I. AM. BACK.
Sorry for the long wait. I hope this will make up for it.
Also, the next chapter won't take so long, as it's already written. I just need to edit it. But that'll be my task AFTER I'm back from my vacation.
See you in a week, my lovelies!
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30. Sometimes clemency is cruelty …
Custom reconciles us to everything.
Éomer had always known that age-old wisdom and usually he had only ever shrugged it off as something that just happened in life; because no matter how dire the situation, no matter how unbearable the conditions, a person could get used to just about anything if he just forced himself to. Well, at least, that had always seemed to be true for him anyway. After his father had died, and then his mother, he had simply accepted it as one of life's hardest lessons and moved on to make the best of the cards he had been dealt with – and he did thrive, didn't he? He became a Marshall of the Riddermark, a warrior and rider to make his father and his nation proud. And even after Théodred had been killed, and he had been forced to take his place as a reluctant king, he had simply ground his teeth together, overcome his unwillingness and made do with the whole damn situation. And even his marriage, he …
Well, shit, who the fuck was he kidding here?! Not even custom would help him reconcile with this colossal heap of shit right here. Now, ever since the day of his wedding – no, shit, scratch that, ever since the day he had met his future wife – he hadn't been able to reconcile any of his old attitude shit with the monumental mind-fuck that was marriage life. There was no pride in love, and apparently no honour or self-respect either, because ever since the day that he had looked into those sea-grey eyes he hadn't been allowed to feel content. Instead, he had felt anything but.
He had begun to yearn for things again and he had become restless because of it; he had wanted to be better, to be worth something, to be important to someone. He had craved connection where before he had kept a distance to everyone in his life. He had reached out where before he had always remained out of reach. He had opened himself up where before he had been nothing but a closed book. Long story fucking short: he had longed to love and to be loved in return.
And where the fuck had that taken him?
To fucking hell and back again.
After the fight, and after the funeral, after they had returned from that god-forsaken island of Tol-en-Naur, after she had resurfaced from her show of grief-stricken submersion, she had emerged from the sea as a changed woman – though precious few things had changed between them. They had been back at the palace of Dol Amroth for a week now and still nothing seemed to have changed. They were still not talking to each other (not really anyway, not in any way that mattered), both still angry with each other, both thinking they were in the right, both thinking they were in the wrong to act as they did – and so, they had resigned themselves to the situation, each in their own way.
Éomer, for his part, had spent most of his time with his warrior brother-in-law, and he had to give to him, Erchirion was good for a great many things, and, unfortunately, drinking yourself into oblivion was one of them. He had been out with the knight most days, going down to the courtyard or over to the Island of the Swan Knights where they would watch the new recruits train or even have a few sparring sessions of their own (although, his sprained hand was still troubling him). And after, the soldier would take him down to the seedier parts of the peninsula capital, and who would have thought that a noble city such as this had such a filthy underbelly?
One evening, he remembered, Erchirion had taken him to a locale that he had identified straight away – mostly because the sign hanging over the door (two naked mermaids) and some fishy graffiti on the walls outside were total giveaways. And before he had known what had happened, he'd had a mug of ale in one hand and a woman in the other – however, he had not been nearly drunk enough for that sort of forgetting, and fortunately for him, he still had had enough sense and honour left to decline such forward female advances, even if he then gave himself over to drink completely after that, with a massive hangover the next day serving as a reward and a warning.
After that, he had been more careful to avoid such places, and he had been more careful to avoid his warrior brother-in-law as well and the bad influence he seemed to have on him and the dangerous connection he seemed to present, because the last thing he needed now was to revert back to the whoring-and-drinking days of his youth. Instead, the king had then proceeded to keep a closer eye on that wife of his, and he wasn't sure what he liked less about this whole mess – that he hadn't been able to see what she had been up to or that he was seeing it now?
Lothíriel, for her part, seemed to have fallen back into old, Southern habits, and she seemed to be working hard on that forgetting part herself. Day in and day out, he had seen her drinking, feasting, muddling her senses with strange herbs from the far East, lounging on a sea of cushions amidst an entourage of fellow courtiers in a secluded part of the palace he had dubbed the "pleasure wing" – her closest brother Amrothos always at her side of course, whispering and conspiring, encouraging her in her wayward ways.
And that's exactly how he found her now. Sprawled out and lolling on the cushion-covered tiles, she was by now half-passed out, in between scantily-clad courtiers (and her style of dressing of late could not exactly be called decent either), while two half-naked women were performing a dance that was, to put it mildly, bordering the obscene. Lying right next to her, was her brother Amrothos, and that pirate even had the audacity to hand his already dazed sister a smoking pipe while his sister's husband and king was sitting at the opposite end of the room, watching them with dark eyes, fuming with quiet anger.
It was at that point that Éomer decided that he finally had enough. Without much hesitation the king jumped up then and marched through the room, and he cared little enough for the cries of protest he received from the other courtiers when his sudden moving towards them blocked their view of the semi-public erotic dance performance. Neither did he care for the squeals of shock from the other people present when he simply reached into that wild tangle of bodies and limbs and pulled his wife out of there to lift her up into his arms. Of course, his queen protested as she didn't come willingly, but she was too drugged out to put up much of a fight really; and even if her brother tried to step in on behalf of his sister, the king shut him down quickly enough with a look of sheer fury. And just as he had swept in like a summer storm, so was he gone just as quickly, taking his wife with him as he went.
