had stopped twirling the blade in his hand. Looking up, Lothíriel was met with green eyes squinted in anger, fixed entirely on her, and she knew she should have been afraid, she knew she should have been careful, she knew she should have stopped. But she didn't. Instead she found herself pushing on, knowing full well where it would lead them.
'And here I was thinking the Rohirrim didn't hold with deception.', she spoke lazily then, as though she didn't care what it might set in motion, as though she didn't care that she had been found out, as though she didn't care that above all else she should feel guilt. Instead she found that she felt strangely … angry, her insides practically begging for a fight (though whether she wished to win it or lose it, she could no longer truthfully say), 'So, you were spying on me?'
'I wasn't – ', her king started to protest, following the reflex born out of Northern pride to deny all acts – big or small – of dishonour, but then he stopped just as quickly, remembering who he was and who they were and why he had waited for his queen with his famed sword drawn and readily presented. He was a Northerner alright, but he had lived with his wife long enough, had been in the South long enough, to understand when someone was trying to play him, and Éomer decided he would have none of it, 'That's not the point. You were lying to me. You were the one deceiving me.'
At that response – that threat – she couldn't help it – she had to smile. It was neither a smart nor a brave thing to do, but she simply couldn't keep herself from doing it; it was as if her body no longer obeyed her brain, it was as if her feelings no longer listened to her mind. Here she was, a weak, defenceless woman, a traitor in all but the name, provoking her lord and king, pushing him on, as though he couldn't hurt her, as though she didn't know exactly what a warrior such as him was capable of – because she knew very well, he had told her, in the night, in the dark, when he couldn't see the fear in her eyes, when she couldn't see the fear in his eyes. And still, she pushed on, a desperate need in her propelling her to drive herself and him over the edge.
Why am I being like this?
Pushing herself away from the door, she took a step towards her husband, and then another one, and then another, all the while fixing him with an unyielding gaze, tempting him, provoking him, and that smile on her lips never wavered. Oh, yes, he knew, she thought calmly, and though she understood that it should have frightened her to death, should have left her cowering in a corner somewhere, should have left her running for her life, she only stood there before him, waiting. Waiting for what? For him to shout at her? For him to grab her by the shoulders and push her away? For him to plunge that sword right through her neck? Perhaps that was what she wanted. Perhaps that was what she needed. Perhaps that was no more than she deserved.
Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Why can't I stop? Is this what it is to go crazy?
'Explain to me, my lord: in what way exactly did I deceive you?', she crooned then as she slowly folded her arms in front of her chest, her gaze never leaving him as she watched the provocation sink in, just daring him to react, to lash out, to prove her superior composure and his lack of control, and they both knew that at some point he simply would lose his patience and prove to her all the prejudices she and her kind had about the Northern brutes and their quick tempers. But, surprisingly enough, he didn't. Of course, his green eyes might have tightened in silent rage, and there might have been the odd twitch of a vein in his forehead, straining against the effort it took for him to remain calm and composed, and his jaw might have clenched together so hard she thought his teeth would shatter. But other than that, he remained calm – calm as the sea that hid the dangerous currents that would drag anyone down with it who dared to underestimate it – and there was not even a waver in his voice as he answered her question with a lethally calculated cool.
'It's not charity, if it's for the benefit of both parties.'
At his words, Lothíriel closed her eyes and turned away, and for a moment, it was as though the guilt was choking her. It was one thing to know what she had done, to have the certainty of it resound in her own heart like an echo in an empty hall, to look into a mirror and to behold the darkness within herself, and with a smile nonetheless. But it was something else entirely to see her shame and weakness reflected in the eyes of another, and to have it bared now by the one person she had hoped would see only the good in her … well, that was not a thing she would easily bear, but she would bear it all the same. She had wanted to know what he knew, what he thought he knew, and now she did. All she had left to do now, was to see it through to the end.
'All I ever did was for the benefit of the Mark.', she pointed out quietly then, barely more than a whisper, as though knowing quite well what sore point her words might be poking at, that they could now only ever be seen as yet another provocation in his eyes, as though fearing what new wave of wrath her words might unleash. And her fears and concerns seemed to be proven right then. In the blink of an eye her lord and husband jumped up to stand before her, and he was close enough for her to feel his heavy breathing on her face.
'Do you really want to insult me further by lying to me?!', he pressed out through clenched teeth, and she could hear in the strain of his voice how hard it was for him to keep himself in check. But even more telling than his growling voice was the sword he still held in his hand, and though he was shaking from the effort it took him to hold back, his fingers gripped the hilt with such strength and force that his knuckles turned white and she feared the bones in his hand would break under the pressure any second now. Looking up, Lothíriel was met with green eyes – eyes she knew so well – tightened in wild rage, but as those eyes tried to stare her down, she accidentally caught a flash of something else, something more, something quietly hiding behind the fury. Broken trust maybe, and … was that what a broken heart looked like? She wouldn't know, now, would she? She had never had her heart broken before, because her heart had never been whole before.
'It's not a lie. I have never lied to you.', she answered calmly then, her voice soft but determined, and she was careful to walk that thin line between defence and understanding, defiance and reassurance. She tried hard, so hard, to make him believe her words, to have him trust her again, but she could see in his crooked, cruel smirk that he would not fall for her words or charm so easily ever again – and so, she straightened her shoulders and held her head high as she clung to her own truth, even if it was a hollow one, 'And I never said that it wouldn't benefit my home as well.'
