So, I am back again.
I'm so sorry for the delay; work is hell right one, and the people at school are already stretched thin and now the (once again!) worsening pandemic is making it even ... well, worse.
But, I think, in tough times like these, even the smallest sliver of happiness can brighten even the darkest days.
Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!
Thanks to all the readers, fans, reviewers and all the rest of you lovely people!
32. The Midnight Swim
Éomer was sure, if he would never be forced to sit at another banquet again in his life, it still wouldn't be enough to regain all the hours he had already lost here. Hour after hour wasted; thronged among petty, pompous people in halls stuffed heavy with perfume and politics, listening to dull conversations and even duller gossip, sipping on nauseatingly sweet wines. Between it all, it was hard to tell what made him sicker – the false friendliness of these snobbish people, their exaggerated laughter and wagging tongues or the sweet headache-inducing liquids they pretended to be proper alcohol?
This was a question he frequently pondered, and tonight was no different as he was yet again forced to sit at yet another banquet. The banquet was in celebration of … what? The king had quite forgotten, if he had ever known it in the first place. Not that he really cared, to be honest; in the end, he thought, as he downed another glass of their terribly sweet wine, it didn't really matter, did it? These people with their false faces and false smiles needed no reason to drink and talk and laugh excessively after all. The end always justified the means, and the means determined the ending, right?
How did it come to this?, Éomer wondered with a sigh, how did he end up here, a Northerner cornered by Southerners? A few years ago, nay, a few months ago he would never have guessed that his life would take him here, that life would make him do and say things that were not true, just so he could escape the situation, that he would have to lie and cheat and con his way out of treacherous offers and ambivalent promises, instead of meeting his foes head-on. But that was just the thing, wasn't it? He was not among enemies here, he was among courtiers and politicians and every other group of people that dealt in lies and intrigue, for whom honesty and honour were a foreign language none of them, apparently, had ever attempted to learn to speak.
So, how the fuck did it come to this, how did he end up here, an honest man, an honourable man, surrounded by liars and deceivers of the worst kind?
Looking up from the bottom of his empty glass, ignoring the hyena-like laughter of the couple standing right next to him, Éomer's gaze settled upon a rare sight that he had dreaded as much as he had yearned for it. There, in the middle of the great hall, in between courtiers and cringers, stood none other than his wife and queen, and she was looking at him too. It wasn't the sort of glance she usually would have thrown his way; no appraisingly Southern look upon a Northerner, not even the furtive look she had had in their first few weeks of their marriage, too shy to really meet his gaze. No, she was meeting his gaze head-on, staring back in return, and there were just so many unspoken emotions shining out of her eyes that it left him quite speechless.
She had never quite looked at him like that before; her gaze hollowed out by all the feelings lost in them, her eyes filled to the brim with memories – there was sadness, hesitation too, and disappointment, but also regret and shame, and then there was yearning as well and a quiet determination that came with it. It was the sort of gaze that you could not escape from; no matter how much you would squirm under its uncomfortable intensity, you simply could not look away. It was the sort of gaze that left the rest of the world in darkness, and all except each other seemed to fade away into oblivion; no sounds of laughter, no words of gossip, no body heat of the hundreds of courtiers – nothing, only them. And it was then, as they looked at each other, as openly and as unveiled as they had never done before, that the king began to remember the reason exactly why he would endure the dull unpleasantness of all these banquets and the presence of all these court cringers.
After their fight, after the funeral and the breakdown, after their talk, a day had passed and then another and then another one. In a way, much had changed; his queen seemed to have recovered from her momentary lapse of composure and returned to her usual poise. In a way though, not much had changed; they still had not reconciled, not truly anyway. His queen had taken up residence in their shared chambers again; they slept next to each other, took their meals together with her family, appeared in public together, but that old intimacy from before had become a mere appearance. When she took his arm, it was for show; when she undressed, she turned away; and when the meals had passed, she would retreat with her brother Amrothos to … to do what? It didn't really matter, now, did it? The outcome was always the same; she was ever slipping from his grasp too quickly, leaving him alone, leaving him to discuss boring or even infuriating matters of state with her father and her brother Elphir, or to suffer endless drinking games with her brother Erchirion and his boasts of the prowess of Southern knights. The only thing he never had, was time alone with her.
He had never really got the chance to smooth things over with her, to talk and clear up the mess they had managed to manoeuvre themselves into. Soon enough then he had started to wonder how long exactly they could keep going like this, and he was already dreading the day he would have to broach the topic of their return journey, because a part of him feared that she might not even want to return with him, and that thought was enough to have something in his chest constrict almost painfully. Being alone before, he could handle loneliness, he had been strangely content with it, but now, the prospect of facing this life alone, after experiencing what it could be like, it was worse than before because now he understood what he would lose, what he would miss, and a part of him almost wished he had never met her, that she had never been given to him. But another part of him – and it was this part of him that was holding her gaze just now – was even grateful for this new loneliness and the pain that came with it, because it meant that, in a way, they were still connected.
The sudden sound of applause wrenched him out of his thoughts then and brought him back into the here and now. All around him people were clapping and cheering, and in his daze Éomer was surprised to see that while he had been lost in his thoughts, a wide circle had formed in the middle of the hall, as the audience of guests had just been entertained with a little performance of a song. Not very much feeling like pretending to care, the king immediately looked for his queen again, who he had lost sight of in the shock of the moment, but his eyes found her quickly enough. There, at the other end of the circle, she stood, and she too must have been surprised by the sudden return to reality, because her gaze was flitting to and fro, fearful to have been caught in her mindlessness. But it took her only a moment to recompose herself; in an instant the lines of worry on her forehead were smoothed out and just like that she was the proper lady again – but her eyes remained haunted by her thoughts, and he could still see that as she found his gaze again.
He couldn't say anymore what had made him want to walk over to her then, to cross the room and close the distance between them. Perhaps it had been the expression in her eyes. There was relief in them when they had caught sight of him again – maybe, he thought, she had feared he would have left in the thunderous distraction of the applause. But even more than that, there was a yearning in those eyes, even more than before; an all-consuming yearning burning two scorching holes straight into his heart. Perhaps it simply became too much to bear in it silence, to bear it alone. Perhaps it was that innate desire in him to try and release some of the tension between them.
Whatever it was though, it didn't really matter in the end.
