I AM BACK.

I'm so sorry, I know it's been like a month ... two months? What can I say other than sorry?

Consider the monster-length of this chapter my official offer of amends.

Thanks for everyone who is still sticking with this story! You guys rock!

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

29. … and the tide rushes in

Like a fish out of water.

Shaking her head Lothíriel could not help but smile at the image of her Northern king walking up and down the patio, parading around like an unwilling peacock. It was the second day of their stay at Tol-en-Naur, and it was the day of the funeral in fact (which would be held in the afternoon), and her lord and husband had been forced to try on different Southern mourning garbs for the better part of the morning. Standing close by were her brothers Erchirion and Elphir, and while Elphir was at least attempting to give good advice and to help her husband put on the garbs in the correct manner, Erchirion was simply enjoying the show and cracking joke after joke at the Northerner's expense.

After yet another crude joke, Éomer at last seemed to lose his patience with her teasing brother as she could see him ripping off the night-blue sash and throwing it to the ground while stomping over to Erchirion like a crazed stallion, champing with rage. The king had already seized the mariner by the collar – Lothíriel bit her lip, wondering whether her husband was already coming to blows with her family – when Elphir (always the negotiator!) stepped in and gently pushed both men apart. Now, she couldn't quite hear what any of them was saying as her oldest brother played mediator but she could have sworn that taunts ("Blondie!") and insults ("Fish-face!") were exchanged. Of course, Elphir, being the calm anchor that he was, managed to ease even her husband's anger, though the admonishment he offered Erchirion was only mildly successful as she could see Erchirion laughing so hard he slapped his thighs and nearly doubled over.

Lothíriel would have expected her lord to explode all over again at this insolence but instead he simply chose to throw his hands up in the air and to turn his back on this infuriating fashion show with the full intention of putting it behind him as yet another Southern idiosyncrasy at which he would fail, much to the amusement of the Southerners around him. It was only thanks to her oldest brother's intervention that Éomer didn't get very far and was instead coaxed back with a lot of persuasion. Being the oldest brother definitely had its perks; however, the quiet authority Elphir possessed had never really been of much use with regards to his own brothers who had never missed an opportunity to tease him mercilessly for his subdued demeanour – however, the newest brother seemed a lot more open to this.

To her utmost surprise, Éomer allowed himself to be led back to the middle of the patio, and even while she could see her jovial brother already coming up with new ways to provoke her king, bowing so low she thought he would try and kiss the Northerner's boots next, her husband remained astonishingly calm this time and only rolled his eyes in annoyance. He even stretched out his arms to indicate that he was ready for another round of fashion show and, under the instructions of his new brothers-in-law, the king slowly turned around in a circle while they were both commenting on it with varying degrees of honesty and usefulness. Because while Elphir nodded in his typical sombre manner, brows furrowed in deep contemplation of the king's new looks, Erchirion could not help but make fun of it by picking up the sash from the ground and dancing around with it while fluttering his eyelashes (like he'd seen it done a hundred times in some brothel or another) and flipping his hair back in the most dramatic of ways.

Of course, they all knew this was yet another jab at the king's Northern manners, since in the South it was custom that only women wore their hair this long or this openly. Southern men's hair never exceeded the length of the shoulder and more often than not it was tied up more or less neatly. So, naturally, such an insinuation of unmanliness could not go unanswered, and though she could not quite understand the retort her husband flung back at her brother, it seemed to be enough to make him reconsider and laugh at himself for a change. Elphir, as per usual, could only shake his head over the strange bonding of both these strange men.

After that it seemed as though things were going back to business as usual. Elphir snatched the sash from Erchirion and held it up to himself to demonstrate the correct manner of binding and wearing it, though he seemed dissatisfied with the look of it when Éomer added it to his own outfit once again. Perhaps that would explain then that from one moment to the other Lothíriel was shocked to see that her lord and husband simply shrugged and pulled the toga over his head, leaving him more or less half-naked.

With eyes widened in astonishment, Lothíriel watched as her Northern husband handed the toga back to her her oldest brother with a calmness and peace of mind as if he had all the time in the world, as though he really did not care at all that he was standing in the middle of the palace patio in only his breeches or that the patio was surrounded by hundreds of windows and that through any one of them more than just the curious, hungry eyes of his wife and queen could sneak a peek. But no, the Lord of the Riddermark stood there in all his patience and his glory while discussing at length what mourning garment would suit him best. Of course, her brothers were no help here either as they both merely pointed at themselves, puffing out their chests and showing off their own outfits as the only suitable one, leaving her horse-lord to look from one to the other and back again.

Lothíriel, meanwhile, had forced herself to look away, focusing on her hands, the ribbons of her robe, the patterns on her front, that one stubborn little thread that had come undone – anything, basically, just so she wouldn't leer at the half-naked form of her husband down there in the patio. It was unbecoming of her, scandalous even, not to say downright inappropriate: for a married lady to lust after a man on the day of her aunt's funeral, now, that was most certainly not acceptable behaviour for a faithful worshipper of Ulmo. But then again, she mused, the many tales of the Sea-Lord's bastards had never shied away before from painting him as anything other than a lecher, so, surely, the Father of the Waves would not mind if his faithful worshipper sought innocent pleasures and comfort ogling at the image of a half-naked man. And what a sight it was indeed!

Fumbling around sheepishly with the sleeves of her robe, Lothíriel brought up just enough courage to lift her gaze again and to look outside the window. Below her in the middle of the patio her husband stood, arms held up high to hold up a long black toga for him to wear and, by the Gods, he took his time as he considered the garment, leaving her with more than enough time to appreciate the way the muscles in his back moved fluidly under tanned skin. Soon enough the sight had her gripping the window sill when she saw him fling the toga back to her brother, the muscles of his arms working together quite nicely to remind her of the strength with which these arms had held her. And blushing in the hardest of reds memories soon followed of what it felt like to touch that skin and grip that flesh, and what it felt like to be buried under such a glorious mountain of muscles.

Gasping quietly, the queen felt her breath go short as a familiar heat pooled into her lower abdomen, making her wonder when exactly she had become such a wanton hussy. Closing her eyes, she tried to calm herself again, trying to find some of that famous poise she had flung out of the window along with her manners and dignity. But closing her eyes only made it so much worse; unbidden images flashed before her inner eye, of days and nights past, when she had spent hours and hours losing herself in that body her husband was still so carelessly parading around for all the palace to see. However, when she opened her eyes again, in the hopes of saving herself from the teasing images her treacherous mind conjured up, she realised that from here on out, things could not get any better, they could only ever get worse.

Looking up to her window with a curious expression on his face, still shamelessly half-naked and arms akimbo, was none other than her lord and husband, Éomer himself. With a sense of mortified embarrassment, Lothíriel watched then as her king followed the path her gaze was taking, considering his broad, naked chest for a moment before looking upon again with a mischievous smile and a challenging wink of his own. With a little squeak and eyes widened in shame and terror, the queen jumped away from the window to hide in the shadow next to it, her eyes snapping shut as she spent entirely too much time the next few minutes on calming her breathing and her nerves from the shameless spectacle she had allowed herself to become entangled with.

