Hello, my lovelies! I. AM. BACK.

I'm so sorry it took me so long. Things got in the way.

First: I got a bad case of cold. After that, I went to my first concert in 2.5 years - Rammstein, it was so worth it - and, of course, I got COVID. I survived, thanks to the vaccination. But after that the report cards (= Zeugnisse) for my students were due and then I had to say farewell to my 6th-graders who I've been teaching for three years. All in all, it was a lot. But now the Summer Break is finally here! YAY!

So, there you go! Enjoy!

36. Ill news is an ill guest

When they had returned to the Riddermark, all the green and growing things of the late summer had long been gone and turned to the grey and cold of the heart of winter – and that seemed to foreshadow the welcome they had been given too.

Perhaps, it had been the fact that they had been gone too long. After all, they had set out to sent off their shieldmaiden to be married, but they had leisurely spent weeks and weeks in the South. And even though the land and its people had been governed well enough by the councilmen, and surprisingly enough, also by Déor, who had served his function as substitute First Marshall of the Mark quite well, still a kingdom without its king was like a ship without its skipper – the crew may carry on, but only the captain knew which course to take.

Or, perhaps, it was the fact that in their absence the message of the High King Elessar and his royal decree asking for peace between the men of the Mark and their unruly neighbours to the west had also reached Edoras and had caused quite the uproar among the councilmen and the people of the Mark. Now, it wasn't quite clear why the letter had been sent to the capital in the absence of the king, but when Lothíriel had asked Éomer about it, he had avoided a direct answer and only insinuated that he had been in correspondence with his old friend. However, there had been no mentioning of such a letter being forwarded to Edoras at that time, so it was curious indeed that a king of Men, and an old friend at that, would go behind the Horse-master's back like that. Unspoken between both king and queen had been the suspicion that someone else – and who knew? a cunning politician with a princely hide perhaps? – might have sent that letter to set certain things in motion.

But things remained the same, and what had been done could not be undone.

So, when they had returned from their three-month-long trip to the South, they had been met by grim faces and even grimmer attitudes – and as things stood, most of that resentment seemed to be directed towards her, the queen. Of course, in a way, Lothíriel could understand that; she had always been seen as little more than the foreign bride from the South, and she was under no delusion that a mere year of marriage would change much of that perception. Yes, she had garnered much praise and love from the people during her first year, as her idea for trade and the grain shipments from her home country had served the people well enough, but she had realised quickly enough that such contributions were a mere drop in the ocean.

Real change and lasting improvement would always be a struggle, but it was a struggle she herself had chosen to take on. After all, the memory of her aunt's apparition (or whatever she wanted to call it) was still fresh in her mind. Lothíriel was not so foolish, of course, to believe that her aunt had really returned to her as a ghost or even as mermaid-like being (although, in her culture she had grown up with the belief that lost relatives sometimes left the Waterlord's court and appeared as mermaids to the living), and not just because the floor beneath her feet had not been wet and there had been no fishtail to prove such silly fantasies. No, her aunt's apparition had been very much a figment of her own imagination, a manifestation of her own thoughts, and yet, even if it had all happened merely in her own head, it did not make the advice any less true.

Ruling was in the sacrifices one made and one's willingness to make them, and hard choices had always been the leader's prerogative.

Indeed, that had always been a saying she had taken to heart and one she had meticulously lived by, and even though there were times when it had been harder to follow than she would have liked, she had followed it nonetheless. And in her opinion, nowhere was this willingness for sacrifices and hard choices more apparent than in her contingency plan regarding the line of succession of the Mark. The decision to use a bastard peasant boy, born of the king, as a legitimate option for the future of the House of Eorl, had been a bold one, but at the time it had presented a safe haven in case of a storm coming. Now, however, it would seem that in the storm to come, even a safe haven might prove to be a place of shipwreck, and more dangerous even than the hundreds of reefs and other threats waiting silently under the surface of the treacherous sea.

Éowyn had warned them of this in the days before she had left. Bastards do not make for good heirs, and in the light of the crown, mighty shadows wait. It had been a risky move to reveal the information on the bastard peasant boy to the council before they had left for the South, but at the time it had seemed the best course of action. Not because she had feared for the safety of her king or herself (although, in the back of her mind she had calculated the risk of potentially meeting Lord Agarwaen), but because she had hoped that such transparency of information would help alleviate at least some of the council's concerns regarding the future of the House of Eorl.