His feet were moving of their own volition; one step, then another one, and then another, and soon enough he was crossing the hall and the wide empty circle between them. He cared little whether his hurried steps attracted attention (though the people around him seemed thoroughly preoccupied with their own entertainment); and the way his queen's eyes widened at his walking towards her let him know that she very much understood that he came her way with some intention. To his surprise then, he saw that she blushed – something she hadn't done in a long while – and somehow it made his heart throb painfully hard in his chest, reminding him sharply of the sweet woman that lain in his arms not so long ago, and it made him wonder what she thought he wanted to do. Grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she gave him a satisfying answer as to what the fuck was going on between them? Sweep her off her feet and twirl her around in laughter, whispering into her ear that all was forgiven and forgotten, or even to shout it at the top of his lungs? Pull her into his arms and into a passionate kiss that would leave them both breathless?
In reality he had no idea what he wanted to do, once he had made his way other there. All he knew was that he couldn't bear another moment of this terrible situation of abeyance, of being so close to each other – almost able to touch – and yet so far away. Anything else was preferable to that; let her shout at him, call him out on his flaws and hold it up for all the world to see, or rub salt into the wound and laugh at him for how easily – and how hard – he had fallen for her; let her twist the knife and whisper with a smile that she never loved him and never would, but, Béma help him, just let it end, just let him know where they were at with each other, what they now were for each other, what –
Fuck.
The king had been a mere few feet away from his wife, his queen almost within his hand's reach, when out of nowhere this pirate fucker Amrothos suddenly appeared at Lothíriel's side – and just like that the connection was broken. Éomer stopped so hard in his tracks he very nearly toppled over. Lothíriel, for her part, seemed no less startled; as soon as her brother addressed her, her gaze dropped to the floor, the blush on her cheeks deepening, taking on a whole new meaning, as though she were a child again, caught in doing something forbidden. But what was even harder to swallow, was the expression her eyes held when she did look up again, because there was something final in them; yeah, underneath the regret and the yearning, there was something final.
At this point Éomer cursed quite audibly under his breath, gruffly and reluctantly, but he accepted that he had missed his chance all the same, and with a groan that spoke of frustration as much as it spoke of yearning the king simply turned on his heels and went back the way he came. And while the king walked back towards the divans, to sit down and to sit in silence, to down drink after drink while wallowing in his anger and his misery, he could not help but notice, out of the corner of his eyes, the urgency with which this brother spoke to his sister. A part of him did wonder then what the hell they were talking about so intensely, their words no more than a hiss and a whisper; another part of him, however, was simply too fed up to literally give a fuck about it.
It was only once he had sat down, when he raised his cup to his lips to down it in one gulp, that he saw that his wife and queen was still standing in the middle of the hall, but now at the very centre of the circle, alone (as her brother had left her to sit far off, a surprisingly disgruntled expression on the usually so jovial, youthful face) and seemingly on the cusp of a performance of a song. That in and of itself was not an unusual thing to do, of course; many of the young Southern ladies were vigorously trained in their musical talents after all, taught to be sweet nightingales capable of charming the social circles – but this right here, this was different.
The king had only ever heard his queen sing to him before, at night, in the dark, her voice soothing him to sleep, a lullaby to chase away the nightmares and shadows of war and loss, but now, to have her sing before all those courtiers and cringers and pompous arses, it felt as though she were using one of their most intimately shared moments to intentionally hurt him, as though to rub it in as deeply and hard as possible that she was no longer his, and, perhaps, never had been. Éomer was fuming, and not just silently or on the inside; he was muttering under his breath, cursing almost violently, and unwilling to take this assumed insult any longer, the king was only barely listening to her introductory speech as he was about to get up to leave this hall and its inhabiting creatures behind, until –
'I dedicate this performance to my lord husband and king, and in his honour I shall render it in the language of the Riddermark.'
Éomer was, to say the least, astounded – and not only because his fearful and more or less furious assumption about about this whole ordeal seemed to have been more than just wrong; because not only had she not disappeared with her brother to another secret sibling party, but she was doing this little performance right here for him? In a way then, the king was glad for his level of intoxication because it kept him from making a surprised fool out of himself; the way he was now, he simply remained seated as he was: dumbfounded but luckily low-key enough without causing any scene.
And while the queen readied herself for her piece of performance, the king readied himself too, as he tried to wrap his head around what was happening here. She had indeed gotten quite ahead with her studies of his language (of which he had not been innocent of, as he liked to think, since he liked to talk in between the sheets), but he had not been aware that she had found the time and leisure to translate one of her Southern songs into the Northern tongue – and, apparently, he was not alone in his surprise. All around him the lords and ladies started to mumble, some even snickering behind veils and fans and raised glasses of wine – all on the quiet, naturally. It was only when she actually started to sing that the hall became truly quiet, and it took them all but a moment to recognise the song.
'Alas, my love, you do me wrong,
to cast me off discourteously,
for I have loved you well and long,
delighting in your company.
Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
and who but my lord of Greensleeves.'
Éomer knew the song well, as it was quite popular here in the South and he had heart it quite often ever since he had come here, and even before his marriage, whenever he had visited the Stonelands, the melody and its words had been played and sung and hinted at almost on a daily basis. Perhaps it was because the people of the South had so little to do that they could waste away their days with pretty songs, or perhaps the heat of the sun melted their brains and turned them all into love-struck romantics – but it wasn't the seemingly never-ending overuse of the song or his annoyed appraisal of it moonstruck lyrics that was on his mind right now as his wife sang the song, but rather the meaning and symbolism behind it.
Because while the arse lickers around him were quite quick to perceive the superficial meaning of the song, knowing it full well to be the confession of one besotted lover to a spurning partner, sparking contemptuous amounts of gossip in between their wild whisperings, he knew it to be far more than just that. For him it was her quiet attempt at reconciliation after their lover's quarrel, and with her changing the lyrics to suit her needs, she might as well have shouted to the world at the top of her lungs that she loved him with all her heart, but since only the two of them understood what she did here, because only the two of them actually understood her words, her declaration of devotion became a much more intimate affair.