The way back to the chambers they had once shared, in the beginning of that visit, was mostly spent in silence, since the woman in his arms was more or less drifting in and out of consciousness, though at some point the queen did seem to regain enough of her strength to kick her arms and legs in the air, trying to free herself from his grip. But the king only grunted that he would drop her this instant and proceed to drag her back to their chambers if she didn't cease her flailing, and then the queen stopped at once, as it would seem, resigned to her fate. And for the rest of the way they passed their momentary close-quarters battle in a silent cease-fire, with the queen determined to look anywhere but him as she grudgingly held on to him, and with the king determined to ignore the comforting feeling of her terrifyingly light and limp body in his arms.
It was only when they had arrived at their chambers, once he had kicked open the doors and stepped inside, after he had put her on a lounging divan in front of the open balcony windows, after she pushed him away with all her feeble, irritated might, that he did let go of her at last. For a moment then all he could think of was that hollow feeling in his chest stemming from that sudden loss of intimate touch, his hands burning from the memory of it – it had been weeks since he had last held her in his arms and he hadn't realised before how starved he had been for that comforting feeling of skin on skin. But even though every fibre in his body screamed to reach out to her again, to pull her back into his arms and to never let go of her again, he resisted the urge. He had taken her away from those snakes and court cringers, and at least here she could sober up safely – that had to be enough for him, he told himself, that had to be enough, at least for now. He was still her husband, and no matter how betrayed he felt, no matter how disappointed or appalled he felt, he still cared for her.
'Have you had your fun now, Lothíriel?', he scoffed with no little amount of bite and disgust, and he was sure that was more than just palpable in his voice as he spoke; the anger boiling in him only thinly veiled by the shaky facade of self-control he tried to keep up. He was sure she saw through it easily enough, though her lazy reaction only indicated a sheer insane level of carelessness, as though she didn't perfectly know what he was capable of in his anger. But despite all, the queen only continued to provoke her king.
'Spare me your Northern speech on austerity and sobriety. I'm not in the mood for it.', she whined then, and he could not help the humiliation he felt at the annoyed sound in her voice (or the pang of pain he had felt when she had pushed him away earlier), and that humiliation was quickly enough turning to anger. But he swallowed it all, just as he meant to swallow the instinctual reaction of his mind at the sight of her stretched-out body. One of her arms was shielding her eyes from the glaringly bright sun, while the other was half-heartedly trying to pull down her skirt that had, by now, slipped up her long legs to leave her more exposed than he had seen her in a long while. It was her sigh then, signalling that she had given up trying at this point and simply left her arm dangling from the divan, that got him to snap out of his daydreaming at last, and clearing his throat then – with perhaps more force that necessary – he returned to the problem at hand.
'Is this all a joke to you? Or are you trying to get yourself killed?!'
'I am trying to sleep, man.', she snapped back then, before turning to the side, apparently half-asleep already, but even though she was mumbling under her breath, he heard her all the same, and he knew, he just knew, that she wanted him to hear, 'And what's it to you anyway? This doesn't concern you.'
'I'm still your husband, everything you do concerns me.'
'Yeah?', she answered with a fake, dry laugh then, as she slowly but surely rolled around again to lie on her back, to face him with a wild, savage grin, and by now he had learned the meaning of that wicked smile only too well – it was a smile that was meant to cut and torment, it was a smile meant to hurt, and surely enough, it did just that as she continued, 'Well, husband, wasn't it you who called me a traitor? Perhaps, then, this is my traitor's death … '
'Don't be absurd.', he cut her off then, his voice unrelenting and dismissive, but it was nothing more than a mask meant to hide the doubts and fears that plagued him … and that dangerous thought that dared to cross his mind and choke him. What if she were telling the truth here? No, he wouldn't let himself think that, he wouldn't let her think that, he wouldn't let her go like that! And so, determined, he fixed her with a hard glare, making it undoubtedly clear that he wouldn't allow her to leave him like that, 'You're not really trying to kill yourself.'
'And what if I were?!', she shouted back then with more fury and liveliness than he would have thought her capable of having in herself at this point, given the condition she was in. For a moment then they held each other's gazes – that wicked smile of hers from before was gone now – and though he could see the defiant challenge in her eyes, he could also see something else and that emotion broke him at long last.
Defeated and overwhelmed Éomer turned around then, doing everything and all so he wouldn't have to see those sea-grey eyes and the heartless sincerity in them. Closing his eyes, the king took deliberate, deep breaths, trying to calm himself and to shut out the memories of that day on the ice and that cold, dark feeling that had gripped him when he had thought he was going to lose her. He knew, he remembered, that this woman was in no way inferior to him when it came to self-loathing, the only difference between them was that she possessed the selfishness and independence to actually act on it. No, a small, desperate voice inside him cried then, no, he wasn't going to let that happen again, he wasn't going to lose her again, not like that, not ever.