Of course, her behaviour had been more than just inappropriate, and in more ways than one might think, because it was one thing to ogle at her husband in this shameless manner, but it was something else entirely to allow such intimacy back into their relationship, after … after she had fucked it all up. Yesterday's conversation was still fresh on her mind, and she still couldn't rightly say what had possessed her to pour out her heart like this to him – it must have all been simply too much for her to keep a handle on that composure as she had been taught to do and so she had simply lost control. But she had regained that control since then – or so she had hoped (though her voyeuristic escapade just now seemed to point to the contrary) – and was hell-bent on holding on to it. They were still angry with each other and they still hadn't come to a satisfying conclusion regarding their recent standstill – everything was still very much decidedly undecided. So, yes, she might be shameless enough to leer at her husband with lustful eyes, but she was not so shameless yet to pretend that everything was already forgiven and forgotten.

'What's going on, Lothíriel?'

The question tore her out of her wildly conflicting thoughts and just like that her eyes snapped open, focusing on the source of the voice which belonged to none other than her brother Amrothos, and for a mortified second she dreaded that he was actually referring to her unabashed ogling at half-naked men, but then he dispelled her suspicions in his typical insolent manner, 'I mean, between you and your Northern stallion?'

'It's none of your business, Amrothos.', she snarled then as she rolled her eyes at yet another one of his many derogatory nicknames for her husband, and just like that she pushed herself off the wall to walk over to him. Her favourite brother was lounging lazily enough on a divan, both arms stretched out on the backrest like the wings of a swan and with his legs dangling languorously off the furniture; however, she would not make the mistake of taking his casual demeanour for a guarantee of lazy intuition as well. It was just a cover, after all, and one he maintained meticulously to keep the upper hand even while people were underestimating or disregarding him.

Underneath all that happy-go-lucky exterior was a man intuitively aware of his surroundings, registering even the most minute changes in her posture, gesture and face. He wouldn't miss a thing, even if she tried to hide it from him. But why should she? He was her brother after all. Shouldn't she be able to be honest with him? To confide in him? But then again, Amrothos had never been able to warm up to her husband, and he had never made a secret out of his dislike for the man – of course, she had always thought it to be nothing more than a brotherly reflex but perhaps there was more to it than that.

'Did he hurt you?', he asked then, pulling her out of her thoughts, and had she not been sitting down the moment the question came up, allowing her to mask her surprise, she was sure her face would have betrayed it. He had been serious when he'd asked that question, that much she could tell from the tone of his voice alone, and it was so rare for him, ever, to be serious – all her life she had known her brother to be a mischievous joker and a prankster, which, however, made the few times he actually got serious all the more potent. Crossing her arms in a subconscious effort to hide the bruises on her arms from the fight she had had with her husband (bruises her brother would not have been able to see anyway, but in her hyper-aware state she did not think of that), she picked the only answer that made sense to her in that moment.

'No.'

Amrothos seemed to mull over her answer for a few seconds and she wondered if he actually believed her; she could feel his eyes on her, knowing that he was searching her face for any signs of falsehoods. She knew he would find none – she had always been much better at this game than he would ever be – but she became uncomfortable all the same. But then he only shrugged it off and the tension from before was just a vague memory as leaned back with a mischievous smile, returning to his usual jovial self as he winked at her and asked, 'Did you hurt him?'

He had meant it as just another one of his jokes, she was pretty sure of that, but still she couldn't help the way she flinched inwardly at the sheer truth of that statement, and it was only thanks to her rigorous training and iron-clad poise that she managed to hide her shock. So, instead of staring at him wide-eyed with the expression of a person who had been seen right through, she turned her head slowly, fixing him with a dead glare before rolling her eyes in the most dramatic fashion. And it worked: he laughed, and because he laughed, she had to laugh, too, and for a few moments at least, the world felt right again.

'Well, perhaps, I should go and have a little chat with your husband then, perhaps he'll be more forthcoming.', Amrothos threw in then, his voice still hiccuping from his laughing fit, before growing more sombre by the second, 'Perhaps I'll take my trident and my crew and leave him with a Southern gift of – '

'No!', she cried instinctively, flinging around to her brother to stop him in whatever way she could, but when she was facing him then, she only needed to take one look at his smug smile and raised eyebrow to know that she had wandered into a well-made trap. Of course, he had only been joking – what else could she have expected from Amrothos? But she knew her realisation came too late, and even if she smoothed out her facial expression with the cool mask of the politician, she didn't doubt for a second that he had seen more than enough to recognise the fear and anger in her eyes and the concern flooding from her heart, and not even her magnificent poise could erase that.

'Really, Amrothos? Not even you could be so stupid as to risk a diplomatic incident.', she continued then, making sure her voice sounded as casual and unimpressed as possible while she rearranged her braid and smoothed out the wrinkles in her robe, 'But if you're so eager to make a fool of yourself, go ahead, be my guest – but don't come running if my king gives you a good old Northern thrashing.'

'What? You think I can't take him?!'

'He's a warrior king, Amrothos – not one of your little Corsair pirates.', she shot back with a challenging glint in her eyes, and even if she did not feel at all like bantering right now, it had been worth it, even if only to see that smug grin blown off his face. And indeed, her brother had the good sense to at least pretend to be intimidated by the prospect of meeting her husband in a real fight, though the fearful expression on his face only lasted for so long before he burst into another round of heartfelt laughter. Oh, the fool's bravery, she thought full of loving annoyance as she watched her dearest brother double over in a fit of laughter, and she wondered then if he would ever change or if he would forever try and laugh in the face of danger? The missing fingers on his hand were only proof enough that no one – not even those with the fool's luck – were invincible, even if they thought themselves to be. Sooner or later their deeds and boasts would catch up with them, and then? Well, she knew exactly what fate awaited the reckless and the careless, the question was just, what fate awaited the heartless and the hopeless?

'What's going on, Lothíriel?', her brother asked then, pulling her out of her increasingly sombre thoughts, and even while she was still trying to piece together how quickly that joker could have gone from a laughing fit to one of his rare, serious moods, she already chided herself for her own carelessness, because, of course, it would be just like her brother to lull her into a false sense of security by his jovial act, just to pull the rug out from under her with his genuine concern and care – yes, indeed, it took a fool's luck to trap a fool in a fool's trap.

'Now, I know you keep telling me that everything is fine, and normally, I would not press you for answers as it's not my place to push you. But I am your brother, so don't expect me to just stand idly by … and not care.', he explained, his usually so jovial voice initially calm and controlled, but when she refused to meet his gaze or even acknowledge his words, he grew more agitated, more challenging, and she knew it was designed to draw her out of her reserve, and she knew she couldn't let herself be baited, no matter the narrative of truth he decided to spin.