After she was done, after the enchantment of her singing had slowly started to wear off and allowed them to be transported back into the here and now, the socialites all rose to stand and clap their hands with the vigour of false enthusiasm, complimenting his wife on her lovely rendition despite the harsh, guttural vocabulary of the Northern tongue. Éomer, for his part, who had taken a bit more time than the rest to awaken from the spell she had cast on them all, was now grinding his teeth in frustration at the saccharine jabs and side blows these court cringers were throwing his way, and he was about ready to hand out punches. But then again, he remembered that he was king and that, perhaps, beating up courtiers would not be a very kingly thing to do.
Yet as he regarded his wife standing there amidst the pretentious applause, blushing hard with self-consciousness, he realised that even more than frustration and insecure anger, he felt compassion for her, with his heart nearly bursting with love for her – and thus it must have been this feeling as well that compelled him then to simply get up and walk over to her to join her. Understandably, his wife's eyes went wide with confusion and panic then when she realised that he was coming her way – mortified, perhaps, what that husband of hers was possibly up to now to prove that he was the crude, uncultured brute the world thought him to be – but she was more than just a little surprised to see, as he bowed low before her and gave the musicians a sign, that she truly had seen nothing yet.
Now, it had been among one of the first real conversations they had ever had, back then when they had still been in the first throes of getting to know each other, when they had exchanged interests, fancies and dislikes, that he had adamantly, passionately, stubbornly sworn that he could not and would not dance, not ever, not in this life, nor in any other that might follow, and even if her face had fallen at that particular piece of information, he had not changed his mind. But now, now he took her hand, his palm hovering against hers as he took the starting position for a (Ulmo save her!) Southern court dance of all things.
He could see that recognition in her eyes too; that moment when it dawned on her what was happening, only to have it happen already. She had realised it too late, as the music was already starting, and then she had no choice but to go through with it, lest she would risk embarrassing them both in front of the whole court. But, naturally, there was a moment of hesitation, a moment of hanging on the precipice, a moment of trepidation that could only end with them either falling or taking flight – and, surely, it could not be the latter.
As with most Southern court dances, the movements were supposed to be light and airy – with hands only ever nearly touching – but also swift and fluid like the sea – full of turns and spins to render the dancers breathless and dizzy. To put it bluntly: it required dancers to be graceful and elegant and precise and determined all at once. All traits, arguably, that this Northern king did not have in spades. So, yes, damn straight, there was a long fucking moment of trepidation.
But then the moment passed, and as the music compelled them to move with it, the trepidation passed along with it. That was not to say that there was no hesitation or not at least some level of anxiety, because, surely, there was; their first steps slow and restrained, and when he touched his hand to hers, he could feel her trembling still. But the more steps passed between them, the more they turned and danced alongside each other … the more they grew comfortable with each other. When he spun her around, she trusted him to catch her; when she turned around, he trusted her to come back to him.
All around them the world seemed to fall away; faces and people became a blur that disappeared along with the room and everything else in it. They had only eyes for each other. The music propelled them on and on, as they came together only to part again, but always stayed connected; their hands never once letting go of each other. And when he lifted her up to spin her around her, she used his broad shoulders as a support for her hands without hesitation because his hands spanned her waist, never once letting her fall.
Whatever fears she might have had, they started to fall off of her heart bit by bit. Whatever walls she had built around her heart, they slowly started to peal away. In the course of a dance, in a matter of minutes, the distance that had grown between them like an abyss swallowing them whole was slowly but surely bridged, and the trust and faith they seemed to have lost in each other was slowly but surely recovered and rebuilt. What words and appeals had failed to repair, the innate intimacy of their bodies working together in unison seemed to re-discover with such unimaginable ease.
For a very short amount of time, the two of them seemed to be the only thing that existed for each other, completely lost in each other's presence. It was only when the applause started to thunder and echo off the walls, that their silent connection was broken. Startled and surprised they realised that the music had stopped and that their dance had ended, and that they stood still in the middle of the hall, their hands still clasped together.
Lothíriel was the first to snap out of their daze; pulling her hands out of his grasp as quickly as though she had been burned, she balled them to fists at her side for a moment, and the blush creeping up her neck seemed be more than just the aftermath of the exhaustion from their dancing. Éomer was slower to react; his fingers burning from the lack of her touch, and when he let his hands fall to his side, he had to fight the urge to reach out and pull her back into his arms.
His queen, however, seemed much quicker to remember her manners and the proper protocols and so she moved to fall into a curtsey as graceful and as elegant as she had ever been. As always, she was much more mindful of the hundreds of pairs of eyes that were still watching them, and she knew best that those eyes were always looking for the tiniest sign of weakness, even if the applause was to suggest nothing but respect and admiration. The king, however, had never given much thought to what others thought of him or what the proper protocols were. That could be the only explanation for what he did next. Or, perhaps, he simply missed the old connection between them that had been brought back to life between them just a few moments ago and he was not yet ready to give it up again just yet.
Whatever his motivations were, it changed nothing about what he did then. Taking a step towards her, Éomer took her by the shoulders to pull her up. That in and of itself was not an unusual thing to do nor a thing rarely seen here at court; a husband showing favour to his wife in this manner was expected, or at least, it was expected to present themselves as such – a unified front – in the eyes of others. However, what the king had in mind had much less to do with appearance and strategy and a lot more to do with matters of the heart. Because when she stood there before him, eyes lowered demurely, cheeks flushed in a colour of lively red, all he could think about was the way she had sung for him and how it had felt to hold her in his arms again. And thus, he reached out without hesitation, to put his hand under her chin, to have her lift her head, to have her meet his eyes; and there was a moment of confusion reflected in her eyes, followed by surprise but it all melted away when he simply leant forward to put his lips upon hers.
It was a chaste kiss, nothing that would be deemed unacceptable in front of the eyes of the whole court, and yet it managed to have the applause die down into a sea of awkward silence, broken only by the occasional gasps of shock. Éomer didn't care; when he felt his wife accept his lips upon hers with quiet surrender, he deepened the kiss, not minding the spectacle they probably presented. But, surely, it was one thing here in the South to present themselves as a unified front to the eyes of the world, but it was something else entirely to admit with such an action that there was genuine emotion in such an act. Here in the South – and Éomer had been forced to learn this the hard way – showing genuine affection in public was considered a great admission of vulnerability, a weakness, some would call it, quite easily and quite greedily exploited. So, for a king to simply not care about what vulnerability he showed, well, it was simply a thing unheard of here and thus the waves of shock that rippled through the courtiers attending now did not seem so unimaginable anymore.