Now, however, it would seem, that the councilmen had become quite comfortable with the idea of accepting a bastard as the heir apparent – perhaps, even a little too comfortable for her taste. It was something she had seen creep into their gazes again and again, in particular when they had looked at her with appraising eyes and found her belly as flat and empty as before; it was a question they hadn't dared to ask in a while but she could see it in their scrutinising gazes nonetheless.

What good does a foreign mare unfit for breeding?

Unfortunately, it had been a question she feared might have also crept into her lord husband's thoughts. Of course, he had reacted quite angrily the last time it had been brought up in the council all those months ago (as she recalled, it was after that fateful day on the ice that had almost cost her, her life and this kingdom its queen) and her ears were still ringing from the thunderous wrath her king had unleashed on the councilmen in the aftermath, booming in his warrior voice that she was his wife and queen and that there would be no other. But that had been months ago, in another lifetime it almost seemed, and they had been happy back then, or at least on the road towards happiness. Now, however, things looked very different, and the road they were on now was most certainly not leading them closer together.

When they had returned from the South, the short time of bliss they had had during the days of Mereth-en-nîn had been blown away by the stormy news of King Elessar's secretly forwarded letter and the bad echo it had created in the public opinion. But even worse than that had been the realisation that when it came to the question of war or peace, king and queen, apparently, stood very much on opposite sides. Because while she advocated for the ratification of a peace treaty, to allow the Riddermark to recover from the years and years of strife and war, her husband seemed hell-bent on following his country's stubborn line of thinking that past aggressions and crimes could neither be forgiven nor forgotten – pitting them squarely against one another.

However, worst of all for Lothíriel had been the realisation that Éomer very much seemed to have expected her opposition in this. To say that she had been surprised by that, would have been an understatement. After all, when they had left the South behind, the rain of the monsoon season following them seemed to have washed away all bitter feelings and past resentments, leaving her to think that her lord husband would have believed her to leave behind the idea that agreeing to the peace treaty would have been the only option for her. But, apparently, she had underestimated him in this, as she so often had done before.

It made her wonder then when exactly he had started to show that there was a lot more to him than the mere brute of a warrior she had first come to see him as, before she had even met him. Back then, and even in the first few weeks of their marriage, he had seemed such a simple man, easily understood, so easy to figure out. A man who spoke only the truth, and in blunt terms too, and who only knew how to deal with the truth. But lately she had realised that even an honest man such as him carried hidden depths and knew very well to expect the hidden agendas and secrets in others.

Had he known that she would take a stand for this peace treaty when he had made love to her on the shores of her home?

Had he known that she would oppose him when he had taken her hand and followed her through the lively streets of her home on the first day of the raining season?

Had he known that she would follow her nature as a politician when he had knelt with her before the statue of her god?

Had he known that she would have to disappoint him by not taking his side when he had kissed her then under the blessed rain?

Had he known all of that – and still loved her then, and still loved her now?

It was still almost inconceivable to her that a love such as this could actually exist, that a person might love another despite all the flaws and faults and failings one might find in them. And yet, even though she could feel that nothing had changed in his love for her, there still seemed to be a distance between them now that they just could not bridge. It had been a cold slap of reality indeed to realise that the core values of their personalities was something that they just could not overcome – because where she was a politician, he was a warrior; and where he held on to the bitter grudges honour and pride demanded, she coolly calculated the benefits of sacrificing small virtues for the sake of the greater good.

In a way, part of her had expected his disappointment, had dreaded it even, all the way up from the South, fearfully anticipating the moment she would have to reveal her position on things, but what she had not expected was the sense of understanding that seemed to creep into his gaze whenever he so much as glanced at her. It was not only that he seemed to have expected her to disagree with him on this matter, but he also seemed to understand precisely that there had never been any chance that things could have been any other way, for either of them. And it had been this understanding that had broken her in the end – broken her, yes, but even that had not made her surrender.

Ruling was in the sacrifices one made and one's willingness to make them.

Hard choices had always been the leader's prerogative.

She had to be his queen before she was his wife.

So, naturally, when they had returned from the South to an embittered North, in the midst of the outrage over the Southern king's letter, she had tried to step in, ready to face the storm of protest and resentment with the calm and collected mindset of a politician – willing even to do so without the support of her lord and king – because, in her mind, there had to be at least one person who would take a more diplomatic approach here. But what she had not reckoned with, had been the quiet means her king would employ to keep her silent.