'I betrayed you, Éomer. Why would you care what happened to your little traitor?', she continued then, and now there was almost something like tenderness in her voice, as though she truly cared for him, as though she truly regretted the choices that led them here, as though she truly regretted the part she had played in it all and all the hurt she had caused, and the king decided to hold on to that, to remind himself why he could not let her go, why he could not live without her, why he could not stop loving her, even though every part of his being screamed at him to do just that. But still, even through it all, there was still good left in her, some slither of decency that neither the South nor her aunt nor her father could have ever snuffed out, and he decided to hold on to that, for himself and for her, and for them.
'You know why.', he answered then at long last, his voice quiet, barely more than a whisper, and he wasn't sure if she had heard him then, as he hadn't found the courage to turn around. Too great was the fear that those sea-grey eyes would still be looking dull and lifeless – looking but not seeing. But the king would have had no need for fear of that regard, because his queen had returned in full glory – with biting sarcasm, bitterness and cynicism, and then some.
'Oh, your loyalty to your wife is honourable, my lord.', she scoffed then, her inner fury fuelled by the words he had not spoken out loud but whose meaning she had clearly understood, and for some reason it made her react with anger rather than tenderness. Perhaps, she felt that if she were to let the true depth of his feelings touch her, she would be lost and unable to continue on the path she had chosen. But, whatever the reason, the poison in her sweet voice could not be stopped now anymore, 'Oh, you were always so terribly fucking honourable and – '
'Because I fucking love you!', he cut her off then, finally able to flip around and face her, infuriated by the way she was mocking him and his feelings for her that she damn well knew about. And something in him seemed to snap then – and he wasn't sure what exactly it was, the initial betrayal or the continuous antagonizing from her or her contempt for his country's innate virtues or the way she was making light of the depth of his emotions, but in this moment the love he felt for her was tainted by the sudden glimmer of his hate for her, and he was sure his words reflected that only too well.
'Béma help me, you've done your job masterfully, my lady. Congratulations.', he added then with a vicious growl as he fixed her with a deadly glare, and he had to give it to her, for a moment she actually had the decency to look shocked and even a little bit scared, but she was a queen through and through and she was recovering from her initial second of surprise quickly enough. And the cruelty in his voice and in his words made her cruel in return – because, what would he know of it? He was a man that saw the world only in colours of black and white, and in the silver she wore on her back he would only ever see a murky dark grey. He was man that had never in his life been forced into a situation that had called for him to make a tough choice, he had never been forced to sacrifice his honour or his integrity – because it was the only choice she could make – or to smile with sweetness whilst tasting the disgusting bitterness of such choices. The man he was would never be able to understand her – so why should she pretend to understand him and his so-called love?
Sometimes, she thought, remembering her father's words after the death of her mad uncle, sometimes cruelty was the only clemency left.
'Love?', she scoffed, her wicked grin only partially dimmed as she tried and failed to sit up, and even if her new-found penchant for antagonizing was somewhat momentarily confused and thrown out of balance by him reaching out to help her sit up, in the end, she did not let that unexpected kindness in a tense moment like this deter her. Her eyes were still searching for his as he supported her back, bringing them closer than they had been in a long time, and she still wanted to see the effect her deliberately brutal words would have, 'Love is the bed sheet men like to fuck on.'
The king's reaction was immediate. With his face twisted in disgust, he pushed her away and stood up in a flash, while she laughed a crooked laugh and fell back. But soon enough that laugh turned into a cough, and the momentary hatred glimmering in his eyes went out as quickly as it had been ignited, and with a heavy sigh he moved to the little table next to the bed. When he returned he brought her a cup of fresh, cool water – no wine for her! – and helped her to sit up so she could drink.
'That's your aunt talking.', he mumbled then as he held the cup up to her lips, and perhaps it was that sign of grim kindness, even in the face of her antagonising and cruelty, or the way his eyes softened at her gulping down the refreshing liquid, but it was enough for at least some of her sudden inexplicably instinctual anger to melt away into confusion. That at least would explain how his words had managed to her catch her off-guard, but she recovered quickly enough, trying to dismiss the way out he offered.
'Oh, yes, that would make it so easy, wouldn't it? The poor, innocent girl that was tormented into being a cold-hearted lady of the South?', she countered as she lay back again, but try as she might she could not recover the energising rush of anger she had felt before, instead she found herself growing calmer by the second, her mood turning sombre and bitter, but a lot less challenging than before, 'That's a nice sentiment, Éomer, but, sadly, not true. Let's face it, my lord, you've never truly seen me for who I really am – or was – and perhaps, you never will.'
'And whose fault is that, Lothíriel? It was you who hid from me. It was you who never let me see you … until it was too late.', he spoke quietly then, and though there was an edge of blame in his voice, it was missing the might of his fury that she had expected from him; she knew he was a man capable of great wrath and violence and yet in this moment he was as calm as the cold, dark sea after a midnight storm, all terror long washed away, all energy long drained and transformed into almost non-judgemental acceptance. And who could really fault him for that? The horse had long bolted from the stables, so why try and shut the door now? All he had left now, was to try and understand why the mare had run away in the first place.