Lothíriel was the first to retreat then and she was also the one of the two of them that immediately became aware of the buzzing sound of the chattering that had erupted all across the hall. Her eyes flitted from one corner of the circle around them to the other, and if it had been possible she would have blushed even harder than before. The tension in the room was almost unbearable, and it would have been understandable for anyone to break and cave in under such pressure, let alone for a woman reared to be quite sensitive regarding such atmospheres. And thus, with a curtsey that spoke more of haste than of regal elegance and with an apology muttered low under her breath, the queen excused herself from his presence and just like that she more or less ran from the hall.
After she was gone, there was a moment of silence, as though every soul within the hall were holding their breath, before the buzzing sound of the chattering returned and soon enough the hall was a filled to the brim with voices whispering more or less secretly under their breaths. Éomer, who had been left behind, now stood alone to brave the murmuring waves of gossip with a confidant smile, although he did not doubt for a second that said smile took on a bit of a tortured note.
And then, not knowing what else to do or where to go without causing even more gossip arise, he simply walked over to Erchirion, his wife's warrior brother, who held out a cup of Southern wine, stronger than it had any right to be. Éomer tried to ignore his overbearing nature as best he could as he sipped on his wine and tried to determine the best possible moment for him to quickly and quietly slip out of the hall without anyone noticing, though the smug smile and winking eye that came along with it, made it fairly difficult to ignore the jovial remarks or to keep a low profile with the warrior laughing heartily about his own jokes. And as the king allowed his eyes to wander, trying to determine his next cause of action, he could not but catch sight of Lothíriel's closest brother, Amrothos, who looked at him with his youthful forehead etched in frowns and eyes squinted in thought, as though trying to solve a puzzle he thought he had already solved a long time ago.
Éomer was wide awake.
Lying in bed, he stared up at the canopy of the four-poster bed, trying to decipher the star constellations meticulously stitched into the dark blue hue with fine silver and gold threads, but ultimately giving up. He was not sure what exactly had woken him up. The heavy, humid air that was so unlike what he was used to, so unlike from what he knew from home; or had it been the never-ending, relentless rushing of the sea, invading his dreams to make his nightmares come true? Or had it rather been the fact that subconsciously, instinctively, his body had understood that his nightmares had come true by sensing the lack of body heat at his side?
Lothíriel was gone.
Earlier tonight, when he had finally been able to steal away from that bloody fucking banquet, he had returned to their chambers (that they now shared once more), only to find his wife already in their bed (that they now shared once more), already asleep. Or at least, she had wanted it to appear thus; with her back towards him and her eyes closed, she had given off all the signs that told him that she wanted to be left alone. And so, Éomer, although frustrated by how easily that re-found spark of intimacy and connection between them had been snuffed out again, had simply relented and decided to let her be, and with a heavy heart (and a heavy head) he had come to bed then and gone to sleep.
That had been hours ago, and when he had woken up, he had found his wife and queen gone. At first, there had been a moment of panic, when he had not known what had happened, when his sleep-addled brain had been too tired to think clearly, and it was only when he had finally been able to shake off the last heavy bits of sleep that he had understood at last. Panic made way to relief, and relief dissolved into understanding, and then, there was resignation. She was not gone, she had only left.
Lying in bed, he had thought long and hard about getting up and going out to look for her, but ultimately he had decided against it. She was a grown woman and this was her home; if anyone knew their way around, then it would be her. Also – and perhaps this reason was weighing down on him even more than he would have liked to admit – she had chosen to go without waking him, she had wanted to be alone, and who was he to intrude on her privacy? If she had wanted him to come, he thought with no small amount of bitterness, then she would have woken him.
But then there was this other voice inside his head too, nagging at him endlessly, asking questions he didn't want to think about, imagining things he couldn't stop thinking about. Out there all alone in the dead of the night – who knew what kind of unsavoury characters she would come across? Or would she even explicitly go out looking for them? And even if she were to find what she had been looking for, who could tell what other horrors might find her in return? Images flashed through his mind, showing cold-hearted and cold-blooded noblemen with violent smiles and violent intentions, the cruelty of their dark souls only illuminated by the blinding light of their vicious disregard for everything they deemed weak and inferior, for everything they deemed their rightful prey.
In the end, it was this thought – this memory of an encounter, of empty but cold threats nonetheless, the reminder of the brutality that people were capable of when motivated – that propelled him to get up at long last and to seek out his wife. It wasn't logic or frustration or even desire or any such reasoning, it was fear; it was the kind of fear he hadn't felt in a long time, the fear for another person dearer to him than his own life.
Éomer was just half-way through the process of getting dressed (though he didn't have much need to put on many layers of clothes, as the weather in the South was hot and humid even at this time of the year) and currently debating whether or not to take his sword with him, when his gaze suddenly fell upon something outside the window. Stepping towards the open window frame, he looked out, his eyes drawn to what had caught his attention in the first place. And there she stood, down at the beach; a small figure clad in a white nightgown, and with the sea-wind blowing her black hair back, he knew immediately that it was her.
The king left the sword on the table; he figured that he would have no need for it tonight.
Éomer took a secret path down towards the beach, and if it hadn't been for his wife and queen, he would not even have known about it. It was a staircase hewn into the island rock the palace had been built upon. He could not remember anymore whether it had been made by the wind and sea (who had once reached as high as the highest top of the palace) or fashioned by human hands of old, but he still remembered the day Lothíriel had shown it to him for the very first time. It had been in the early days of their stay in the South, those early days when he had still believed her to be his loyal ally, before he had learned of her treachery and her past, before he had had the chance to fully comprehend and appreciate her complexity. They had been happy back then.
The sudden pain of remembering this memory of a not so distant past catapulted the king straight back into the here and now, and it was a good thing too, because the secret staircase was a treacherous and tricky pathway to take in the dark, with steps that were slippery and hard to see in the blackness of night. He knew and he remembered well his wife's words that if one were not to mind their steps, they could easily slip and fall in the dark, to greet the sand and salt of the beach with a broken neck. This was one reason why the king was more than just glad to reach the end of the staircase at long last and to feel more or less solid ground under his feet again. The other reason – well …
It hadn't really occurred to Éomer before how he would actually approach his wife once he had found her – probably because at first he had been simply so overwhelmed with relief at finding her, and then because he had been too busy with taking care not to fall and break his neck to really think about it. Now, however, that he stood there, only a few metres away from her, such a question could no longer be ignored. How best to approach her without scaring her and having her run off to Béma knows where?