It had happened during one of the first council meetings shortly after their return.

While lord Braenn had talked the other councillors into a veritable frenzy about the audacious nature of the letter and request, even sneering that only a weak leader would ever cave in to such demands (obviously, that councilman had lost none of his bite or sense of insubordination), her warrior king had remained uncharacteristically quiet, allowing the outburst to more or less wash over him without so much as a banging of his fist on the table. Of course, she had sensed the tension in him, radiating from him over to her in her seat next to his throne – his clenched fists and tightened jaw telling enough – but other than that he had remained calm.

That in and of itself should have made her suspicious. But, as she guessed later, she must have been too preoccupied with her own feelings of guilt, gnawing at her sharp senses, to take much note of it. So, thinking nothing of it, the queen in her had waited with perhaps a little less than regal impatience for the old councillor to finally finish his overlong speech, just so she could sweep in and take over the show. After all, it had worked before, hadn't it? Her wiles as a politician and her graces as a lady had been able to work these old men with no more than her words and her wits, subconsciously bending them to her will, bending them towards a road that had spelled as much hope as it had dangers. Why should now be any different?

However, when the moment had come at last, when the old lord Braenn had ceased his endless braying at last and moved to sit back down – leaving the middle of the hall open for another one to speak – and she would have moved to take that chance, a hand placed on top of hers had held her back, effectively stopping her in her tracks, and when she had looked back in surprise, she had seen that the hand belonged to none other than her lord and husband.

Now, it had been such a small movement, nothing she couldn't have been able to overcome; after all, all she'd had to do was pull her hand out from under his and rise up to meet the challenge that lay before her. And yet, she had not done it. But perhaps it had not been the movement itself had held her back but the meaning behind it.

Her king had not wanted her to speak.

Now, if it hadn't been so obvious, she would have dismissed that idea outright. After all, hadn't her lord and king always made it perfectly clear that he wanted her to voice her opinions in the council meetings, positively pushing her to exercise her rights as queen? And yet, the feeling of his hand on hers had been unmistakable, holding her back from doing just that: exercising her right to speak as queen. However, as much as Lothíriel had wanted to pull her hand out from under his and defiantly jump up to defend her rights in a decidedly non-queenly fashion, she had not done it – because as his grip on her hand had tightened, she had realised that this had been more than just a king trying to keep his queen from voicing unpopular opinions. It had also been a husband trying to protect his wife from the ramifications of voicing such unpopular opinions.

Lothíriel was no fool.

She had known that declaring openly for this royal decree from a foreign king (even if said king had been an ally during the days of the war) would have only put a target on her back and made her even more unpopular among a certain group of people. Of course, she had been unpopular before with that particular group of people, but that had been different; she and her king had acted as one, and as such, she had remained safely under the protection of her lord and husband. Now, however, there could be no talk of unity between the king and queen, and the vultures were already greedily eyeing the dissent that was so obviously bubbling up between them.

And so … Lothíriel had stilled, and remained seated, conceding, at least for now. Because even though she might not have agreed with his tactics, she could not but be touched by the reasoning behind it. Even now, after all that had happened, after all he had learned and that had been revealed, even now that they both stood on opposite sides of this struggle, even now he still sought to protect her. Such display of devotion and loyalty would have been enough to soften even the hardest of hearts, but the queen knew that when it came to her king, her heart and resolve was anything but hardened.

She had given his hand a gentle squeeze then, to let him know that she understood very well what he was doing for her here and that everything would be alright. But when she had tried to pull her hand out from her king's grasp, believing that he would contend himself with the assurance she had given, he had only held on all the more tightly. And it made her wonder then whom exactly he had tried to comfort and hold back here?

After that, there had been no more attempts on her part to try and voice her unpopular opinions. Instead she had resigned herself to not speak out in public about it (as back then she perhaps had hoped that she could still sway him in the quiet and solitude of their chambers). Of course, that also meant that from then on she had been forced to watch her husband and king try his hand at a very different kind of ruling: diplomacy. Well, it had been going as well as one might expect from a life-long warrior who had been used to tackle issues head-on and with a sword rather than with words and cool calculation.