'You know, you surprised me. And that's saying a lot – not many people ever managed to surprise me, but you … ', he went on to say, his head falling back against the backrest as he closed his eyes and gave a little laugh she had heard him use before – with his opponents in the fighting ring, meant to throw them off their guard, 'You changed. That woman I welcomed back a few weeks ago was not the sister I had to let go over almost a year ago, to marry some brute from the North and to become a queen of the land. That time you spent with him, that changed you. And if I hadn't thought it to be impossible, I could have sworn that you were happy … that you were happy with him and because of him.'

'But for a week now the two of you move around each other like ghosts. So, what happened?', he asked once more, this time with more urgency, his whole body language demanding an answer as he turned towards her, one hand reaching out towards her, only to pull it back in the last moment. Perhaps, he saw her flinch at the prospect of a comforting touch (not that she deserved that, or so she told her self repeatedly), having his heart break for her, or perhaps, he was simply fed up with her ignoring him, but whatever it was, it was enough to have him throw up his hands in exasperation, snapping at her, 'Sister, how can I help you if you won't let me?'

'You can't help me!', she exploded then, turning to him, her whole body and soul breaking under the pressure of refusing her brother the answers he needed to ease his concern for her, and it had always been like that between them; if one were in pain, the other would feel it too, and even if one could bear it in silence, the other could not – in that regard, they had always been like twins almost. So, to see him now looking at her with pleading eyes, eyes telling her to ease both their pain, if only for his sake, and then having to deny him, well, it was enough to break her heart all over again, and she could hardly keep that out of her voice as she begged him to leave it be, 'Please, brother, this isn't something you can help me with. Not this time.'

'No, I won't accept that.', he insisted then, shaking his head, and all she could do then to escape his expectant gaze was to lean forward and to bury her face in her hands, trying to shield herself, but she could feel that intense gaze resting on her all the same. And who was she kidding here? She had been a fool to believe that she could keep this thing between them quiet, she had been a fool to believe she could ever hide from Amrothos – because unlike her other brothers, he and she had always been the same, and perhaps, that was only to be expected from two siblings so close in age, who had always amounted to little more than the runt of the litter. And what did the lonely and rejected have, if not each other? Perhaps, it was that bitter truth that led her to cave in at long last, or perhaps, her heart had merely looked for an excuse to finally be able to unburden itself.

'He thinks I betrayed him.', she brought herself to say then, and that was all she could do: say the words, but she couldn't bear looking at him as she said them; too great was the fear that even her closest brother, her twin in almost every sense of the word, would condemn her for her actions as well. And waiting with baited breath, it seemed as though her fears would come true, as her brother slowly leant forward, and with his elbows propped up on his knees, the prince seemed to find his fingers very important all of the sudden, fumbling around with them, checking under the nails for dirt, and somehow there was always dirt to be found even on the cleanest of hands.

'Well, did you betray him?', he asked after a long moment, his nails and fingers long forgotten as he stared off into the distance, and there was something in his voice – that particular tone in a person's voice that tried to appear neutral and non-judgemental when really they were not. Was her brother silently judging her? Is that why he was so curt in his questioning? Never in all her life would she have expected Amrothos to judge her, as he was most certainly not the most innocent of people either and they had always, always been loyal to one another, even if not to anything or anyone else. But perhaps she was only imagining things, seeing shadows where there were none. After all, he had not asked her why she had betrayed her husband – he had had the sensitivity to question the validity of her statement. Or perhaps that would serve her just right, to be abandoned even by the last person she had believed to be true to her?

'He thinks that I did – and in his eyes that's all that matters.', she concluded matter-of-factly before she moved to sit back, leaning against the backrest with a last defeated sigh, making it abundantly clear that it was not so important whether or not she had actually committed an act of betrayal, but rather that her husband and king no longer trusted her word as his wife and queen. After all, even the smallest things could throw the largest shadows, and before the light of the truth, the most ghastly shadows may yet appear, and even if the shadowy figures they showed were not there at all, the shadow of doubt had been cast all the same. Amrothos, she was sure, understood this very well, the machinations of tall tales and inflated truths, the co-dependency of what was true and what was known; that was all quite known to him after all and had, in fact, served him quite well in his reputation as a swash-buckling pirate.

'So, what exactly is the nature of this supposed betrayal?', her brother asked then as imitated her posture by sitting back, but even though he was leaning his head back against the backrest like a relaxed kitten in the sun, giving off all the vibes of a laid-back and relaxed person, she could tell that he was actually a lot more interested than he liked to appear, but seeking to uncover the truth from her with a lot more subtlety and passive aggressiveness this time, 'Let me guess: the grain shipments from Lebennin? A desolate grass kingdom that would not survive without our blessed lord's generosity. And what did our prince ask in return, I wonder? Is it that business with the mysterious meeting in the prince's study some two weeks ago?'

'You weren't invited to that mysterious meeting.', she pointed out slowly then, the hairs in her neck standing up as the familiar tug in her stomach warned her to be suspicious, giving her a pretty good idea that Amrothos wasn't just making any wild guesses here out of nowhere, so he must have gotten his information from somewhere, and that feeling churning in the pit of her stomach gave her a pretty good clue where exactly he had gotten those information from. So, when he confirmed her suspicions then, she wasn't exactly sure whether to laugh in superiority that she had been right all along or to growl in frustration at his lack of tact there, 'No, true. But I have eyes and ears, do I not?'

'Fucking pirate.', she mouthed then as she crossed her arms before her chest, not exactly compelled to join in her brother's mischievous laughter this time – as it felt very much like he was laughing at her here – and for some reason her sulky reaction reminded her of a certain warrior-king from the far away North. Ulmo save her, she had spent entirely too much time in the North among Northerners already – next thing she knew, she would be sitting around a camp fire, sharpening a sword and reminiscing about the good old killing days.

'So what?', the prince yawned then with dramatic fashion, perhaps to hide the fact that he took offence at her using his infamous nickname, or perhaps, that yawn was only meant to hide his smug grin and the pride he took in living up to the full potential of that nickname. Folding his hands behind his head, Amrothos stretched himself with the complacency of a fed cat in the sun after a fat kill, 'Our brave horse-lord didn't expect the mean old South to try and take advantage of him?!'

'He expected honour and honesty, brother. Ideals one should aspire to, not mock. And if you continue like that, I shall not breathe another word of this to you.', she threw back at him with biting anger under a barely composed calm, her eyes warning him to tread carefully, and even though her brother chuckled a bit at her passionate protectiveness, he also nodded in compliance. Who knew? Maybe he realised he was walking on a thin line here, or maybe he simply cared too much for her feelings to hurt them with his current joking. Whatever the reason, Amrothos became serious once again – or at least as serious as a serial joker could ever be – as he leant forward, signalling that he was ready to listen if she dared to open up.