The good thing was that she hadn't noticed him yet. He suspected the thunderous sound of the incoming waves and the blowing of the summer breeze coming from the sea was more than just enough to drown out the careful steps of a life-long trained warrior like him. Should he call out to her? Should he just walk up to her? At that thought an image flashed through his mind – or was it a memory? – of a king from another lifetime it seemed that walked behind his queen, shielding her eyes from a surprise, as they both laughed while they stumbled along. No, he thought bitterly, he couldn't just do that, he couldn't just pretend that nothing had happened and that nothing had changed between them.
So, how best to approach her?
'Am I now truly Ceven who lost his wife to the sea?'
At his words Lothíriel whipped around, and though she was startled, Éomer was glad to see that she didn't seem frightened at least. For a moment the queen looked confused, shocked even, as though she had just been caught in the act of doing something forbidden, as though a twisted secret of her own had just been brought to the light in the most abrupt of senses. And, in a way, she guessed, it was, because, surely, he could not know how close to the truth his words actually had come. But then her frozen expression melted away into a shy, warm smile.
'You remember it?', she asked quietly then, very obviously trying to cover her slip up by reconnecting to his words from before, and even though Éomer knew what she was doing, he allowed her to do it anyway, because without those little white lies such naked honesty would be too raw and too intimate at such a delicate moment between them, 'The ballad I sang to you?'
'Of course, I remember it.', he answered slowly, decidedly playing along, emphasising it, but not in a patronising way, rather in a way that said he recalled the song because it had been she who had sung it to him. But, naturally, he didn't say that, not out loud anyway, though he did not doubt that she had understood him nonetheless, the deepening smile on her lips more than just enough evidence of that.
For a moment it almost seemed as though the old connection of unspoken intimacy had returned, but then the silence stretched out between them and with it all the words stood between them that they simply could not bring themselves to say. It dawned on them then that they could not simply return to things as they had been before, because for them to find their way back to each other and to recover that old ease between them, it would take more than a few words and a chance meeting in the moonlight. In a way they were strangers still, even if they now knew all there was to know about each other and had seen all there was too see about each other.
'What are you doing here, Lothíriel? All alone at this late hour?', Éomer asked then, being the first one to cave in under the pressure of the silence, saying something – anything – to fill it and to distract from it. Or perhaps more than the silence, the king wanted to distract from the blush that seemed to creep up from his neck to his ears and cheeks, because even a warrior like him would become flustered when faced with a beautiful woman that smiled at him. And she was beautiful to behold; standing there in her white nightgown, black hair undone and flowing in the summer breeze, drenched in the silvery light of the moon. Yes, indeed, such a sight would leave even the most battle-hardened of warriors distracted, but with her he was a warrior no more and he had lost his armour a long time ago.
'Skipping stones.', was all she answered then, as matter-of-factly and easily as though it were the most natural thing in the world and would explain everything with ease, but evidently, she realised, it was not and it did not – at least not for him. Now it was the queen's turn to be flustered, embarrassed by her own thoughtlessness. Of course, what would a man of the land, and a warrior at that, care for mindless games at the beach, meant to fill the void of a life bored and exhausted by leisure? Lothíriel blushed at her own carelessness while she sought to cover up her momentary slip-up by simply holding out her hand to present the flat, smooth stones to him, and only when he inspected the neatly washed pebbles, only when his attention was on them and off of her, only then did she open herself up to quietly admit to truths she would have felt too vulnerable to admit, had his piercing gaze been on her, 'I couldn't sleep.'
'Yeah, I couldn't sleep either.', Éomer answered then, just as quietly, though perhaps the softness in his voice had less to do with admitting a vulnerability they shared and a lot more to do with the fact that while he had meant to touch the smooth stones in her open palm, his fingers had touched the soft flesh under them instead, feeling her trembling go right through him. There was a short moment of electricity, a moment when their old connection threw sparks, but then they both pulled their hands away so quickly, one would have thought they had been burned – and, perhaps, they really had been.
Once more eyes were averted, feet that shuffled nervously as the dreaded silence stretched out between them. Once more all they wanted to do was shy away from the sudden, overwhelming feeling of intimacy that a simple touch as this, after going so long without it, would elicit. But as Lothíriel felt her fingers twist the pebbles in her hands, she saw her husband and king clench his own hands into fists, knowing so well that it was meant to keep their hands from reaching out again and crossing that invisible line they had been drawing over the past few weeks. It must have been this gesture, this reminder of weeks wasted in frustration, defiance and self-denial, that spurred her into action then, because before she knew what she was doing, she found herself holding out her hand with the pebbles again, smiling a shy but inviting smile, 'Would you like to try it, my lord?'
'What?!', was all her warrior could bring himself to say at first, taken so much by surprise and so completely caught off guard that she did not doubt that he had not understood the meaning of her offer at all. It was only when her king brought himself to look at her again, and then at the stones in her opened palm, that he started to process her words, and in his overwhelmed mind – overwhelmed by his own heart – he more or less stumbled over his poor excuse, 'Ah, no, thank you, my lady, but I fear I would be no good at this sort of game.'
'Oh, but, my lord, this is so much more than just a game!', Lothíriel jumped in then, barely allowing him to finish, barely letting the words leave his mouth to be swept off by the sea wind – and she could not quite say what had compelled her to contradict him with so little politeness and so much vehemence. It must have had something to do with his humble refusal that had irked her thus, something in the tone of his voice or the choice of his words that had compelled her to jump in and try to rescue her king's honour, even for something as silly as a game of children. Because, surely, that's what it was, even if she had protested that categorisation quite fervently just a few moments ago – much to her lord husband's confusion. Blushing red, embarrassed by her own impulsiveness, the queen added, 'My brothers and I used to come down here to skip stones. We always made a competition out of it. Somehow Amrothos would always win, and then he would title himself King of the flitting Stones and wear a silly makeshift crown of seaweed.'