'Yeah, you just never pointed it out like that. Half the truth is often a whole lie, as the wise men say.', her king scoffed then, barking a hard laugh that held no real joy or mirth, and she was almost entirely sure she heard him curse under his breath (something along the lines of "fucking politicians") as he turned away to put the sword out of his hands at long last, and she would have breathed a sigh of relief at that, had it not been for the continuously grim mood of her husband that only grew sourer and more sardonic by the second.
'And now your father expects me to do his bidding like a dog to gain favour with the King.', he snorted contemptuously while leaning against the bedpost with his arms crossed before his chest, and for a second that gesture coupled with the image of the bed behind him distracted her so much that she lost her cool there for a moment. Because for a moment that image of him and the bed reminded her of all those sweet memories and moments they had shared in this bed (and another bed and various other places as well) and yet her trip down memory lane was marred by his suddenly so distant and grim demeanour. And she was in fact so distracted by it – of seeing that reminder of a sweet and not so distant past clashing with cold and harsh present, of seeing the conflict between what they could have had and what they had now – that she was quite surprised and blind-sided by his next words, 'And what will he do if I refuse his orders?'
'I – I didn't know – I don't – ', she stuttered haphazardly, scrambling to regain her composure at the jarring shift between her melancholic thoughts from before and the accusatory tone of his question, and in the process she more or less stumbled over the words she wanted to say. And what could she say, really? Overwhelmed by the reflex of guilt, she nearly choked on her apology, and though in any other situation she would have fought harder against the first instinct of shame – as she had been taught and trained to do as the politician she was – she felt that she just could not bring herself to pretend that she had any right to excuse herself or her actions.
'No, no, no. You don't get to do that. You don't get to spin me around again!'
Naturally, as she had expected, her husband, seemed to be of a similar opinion, because he would not even let her finish her stuttering apology before he sprang into action, crossed the distance between them in a few, hard steps and then grabbed her by the shoulders. His hands were not gentle as they held on to her, his nails digging deep into her skin, making it impossible for her to free herself from his grasp – however, she would not have been able to free herself anyway as his green eyes fixed her with a furious intensity. But it was not so much the outrage and wrath she saw in them that had her feeling fear then for the first time in a long, long while – it was the pain and disappointment she read in them, and even something like fear and insecurity. For a moment, she was confused by that expression of fear and insecurity underlying his gaze – because what would a warrior such as him, a man of great anger, be afraid of all of the sudden, and in a fight like this at that? – but then she recalled that for a man of honour nothing was worse than dishonour and betrayal, and that for a man in love nothing was worse than to be betrayed and lied to by the woman he loved. And so she simply let it happen; she simply yielded to his anger and his pain as his hands gripped her with a fury and shook her until she was sure that come morning she would carry dark bruises on her arms – because what else did she deserve? He had every right to be angry with her, to feel hurt by her betrayal, to be distrustful of her words and lies – even if they were the truth, in a way – because what else did she deserve for hurting the man she –
'You knew exactly what you were doing when you were doing it! Now, you might not have known what the repercussions would be when you lured me into this trap, but you knew there would be consequences!', Éomer continued to shout at her as she continued to simply tremble under the deadly glare with which he fixed her, but even though she swore to herself that she would not let him see the pain he was causing her (because a part of her knew that she deserved that), her king must have heard her wince at the force of his grip on her shoulders and just like that he let go of her, as though she were made of embers and he had burned himself just by touching her (and that wouldn't be so far from the truth now, right? Because wanting to be close to her had burned him in the end, down to ash and bone).
Éomer stumbled backwards then, as though the whole of his energy seemed to have left him and all had been poured into his fury and yell, and for a moment he looked only tired and hurt and … and young. For a second only she could read genuine hesitance in his expression, his eyes flitting over her dishevelled appearance and the dark marks that were already appearing on her shoulders, and in his glance she could read something like worry for her and for what he had done, clearly conflicted over his loss of control and that he might have gone too far. She wanted to tell him to not feel sorry for her, she wanted to tell him that he had a right to his anger, she wanted to tell him to continue in his wrath and his yelling and his manhandling, because even though it made her feel like shit, it also felt good to feel like that, because through it she could at least relieve some of the shame and guilt she felt over this whole mess. However, she had no need to say any of this – and she would not have been able to put all of this into words anyway – because her king regained his composure quickly enough, and with it returned his anger and its poison.
'So, tell me, my lovely traitor-queen, what will your lord father do if I refuse his orders?'
And that did the trick. Lothíriel's head, that had hung low until now, with her unable to even meet his gaze, snapped back up, and it was as though a jolt of lightning had just gone straight through her, and the shift in her was instantaneous. And she wasn't quite sure what exactly it had been that had brought on this sudden change in her – was it the deadly expression in his eyes, the mocking tone of his voice, or just his uncompromising views that confirmed all the doubts and misgivings she had had about him in the beginning of their marriage, his sheer unwillingness to even hear her out – but the shift was as jarring as it was forceful. Before she had been sad and hurt, desperate, fearful even, but now she was … she was angry.
Of course, had she been in a less heightened state of emotional turmoil, she would have realised that this sudden anger was neither logical nor inexplicable. It was simply the only coping mechanism she had ever been taught in her upbringing; if the feelings of self-hatred and shame and guilt and self-deprecation simply became too much, she had never been taught how to properly deal with them, instead she had only ever learned how to push them away and to project them onto another, even if only for the sake of self-preservation. If they hurt you, hurt them back, her father had always told her; pitiful pain and guilty shameare a weakness, a passive fancy for the lazy, her aunt Ivriniel had always reminded her, but anger propels us into action, anger makes us strong, anger helps us survive.