'He overheard father and me talking, and I'm not sure he understands the whole picture, but he learned enough to come to his own conclusions … and we had a fight.', she began to say slowly, her brows furrowing at the mere memory of those two conversations, and even though she was ready now to confide in Amrothos, she still left it all rather vague, because brother or not, she was not prepared to air her whole damn dirty laundry in such a public. But as it would seem, that wasn't necessary anyway as he appeared to understand quite well what was said between the lines, 'He doesn't trust me now, not like he used to anyway. And I … well, let's face it, I wasn't raised to trust anybody.'

'Oh, I know.', he chimed in, leaning back again, one hand scratching the scruffy little stubbles on his chin, his eyebrows wiggling pointedly, and Lothíriel, wondering whether he was playing his usual sarcastic joker schtick, turned to him to confirm her assumption, and the questions running amok in her mind must have been clearly visible on her face, because when her brother met her quizzical look, he simply added with a bitter smile, 'You weren't the only one auntie Ivriniel sank her teeth into.'

'Yeah, but I'm the one where it stuck.', she shot back quickly enough, and she wasn't sure exactly why her retort was so gruff in nature or why something like shock seemed to have frozen over the blood in her veins at his words. She had always known that she was not the only protégé her aunt had tutored, and she knew it would be foolish indeed to feel anything close to envy at the idea that Ivriniel might have imparted her cruel wisdoms on her brother as well – and yet, she realised, that's exactly what she felt. But perhaps it was not so much envy at him for having been taken under their aunt's harsh wing as well, but rather because, unlike her, he didn't seem to carry the same scars from those cruel lessons and that's what made her so envious. Or maybe it wasn't even envy at all that she felt, because, surely, her brother had been scarred by his very own lessons, even if he had never shared their content with her before, and for a moment then it made her wonder in concern what sort of wounds he had been carrying around with him from the training he had received from their aunt.

Oh, sure enough she recalled that summer Amrothos had spent with them in Tol-en-Naur. That summer she had stopped being a girl when her maiden blood had begun to flow (or so her aunt had impressed the issue on her), and Amrothos, already considered a man back then (a man with no apparent aim or purpose or any motivation whatsoever), had allowed himself to be involved in some clandestine vendetta her aunt had set up for one of her many rivals at the Southern courts. Back then she had been too young to understand what was happening, and the adults had seen no reason to let her in on this particular secret, so she couldn't be absolutely sure what had occurred exactly. What she did know was that the summer had ended with her aunt's rival banished from court, with a bastard under her belly and all prospects of future titles and suitors gone, and her brother Amrothos going back to his pirate ships with a sour mood and a surprisingly firm grudge against her aunt from then on.

So, yes, perhaps she had been too quick to dismiss his claim of insight from before so easily and so harshly, perhaps he understood precisely the nature of her –

'So, if he doesn't trust you and you don't trust him, then what is the fucking point of that marriage?', her brother threw in then with surprising – or should she rather say, unsurprising – callousness, effectively pulling her out of her increasingly sombre thoughts as he seemed to come to the only conclusion possible in that fucked-up imagination of his. And granted, her first instinct had been to tell him to go and stuff his over-simplified conclusion where the sun didn't shine, and she had already opened her mouth to do just that, when a sudden thought occurred to her, and her mouth fell shut with its business undone. It was a terrible thought, really, and one she hated to admit to herself, but whether she liked it or not, she had no other choice but to acknowledge that there was indeed some grain of truth in her brother's words.

This marriage had always been a political one, but even without the political nature that their relationship had been burdened with, trust had always been the one commodity that could make or break them. She had been sent to the Riddermark to strengthen the ties between North and South, and to do that she had always needed to establish trust between them – and in the beginning, it was true, her motivations to do so had been less than honourable and far more selfish. But over time she had realised that she genuinely wanted her king to trust her, to open up to her – not because she could then use it as tool for her father and herself, but because it had felt good to be trusted, and because she had seen how hard it was for him trust and yet to still try and reach out. It had made her hopeful for herself, that if even a hardened warrior could find it in himself to open up, then perhaps so could an embittered, disillusioned lady of the South?

So, yes, trust had always been the linchpin of their marriage, the one thing that could either lift it up far beyond the spheres of the political boundaries or to have it succumb to an arrangement similar to a life sentence in a dungeon. And before, before they had come to the South, before her father had tightened his choke-hold on her, before hard truths had been exchanged, before it had all turned to shit … before all that there had been a moment when she could have sworn that their marriage had actually stopped being a political one and had become something else, something more, something true – something made of … love. But without trust, what love could there be? And without love or trust, was their marriage not truly little more than a dungeon made of duty and distrust? And if so, would she really want to spent her life sentence chained to a man that would remind her of all her past mistakes that led them into this imprisonment?

'What are you going to do, nîth?', Amrothos asked then slowly – and perhaps it was the nature of his tone there, low and cautious, so unbearably untypical of him, that made stiffen in response, or perhaps it was simply that she had been asking herself the very same question ever since she had returned with her husband from that very first conversation they had had in her father's study that one late afternoon. Leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees and her chin on her folded hands, Lothíriel thought long and hard, and maybe it was her prolonged silence then, that seemingly unending pause that refused to give answer, that made her brother jump in to fill the quiet with a conclusion of his own, 'You know you can't hide out here in the South forever … unless if that's what you wanna do …?'

'Don't be ridiculous, hanar.', she countered the quickly, dismissing the possibility of an indefinite stay outright, because, surely, such a solution would be unthinkable for a lady like herself, but had she been a stronger woman, strong enough at least to be more honest with herself, she would have had to admit that the thought had crossed her mind once or twice already, in the dark, in the night, when sleep was hard to come by. But she would never have dared to utter such a thought out loud – because once said, few things could ever be unsaid, 'You and I both know father would never take me back. The disgrace – '

'Who gives a fuck about father?!', the prince cut her off then, his booming voice dripping with contempt, and perhaps such resentment could be expected from a son who had been disregarded early on as the disappointing child, but still, it was quite shocking to be faced with such an emotional outburst, in particular when one considered that the pirate-prince was simply not known to ever be that serious. He had been a joker all his life, a man-child that cared little for the opinions of others, shrugging off the disdain of his father as though he had never yearned to win his approval. But that had been an act, of course, Lothíriel reminded herself; like everybody in this family he had simply learned to play his part to perfection.

'I'm talking about myself, sister.', her brother added then, and this time his voice seemed almost calm as he gently put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing it, his eyes softening as he focused on her, and true enough, for as long as she could remember, her brother had always had a soft spot for her, unable to deny her anything, doing everything and anything to make her happy. She knew she was one of the few people to ever be allowed a glimpse at the beating heart behind the mask of the jester, and this time here was no different, 'Just say the word and I'll take you away from here – wherever you wanna go. We could – '

'And do what?! Scrub the decks of your ships? Capture Corsair ships? Fry fish on the beach?', she snapped back then, shrugging off his hand in one swift motion, effectively shutting him up, and even though she was shocked and appalled at the harshness of her voice, she knew it was better to crush his feverish dreams of freedom now, before he got any foolish ideas of actually putting it into action, 'I'm not who I used to be, brother. I'm not your little skipper anymore. That time is long past.'