Lothíriel swallowed hard as she watched him get up and look for a blanket to bring to her, and as she observed him collect the quilt from the bed – the quilt he had brought with him from Edoras, the quilt for which she had laughed at him for bringing with him to a land of eternal summer, the quilt she had fashioned for him in the cold days of winter for the cold winter nights – she felt her eyes soften almost against her will, and her heart simply melted along with it. Even now, after all she had done and after all she had flung his way, he still cared for her. That thought alone was enough to break her, though she still tried to hold it together, reminding herself why exactly it was better to make a clean cut here instead of wallowing in the misery of what could have been and what might still be, but as he wrapped the quilt around her, tugging her in, almost like a parent would, she could feel her resolve slowly slipping.
'I know, and I'm sorry for that. I know what I did was wrong, but at the time it seemed like the only thing I could do. I know it's not an excuse, but – ', she started slowly then, her words barely more than a whisper as she stumbled along what she hoped would pass for an apology, but as she had never actually truly apologised to anyone in her life before, she could not be sure she was doing it right, and so in her sudden insecurity she became all the more nervous and unsure, and at the end she had to shut her eyes from the pitiful gaze that was looking at her just so she could finish it without faltering even more than she already had, 'If you can still believe anything I'm saying now, believe that at least. I am truly sorry for that.'
Éomer considered her with watchful eyes, and though he was still licking his wounds from when she had burned him before – and over and over again – he could not stop the feeling that, right now, she was being honest with him and that for the first time – perhaps, ever since he had met her – she was allowing him to see all of her in the light of day. The hidden darkness of her past, the ugliness of her mistakes, the vulnerability of her self buried under it all – all of it. There was no facade, no ulterior motif, no ploy to get him to fall for; she was telling the truth when she said that she was sorry, although the king was still trying to figure out what exactly she was apologising here for.
It was not like she didn't have anything to be sorry for, quite on the contrary – Béma knew, she had plenty to be sorry for – but he could hear it in her voice, that sincere regret she felt for having tricked him into loving her, and there were unshed tears in her words as she spoke them. However – and he had thought long and hard on this, after fighting a losing battle with himself – if there was one thing in all this mess that he didn't want her to apologise for, then it was that she had made him fall in love with her.
In a way, she had tricked him, of course, because she had not been honest with him in the beginning, because she had pretended to be a person that wanted to love and to be loved in return, and he had fallen for that, but really she had sought out to use his love for her own gains – whether she had intended to or not, whether she had had a choice in that matter or not, she had tricked him. But that didn't change that he loved her now, and despite all the pain and the heartache, he found that he didn't regret that at least, no matter how angry he felt at the betrayal; and it didn't change that if given the choice between loving her and not loving her, he would always choose getting tricked by her all over –
'Perhaps, that's how it always should have been, you know?', she started again then after a while, after she had cleared her throat quite dramatically, to try and dismiss the feelings of tenderness she had begun to feel again, to try and calm her heart that had begun to ache at the sudden softness of his gaze on her. Éomer, for his part, was still too dazed by the sudden shift in emotion to realise where she was steering this conversation now, but she was making it clear soon enough, 'Without me, you could have a new wife, a better wife, a Northern – '
'I don't want another wife.', he cut her off quickly as he stood up in one swift motion and turned away, equally appalled and yet touched at her line of thinking. She had insinuated something like this before, that day on the ice, that day she had forced the discussion about his bastard son – that a woman of his own people would have suited him more, that he would be better off without her. And just as he had done back then, he dismissed even the possibility of allowing himself to think that way. It was just like he had told her back then: she was his wife, his queen, and he would have no other woman beside her.
However, the very woman of his heart seemed to have long forgotten the vow he had made to her back then, and along with it, she seemed to have forgotten his love for her that bound him to her and her to him. Because his initial rejection of what she was implying was downright ignored, or, perhaps, she had not even heard him, since by now she seemed to have worked herself up into a veritable frenzy: lips trembling with forced excitement, a smile he knew she could fake better and eyes that shone with self-imposed hope – or were it tears?
'B-but another woman might be able to give you a son, a legitimate heir.', she started again then, trying to get out the words too quickly, almost stumbling over them as she spoke, and perhaps it was simply easier to say it quickly – like a limb lost to gangrene that had to be amputated before it killed you – perhaps otherwise her courage would have left her, perhaps otherwise she would say something else entirely, 'Another woman who would love you and – '
'Well, I don't want another woman's love!'
His words were more of a shout than an answer but they had both heard it and they were both shocked by it. But while he turned away in shame, she recovered from it quickly enough – she had to anyway or all else would be lost. She felt her own despair tear at her mercilessly and in her impatience she wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shout at him herself. Save yourself, you big oaf of a stallion! Run and hide! Save yourself at least! Leave me behind! But she knew that this wouldn't be enough to sway him to her side – quite on the contrary, probably – and so she went in for the kill, just as her aunt had taught her, just as her father had taught her, just as her life had taught her. And she could already foresee the pain her words would bring into his eyes, and she knew that sight could be enough for her to revoke her lie, but she knew she couldn't. What was said could not be unsaid. And, perhaps, it would be the easiness with which he would believe her lie that would manage to break what was left of her heart at long last …
'I will never love you, Éomer. At least, not in the way you – '
'Just say it already, for Béma's fucking sake! Just say it, Lothíriel!', he thundered then in his massive voice, whipping around to face her. He was a warrior after all, and one who had never shied away from a fight, one who had looked death and defeat in the eye and would proudly do so again – but now his eyes showed no pride or honour, as they were eyes that both pleaded with her and yet defied her pity in his anger, 'You wanna separate? Is that it?'