That was simply too much; a moment passed by in sheer speechlessness, as though neither of them could fathom what a ludicrous tale she had just spun, and then could not help themselves but laugh at the very image of it – laugh as hard and as loud and as carefree as they hadn't done in weeks. Oh, it felt good indeed, to let loose and to be able to share that feeling as well with the one she had most wanted to share it with, and she was sure her lips could not hide the smile she felt in her heart at the sight of seeing him laugh with so much ease again. He had been so serious before, so distant, it had nearly had her despair, not knowing how else to approach him, but in a way, it had also encouraged her to push herself forward.
Perhaps it had been the way he had humbled himself – because, surely, it took a truly strong man to admit to a weakness – or the realisation that, in a way, this was not a game at all, or at least, not a game that they played against each another, to win or to lose, but rather a game they played alongside one another, and if they played as one, they would win regardless of the outcome of the game. Yes, it had been that knowledge slowly seeping into her heart and mind that had propelled her into action, and now continued to do so. He had always been so brave and strong before, always reaching out; now, now it was her turn to be brave. Yes, she decided then, determined; yes, she could be brave now for the two of them; yes, she could reach out her hand to him.
'I could show you, if you like?', she offered quietly then, her voice barely more than a whisper above the wind, but even though her eyes were downcast, there was determination in her words as she held out her hand to him. A moment of silence passed between them; hesitation hanging heavy in the air – but in the end, he agreed. Not with words, he didn't need to say it out loud, but she knew it because he took one of the stones from her hand.
Lothíriel beamed with joy; not because he had agreed to learn a silly game from her silly childhood days but because he had accepted her help. She knew well enough that this was not an easy thing to do for a man like him, since for a man like him strength had always been equated with force and invincibility and a man like him had never learned that it took even more strength to admit that one needed help and then to accept it. But he had accepted her help now, decided to trust her to teach him, allowing himself to become vulnerable to her in this moment – and this, this was an act of strength and an act of love.
So, yes, she couldn't help the excitement that overtook her or the happy smile she couldn't quite suppress, though she did try to hide it by turning to her task as dutifully as any teacher might. Turning back towards the water, to show her king how it was done, the queen was acutely aware of her warrior husband watching her, and she knew it because she could feel his gaze burning a tattoo onto her back. In the beginning of her marriage, such a gaze would have made her most uncomfortable, but now, even though the hairs in the back of her neck stood up in response to the intimate nature of that gaze, she felt far from uncomfortable. Quite the contrary; the queen angled her body just the right way, so he could watch even more closely what she was doing.
'It is important to throw the stones as flat as possible.', she explained as she moved her body so she could get lower. In her back she could feel his eyes locked in on her, studying her every move and so she took care to demonstrate her technique as perfectly and as clearly as she could. Leaning back and bending back her arm, she took a deep breath, almost as if to savour the moment, before she let the stone hop across the water with a quick flick of her wrist. Once, twice, thrice the stone bounced before it was finally swallowed by the waves. Turning around, she could not help it then, the smile that widened her lips, the cocky wink her eye gave; she was in her element, and she was not afraid to show it, 'See?'
Now, her self-congratulatory antics could very well have explained his barely constrained chuckle, however, she was quite sure that her king was not laughing at her here; rather, she thought that he was probably only amused by the surprising show of confidence that she delivered here, as it was a side of her she rarely showed and he even more rarely had the pleasure to see. No, indeed, her husband seemed man enough to respect her neat skills, and, perhaps, it was the thrill of the challenge too, that compelled him to take her place and to try his own luck at the game. Her warrior king leaned back a little, pulled back his arm and –
Nothing.
The stone he had thrown – or rather hurled – towards the water, hit the surface with a shocking amount of force, giving off a respectable splash, but nothing more. No hopping, no bouncing, no dancing across the water, not even twice, not even once. Just nothing. The mighty warrior had failed where the meek lady had succeeded. Funnily enough, the irony of it all did not even seem entirely lost on the king, as he gave a snorting sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sneer, making it a wholly disparaging gesture in the fact of his own failure.
He was grinning with disgust still as he turned away then, the movement entirely made up of frustration that he tried to shrug off as inconsequential, but the queen could tell that it very much affected him that he had failed so miserably at something so seemingly simple as a child's game. Therefore she did not hesitate, did not even think about it either really, as she went after him and reached for him, taking hold of his hand and not letting go.
Perhaps, she did pity him in that moment, remembering the way he had been humbled these past few weeks, the way he had humbled himself before her and all the world, the way he had swallowed his pride and forwent his anger just to be close to her, to be able to love her, the way he must have known that he would fail and yet to try his hand anyway at something as alien to him as skipping stones. Or, perhaps, now in this moment more than ever, she remembered why she cared for him so much and why she could not bear to see him so glum. But whatever her reasons for stopping him, none of them lessened her own surprise when he actually did take pause, and instead of turning to leave, he turned back around to her, his face shrouded in darkness and thought but his eyes very much piercing and sharp, alert.
'I said, I would show you, if you like – if you let me?'
There was a moment of stillness then, when neither he nor she moved, when they simply breathed in each other's existence – and then their hands intertwined, and then it was as though their fingers were moulded together, as if to say that where she would go, he would follow. And so they went; taking him by the hand, the queen led her king back towards the water, and there she would only let go of his hand to pick up another smooth pebble, only so she could place into his palm, opened in yearning for her touch. But even though her king accepted the stone, she could tell, by the way he rolled it through his fingers, that this was not what he had hoped to hold on to, and yet he held on to it all the same.
Lothíriel smiled, a part of her touched, another part of her amused, but the whole of her excited to share this with him. With ease she slipped behind her king as quietly and as quickly as the water itself before them, and even though he seemed momentarily confused and alarmed even that he was unable to see where she was or what she was doing, her warrior stayed sill and standing where he was, trusting in what she was doing. His trust, she decided then in a first flush of excitement, should be rewarded, and so she used hands and fingers and touch where words would have sufficed in her instruction as well – and as she had placed herself behind him, so she placed her hands upon his now, making him feel how to move even more than with her words.
'Try not to tense up so much. Relax, and lower your body just a little bit.', she instructed him quietly as she put her palms against the side of him, and even though she could tell that her little touch affected him immensely, he showed no sign other than the slightest inclination of his head towards her behind his back. The corner of his eyes were narrowing ever so slightly, asking a question of trust that remained to be answered, but he moved with her in unison nonetheless as she showed him how to move with the help of her own body.