'I know that.', he relented at long last, his fingers fidgeting in a rare moment of insecurity and regret, and Lothíriel could feel her eyes softening at the sight of it and she had to fight hard against the impulse to give in to his dreams. Because as much as she wanted to comfort him in that moment, she knew she could not; the only thing she could do was close her eyes, so she wouldn't see the pleading expression in his gaze as he continued, 'But that doesn't matter. Lothíriel, I'm your brother and I love you – and wherever you wanna go, I'll go with you.'

At his words – she couldn't help it – she had to smile. Her brother's surprising naivety had her shaking her head, though a part of her could not deny that it wished for nothing more than to take the hand he offered and to follow him to that escape he promised. But, of course, she knew such an easy way out would not be for her; someone like her would not be allowed to just turn her back on the world and to live a quiet life at the periphery of power. Too great was her entanglement with power and dependency – she was a queen after all, a wife to a king and even more so a partner in rule and reign.

No, she mused, she would not be allowed to just leave it all behind. And even if she were to ignore all of that and to simply disappear in the vast open freedom that the ocean ways held, she knew she would never do that because … because the truth of the matter was that she liked the power and the responsibility that came with her title, that she revelled in the good that she could do with it, that she identified with the calling she felt she had.

But how could she ever expect her brother to understand all of that? Amrothos had always been a libertine all his life, a man with no ambition and no goal in life, with no drive towards something greater, no mind for reputations and repercussions. Her brother had no love for power and no head for responsibility – he could be just as happy frying fish on a desolate beach as he had been with seizing rich Corsair ships off the coast of Umbar. So, how could she expect him to understand? If anything, he would accuse her of being power-hungry and greedy, a woman with too much ambition and too much liking for the comforts her position had granted her. How could she ever make him believe that there was so much more to all of this than that?

It was simple: she couldn't – and so, in the end, she didn't really try to.

'I can't do that.', she said at long last, and a sigh and a sad smile spoke of all the troubling thoughts and conflicting feelings that she did not dare utter out loud.

'Why not?', her brother asked then, quicker than an arrow could fly, and she could see in the way that his brows furrowed or his forehead lined with wrinkles that he was perfectly puzzled by her gentle refusal, and she could understand his confusion so well. Rise with the tides, she thought, the motto echoing in her thoughts.

Their family's words had been ingrained in them from the moment they had been born, steering their actions like the currents and the tides, leading them to choose their battles wisely and to cut their path cunningly like a rivulet that found its way over rough and smooth. But just as much as they would rise with the tides they would also fall with them, move with them, adjust to them – they were not made to weather any storms, they were not made to stand their ground or to stand on their hind legs like a rearing horse. They knew how to ride the waves, how to use them to their advantage, but they had never presumed to try and best them – their strength lay in their cunning, their hidden agendas and stratagems.

Of course, lesser men with less good opinions of them would accuse them of a tendency for deviousness and self-interest, or paint them as people would use any and all means to gain what they wanted, who would rather run than to face the consequences of their actions, who would hold no loyalties or allegiances for fear of being held down by them. But, naturally, lesser men would always talk badly of the people they secretly envied. After all, all her life she had heard people snickering behind their backs, calling them geese and little ducklings, and truly, at first sight, a swan did not seem all that threatening, but what people often tended to forget was that swans could be highly ferocious when threatened and that swans were also birds of prey. And more than that, once a swan had chosen its partner, there was no breaking that bond. Naturally, such loyalty seemed absurd to her brother, but she had long suspected that their instinctual hesitance towards long-lasting bonds of loyalty and their profound lack of trust was more of a front really than a truly innate thing. After all, her own brother himself had always shown a great potential for loyalty – or rather, he had at least always awarded her this great courtesy.

But as she considered him with a lenient smile, she knew she would not be able to reach her brother this way; he was still clinging to that old mask of his with all his might, too fearful yet to accept that there was some honour even left in them, little enough as it was, and too fearful to trust. And perhaps he was right to be hesitant? Perhaps she had no right to judge him for it at all – after all, she herself had not shown much honour or trust with her husband before, but, she thought resolutely, she would be damned if she would not at least try to show some loyalty at least.

'Because I made a promise.', she said at long last, and though her words felt rather redundant and fairly unable to encompass all the ways in which she felt bound, she used them anyway, because what else could she say?

She would not dare tell her brother about the day she fell through the ice, how she was pulled out and brought back to life, how she had brought such pain into her king's eyes and how his vow towards her had moved her to tears. And most definitely she would not be able to bring herself to tell him about the night they had returned from that first talk with her father, when her husband had been hell-bent on storming out, with his sword in hand, ready to exact revenge on her behalf, to protect her as he saw it from the men who had already destroyed enough lives in their path, and that all that had held him back then, had been her promise that she would be safe.

No, no, no. She would not, could not tell her brother about that.

Of course, she knew that he most likely knew about that already – she could sense it in the way his eyes considered her with a quiet intensity. And what else could she have expected? He had grown up at the Southern courts too after all, he had learned enough wiles to be able to read people at the blink of an eye. And in any way, there was no way he had not noticed the way her king had tired himself out by keeping watch over her, night after night after night. Why else would Amrothos have agreed so quickly to come by for a "cup of tea", his trusty sabre at his side, if not to give her king a well-deserved break with his vigilance?

No, no, no, he understood perfectly well the pact made between the royal couple – but, of course, he would never let that show. Perhaps it was the strange nature of such intimacy or the raw sincerity behind it that confounded and intrigued him at the same time. After all, her brother had never allowed himself to feel such deep affection for anyone – well, for no one … except her. Of course, that was different, she reminded herself, they shared the same blood, after all, and the bond that existed between them was as natural as it was inevitable. But the bond between her and her king, that bond was one of choice, and it was that choice of hers, that willingness to open herself in such a way to an outsider, that puzzled him – and he could laugh it off all he liked in that typical jovial manner of his, but she knew it piqued his curiosity, making him wonder if perhaps such a genuine connection was possible even for birds not of the same feather.

'Sister.', her brother chuckled then in that condescending tone of a man that took an insanely mischievous amount of pleasure in being an insufferable smart ass, and when he continued with a sigh she ground her teeth in annoyance at the way in which he sounded like a parent amused by the naivety of a child, 'A promise made under duress is no promise at all – trust me, I should know.'

'Cute.', she scoffed with a deadpan expression and she worked hard to fight the urge to roll her eyes at him in the most dramatic fashion – but what else could she have expected from a slippery, conniving, swindling pirate such as him? She knew well enough that honour or honesty had never been part of his reputation, and to this day there had been no shady deal or pact he hadn't managed to worm his way out of, so how could she have expected him to treat her sense of commitment and integrity with anything but ridicule? Still, even though she would much rather give him a quick slap on the backside of his head for his insolent grinning and smug patronising, she instead opted to give back as good as she got. If he tried to annoy her with his reminder and show of dishonesty, she could very well annoy him with a show of honour as well, 'Nevertheless, a promise is a promise and to that I hold.'