And so it was not so surprising then when her whole demeanour changed from meek princess and wife to merciless politician and queen, and the shift had been so sudden, so jarring, that her king seemed to be positively caught off guard by it. Straightening her back to rise to her full height, to appear as impressive and poised and in control as she could possibly present herself to be, the queen's features hardened, her eyes tightening to slits as her mouth thinned to a line sharp enough to cut open hearts with it. But even more so than her demeanour, she steeled her voice and words to sound as spiteful and haughty as they could possibly be, knowing full well how much it would infuriate him (and even his anger she preferred over the painful expression of hurt and disappointment in his eyes that he still tried and failed to hide from her, even now). However, she was not so hypocritical yet as to pretend that she only set out to provoke him just so she wouldn't have to face his pained and disappointed expression – there was a dark thing inside of her that wanted to hurt him because he had hurt her too.
Why am I being like this?
'My father never ordered you to do anything.', she scoffed contemptuously, haughtily, heartlessly, with the arrogance only a person of a life of privilege could possess, pointing out minute details in the word choice as though it would change anything about the underlying issue, as though to say that of the two of them she had enjoyed a superior education and training, making her a lot smarter and refined than him – and perhaps that even was the truth, though it was not what mattered right now. What mattered was that she was intentionally rubbing it in that he had been outplayed and outclassed in every sense of the word, and the arrogant manner in which she dangled his seemingly rustic ways over his head, as though to call him a "brute and barbarian" in all but the name, was hard for him to bear – and she could see that. In the way that his teeth ground together, in the way his jaws clenched, in the way his hands balled to fists, in the way he took deliberately deep breaths to calm himself – her king was practically fuming. And yet she pushed on, relentlessly, mercilessly, foolishly.
Stop! Why can't I stop?!
'My father would never presume such liberty towards a man of royalty.', she added then, looking away, as though to suggest that his very correct assumptions about the prince's requests were exaggerated and foolishly misinterpreted, as though to suggest that any true nobleman would not have made such a fuss about something as trivial as this, as though to suggest that she did not see him as a true king at all. And she could see that her comments got under his skin, his hands shaking with silent fury, but he did not explode as she had expected him to do – what she, perhaps, had even hoped he would do. Instead she saw him practically shrug off his internally boiling rage as he forced himself to unclench his fists and roll back his shoulders, so as to relieve some of that tension that gripped his whole body. He knows, she thought dispassionately, he understands what I'm trying to do – Ulmo save her – he would not make this so easy for her.
'Orders or not, refusal will be our downfall, am I right?', he countered then, choosing to ignore her provocation, forcing himself to remain calm and to not take the bait. But perhaps this new-found motivation to keep his cool had a lot less to do with avoiding a fight, and had a lot more to do with proving that he wasn't the barbarian brute she tried to see him as, or perhaps he simply was too stubborn to give in to her so very obvious attempts at getting him riled up, perhaps he just didn't want to give her the satisfaction of seeing him fall back into his old patterns just so she could prove her point.
Well, two could play this game.
'Then don't refuse.', she said quietly then, though there was a sense of impatience hiding behind those words, and she had chosen her words carefully, knowing full well that it would hit a nerve, because she could see the way he turned away, shaking his head with exasperation, a joyless laughter falling from his lips, and when he turned to face her again, she blanched at what she saw in his gaze then. By now the defiant, cynical smirk had long vanished, instead he stood there, arms akimbo, fixing her with a long and hard glare – but it was not the fury in his eyes that had shocked her so, it was the unexpected emotion hiding behind it. There was pity there, and painful disappointment, but also longing, and, above all else, worry and doubt. He is afraid for me, she thought with no little amount of surprise and disbelief.
A year ago this man would not have hesitated to make the warrior's decision, to do as his stupid honour demanded and to tell her lord father to fuck off and to stick that proposal where the sun didn't shine (and he probably wanted nothing more than to give in to this very impulse and to do just that), but now he did hesitate. Lothíriel was no fool and she would not believe in a fool's lie now – she could tell that he would not make the decision he so desperately wanted to make because he didn't want to risk her well-being, because he didn't want to sacrifice her plans, because … because he didn't want to endanger her. And that realisation, that this impulse of his to protect and safeguard her, even now that the ugly truth was out, despite the act of betrayal he had suffered at her hands, that this impulse was still there … well, it not only spoke volumes of all these feelings she had seen glimpses of here and then (but that he had always held back with for fear of rejection), but also stunned her into complete speechlessness.
What kind of man would sacrifice his honour and pride for a woman?
What kind of king would sacrifice his kingdom for his wife?
A king that was a man in love, she concluded bitterly in her thoughts.
Her father would be so proud and so smug right now.
She had been an utter fool.
But then she was torn out of her gloomy realisation just as suddenly as her king filled the silence with his own fury and a grim laughter that was meant to cover the feelings that she had seen flash through his eyes just a moment ago. Naturally, she could understand the impulse; he was a man used to being strong, and she had unmasked a weakness and caused a wound that no other person before had inflicted in him, and perhaps, like her, he had never learned how to deal with something as natural and simple and dangerous as matters of the heart. And to witness him struggle in vain, to see him pretend not to feel what he so clearly felt, and to suffer for it, made her heart break for him, and for her. In that moment, she wished for nothing more than to be able to just reach out, to pull him into her arms and to swear to him that it had all been nothing but a bad dream, to make them forget, and –
'Ah! Now there's your father talking! I wonder, have you been always his mouthpiece?! Perhaps, I should have listened more carefully to your clever talking, then I would have realised earlier that you only open your mouth so that your father may speak through it.', Éomer snorted contemptuously as he paced up and down the room, his hands running wildly through his golden hair, 'Oh, I'm sure your father thinks he knows all and knows everyone, and everyone is supposed to lick his boots and dance to his tune – and thanks to you, lovely wife, you all but turned me into a serf of his interests!'