'I – ', she began to say then, her mouth opening to answer him, to confirm his fears, to ease his pain, to prove herself a liar, to say the words she had forbidden herself from saying for so long, but just in the moment that she could have doomed them forever the sound of someone clearing his throat cut through the thick silence. Shocked and dazed the king and queen looked towards the door of the chamber to find none other than the Prince of Dol Amroth himself, Lord Imrahil.
'Excuse me, your Majesty, but I would like to have a word with my daughter.', Imrahil spoke then, bowing low and lower, falling as easily into the polite patterns of formality as a fish might swim through water, although when neither king nor queen seemed to react at first, the prince drew himself back up to his full height to get a bearing of the uncomfortable silence stretching out in the room between. What he was met with were the gazes of two people who looked as though they had just seen a spectre appear out of thin air, and as most people would be, they were none to happy to have a petty, nosy shade like him impose on the living. Surely, the prince could feel the frosty atmosphere in the room and he at least had the decency to pretend to be uncomfortable by his sudden, unannounced intrusion as he looked down and added, almost as if to apologise, 'If you do not object, that is.'
Éomer, for his part, was still trying to process that he had been caught thus unawares (it was a disgrace how little attention he always paid to his surroundings whenever he was with his wife and queen, or, perhaps, he could put the blame on the myriads of passageways that ran through this palace like veins and that its inhabitants still seemed indecently fond of using?), and for a moment he was too shocked to react. But he was recovering quickly enough. Turning towards his father-in-law with murder in his eyes, there was a moment of abeyance, where everything was left hanging in the balance and there seemed to be a genuine chance of prince and king coming to blows. But then the moment passed, and even though the king fixed the prince with a deadly glare, he moved past him nonetheless and out the door.
And just like that, father and daughter were alone.
For a long moment, Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, lingered in the doorway, there on the precipice of the two worlds his daughter was currently residing in, as though he were unsure whether or not to enter the half-world she had shut herself in, but then the moment of hesitance passed and the prince walked over to her. However – Lothíriel could not pinpoint it exactly – there was something strange about it that she had not noticed before; a strange air of weariness seemed to weigh him down, like a stone in a river continuously worn down by the currents of time.
Yes, for the first time in her life, her father looked old.
Immediately, Lothíriel was on guard, her old instincts flaring up. And yet, for the life of her, she could not have moved. Perhaps it were still the after-effects of the drugs or the exhaustion from the fight or the weeks and weeks of emotional turmoil draining her – but she could not move. Not even as the prince crouched next to his daughter lying on the divan, not even as he was wiping away her tears of fatigue, as any concerned father would – but Imrahil was far from that, and she knew it. But even though her eyes followed him with suspicious wariness, she was far too exhausted to deal with his surprising strength or his quick reflexes. His hand shot out then and found its way around her neck to exert the minute pressure he needed to make his point, but even though the queen should have been frightened to death and feared for her life, she was too far gone already to care at this point.
'Is this little demonstration supposed to suggest that you're going to choke me to death now, father? Because we both know that's really not your style.', she croaked out then with what little air she had left, the grim grin on her face a mocking sign of confidence – or perhaps, world-weariness would be a better fit here? But, surprisingly enough, the prince did let go of her then. And as she tried to regain control of her breathing, she could see that she was not the only one stunned by this complete loss of composure.
It was true, never before had she seen her father lose control like that. Or perhaps, she had seen it once, years ago, when her mother had died; back then, he had been an absolute wreck too, mumbling to himself, wringing his hands, howling in grief like a desperate, wounded animal – but that state had lasted barely for a day before he had regained his usual, iron poise, and after that, he had become the cold and distant statue of manner and cunning she had come to see him as. But now, to see him like that once more – eyes widened in shock, teeth gritted in almost physical pain, hands that had been balled to fists to keep them from reaching out – well, it brought back memories of the past she had hoped to have long forgotten, and it brought forth visions of a future she feared might be her own.
I am not my father, she reminded herself, and his lot in life need not be my own.
I am not my father, she told herself, my heart is not yet dead.
I am not my father, she swore to herself, there is hope for me still.
I –
'You will end this charade now, Lothíriel – do you hear me? Either you will return to your husband as his devoted wife or you will end this disaster you have made of your marriage. Right now, all you are, is an embarrassment to the good name of your family.', the prince huffed out in between deep inhales of breaths (after he had regained enough of his composure to act as the haughty lord again) and through her own dizzy breathlessness, the queen wondered comically (after she had recovered from her initial shock of the attack, and, perhaps, the even greater shock of seeing the prince lose control like that) why her own father seemed so much more out of breath than her – after all, had it not been her who had been threatened to be choked to death just a minute ago?