'Ulmo fuck me!', her brother groaned then, his face grimacing at the sheer simplicity of integrity that she had shown, and when he looked at her again, there seemed to be something like disillusionment in his expression – quite like a boy who had grown bored with a toy that turned out to be a lot less exciting than he would have liked and that simply would not yield the response he had envisioned, 'Not even one year of Northern marriage, sister, and they managed to put an honourable stick up your ass, too.'

'It's more than that, Amrothos, and you know it.', she responded then, cleverly ignoring the rudeness of his vocabulary or the look of utter disgust on his face – so, she had managed to fool even her own brother into believing that she was an honourable woman, after all? Well, who knew, perhaps she had even managed to fool herself into thinking that? The thought made her smile, though that smile was not to last, and so her face matched the serious tone of her voice as she explained, 'They are my people now and they deserve a queen that doesn't tuck tail and run.'

'Okay, Lothíriel … Queen.', her brother mocked then in that uncompromising tone of insubordination that reminded her that this guy right here had not yet met any figure of authority he had not set out to defy or mock in whatever way possible, 'But how do you imagine to be their queen, if your own king doesn't trust you?'

Clenching her hands into fists, Lothíriel turned away from him, and she had to use all the control she had left to not reach out and give him a slap on the back of his head for his clearly pejorative use of her honorific title. But perhaps it was not so much his streak for insufferable insubordination and ridicule that infuriated her so in that moment – which is not to say that it didn't, because it definitely did, and the fact that he still managed to bait her so easily into being frustrated, well, it only served to frustrate her even more. But no, perhaps what frustrated her most was that, in a way, he had not been wrong – because what power did she really hold without the trust and support of her king? Of course, she had had power before, her very own power, but only as a lady of the courts, a power steeped in manipulation and intrigue – but this here was more than just a question of power, it was a question of responsibility. She was a queen, after all, and these people had become hers to look after, but without her king, she would have no means and no power to be the queen they needed her to be.

So what did that leave her with?

'Alright, let's sort out this mess you've made, nîth.', her brother said then with the most dramatic of sighs, and at that Lothíriel could not but admit to a not so small amount of surprise there, because surely the last thing she would have ever expected was for her brother to get off his high (even if not moral) horse and to help her. Of course, he had offered his help before; he had offered to take her away and to give her a way out, to help her run away as he himself had only ever done just that: running away – from relationships, from responsibilities, from repercussions. But now, he was actually offering a different kind of help; he offered to help her face her catastrophe head-on, he offered to help her mend the bond her own past had broken, he offered her the chance to be brave and to be a queen. So, naturally, she was more than just a little surprised and that, perhaps, could explain best why she didn't immediately slap that ridiculous golden tooth out of his mouth when he continued then with his usual tendency for ridicule and patronising, 'Lemme guess, now that your Northern husband and your people have been fattened on Southern grain and money, father expects you and your warrior king to fall in line and dance to his tune?'

'Naturally.'

'Naturally.', her brother repeated with a lazy smile, dramatically stroking that scruffy fluff in his face he called a beard as though he were actually thinking, and perhaps, he really was doing some thinking as he intuitively seemed to grasp the complexities of the situation, but then again, he had grown up at the Southern courts too, he had learned some things as well, and in any case, what else could she have expected from a pirate with prying eyes and cocked ears?

'But I guess your Northern husband ain't too thrilled about that, eh?', Amrothos continued then, and though his whole posture and behaviour – with his lazy lounging on the divan and the dramatic yawn he made not even the slightest attempt at stifling – demonstrated nothing but disinterest and foolish shallowness, she knew him better and understood very well that under all that facade there was a heart full of genuine concern and a mind that was thinking hard, 'Honour and pride and old feuds and the whole shebang?'

'Precisely.'

'Precisely.', he repeated again (as though he were the echo of a shout of frustration she let out somewhere in the White Mountains because this idiot here repeated every damn thing she – ), before he finally went in for the kill, and she had to give it to him, her brother just knew how to put his foot in his mouth while saying exactly what needed to be said, 'So, when your Northern rider boldly acts on his honour and denies father, do you think father would take it like a good little prince?'

'My husband has not rejected the proposal yet – and, of course, I know father will lash out, but he won't provoke an outright war, if that's what you're implying. Father doesn't operate like that.', she scoffed and she could feel her shoulders tense in response, though she wasn't quite sure whether she stiffened because of the no-win situation she had manoeuvred herself in or because of the snobbish way in which her brother talked about her king, 'But will there repercussions? Of course. I assume the winter storms will magically increase and hinder the shipments of grain or the roads by land will be inexplicably blocked by bands of thieves appearing and disappearing conveniently and mysteriously out of thin air. And … and when there will be no child, I'm sure father could press the issue of the legality of marriage. That … that would be just like him.'

'And you're positive that your Northern brute of a king will be able to grasp the minute sensitive intricacies of the situation?', her brother added then, adding yet more fuel to the fire of her growing annoyance with him and his continued use of derogatory terms for her king, and as she clenched her fists and ground her teeth together, she tried to calm herself down by wondering when exactly she had come to feel so protective of the man that was her husband, but still, she could not help the frustrated edge that seemed to have stolen itself into her voice as she responded.

'He's a lot smarter than you give him credit for.'

'Hardly.', Amrothos snorted, barely holding in the contemptuous laugh that threatened to spill from his pursed lips, and surely it must have been that last sign of disrespect in just a very long list of derisions that finally made her snap, and jumping up she zeroed in on her brother like a snake springing forward to catch her prey.

'Don't speak against him – you don't even know him – he's a good man, and – ', she hissed back through gritted teeth, very nearly stumbling over the angry words that sought to spill from her mouth, almost against her will, and before she knew it, her emotions led her to speak without thought, and with it came gushing a heartfelt truth under the guise of ugly words, 'You're not even half the man he is.'

The silence that followed was only filled by the shock they both felt at the viciousness of her words and the meaning they had carried. Breathless at the might of her own revelation, the queen turned away for a moment to try and compose herself again, leaving her brother to scoff dismissively, trying to make it appear as though he were brushing off her emotional outburst as easily as spray from the sea. But even though he was all jokes and teasing again a few moments later, she could tell that there was hurt in his heart and an unfamiliar edge to his voice.

'Ulmo fuck me, you sound like you're half in love with him already!', the pirate-prince spat back at her with a laugh so hard and cold that it cut through her heart quite like a knife, and perhaps it was this very sign that she had hurt him so deeply and so unexpectedly that made her so slow then to decry the truth he had just spoken as a preposterous lie – and perhaps, a part of her even wanted him to see that moment of hesitation, a part of her that wanted him to grow suspicious, a part of her that wanted to shout out that inconvenient truth to the world at the top of her lungs. But her reasons for hesitation were ultimately inconsequential; the only thing that mattered was that he had seen it, and no amount of denial or whitewashing would be able to make him unsee it now.