By this point the king had already talked himself into a full-on frenzy (the only thing missing was the foam at his mouth and he might have been indiscernible from a wild rabid stallion) – but then he stopped all of the sudden. Out of the sheer blue, from one moment to the next, the king stopped in his wild, aimless pacing, coming to a halt just in front of the bed, and with his back turned to her, she wondered if that had been it, if that really had been all he had to give, if that had been the great outrage of her king with regard to her betrayal. But no, she reminded herself, the only reason this warrior would become calm and still in a fight was because he had just realised that there was something far greater amiss than he had initially anticipated, and with bated breath she waited for her king to say the quiet words that would doom them all.
'And that's what it was all about, wasn't it? That's why he gave you to me?'
Upon his words, Lothíriel closed her eyes and the breath she had been holding escaped her in a silent whimper, and it was only for the hand she had clasped over her mouth that she could actually keep the sound from manifesting itself. A part of her wanted nothing more than to run over to him, put her arms around him and to hold him tight, so that nobody in the world – not even she herself – could hurt him again. Another part of her, however, felt strangely affronted at his words.
That's why he gave you to me.
That's right, the queen thought dispassionately, cynically even, as she wiped the tears that had threatened to spill just now, given away like some prized broodmare and the Horse-Lord gladly took what was given. Her jaws clenched together. He had been a king in need of a wife, he didn't ask questions back then and he didn't care to look twice. Her teeth ground together. He hadn't earned the name Horse-Lord for nothing … how masterfully, charmingly, tenderly he had broken in his favourite new horse. Her hands balled into fists. He was just a man after all … a king, yes, but even a king was just a man.
'He gave you a wife, isn't that what you wanted?'
'You know full well what I mean! Your father never really meant for me to have a wife – all he wanted was to have a spy in my camp, an agent to present his own interests. And you're just so – ', the king thundered as he whipped around with murder in his eyes and it took all her discipline and willpower not to shrink away under that gaze. But his wild yelling ended quickly enough in an angry and frustrated groan, as he simply couldn't find the right words to describe all the ways in which she vexed and confused him in this moment – one short trip to her childhood home and he had learned more disturbing things about her than he had in almost one full year of marriage, 'I don't know you at all, do I?'
'And that idea unsettles you?', the queen spat back at him as she slowly advanced on him, her eyes fixing him with a cold stare, and the king wondered then how often she had used that stare before to put her rivals in their place, to warn off enemies who would dare threaten her, or … people who had made the mistake of underestimating her, 'That I don't fit your idea of a wife? That I would have my own agenda as a person? That your rustic ideas about this whole arrangement do not quite hold up to reality?!'
Stop! Why am being like this? Why can't I stop?!
'A-arrangement?! Do you even hear yourself talking?!', the king threw back at her, trying to regain the upper hand in this fight, trying to remember that he should be the one in fury, trying to comprehend where all that poison seemed to spring from all of the sudden, and he wondered then for how long she had been harbouring these feelings of resentment towards him and if there ever had been any kind of affection to begin with, 'I thought this was a marriage!'
'All marriage is, is an arrangement! All marriage is, is a contract!', the queen shouted then, and for the first time in this fight – and for the very first time since he could recall – did she lose that steel-hardened composure she always clung to so religiously, and then it seemed as though a great dam had been broken, releasing torrents of unchecked feelings, gushing from her like a flood that would sweep away all in its path, 'Don't tell me, you didn't have expectations when you entered this marriage, my lord?! And my expectations … my expectations were the same ones every other woman is tasked to fulfil if she is to live well in our world.'
His queen gave a little laugh but it was so devoid of any smile or mirth that it cut into his heart, but he could tell she wasn't done yet, and so he steeled himself for the rest of her outrage, 'I'm sorry to burst that bubble for you, dear husband, but marriage for us women is not some idle fancy pleasantry on the side next to our main business in life – it is our main business! And unlike you men, this is the only real business we're allowed to have, the only way for us to become active in our own lives, the only reason you men have any use for us at all! Do you think we enjoy being sold like cattle?! Do you think we enjoy being used as broodmares?! Do you – '
And then her mouth snapped shut and just as rashly and abruptly as her rant had started, so did it end. Lothíriel took a deep breathing, trying to calm down again, seeking to regain some of the composure she had abandoned along the way, reminding herself that she was a lady and that she was a queen and that unchecked emotions had never before swayed any argument to her favour before, and it sure as hell wouldn't do so now. And so, she sighed, seemingly letting go of her anger, as she finished her statement in a more poised and controlled manner, more befitting the title and position she represented, 'A marriage is a contract, make no mistake – I was just trying to make the best of the conditions I was dealt with.'
'Is that all our marriage is to you, Lothíriel? A fucking contract?!', Éomer spat back at her after he had recovered from the onslaught of her ranting, and he continued as though he hadn't heard a single word of what she had said, as though they were both talking past one another, as though each spoke a wholly different language now and could no longer – or were unwilling to do so – to understand one other, 'Béma! Fuck! To think that you ever gave a fuck about me?!'
Her king gave off a humourless laugh, bitter and hard around the edges as he fixed her with a contemptuous gaze, looking her up and down as he continued just as contemptuously in his words, 'Did you always just use me for your family? For you revenge plan? Did you laugh behind my back too, like your father and your pirate brother and all those other Southern court cringers?! Did you enjoy making me fall for – '
Lothíriel had heard enough. It had become clear to her that just as he was not willing to listen to her, so was she not willing to listen to him; because despite the damage she had caused and the pain she had inflicted, the trust she had broken, it was just not as simple as that. She had abused his trust, that much was true, but she had never expected him to trust her in the first place, or that she would come to trust him. She had played with his feelings, she would grant him that, but she had never expected to feel for him in return. The choices she had made along the way, had been the only choices she could have made, because she had been given no other choice but to make them. But he could not see that, and perhaps he never would – the choices he had made, had been simple, clear-cut. She, however, had never been allowed to make an easy decision in her life.