Watching him tiptoe around making a decision had been a sight as much bewildering as it had been thought-provoking. One moment he was raging against this savage neighbour to the west, swearing that there could never be peace between wolves and stallions, and then again he was cautioning the councilmen against making a rash decision by bluntly refusing these foreign demands. It was not hard to see that such manoeuvring was wholly unfamiliar to him, leaving both sides of the discussion entirely dissatisfied and the king, in the middle, unnervingly frustrated.

It had confused her then, and it confused her still, that her king had not immediately rejected the letter's proposal once it had been brought up in the first council meeting, as she would have expected him to do, and as he had led her to believe he would do. After all, the way he had reacted in Dol Amroth, after he had first learned of it, had left little doubt in her mind that he would go down that familiar road. And yet, there he stood, unwilling to make the decision she would have expected him to make, hesitant to choose the path she knew he so desperately wanted to tread, because it was an old and familiar path that he knew so well and that had always felt to easy and straightforward for him.

War. Pride. The denial of a peace that was seen akin to a sacrifice of honour.

But Lothíriel came to learn that nothing about this situation was easy or simple or straightforward, and whatever motives held him back from making a definitive decision had a lot more to do with broken trust and a broken heart and a love that could not bear any more loss. Indeed, she should have understood sooner what he had truly meant to say when he had spoken to the councilmen of the dangers of rash decisions and things sacrificed to thoughtless stubbornness, and when his eyes had glanced at her, making it impossible for her to meet his gaze.

Lothíriel knew this situation was killing them both, as they both agonised over holding on and giving in, caught between head and heart, but in the end, they both chose to be steadfast in their convictions, both clinging to the idea that this was just something they needed to do, each believing to ultimately know best and to be in the right. It made her wonder sometimes what the big poets and minstrels would have to say about them, the ones that always crooned that love would conquer all? But, of course, their lives had never been a song, and she had always been hesitant to call it love, whatever it was she might feel for him.

Indeed, much had changed between them. The honeymoon phase of their marriage was well and truly over, and now the dread of everyday life in a political match seemed to have truly won them over. But, of course, she knew it was more than that, and it was something she had understood only too late. Because despite his quiet ways of shielding her from becoming the target of their people's scorn or the victim of her vengeful past machinations, it had become unmistakably clear to her that her husband and king had neither forgiven nor forgotten the act of betrayal at her hand, as he saw it, and probably never would.

It was a cruel twist of fate that they had never taken the chance to discuss the matter after their initial fight back in Dol Amroth, because, the way it looked now, they no longer had any chance at all to talk about it, as they hardly talked at all now. Initially, she had hoped that he would get over it, that he would be able to focus on the here and now, that they would at least be able to discuss the matter of the peace treaty as two equal partners-in-rule, but her hopes had been in vain. Every time she tried to bring it up, he would make up excuses so they wouldn't have to talk about it, and while this uncharacteristic running from a fight had surprised her at first, it hadn't been the only thing that had changed.

She had known that he had been hurt by her secrecy and her workings behind his back, but she hadn't understood back then just how deep that hurt really ran, or how much it would influence him. Ever since they had returned he had rejected her every advice when it came to ruling, or at least, chose to ignore it whenever it contradicted his own opinion or that of his councillors, and not just with regard to the peace treaty but ruling in general. Of course, she had been aware of the wounds the workings of Gríma Wormtongue had caused in the heart of her lord and king, as he had talked about it, before it had all fallen apart between them, but back then she had not understood just how deeply that had affected him. Now, however, it would seem as though that almost traumatic mistrust of politicians born out of the past was coming back to haunt him, as he would avoid her whenever he could, and when he could not, he would interact with her as little as he could, his eyes sometimes the only thing that would dare to speak at all.

That was not to say, however, that they did not spend time together; in at least one regard her lord and husband had become quite insatiable. Almost every night he would reach for her or show her with his undressing what he craved … and whenever he came to her, she simply let him and gave in. In the last week alone she had been woken three times at least during the nights by the pleasurable feeling of his head between her legs – not that she was complaining, quite on the contrary. And although she knew that she should have pushed him away and demanded a real talk, she found her fingers gripping his hair instead as she moaned before pushing his head even further down.

In a way she knew that this was also part of a political match, and had been a vital part of their relationship before it had become truly intimate – the physical act of trying for a child. And even more so after they had become close and their physical encounters had become heightened by affection, they had more than just eagerly engaged in the physical act of love, although the hope of siring an heir might perhaps not always have been a thought too prominent in their minds during those times.