'Wait, a-are you?! Are you in love with him, Lothíriel?', her brother asked then, and she could tell, as she watched him out of the corner of her eye, by the way he had given up the lazy posture of a lounging prince and instead moved to lean forward, with his hands gripping his knees and his knuckles turning white under the pressure, that he was literally on the edge of his seat. And even though she knew that there was nothing she really could say or do to undo the damage her hesitation had caused, and yet she could not help the reflex that put her into motion and desperate words into her mouth, words that would only served to corroborate his suspicions, 'I-I will not deny that I care for him, deeply, and that I – '

'That's not what I asked, sister.', he threw in then, not even having the fucking courtesy to allowing her to finish or to even politely pretend to believe her ramblings, and she wasn't sure exactly what it was then – the rude audacity of him interrupting her mid-sentence or the fucking calm with which he did it – but whatever it was, it was the thing that made her snap then at long last. Whipping around in one swift motion, she zeroed in on her brother with all the mighty fury she had so long suppressed, but even more than anger, there was despair as she threw up her arms in helplessness, 'What the fuck do you want me to say here, Amrothos?'

'It's a simple enough question, Lothíriel.'

'Well, it's not a simple answer.', she responded weakly then, and in that moment it seemed as though the whole of her energy had drained from her, leaving her exhausted and frail, like a fragile piece of glass left out in the cold for too long that had become brittle enough to be shattered at the lightest touch. She, too, was ready to shatter right here and now, so ready to give in to her brother's demands and to admit to a truth her heart still tried to deny. A part of her, however, knew that struggle was pointless, and by now it was nothing but a vain attempt to soothe her own vanity. After all, she had been a lady of the courts all her life, a lady who had lied when she breathed and whose words had dripped honey as much as acid, a lady who had become powerful in her untouchable poise. So, would she really want to give all of that up by caving in to the secret feelings slumbering in her heart, clawing to get out? And for what? For a love she had already betrayed? For a love that would not save her from the inevitable fall that followed? For a love that could be her doom?

'It is never is with you, is it?', she heard her brother scoff then, his comment laced with all the benevolent teasing of a sibling but there was bitterness in those words, too. However, it was not a bitterness born out of an impatient lack of understanding, but very much a bitterness born out of understanding only too well the defence mechanisms and reflexes she still clung to in a desperate attempt to weather this new storm that sough to transform her into this new being that was longing to trust and to be trusted in return. He above all other people should understand the very strangeness of this new ache – before all of this the two of them had never minded the distrust people had shown them or the unkind words that had accused them of being unworthy of trust … or even of love. But now, now she did mind it, now she did long for more, even if she still tried to fight that longing with all the little might and defiance she had left.

Upon his words Lothíriel sighed and turned away again, unable to bear looking at him any longer, unable to bear the sad understanding reflected in his eyes any longer. And as she approached the window she could already feel her treacherous heart ache in the hopes of what they might see, but no horse-kings were left in sight. He had already left her. Instead she now saw only the sea beyond the confines of the palace, stretching on and on endlessly towards that distant point at the horizon where sky and sea mated. And for some reason that very sight filled her with a longing she could not quite place. Of course, as it was for all children of the sea, she had always yearned for that far away destination that lay beyond the sea, but this ache right here went even further than that, further beyond the end of the sea, further beyond the unknown paradise only the gods whispered of.

What was her heart longing for?

'What are you going to do, Lothíriel?', her brother asked once more, but this time she barely heard him as her eyes slowly but surely fixed on the horizon, leaving her mind to wander back into that weird mindset where right was wrong and wrong was right, back into the ancient times when lies had been the lessons she had learned and sins the poise she had been taught. How strange it was to think back to that time now, that time when she had been young and impressionable, when she had absorbed every word like a sponge, when she had looked and listened and learned, and every reprimand had toughened her and every lie had schooled her in the ways of her world.

Unbidden then came to her the memories of a time long gone, and out of all the vast collections of memories to recollect, it perhaps should have irked her to remember this one in particular, but in the end, it didn't. And with her eyes glazing over the queen remembered a moment in time before she had been a queen or even a lady, a moment in time when she had been nothing but a girl having a conversation with her aunt. It had been in this very room, so many years ago, two shadows (one a woman in the prime of her life, the other a mere slip of a girl still far away from being called woman or lady) sitting by the window, enjoying their embroidery, and in the falling light of the evening they had been almost perfectly in synch as they had tended to their stitching.

What is love, auntie Ivriniel?

Love is weakness, little swanling, the well-composed lady had answered then without even looking up from her stitching cloth, remember who you are, Lothíriel, you can never allow yourself to be weak. So, love no one but yourself.

And she could see it then, her younger self stilling in her movements, but not even then daring to look up for fear of reprimanding, and there was a moment of silence then, a moment of reflection, a moment of hesitation, and then –

But what if you can't even love yourself, auntie, the girl had asked then with all the terrified seriousness of a child growing up, what do you do then?

Oh, my sweet silly little swanling, her aunt had said then and the sudden touch of a hand on her shoulder had caused her younger self to look up at last, and to this day she could not say for sure what had shocked her the most in that moment – the fact that her aunt had gazed at her with what looked like love or that the emotion shimmering in her eyes had actually seemed to be genuine. Perhaps, it had been that shock then that made her so open for the words of her aunt, and those words and their hidden cruel meaning had never left her throughout all these years, although she had worked hard to try and forget them, you grow beautiful like your mama more and more every day, but your heart … your heart is just like mine.

'What I always do: I'll rise with the tides.', the queen said then, affirming her family motto with what should have been passion and integrity but what instead had decayed to a hollow echo, like words screamed under the surface of the sea, distant memories of what they had once been. Likewise, she felt herself floating away with the waves of that strange, new emotion that had taken root deep inside her heart, and with a wicked sense of rebellious morbidity, almost as if to answer that call of dutiful motivation, she thought silently: And I will fall with them, too.

Strange.

The word involuntarily came to his mind as Éomer secretly looked about, trying to hide his many curious glances thrown into – as it felt – every direction, while at the same time trying to appear as sombre and regal as the rest of them. He reckoned he failed at both as he just could not seem to stop fidgeting with this itchy Southern mourning dress he'd been forced into and because that pirate-prince of a brother-in-law kept looking daggers at him.

Well, fuck, so that's a Southern funeral for you.

The hour of the funeral had come at last and lo and behold now the king of the Mark was standing at the shores of the island of Tol-en-Naur, surrounded by a bunch of sour-looking Southerners – and it was not just the family that was gathered here, or the late lady's servants. On this tragic day a whole crowd of people had come – nobles and commoners alike, but he noticed that a majority of them were women, women of all ages and all walks of life. Éomer supposed that – like his wife – these women had – one way or another – all enjoyed the attentions of the lady Ivriniel as their mentor and had come to pay their last respects to their strict schoolmistress.