'DON'T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME NOW!'
Lothíriel had just turned away to leave towards the door when he strode forward and grabbed her wrist to her whip her back around, and when he forced her to look at him then, she realised that before her stood no longer the king she called husband – before her loomed the warrior now that she had heard so many gruesome heroic tales about. For a moment then she was actually frightened, fearful what he would do, but she had already been pushed too far today and something in her simply snapped.
'You're going to hit me now, like you did with Déor?! Just to make me submit to you?! To remind yourself that you're in control?! That you're a real tough man?!', she spat back with a hiss, and even though she knew she was crossing a line here, she could not help the poison that was dripping from her tongue, 'Go on then – if that's what you need. I won't cry out, I promise – I already know a woman's place in a man's world.'
'What the fuck is wrong with you, woman?! Is that what you think of me?! That I would hurt you?!', he pressed out through his clenched teeth, letting go of her hand as though her very touch was hot as burning coals, and the pain with which he said those words, seeing him practically staggering backwards, his face twisted in anger and hurt – well, she could hardly bear it, and she knew immediately that she had gone too far, but there was now no way to take those words back. What was said could never be unsaid, as the saying went.
'Well, my queen, thank you for telling me the truth.', he scoffed then, a cruel edge settling in his voice, and though there was still pain and shock and sadness writ across his face, he was now all the hard warrior again, grim and merciless, 'I guess I am just a brutish Northern fool then. Yes, a fucking fool who falls for a woman who is apparently incapable of love, a woman who plays him like a fucking puppet on a string. That's what I am: Éomer, king of fools – a love-stricken, savage, incompetent fool!'
He emphasised his last words with a series of punches to the wall and even from her place at the other end of the room she could hear the bones in his hands yield to the hardness of the marble beam. With a growl he jumped back then, shielding his injured hand with his good one, cursing wildly as he stood there: the mighty warrior licking his wounds. It only took her a moment then before she fell into action and walked over to him, reaching for his hand without missing a beat.
'Let me see.', she insisted calmly (though there was a hint of impatience in her tone) when he tried to pull back his hand, and now she was neither wife nor lady, neither politician nor queen – now she was the healer again … a healer that sought to distract herself while trying to cool down her anger still fresh from the fight and still very much boiling beneath the surface.
'What? You're gonna kiss it better?!', he mocked sardonically, the bitter streak still audible in his voice, but Lothíriel only shut her eyes, refusing to engage with his provocation. She did curse under her breath though – or at least, that's what he thought she said. He couldn't be sure, really, whether one could actually curse in the Elven tongue. But despite all her (presumed) cursing he allowed her to lead him along to the divan by the balcony, where they both sat down so she could take care of his injured hand.
For a while then each of them was left to their thoughts. She busied herself with tending to his hand – determining quickly enough that it wasn't broken, only sprained – while he distracted himself from the pain of her treatment by watching her. It was strange really; he had always known that she used to be healer (she had even educated some of the women of Edoras on the higher mysteries of the healing arts) but he had never actually seen her in action before. The king wondered then, as he watched her bandaging his injured hand, how many warriors she had patched up before who had lost control of their temper. And then he mused, how many men she had riled up before, only to tend to them later; how many people she had manipulated and betrayed, only to comfort them and to lull them into a (false) sense of security? Could he really believe that any truth would ever fall from those plush lips? Could he really believe that any true kindness would ever be dealt out with these soft hands? Could he really believe that there would be any love beating for him in that chest, those deliciously slowly rising and falling –
'Tell me then.', Éomer said then, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, though it was not so much a move that sought to deal with the pain in his hand but rather a move that was meant to distract him from the other … very distracting thoughts that so often invaded his mind whenever he looked at his wife. But that had been the very trick, hadn't it? That she would use her feminine wiles to lure him into falling for –
'Tell you what?', she snapped back as she finished up bandaging his injured hand, though the defiant streak in her voice was somewhat lessened by the exhaustion pouring out from her very core. She did look very tired, Éomer assessed then as he beheld the dark rings under her eyes, and he wondered for a second then why he hadn't noticed them until now, but then his line of thinking shifted again – perhaps she and her deft fingers had put pressure on some tender spot – and he mused if betrayal really was tiresome work at all for someone like her?
'Tell me that you love me. Tell me to believe you.', he offered sarcastically as he leaned in closer to watch her react to his provocation, and indeed, the line of her mouth was thinning again just as her patience with him seemed to run thin right now. But he didn't care; he needed to know and he needed to see just how good she could be if she wanted to be, how much of it would be true if she only wanted to make him believe it was true, 'Go on: tell me, do you love me?'
'Do we have to do this now?', she answered with a weak sigh as she examined the result of her healing skills, checking if the bandage was neat and tight (but not too tight) and properly done.
'Just answer the fucking question, woman!', her king hissed then, unwilling to allow her to hide behind her skill set as a healer any longer, pulling his hand from her grasp in one swift motion, but he had underestimated the pain, and not even her perfect bandaging or her healing touch or his furious anger could keep him from wincing in pain on the inside. But Éomer was a great warrior and he had learned to hide all kinds of pain over the years, and this kind of pain would be no different, and even if his voice sounded hoarse and tired, he was sure it had more to do with the pain in his hand than the pain in his heart, 'You owe me that at least.'