'Good. Now the main movement comes from the wrist. Do not cramp the stone down in your fist; it needs to be held lightly between your thumb and your index finger. Remember: if you hold on too tight, it will only drown; if you do not hold on tightly enough, it will slip through your fingers.', she went on to say as her own hand slowly wandered from his sides to his forearm and then down to his hand; again, showing him with her touch what words would have been enough to convey. Éomer shivered at her touch, wondering, in the back of his mind, whether or not she was really just talking about that damn stone in his hand here, but he followed her lead nevertheless.
'Yes, exactly, just like that.', she complimented him then, completely oblivious to the curious thoughts in his head and the wanton reactions of his body, or at least, she pretended, very well, to be completely oblivious to them. That little smile in the corner of her mouth told a completely different tale though; that cheeky half-smile told him that she knew perfectly well what she was doing to him with her little instructions, whispered into his ear, and the way she pressed herself against him. But if he knew what she was doing, and if she was doing these things on purpose, and if she knew very well that he knew … then who the fuck were they trying to fool here?
'Now, all you need to do is lean back and flip your wrist … ', she started once more, her one hand wandering around his body, placing her palm on his chest to take him with her as she slowly, carefully, leaned back, while her other hand, placed upon his own, used its weight to pull his arm back, and –
In that moment time came to a standstill.
Her voice trailed off at that point, her words washed away by the breeze and the rushing sound of the waters. Her hand gently placed upon his own was coarse from the sand, though the softness was still there, buried under it all, and he could feel each little sand corn grinding from her skin against his own, and it sent shivers down his back, and he was sure she could feel that too. They were close to each other, much, much closer than they had realised; eyes that held each other's gaze, faces that felt each other's breath upon them, heartbeats that yearned to synchronise. They stood upon the edge of a knife, and all it took was a push to one of either sides and they would fall, fall to ruin, fall to happiness, fall in –
With a flash of lightning almost they returned to reality, as if the electric tension between them had come to a climax, only to spark a frightfully bright discharge that left them blinded and shocked for a moment, but no less capable of acting. They broke apart at the same second, and even though neither of them had truly wanted to end their connection, they had still shied away from taking that final step. So, now they stood before each other, but not looking at one another, with eyes averted in wide-eyed, panicked confusion, chests heaving in an effort to calm down and faces visibly flushed from their closeness just moments ago, from the shock of just how easily that old intimacy they though they had lost, had returned.
Éomer was the first to pull himself out of this overwhelmed state of mind. Staring down at the stone in his hand, the stone that until now had been almost forgotten, now became a symbol of their mindlessness just moments ago, and the realisation of it hit him so hard that he dropped the stone with a jolt of shock, having it fall back down into the sand, to be washed away by the winds sweeping down from the dunes. Trying to shake off the wild, confusing sensations that were rocking him, the king rubbed his hands together, to get the coarse particles of sand off of them, to do something – anything – so he wouldn't have to think about what would have happened, if he had let it happen, and so he wouldn't be plagued by feelings of regret, since he had not let it happen.
'The hour has grown late, Lothíriel, shall we go back up to the palace again?', the king asked then, though it could hardly be called a question, as he did not wait to hear her reply. In fact, even while he was still speaking the words, he had already turned to leave, wading through the tricky sand giving way under his feet, making his way slowly but surely back up towards the secret pathway that he had come down upon what now seemed almost a lifetime ago. However, he was stopped in his tracks soon enough, even though he couldn't quite say what had made him stop then. Perhaps, it had been the fact that she had not answered him or that no sounds of her footsteps could be heard coming after him. Or perhaps it was that sound of a splash, yes, the sound of something hitting the surface of the water that made him take pause and turn around then.
As he turned around, Éomer was treated to a rare but no less surprising sight, because while he had been talking and making his way up the dunes towards the pathway, his queen must have acted on impulse, and instead of following him, she had stripped off her nightgown and decided to jump into the sea. So now, walking slowly back towards the shoreline, he came to a halt next to the nightgown, left forgotten in the sand, as the whole picture unfolded before him.
She had swum away from the shoreline and out into the open sea for quite a considerable distance (proving that she had to be quite the skilled swimmer, which, however, came as no surprise given her socio-cultural upbringing), before she turned around to face him again. A shy smile was on her face – though it might just as well have been a cheeky smirk – and even in the darkness of the night, the silvery moonlight illuminated her face, carrying the darkest blush he had ever seen.
'The water is glorious, my lord, I just couldn't resist.', she crooned melodically from her spot in the water, and the way she floated there, one could almost think her one of those mythical creatures all the sea-faring tales spoke of, those alluring mermaids with fishtails for feet and saltwater for blood in their veins who tempted unsuspected sailors with promises of wanton delights. And indeed, as he looked at her, imagining her perfectly naked body being caressed by the warm waves of the sea, he could feel the familiar pull of wanton thoughts tearing at his composure, making his eyes narrow, his chest heave with the effort to remain calm … and his breeches tighten, as he lost the battle against desires he had suppressed for far too long.
Éomer had no idea what expression his features displayed, but whatever she saw seemed to make her smile wane and her eyes darken in return. All of the sudden then she stood up, surprising him, and not just with how shallow the waters actually still were in which she stood; and there she was – the watermaiden come again. In the moonlight her naked skin gleamed in a silver tone, and he felt his mouth go dry at the sight of the water pearling down her breasts, rolling ever down towards that secret flower blossoming between her thighs, just hidden enough beneath the black surface of the sea.
'Will you not join me for a midnight swim, my lord?', she spoke again, though this time her words were not crooned like before, but instead were barely more than whisper, carried over to him by the winds of the sea. But still, those few whispered words were all it took to break all bonds of decency and self-control he still had left. In a matter of seconds he had relieved himself of his clothes and waded into the sea without hesitation. Now it was her turn to gasp in excitement and surprise at the bare sight of him, and what a sight he truly was: all strong and muscled and handsome. And with the big strides he took, even against the dragging force of the waters, it took him only a few blinks of an eye to get to her.
For a moment then they did not nothing but gaze at each other, both breathing hard, and there was desire in both their eyes; the air thick and fraught with tension that could go either way. Another moment passed between them, and then he moved again, his movements small but precise, cautious even, as though he thought any rash motion could send her flying away again. And he wouldn't have been wrong to think so, because right now her heart was beating so hard she thought it might jump out of her chest right then and there.