But of course, she reminded herself, if her dear lord father had really wanted to end her life here and now, he could have done so quite easily – for all his prim and proper squeamishness, the Prince of Dol Amroth could be astonishingly brutal if he wanted to. But, she guessed, that was just the thing – in the end, he had not really wanted to kill her, he had only wanted to frighten her, to punish her, to have her fall in line like the frightened little princess that she was. The thing was just – she was not a princess anymore, and the shadow of her father had long ceased to frighten her.
'Yes, that good family name – we wouldn't want that to be embarrassed by some foolish, overemotional, little girl, would we now?', she sneered at him then in a weird laugh that sounded more like a cough, and even though she seemed to enjoy mocking her lord father a little too much, she soon enough grew sombre once again, except for that grim smile she forced herself to wear, as though she were unintentionally amused by her own inaction and mistakes.
'I'm glad you seem to be enjoying yourself at least.', her father scoffed then with dry sarcasm, fixing her with cold, hard eyes – but other than that, his white hot anger from before seemed to have cooled down immeasurably. Perhaps, his transgression before had been nothing more than a momentary crack in the facade, an overreaction born out of frustration. Of course, that did not mean she would ever let her guard down with him again and it most certainly did not mean that she would forget what he could be capable of when pushed too far. So, maybe, maybe, her answer was fuelled by more than just her insane carelessness at this point; perhaps, a part of her did still care for herself, at least enough not to provoke him further – or perhaps, the satisfaction she drew from denying him what he wanted made it easier for her to hide the fear still pricking under her fingernails or to ignore the aching of her throat.
'He will not divorce me, father.', she threw in, her smile from before gone (because a part of her did not feel as sure about this statement as pretended to be). Instead her face showed a grim, contemplative expression as she watched the ocean wash away towards the horizon. And it was as if she had seen him opening his mouth, trying to protest, because without missing a beat she added – almost just to spite him – words of such conviction that all he could do, was close his mouth, without actually having achieved anything, 'Trust me, I have tried.'
'Then try harder.', her lord father commented dryly then, as it was all he could say without admitting defeat – because, surely, he of all people understood the underlying intentions of her relapsing into old vices (or perhaps not all of it had been part of her plan … whatever that plan may have been). And, surely, the old fox had not been as ignorant of her "progress" as he pretended to be now; why, perhaps, even a Prince of Dol Amroth was not above eavesdropping …
'You disappoint me, Lothíriel. I thought you had learned from the best.', the lord Imrahil went on to say, rising at last to his full height, readjusting his clothes, composing himself to return to that immaculate picture of a successful nobleman he so often liked to exude. And one could just tell, by the way his bored eyes gazed briefly at the open sea outside the window, that for the Prince of Dol Amroth all that needed to be said about the matter, had been said, and so he was more than happy to leave it at that, 'So, I suggest you start using that skill set and put it to good – '
'Oh, I've used it, alright!', she cut him off then, and this time she was not nearly as good at hiding her anger as she possibly had been before; but, perhaps, that was only understandable – few enough people in the world managed to get under her skin like that, and no one could succeed at that quite like her father. So, truth be told, when she continued, she hardly made any effort in trying to hide the contempt in her voice as she spoke, and, in a way, it even felt good, like a relief even, to give back some of the poison she had been fed all her life, 'I made him fall in love with me, didn't I? For all the good it does us now … '
'And what would you like to hear from me now, daughter? Do you want me to pity you?', the lord Imrahil answered pointedly then, snobbishly ignoring her spiteful remark. In that moment it was clear to both of them whom she blamed for her misery and this absolute mindfuck of a situation, but the prince was clearly not willing to take responsibility for his part in this catastrophe. Instead, in his eyes, the only true culprit responsible for this complete fiasco was none other than his wayward daughter, and the man had absolutely no qualms in letting her feel that he held her entirely responsible for all of it, 'From the looks of it, you've been more than just doing that yourself already.'
Lothíriel, for her part, was practically seething at this point: eyes squinted in anger, chest heaving with the effort to try and keep it all in, hands clenched into fists, trying to calm herself down by distracting herself with the pain of it. Surely, at this point, this could have ended ugly, but if there was one thing her father brought out in her more even than her anger, then it was her spiteful competitiveness. She simply would not – could not – give him the satisfaction of seeing how he was hurting her with his callous words and cold attitude, even if she knew that he could very well see right through her, and especially because, in a way, he had not been wrong in his assessment. For the past week she had been more or less wallowing in her self-pity, a mere shameful shadow of her former self, and truth be told, no one had been more ashamed of it and disgusted by it than she herself. But it was one thing to admit this to herself, it was something else entirely to admit this to her lord father. And so she simply smiled with a grim smile as she spoke words dripping with sarcasm, to hide the pain underneath and to score a point of her own, 'Your concern for me is truly heart-warming, father. Any other kind words, my lord?'
But Imrahil did not react as she would have thought; there was no outrage, no words of fury or face twisted in disgust. Instead his face showed nothing but calm, or if any emotion at all, it was the expression of a person in complete control who looked upon his opponent as nothing but an irritating, pitiable fool. Oh, indeed, the Prince of Dol Amroth had seen right through her defences and found her lacking in almost every regard; she knew that as he looked at her, and looked behind her facade of false bravado, he saw nothing but an insecure, little girl who had played all her cards, save one.