'I owe you? And why is that exactly?', she snapped then as her eyes turned to angry little slits and continued to stare him down with barely contained fury; and the king understood immediately that this had definitely been the wrong choice of words right there – because while she did owe him her loyalty, he had never had the right to expect her to love him, and Éomer started to understand that as she went on in her questioning of his expectations, 'Because you have feelings for me, now I need to have feelings for you, too, is that it? You expect me to beg mercy on bended knees, to ask forgiveness by offering you my heart on a silver platter, simply because you think I betrayed you in that disturbed fucking paranoia of yours?!'
'You did betray me.'
To her utter surprise, he remained calm and precise, and though his voice was hard and unforgiving, and his nostrils flared in his attempt to keep a cool head, she realised that he understood perfectly well what she was trying to do, her secret goal hidden behind her provocations as clear to him as the blinding light of the falling sun at the horizon. And what was more, though she could see that his whole being chafed against the restraint, he was fully committed to not give in to the easy way out she offered by stoking his fury. Perhaps, he was simply too proud or too stubborn. Perhaps, he simply understood the choking burden of self-loathing all too well. Or perhaps, he simply cared too much for her to allow her to do that to herself, to him, to them.
'I did what I had to do, to survive.', the queen conceded then, feeling, suddenly, not so much like a queen any longer as her voice grew small and her gaze shied away from him and as she continued in her explanation, 'What I did – it was no more and no less than what any other Southern wife would do with her Southern husband … for her family.'
'Well, in case it has slipped your mind, dear wife, I am not a Southern husband – so stop trying to turn me into something I'm not.', the king scoffed then, the smile on his lips grim and short-lived as he ground his teeth, fighting against the impulse to comment on the stupidity of Southern marriages. Instead he simply let the words hang in the air between and she knew that with them he had meant more than a mere dismissal of Southern ideas of what a husband should be like, or what a Southern marriage should be like. They both knew she was trying to stir him into a rage that would effectively end this discussion, grant her the absolution his anger would provide and free him to hate her in peace. And perhaps she was also doing this just so she could see her own prejudices confirmed, to poke the beast and to watch the savage warrior fly into a mindless rage, proving her right … with her collected calm, her unshaken poise, her cold superiority.
She would like that, wouldn't she?
That ice-cold queen of his heart.
To see him lose control. To opt for the easy way out. To make him yet another puppet of her clever manipulations?
Well, fuck that. He was Marshall and he was King. He had never backed down from any fight before and he wouldn't fucking start now.
'And that other part? That's horseshit, too. You never had to do any of that. You were always safe with me.', Éomer spat back quietly, and there was anger behind those words, an unwillingness even to allow her to hide her betrayal behind the mask of the desperate, hopeless plaything of more powerful men, who had been given no choice but to follow orders – because there was no way in this world that this woman before him was a plaything of sorts. He himself could tell a thing or two about the power she held over other people, the way she could entice and manipulate, the way she could sway everyone and everything to her side. She was his queen, after all.
But, of course, there had been a time when she had not commanded every room and every person with her presence; a time when she had been shy, reserved, fearful even, when she had remained quiet for fear of being laughed at or mocked, when she had kept her distance for fear of being touched – a time when she had even feared him … because he was her husband. And Éomer remembered that too – and that's why his words held as much as warmth as they held cold. But surely, she understood the loyalty he felt towards her, that he had proven time and time again, that there was nothing or no one in the world that he would not protect her –
'Ah yes! Of course! How could I have ever doubted you! Your affection and care for me was so tangible in those first few months!', his queen scoffed then, laughing artificially and cruelly, effectively pulling him out of his own thoughts of naive self-adulation and back into the here now, where she would confront him with some cold and hard facts … as she saw them.
'How could I ever forget the nights and days I spent lonely and afraid?! Or the contempt for all my little fancies? Or the grim silences?', she crooned in saccharine sweetness then, her face mocking him by adopting an expression of a woman serenading in love, but her words were far from any declaration of affection, and at the end even that sugar-sweet smile was gone, replaced by bared teeth and squinted eyes befitting the viciousness of her words, 'Or the way you took fucking advantage of me?!'
The queen hurled those accusations at him with little care for any unwritten rules of decorum among noble spouses she might have breached or what wounds they might inflict, but of course, she knew and she understood quite well how much she hurt him with those words and in this moment, but she was too stubborn and too riled up to care for any of that. However, a part of her did care, no matter what she told herself in the momentum of passionate anger; a part of her understood very well that before her sat not only a king, not only her husband, but also a warrior capable of deeds of great violence, and for a moment she did fear that he would explode – but again, he remained calm and collected in the face of her provocations, even though he was breathing hard through his nose and in his eyes flashed something oddly familiar.
'I'm not a kind man, Lothíriel. I know that and you know that – I have never pretended otherwise. And it's true, I'm not the man for grand romantic gestures – I never was – but I do … I do care for you in my own way, and I did show it, as best I could.', the king answered slowly, emphatically, with every word chosen carefully to express the very thoughts of his mind and the very feelings in his heart. And even though a bard of the Southern courts might have sung more beautifully of the depths of his love, the king used the words that he had, as he could neither sing nor rhyme – but even though his heart spoke, it was not a language made up entirely of tenderness, 'I'm sorry it was not enough for you – but I never made you do anything you didn't agree to.'
'How could I have agreed to something I didn't fully understand yet?!'