Oh, she was nervous, alright, as nervous as she had never been before in her life, not at her wedding or the night that came with it, not even at the day she had met her husband for the very first time. Ulmo save her, how tense she had been back then, how frightened, how very terrified at the prospect of meeting the man who would define her life from that moment henceforth. She was tense now too, wondering what would happen, wondering what he would do, wondering where it would all take them.
She was pulled out of her thoughts then when the first waves of his movements rippled against her and she was suddenly and undeniably faced with the man who was her husband and her king. For a moment they just stood there then; face to face, two shadowy silhouettes in the sea, illuminated only by the silvery moonlight from up above. Then his hand moved; a slow motion carried by hesitation, doubt. There was that old fear in him again, that she would shrink away from his touch like a frightened filly, that he would look up and see that old fear in her eyes again. But there was no fear in her look now, and she didn't shrink from his touch.
His hand touched her black hair first, letting the ends of it glide through his fingers like velvet water, before he pushed it over her shoulders and out of the way; and then his hand found flesh. He was gentle, she noticed with an odd sense of tenderness, he was careful; the tips of his fingers ghosting slowly across her skin. First his hand was on her shoulder, where he had pushed aside her black hair; then his hand wandered on. Lower and lower it went, towards her collarbone, tracing the line of it towards the centre. There he placed his hand and she was almost ashamed at how much she pushed herself into the touch of his palm, and she was sure he could feel that too because his eyes darkened instantly.
She knew – even if she didn't want to think about it like this – that if he only wanted to, all he had to do was move his hand up, close the gap and he could strangle her where she stood. Oh, and she was certain he could see that very thought cross her mind too; his eyes widening fro a moment in shocked surprise before turning to slits again. Was he outraged at her line of thinking? That she would dare think that of him? Or was he more furious because the same thought might have crossed his mind too in this moment? But, perhaps, he was not even angry at all; perhaps the dark fire in his eyes was fuelled by something else entirely.
His hand moved away again, and even if she tried to suppress it, she could not help shiver and sigh at the overwhelming intimacy that was lost because of it, or the way she shifted, as though to call back his hand to where it had lain before, so dangerously close to her delicate neck. And she saw that he had seen that too; or had she just imagined the most imperceptible of smiles at the thought that she might have relished his momentary power over her just as much as he had, perhaps, secretly – surprisingly – enjoyed it?
She knew one thing though; she had never considered herself a particularly sensual person, but then again, before she had met her husband, she had never really been intimate with anyone before. But after he had claimed his place in her life and in her bed, and in her heart, she had come to realise that with him she was a deeply sexual woman, yearning to explore even the wildest and most outrageous of fantasies and desires. It was then that she realised that with him she didn't mind the power he had over her; with any other man she would have been frightened, terrified at the thought of being so very much at the mercy of his love, but not with him, never with him. Quite the contrary; it thrilled her.
Perhaps it was the quite obvious evidence of her arousal then at the though of it, that made his next touch more urgent, more daring. His hand moved back to her shoulder and gripped it now with surprising strength, the tips of his fingers pressing into her flesh, his palm burning a tattoo onto her skin. But just as he tried to pull her close – perhaps to kiss her or more – she wriggled herself free with a splash of her hand that sent her away with a push of her strong legs and left him standing there with an expression of surprise on his face and his golden mane and golden face drenched.
The shock, however, lasted only for a moment, only long enough for the silence to try and stretch out between them before she filled it with the sound of her clear, ringing, care-free laughter. And he could not help it then; he had to laugh too. He laughed as he shook his mane free of the water, having droplets of salt fly everywhere at once; he laughed as he wiped the saltwater from his face; he laughed still as he looked at her, eyes zeroing in on her as though she were the juiciest prey he had ever hunted for. And as the laughter between them ebbed away into quiet chuckles and warm smiles, she looked at him with eyes that said chase me, daring him to come after her, daring him to catch her, and judging by the look in her husband's eyes, her king seemed more than just up for the chase.
She swam away from him then, trying to bring some distance between the two of them – but not too much distance, and not with serious intent – with him following after her soon enough. They played this game between them with ease and mischief and laughter, luring and slipping away, tempting, splashing water at each other like little children, only they weren't children anymore and this was more than just a game to them.
At some point then they must have tired of their game, and in the end, she let him catch her. He caught her at the ankle and pulled her towards him. They were both breathing hard now, though not from the exertion of their little swim and game. When he pulled her into his arms for a fiery kiss, it left her breathless for more, and as always, he delivered. Lifting her off the sea-floor, with her arms coming around his neck, his strong arms keeping her tightly pressed against him, he kissed her hard and with no quarter given. It was only when his hands wandered down her back to grab her arse, that she broke away from his fervent kiss with a moan of shock and pleasure.
For a moment only they stared at each other, breathless, with eyes wide and wild with desire and disbelief, as though only now realising what they were doing here, and then deciding that they would not waste any more time thinking about it. Their lips found each other for yet another wild kiss, and this one was barely able to hold back the hunger with which they yearned for each other, as though all the weeks of distance were now crashing down upon them in a lust-bridled, touch-starved moment of passion.
The queen kept her thighs locked around her king's waist as he began to wade with her through the waters back towards the beach, and there he laid her down. Or rather, the waves near the shoreline must have come in with such a force that it had knocked him over, leaving them to more or less fall to the ground together. But the wet sand beneath them was washed smooth and tender, giving a rather soft landing – and even if it hadn't been, neither of them would have really cared at this point.
Rolling around in the sands, kissing, caressing, touching, the queen welcomed her king back into her arms, and the king came back to his queen. He could taste the salt of the sea on her sweet summer lips, and he could feel the coarseness of the sand on her soft skin between his fingers. It was as if they had never been parted at all; instincts took over as soon as they left the thinking to their bodies and not their minds, leaving their hearts to fall somewhere in between. They were one again, crying and moaning, sighing and growling together, as they shivered as one at the peak of their pleasure while the little rippling waves of ebb and flow broke against their shadowy shapes in the distant moonlight.
FUN FACT #1: Alright, folks, we fucking made it through the eye of the storm; now for some happiness.
FUN FACT #2: I've been marathoning the Harry Potter films, and in one of them there is a deleted scene I took inspiration from. Could you tell?
FUN FACT #3: Oh yes, that is definitely "Greensleeves". Another song that helped me write that chapter was "Movement" by Hozier.