'You're not the first one to lose in this game, Lothíriel, and even though you've always been an apt player, you have never understood that no player can call himself truly great without also having known defeat. But every player needs a team to increase the chances of success; the trick is to know which team you're on.', the prince went on to say, his demeanour calm and condescending, as it always had been during her childhood when he had imparted a wisdom or another on her, 'You are a descendant of the ancient House of Dol Amroth. We trace our lineage back to the days of the Elves. For generations we have played and we have lost, we have learned and we have won. Not because we were better than everybody else, not because we amassed wealth and riches, not because of some fairy tale of an Elven maid that fell for a mortal man – but because we played not for ourselves but for our family. We are all just players on a team, and like chess pieces on a board we become expendable and useless, if we don't play with a cohesive and collective strategy. That is the path to success in this game – knowing that you yourself are nothing, if you don't do everything for your family.'
For a few seconds, after Imrahil had finished his little monologue on the co-dependent nature of interpersonal politics, there was a little moment of silence, and it was clear what the noble prince had expected to see then in reaction to the lesson he had offered. But instead of a head bowed in humility and gratefulness, there was defiance in her eyes and a wicked smile on her lips, and even though it was all a facade – because a part of her knew that he was right – she would be damned, if she ever took her father's side again. And so she only grinned her pained smile as she dismissed her father's wisdom with the false confidence of the wilful child, 'Thanks for the lesson, schoolmaster, I shall try to remember it the next time I challenge Amrothos for a game of chess.'
'Is this all a joke to you? Have you no concern or respect for your family?', the mighty lord thundered then, his calm and cool from before gone the moment he realised that she would not submit to his wise words, 'Everything you are, every freedom you have, every luxury you enjoyed, even the title you bear with so little grace; all of that you owe to your family, to the people that came before you, to me – and yet you act as though none of it bears any meaning, as though none of it matters … as though you yourself were not a part of those same strategies of intrigue you so pretend to look down upon now! And now, you want to throw it all away and destroy your reputation and that of your family for … for what?! Some heartbreak over a man that will never – '
'Don't you get it, father?!', she cut him off then – because she could no longer bear listening to him, because she could not bear to hear him say exactly what she feared he would say, because she could no longer bear a lifetime of kissing the hand that would just as well ignore her or praise her, raise her up or look down on her, use her or discard her. It was simply too much for her to bear it in silence any longer, and when she continued, her voice could barely contain the scathing anger she had held in for so many years – but she was tired of being the composed lady or the dutiful daughter; she was a queen, and queens ruled, 'If it only meant your ruin as well, I would gladly take the fall.'
For a moment, the prince was too stunned by her statement to respond; the only reaction his face showed was a forehead creased with frowns, his eyes glazing over, trying to understand the meaning of her words, trying to discern how he could have been so blind to something so starkly obvious … now that she showed her true colours. Imrahil was shocked, that was true, but he was also a politician who had faced many and more enemies and rivals in his time, so, such a revelation was hardly shocking to him – but knowing that such feelings and intentions of betrayal came from his own flesh and blood, that … that was something no man would have been able to swallow with ease.
'You really do hate me, don't you, daughter?', Imrahil asked then slowly, after he had recovered from the initial shock, after he had put two and two together, and even though his youngest child didn't answer him with words, he did see his surprisingly direct question answered quite definitively. The grin on her face widened and she chuckled manically, even though the tears forming in her eyes soon enough left angry, wet streaks on her cheeks. So, yes, the manic grin on her face seemed answer enough, though the tears she cried also told him that where now hatred reigned, there had once been love as well, and, perhaps, still was, as unwelcome and inconvenient as that feeling may be.
'You killed my mother.', Lothíriel answered at long last, the words pressed out through clenched teeth, barely more than a snarl, but even though she seemed to revel in the shock that spread out on his face in the aftermath of her accusation, she also couldn't bear to see this act of confusion (as she chose to see it) he put on display afterwards, and so she quickly went on to explain, 'Now, you didn't strangle her or beat her to death or poison her – but you did kill her; slowly, over many years. You put her in a cage made of silver and songs, and you let her suffocate under the pressure.'
'I loved you mother, in my own – ', Imrahil tried to defend himself then, momentarily forgetting that he was a mighty lord, and a prince at that, because for a moment all he was, was a neglectful father being questioned by his own child about the mistakes he had made and the regrets he had collected over the years. And even though for a split second there was actually sincerity in his plea of defence, his daughter would have none of it, closing off her ears to his words and her heart to his genuine feelings.
'Well, it was your love that killed her then!', she cried, interrupting him, to keep him from swaying her with his words to his side once again, because under no circumstances would she allow him to keep on determining this narrative – it was time for her truths, and this time she would not be silenced, 'Seven miscarriages, seven! And yet you and your cock just wouldn't leave her alone!'
'I wouldn't expect you to understand.', her father answered then, and once again he had found his calm and cool again, once again he was the mighty prince again, the noble lord of unyielding ruthlessness that stared her down with eyes that knew no mercy and excused no weakness, 'You've never loved anyone.'