'You were already a woman when I married you, Lothíriel, not a girl – let's leave the horses in the fucking stables, shall we?!', Éomer commented then with no little amount of annoyance as he rolled his eyes and choked back a bitter chuckle; this conversation was clearly getting quickly out of hand and was already giving him a massive headache without her stooping so fucking low with her overdramatisation, 'You were old enough to understand marriage – and you agreed to the match, remember?!'
'Oh, yes, I agreed. Because for a woman it is always that simple, right? She agreed, she said yes, so it means I must love you and be a happily married woman?', the queen snapped back, hissing the words through clenched teeth almost, but then, it seemed, as though for a moment her anger transformed into real sorrow and regret and as she continued her words pierced that hardened shell of his and managed to stir up old and bitter questions, 'I was traumatised when I came to you! I was given no other choice but to come to you!'
'I didn't know about that, Lothíriel, alright? You didn't tell me until it was already too late, remember? So, don't fucking blame me for something I didn't know!', the king hissed then as he jumped up, turning away, pacing, doing everything and anything so he wouldn't have to look at his wife and see the truth and accusation in her eyes that a small, black part of his conscience had known all along and perhaps had only chosen not to see out of reasons that had little to do with honour or duty and a lot more to do with selfish passions and an oh so human heart. But his queen knew no mercy and she was as cold and hard and unyielding as the sea as she scoffed at his excuses and his human weaknesses.
'Oh, that makes it so simple for you, doesn't it? That you didn't know? That you can hide behind your ignorance?', she said with a grim smile, and though there was bitterness in her voice, there were also tears in her eyes, though whether they were made of sadness for her own losses or anger over her exploitation at the hands of men, one could not say – and perhaps, there was more to it than that, perhaps they were tears for both of them and for the happiness they just could not find, and perhaps that was it what made her words hard and cold, 'Tell me: what's the real reason you didn't know? Did you even care to find out what was going on with me? Did you care at all? Or were you just happy to finally have a good hole to stick your cock in?!'
'Damn you, woman, watch your fucking mouth!', the king thundered then, whipping around all of the sudden, closing the distance between them in a blur, grabbing her by the shoulders and wrenching her up. And for a moment, as she stood before him, held so completely in his grasp, with his fingers boring into the flesh of her upper arms and his eyes mad with despair staring into her very soul, the queen understood at long last that no amount of hateful words and no act of provocation – no matter how deceitful or treacherous or infuriating – would ever be able to make him hate her enough for her to feel good again. All she had accomplished was to hurt the one person who would have dared to love her completely. Once again she had miscalculated. Once again she had been a fool.
Her king let go of her then and she felt the lack of his grip keenly as she swayed on her feet and swayed where she stood, feeling strangely hollowed out, as though a giant void had opened up inside her to swallow her whole. And as she sank down on the divan, sitting there, numb and overwhelmed, she heard her husband, who sat next to her, his figure hunched over, his face in his hands, his voice as broken as the words that staggered out of his mouth in a desperate rush.
'Fuck, Lothíriel, I know I fucked up! I know I was a shitty husband, I don't need you to tell me that too! But I tried, fuck, I tried! I did my best, even if it wasn't good enough for you – even when I knew it could never be good enough for you! But I tried, Béma help me, I tried … '
And then he reached for her again, his hands grabbing her by the shoulders, pulling her out of the numb state she sought to retreat to, leaving her no place to hide from him or the pain she had caused them both. He was almost crying at this point, his face twisted in a mixture of pain and rage and something else, something far deeper, something far greater, and the insinuation of it made her shiver in his grasp, and though she tried to close her eyes and tried to close off her ears as well, she could not stop the desperate words that were spilling from his feverish lips.
'Dammit, Lothíriel, do you really not understand what I feel for you?! Because your father was right: I would lay down my crown and my throne and my fucking kingdom at your feet, if you asked it of me! I love you, for Béma's fucking sake, and call me crazy, before today I thought you might love me too.'
'I – ', she tried to speak then, tried to say all the things she wanted to say in this moment, but she was too overwhelmed by her own complicated feelings. It was not like he had never told her he loved her before; at night, in the dark, in the heat of pleasure, in the moments between waking and sleeping, when he thought she couldn't hear him, when she could pretend she didn't hear him. But never like this, never so plainly, so all out in the open, so raw, so much in a way that she could not deny it any longer.
'You still won't say it, will you?', he asked weakly then, the words coming out in a breath and a laugh that was born out of desperation as much as of mad longing. There were tears in his eyes, and she was close to tears herself now – all she had to do now was to give in and all would be lost and all would be well … it was all she had to do and yet she could not bring herself to do it. Was it pride? Stubbornness? Self-loathing? It didn't matter; she kept quiet and was determined to remain so. And her king, he understood that too, understood that she would not give in, and she could see the exact moment he came to that realisation because the tears in his eyes first turned to ice and then turned to fiery embers.
'Fuck it.', he simply cursed then and with a flash his fingers were in her neck, pulling her close, and then his lips were on mouth opened in surprise, and for a moment she did play with the idea of pushing him away and telling him to go fuck himself but she had been through too much pain and hurt and anger today already, and she leapt hungrily at the chance to feel good. For only a second she had been frozen in shock, but then she sprang into action and there was no hesitation, no thinking in her movements, only instincts, only feelings. Her finger wound themselves through his mane, pulling him close, pulling him even closer, and there was no gentleness in her touch any longer; only hunger, only desperation, a wild craving that longed to be satisfied at whatever cost.
Somehow, at some point, and for some reason, she was in his lap then, with her hips straddling him and his huge paws of hands on her arse, keeping her pressed tightly against him as he kissed her and she kissed him and until their kisses were no more than lips and teeth and tongue and until they had no breath left in their lungs. When she came up again to gasp for air, his hand in her hair pulled her head back, exposing the long line of her neck, and he came right after her, his mouth latching onto her skin, licking and biting and leaving kisses on her neck and breasts that looked more like bite marks than any remnants of a lover's kiss.