Still, despite all the differences between these people, he noticed one thing they all had in common: they were all clothed in linen and silk of black or dark blue hue, with the women even wearing veils that completely hid them from his view. It seemed like a sea of dark fabric, with each figure blurring into the next, and the king was only able to distinguish his queen from the other female mourners by the worn-out leather belt tied around her waist, with the tell-tale buckle in the shape of a horse's head reflecting the light of the treacherously bright sun even on this dark day.

Through the mist of his own musings, Éomer brought his attention back to the actual proceedings of the funeral where a priest of the water-faith seemed to be chanting some prayer or another while the men of the family moved towards the water, where the body of the lady Ivriniel had been placed on a wooden boat, built exclusively for this purpose, and then pushed the boat out onto the open sea. All around him he could hear voices join in to hum along and sing a tune that seemed to cheer on the spirit of the departed, to be sailing forever more to undiscovered lands and along uncharted waters until she would reach her final resting place at the palace of the Sea-King at the bottom of the sea.

Or some shit like that.

He wouldn't really be able to tell, now would he?

Sindarin Elvish was just as intelligible to him as Quenya Elvish – hell, before he'd met his wife he hadn't even known there was more than just one form of Elvish, but, of course, leave it to those pointy-eared snobs to –

A sudden movement out of the corner of his eyes caught the king's attention then and Éomer turned to see the masses of women begin to move towards the water, and with their veils suddenly thrown back they started to wade into the waters of the sea, and some even walked so far that they were waist-deep in the ocean. It was then that he noticed movement right next to him and as he turned towards his wife, with her veil thrown back just like the other ladies, he saw her smiling at him then in that mysterious manner that never failed to send chills down his back – and then she, too, was heading towards the water.

Éomer was so shocked by what was going on that he reacted very slowly at first, only ready to call out to her and to take a few hesitant steps to go after her once she had already reached the waters. But he wouldn't have been able to follow her anyway since after only a few steps of his own his youngest brother-in-law, that pirate Amrothos, stepped in front of him, to block his path and to hold him back, though not with violence and force. Through the cloud of his own confusion, the king believed to hear quiet words, whispered in secret, so as not to attract the attention from the other mourners around them.

'Turn around … brother.', the pirate mouthed under his breath, and Éomer couldn't quite say what annoyed him most in that moment: the contemptuous tone with which this green boy addressed him as brother, that this arsehole dared to get in his way or that he actually seemed to believe that he could hold him back. Whatever it was though, none of it helped to soften the edge of his cutting reply, 'Why should I?!'

'Because it is tradition. Men are not supposed to look … we are not supposed to see.', Amrothos simply countered, and the quiet insistence with which he made his point only served to infuriate Éomer even further, because seeing this fucker remain calm and composed even when faced with a berserk like him most certainly did nothing to ease the feeling of inferiority he always faced when being confronted with the fucking perfection of these fucking Southerners. That, of course, might very well explain the utter rudeness of the king's answer then.

'Well, I'm not from the South, and these aren't my traditions.'

'But these are their traditions, too, you know? They have a right to mourn in peace, undisturbed … and without witnesses.', the pirate only answered then in a decidedly non-pirate-like fashion, being all non-confrontational about it, as though Éomer didn't know exactly that this green boy was just as much thirsting for a good old fight as he was. But even though the king was glaring at him, the man-child only stepped back into his own space and simply turned around. And when Éomer followed him with his gaze, he noticed that the crowds of men remaining at the shore followed suit, turning their backs on the women mourning in the waters as though they felt ashamed to witness such open acts of emotionality that unfolded here before them.

Of course, that made him curious what exactly it was that made them look away and so he turned back around, but whatever he had thought he would see there, he most certainly would not have expected this. The swarms of women stood in the sea and a clamouring from their lips rose towards the heavens; their feeble fists were punching the surface of the water, splashing water towards the ever retreating boat that the tide slowly but surely pulled out towards the open sea, as though they were trying to call it back. But even more than that, they also splashed water all over themselves, and especially their faces, as though to wash away their tears of mourning. And all the while the men remaining at the shores worked hard to drown out their wretched wailing and hectic splashing with their own song sung in deep, dark, sonorous voices.

Éomer – for his part – was at the same time alienated and yet strangely fascinated by all of this, and especially by what was going on in the water. By now the women were in a veritable frenzy, their wailing almost completely drowning out the singing of the men, and their splashing of the waters – to moisten their faces and to bid farewell to the boat with the deceased lady – had the waters of the beach appear more like a sea-battle than a funeral really.

Of course, the king did not doubt that this here, too – this exaggerated expression of grief – was more of an act than a real show of mourning; a performance of public grief, so to speak: to go through the formalities and to fulfil the societal expectations that members of the high society put on each other. He supposed it was something of a constant dance of keeping each other in check: the louder the wailing of the women, the more the proprieties of mourning would be observed, the more they acted distraught and mad with grief, then the more proper and noble and righteous a family would appear. Because, surely, here the women were a mere figure head of the public status and reputation of a family. And with a bitter scoff Éomer realised at long last that death, in the South, was a public affair more than a tragedy of the heart, really.

It was then, while Éomer was watching all of that with a sense of morbid fascination, that he became aware of his wife and queen standing still and impassive in between the rest of the frantically moving and screeching women. From her there were no cries or tears or any other sign of grief to see; she did not splash about her or reach her arms out to the sea to proclaim her infinite sadness over the death of her aunt … just nothing. It seemed as though she did not care at all, as though all that happened around her could not touch her.

But then her eyes caught his for the briefest of moments, and there was a second of recognition in her eyes. In her gaze there was a sense of wild madness that he recognised only too well from his days from the battlefield, when the craze of blood would take hold and the hope for survival had long been abandoned in favour of the wish for a good and bloody death. It was a look that made the blood in his veins curdle and made him catch his breath. He recalled that Éowyn had had the same look, back then when she had awoken from her death-like slumber after she had slain the Lord of the Nazgȗl; it had been the look of one who was still in search of death, the look of one who was tired of life.

And then she smiled at him again, and it was enough to make his heart skip a beat, because it was that small, mysterious smile that he had come to recognise from her, that unreadable expression that sent shivers down his back. And then she stretched out her arms, as though they were the wings of a swan caught in the last twitches of a death-struggle, before she turned her gaze up towards the heavens and simply allowed herself to fall back into the waters and for her weight to pull her under the currents – to not resurface again.

FUN FACT #1: So, funny story here, I got hit by a bad case of writer's block. It took me 2 weeks to get my head out of my arse. And after that ... life happened. Or rather, work. Damn. This adulting shit is a llot harder than I thought. If I ever have a kid, I'll be painfully honest about this shit-fest that is adult life with its admittedly sensual perks and nice liberties.

FUN FACT #2: I wanted to explore the Southern culture as I see it a little bit more. I also wanted to give at least one of the brothers some actual lines of dialogue. There, now you know why this chapter is so goddamn long. Mission fucking accomplished.

FUN FACT #3: Oh yeah, I reached a new milestone in writing with this chapter - this is the first story where I have pushed past 400 pages. So, cheers! Time to open a bottle of shandy and celebrate!