And yet, she felt that this right here was somewhat different. There was lust, well, yes, there most certainly was, and perhaps, there was also the idea of mixing business with pleasure – the House of Eorl was still in need of an heir after all, and why not enjoy working on that while they could? But still, she felt that it was more than that. Perhaps it was simply that the nights had become too long and cold and dark to spent them alone and absent of touch; perhaps it was simply too unbearable to lie so close to each other and yet be so far away?

However, whatever their reasons for seeking each other's embrace, it still felt the same; after the rush of pleasure was gone, it still always felt the same way. Sad and hollow, as if something was missing. It had taken her a while to figure out what exactly had been missing from their recent encounters, but even figuring it out had given her little comfort, especially because she had realised that there was nothing she could have done about it. After they had returned from the South to the North, and after revelations and oppositions had run through their young relationship like a thunderbolt, what their lovemaking had been missing, was simply … trust.

It was different from the lack of trust that they had experienced in the beginning of their marriage. Back then they had not known each other, neither each other's capacity for tenderness nor for callousness, and therefore had been cautious to let each other fall, lest the other would not be ready to catch them. Now, however, their lack of trust in one another was entirely based on just how well and how intimately they had gotten to know each other, and with every flaw and vice uncovered, it was hard to allow oneself to be vulnerable and open again with a person who had seen so much of the raw self one usually kept so well hidden from the rest of the world.

It was simply a matter of protecting oneself, even if that be at the cost of hurting the one you wanted to protect most. But could she really fault him for trying to protect himself from falling too hard again? The secrets that had been revealed in the South had hurt him most of all, so how could she really fault him for trying to save what little was left of his broken heart? But, of course, understanding it was one thing, feeling it was quite another thing. And what did she feel when she saw him kiss her with eyes open and wary – if he kissed her at all – or when his touches bringing her pleasure seemed more interested in proving his control of the situation, of her, rather than to engage with her in an act pleasurable for both?

Indeed, if she hadn't known better, if she hadn't heard the sounds and felt him shaking at her touch, she could have almost been fooled to think that he didn't feel pleasure at all coming together with her like that – but no, he enjoyed himself, or at least, physically he was satisfied, that much was clear. But she had no doubt whatsoever that whenever their bodies had come together only to be apart again afterwards, and they were lying next to each other again, each one quiet and left to their thoughts, that he would feel just as hollow and lonely as she did.

In a way, she knew, it was a vicious cycle. Loneliness and longing drove them into each other's arms, only to leave them even lonelier and more longing afterwards. She knew that the only way to break this vicious cycle was to sit down and talk it out, but as all her previous attempts had failed one by one, she had slowly but surely given up and more or less contented herself with the situation. She felt ashamed to admit that as much as she blamed him for trying to forget, she wanted to forget too, if only for a short blissful moment. She was not proud of her cowardice, and yet she could not find it in herself to chide herself for her weakness, because for better or worse, she knew she was not alone in that weakness, as she kept reminding herself; he was there with her.

However, looking at this whole mess with calm, rational eyes did not make it hurt any less, and it did not make the sting of betrayal feel any less keen in their sides; if anything, it made it even more tragic to know that it had always been destined to be so and that there had never been a chance for another outcome. So, now, what options did that leave them with? Going forward there were pitfalls wherever they looked and stepped, but remaining where they stood presented no good alternative either, as the once so steady floor beneath their feet seemed to crumble before their very eyes.

So, where could things really go from here?

FUN FACT #1: Okay, okay, okay, here me out! Don't tear me to pieces just yet! I know I make you suffer with this development BUT this is necessary - storywise and, you know, literary-wise. There needs to be some drama and the issue with the peace treaty needs to be resolved. Don't worry, consider the next few chapters the last chapter where I make you truly suffer with the characters. Sorry in advance.

FUN FACT #2: My sister, who I've told about the story, asked me recently whether I'll be done soon ... after more than 500 pages? And that got me thinking. I think 2/3 of the story are written now, which now leaves me with the last 1/3. I'll see about 15-20 chapters more to come.

FUN FACT #3: There was to be some sad sex scene in this chapter but I cut it because this development is sad enough as it is and I don't need to slap you in the face with it.

FUN FACT #4: I've been thinking. There are a few scenes and chapters that could have gone another way. Maybe when this story is over, I'll write up a compilation of alternative scenes. =)