It was easier like that, easier to pretend that nothing else mattered and that nothing around them existed; it was easier to forget – and they so wanted to forget – what she had done to him and what he had done to her. In that moment they lived only for the pleasure their touch could bring each other; love and loss and loyalty and betrayal, none of that mattered; in that moment, they could desperately, blissfully, stubbornly pretend that he was hers and she was his.
A sound pulled her out of her fantasy then as he ripped her dress at the hem to gain access, and already his fingers played with her, going for her weak points, going for the sweet spot, already he was trying to take control, but she would have none of it, she wouldn't let him, not this time. Pushing his hands away, she sought to gain the upper hand again, to reclaim some of that power – all of that power – in their struggle of an encounter, and when he tried to reach for her once more, his head moving forward so his mouth could capture her lips in yet another savage kiss, her hands cupped his face with an almost brutal force, keeping him at bay. But as she held him there in between the frame of her hands, lips swollen from feral kisses, teeth bared in hungry intent, green eyes widened in primal passion, she found something in the expression of his face that she had not prepared herself to meet head-on: the look of a man desperately, helplessly, violently in love.
Lust she had expected to find, and lust she could have handled – after all, her aunt Ivriniel had taught her more than just court etiquette and intrigue – but in the face of love all her cool assessment and clever tactics were useless. He had told her that he loved, sure, but knowing was not seeing and now … now she saw it all, and now she understood. Before she had tried to provoke him, to infuriate him, perhaps even to make him hate her, just so she could free them both from the burden of guilt and self-loathing, just so she could make things so much simpler for them, but she realised then that no matter how much the anger burned inside of him now, no matter how much she would push him to hate her, his love for her would always be stronger than that.
A sudden movement tore her out of her shocking realisation then, and it was only just in time, because now he strained against her grip so he could rush forward again, so he could reclaim some of that power she had taken from him, so he could kiss her again and destroy all the semblance of control she tried to cling to. The grip of her hands tightened and she had to use all of her strength to keep him from pulling her towards him again or rather to keep herself from falling into his embrace, willingly surrendering. She knew if she surrendered now, she would also surrender that last shred of integrity and honour she still called her own.
She had betrayed this man who loved her with every fibre of his being, who loved her despite all the darkness she possessed and despite all the sins she had committed. She had abused the trust of the man who would love her even if he had every right to hate her. She had taken that love – that pure, tender, heartfelt affection – and turned it into shame. She alone had done that and nothing that anyone could say or do would change that. She was a hateful woman but she was not so shameless yet and would not stoop so low as to love him back – she did not deserve his love (and perhaps never would) and would not allow herself to feel it. Too great was the fear to open herself to him this way, only to be disappointed in the long run, when his love for her would run out – because, surely, it was only a matter of time when he would come to his senses and see her for the monster she truly was? The monster that would sacrifice his honour and his freedom, if only so she could gain her goals, if only so she could achieve what she wanted, if only so her father would turn a blind eye to her doings …
Better to cut herself off now, better to cut him off, better now than later, she told herself – later, when it would be too late to survive. But all her intricate pathways of logic winding itself through that mess and chaos of her heart did not lessen the pain she felt over what she knew she had to do – it only made it worse. And yet, she welcomed that pain with open arms like an old companion of hers. That pain of forsaking him and the love he promised would be her own burden to bear, and it was no more than she deserved for deceiving the man she … the man she … the man she –
With a sound made up as much of pain as it was of regret she pushed herself away from him and staggered backwards, only to come to a halt several feet away from him. Staring at him wide-eyed, she saw the look of utter confusion on his face and it slowly but surely managed to cut through the fog of passion still boiling in his blood. For a moment then it seemed as though he wanted to reach out, to call her back into his arms and to him but he dropped his arm quickly enough when he beheld the way she took a step back and shook her head. And then it was as though his heart sank as well, all the hope draining from his face, leaving him forsaken and forlorn – heartbroken.
'I've destroyed us.', she whispered under her breath then, and it was an almost quiet admission of a jarring truth. Tears burned in her eyes as she looked at this man who would have loved her completely and with everything he had; this man who had given her his trust, who had given himself over to her fully – this man who would have been hers, had she only been his.
For a moment, they remained as they were: out of breath, shell-shocked, unable to break out of their frozen state – and then she was gone. With a little cry she turned and ran towards the antechamber and disappeared behind the bang of the smooth, wooden door, to not be seen again. But even so, despite the wooden barrier between them, her crying could be heard from the other side of the door, and even as he let his head fall into his hands, the king could not will away the sobbing and the tears of his queen, and the heart-wrenching sound would not leave his ears and his mind for a very long time.
FUN FACT #1: There was no way in the world I would let either of my fuckers get away with the shit they pulled. Karma's a bitch and people need to get called out for their bullshit.
FUN FACT #2: Lothíriel really has a bit of an inferiority complex, which, however, is coupled with some very unhealthy dosage of coping mechanisms. Not only is she afraid that she doesn't deserve to be loved, but also she fears the pain that would follow if the person she would open herself up to love would turn from her. And so, of course, in her logic, she tries everything and anything in between to sabotage herself. I think it was said best on The Witcher: "To save oneself a lot of hurt with a little pain now". I can so relate to that woman. It pains me to admit it but pushing people away has always been my go-to coping mechanism as well.
FUN FACT #3: This story has become a veritable pain-fest and there will be some more tragic feasting to come before we finally get some sweet dessert and some well-deserved happy-ending.