'And whose fault is that?!', she hurled back at him then, and the anger she felt at the calm with which he insulted her like that, was only doubled by the hurt she felt at the realisation that he of all people had managed to see right through her and to discern one of her greatest fears in life. Had she truly never loved anyone in her life? Had the walls she had built around herself truly never been breached before? Had she never loved before because she herself had not been worth loving? Closing her eyes, Lothíriel took deep breaths to try and calm herself down. No, she wouldn't give in to fear. She knew she had loved and she had lost – otherwise she wouldn't be hurting right now, otherwise she wouldn't be here right now.
'You say you loved my mother, but her body was not yet swallowed by the waves when you already took a harlot to bed and – '
'I don't have to justify myself to the likes of you!', the prince thundered then, and this time there was true rage in his voice as he spoke, and it was enough to shut her up. Perhaps it had been her questioning of his honour that had infuriated him so, that one of his children, who, in his eyes, owed him their obedience and silence, would dare to speak out against him – or, perhaps, he was just a man after all, who had loved a woman only to lose her. In the aftermath of that shout the prince had turned away, his back shielding him from her sight, giving him time to find that poise again he had perfected over the years, and only after the echo of his loss of control had ebbed away did he continue – but this time, there was a strange and dangerous tenderness in his voice, 'But – if I were to do it, I would begin by saying that I was lonely, and I would end by reminding you that surely you understand that feeling.'
At his words, Lothíriel felt a strange pain awaken in her heart, and as she looked up to try and understand the nature of that sudden ache, she found that the unnatural tenderness in his voice had found its way into his eyes – eyes quite like hers – that softened at the thought of memories long gone while they looked out onto the open sea. For a while he seemed lost in his thoughts and memories, and there was something so unguarded about him in this moment, so vulnerable, that she hardly dared to breathe. When the prince did continue, his words carried the heavy weight of reminiscence and this hollow warmth with which one talked about a past that could not be changed – not even by the man she had once believed to be the most powerful man in the world.
'Ever since your mother died, no other woman could replace her – though I will not deny that I've tried … in my moments of weakness. But nothing – nothing – could fill the hole she left. Not even you children.', her father spoke with a sad tenderness she would never have believed him to be capable of, but there he was, speaking as though he were a man like any other, destroying the image of the vicious and heartlessly cruel all-father-figure she had created in her mind, that he had created with his actions. And when he spoke again, it almost sounded as though his voice would fail him and he were choking on the words he meant to say, 'And you – you looked so much like her, I – '
It simply became too much. To her utter shock, Lothíriel found her father losing himself to emotion for a second time today, and, overwhelmed at the very sight and thought of it, she simply had to turn away – so she would have to witness his little breakdown, so she wouldn't break down herself, so she wouldn't feel tempted to pity him. But, for just a moment there, she almost thought she heard him whisper the name Lhinneth, and just like that, she was undone. Lothíriel closed her eyes and tried to shut out the memories of the day her mother had died – Lhinneth, don't leave me – but to no avail, the pictures of her father kneeling at her mother's bedside flashed before her inner eye – Lhinneth, come back to me – and even if she fought it with tooth and nail, she could not keep her heart from reacting to it – Lhinneth, forgive me …
'I was hard on you children, it's true, I will not deny that. I expected much and more from you, and perhaps I even expected too much.', her father went on to say then, and while his voice sounded a lot calmer this time around, there was still a certain edge to it, like a man exhausted from pretending not to care, like a man unpractised in the art of kind and tender interhuman relations trying to find his footing. Of course, it was this tentative change in him that also made it harder for Lothíriel not to give in to those old feelings of daughterly love, or to not have her yearning for any fatherly kindness reignite. And so she kept her eyes closed and her face turned away, so she wouldn't feel tempted to see her father as she had always wanted to see him: as a parent. Because even though she had long trained herself to keep that old yearning buried deep, deep down – deep enough for her to have forgotten it – it was still there, and had always been there, waiting for her treacherous, weak little heart to succumb to it once more and then to be betrayed by it all over again.
'But I had to be hard. It was for the best. It was the only thing I could hand down to you. The world we live in is not a kind one, and I made sure you children learned that first and foremost.', he continued then, and as he spoke he sounded a lot more composed now, so much more like his old self, like the patriarch and prince that he was, and she was sure, if she had opened her eyes to look at him, she would have found him readjusting his clothes and his appearance to look the part too. And before he left – with a touch to her shoulder that felt a lot more calculated now, even if the gesture had been a heartfelt one – the prince turned into the politician once more, tactically choosing his words, so that in the end he got what he came for, as per usual, 'I had to be hard on myself, too, Lothíriel. I could not let myself wallow in my misery – I had my responsibilities, my duties, my goals … as do you.'
FUN FACT #1: This was the last truly heart-wrenching chapter. The next one will feature a surprise and ... a long awaited catharsis.
FUN FACT #2: Like Lothíriel I force myself to see my father as a piece of shit, because for my own peace of mind I cannot and will not pity him. But that doesn not mean that Lothíriel's father is not a man to be pitied. He has loved and he has lost. Unfortunately he handled his own sadness at the expense of his children.
FUN FACT #3: Lothíriel is at a breaking point now, and you will see exactly what that means precisely. NEXT CHAPTER!