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37. Treading on thin ice

'Wingfoot, I named him! Friend, I thought him!', Éomer king hissed as he put the whetstone to work on his sword Gúthwine, sharpening the already quite sharpened tool to murderous perfection, if only to distract himself from venting his frustration even further, though obviously he failed at that, as he could not stop himself from muttering under his breath, 'What sort of friend asks this of another? What kind of friend would put another in such a situation?'

It was late in the evening and while the cold winter winds howled outside, quiet settled on the royal chambers again after he had disturbed their carefully maintained silence – but immediately after he had spoken (albeit, admittedly, words neither of reconciliation nor affection), Lothíriel queen, strangely enough, lit up, excitement taking hold of her, though, perhaps, it was not so strange a thing as one might think for her to be excited about. After all, two weeks had passed since that first council meeting back in the North; two weeks since his hand on hers had held her back from speaking up, leaving her to hold her tongue; two weeks since he had spoken more than a few grumbled words to her – and never words concerning politics. So, yeah, this miniscule sign of interaction had her excited because it was the first inkling of change to the monotone drag she had been facing for two weeks now and so, of course, she leapt it up like a hungry dog in the streets – and then some. But, perhaps, it was even more than that.

Day in and day out, she had witnessed the same talk with the same furious words and stances during the council meetings, and as they all agreed and nodded and repeated the same lines of boorish monologue they had been repeating for days now, and no one spoke against the king, she had stayed quiet. She had dared not to speak up in the council meeting, lest she would make matters worse. But she had been regretting it from the beginning – and the feeling of regret had only become stronger as the days wore on – and so she decided to speak now. It was a fleeting hope at best, mind you, and a foolish one at least, but she dared to hope nevertheless that her king would still listen to his queen, if she chose to speak.

'My lord, you may have come to know him as Wingfoot, the Ranger, your friend – but we, my people and I, have come to know him as Elessar, our king.', she started slowly then, her words carefully chosen, as she was still cautious not to spook him with words that could be deemed as too forward, 'Perhaps it would not be so prudent to reject this most generous offer of His Majesty without considering it first?'

There was a moment of silence then as his hand halted in mid-motion, giving pause to the continuous scraping noise of a whetstone grinding on metal. Initially, it was the only thing that told her that he had even heard her words over the sounds of him sharpening the sword, but when she dared to risk a peek at him, she saw that he was staring off into the distance, thoughtfully chewing on her words. In a way, she knew this to be a testament to his political honing process; a year ago her warrior-king would not have picked up on the underlying message of her words like that, but now, surely, he understood what she was implying. That Aragorn was Elessar now, a king, the King of the West, and though he had said that they would share this world in times of peace, peace could prove to be a fickle thing indeed.

And then to her utter surprise, she saw him smile. Or rather, it was a smirk. But it didn't matter, the fact that he seemed to find some sense of humour in any of this was mind-boggling in and of itself. After all, her king was usually such a serious person when it came to these matters, so what could have possibly amused him like that? In the back of her mind a little voice was advising caution but she had little time listening to it when she was surprised a second time this evening, as her lord and king actually stooped low enough to respond to her – usually, he would have ignored her words or switched topic immediately, but not this time.

'Considering it, huh? What do you think I've been doing this whole time? Do you think I'm stalling because I enjoy having my own people bear down on me?', her king scoffed then, and even though he was still smiling, there was a certain quality to his voice that made her be on her guard, 'Béma help me, if I could just jump on the back of my horse and leave all of this behind, I would. But then again, I wouldn't expect you to understand. You are a lady of the Southern courts, after all, and a politician at that – surely such diplomatic drama is what you thrive on, is it not?'

'Surely you don't really believe I'd enjoy this stalemate situation any more than you do, Éomer?', she asked pointedly, though her words were meant more for her to check whether or not he was really insinuating what she believed him to be suggesting, but rather than answering her question, her king only continued to smirk in that sneering fashion, and there was real malice behind that grin now, so much so that a shiver ran down her spine. However, she did not let that deter her; instead she simply shook her head to rid herself of the haunting image, pushing on to distract herself from it, 'Be that as it may, I, for one, would be more than willing to help take responsibility for solving this problem – if you were to let me. After all, I'm not just a lady or a politician; I am also your queen, and as such this land and its people are also my – '

'But Queen or not, you were never part of that struggle – and if it hadn't been for your scheming … you would have no part in any of this to begin with.', her king countered then, and he would not even allow her to finish, or to let her spin her way out of this, as she might have done in the past, and she took mental note of that as he added, 'It is not your past and it is not your fight. So, what would you know of it?'

In the dreadful silence that followed his outburst, it became clear to them both that he had just stopped short of saying that this wasn't her country and thus she had no part in it – a shocking and insensitive statement that would have left them both speechless, had he actually said it. Though, of course, they both knew that this statement wasn't actually true at all. They both knew very well that even though she had no history with the strife between the Rohirrim and the Wildmen, she was nevertheless inevitably caught in the nets of ramifications that had come along with this royal peace decree of a foreign ruler – a net she had inadvertently helped spin with her secret machinations and arcane plans, a net they had both been caught in thanks to her father and her own carelessness.

In the aftermath of it, as silence stretched out between them, they both dealt with the uncomfortable awkwardness of it all in very different ways. Her lord and king, for his part, went back to sharpening his sword, hopeful that giving his hands something to do would also distract his mind from it all. Lothíriel, for her part, did not seek solace in distraction, but rather chose to feel her reaction as it came over her.

Warring in her over how to react, she could feel the different impulses very keenly: there was the impulse of shameful regret for the pain and conflict she had caused, and then there was the impulse of spiteful defiance for the disrespect and hurtful comments he had all but thrown at her. Of course, she managed to reign in her emotions – she was a well-trained lady, after all – but for a short moment she actually considered correcting her lord and husband that she was not so ignorant of this whole feud as he so narrow-mindedly assumed.

Naturally, she could not claim to possess all-knowing insight into the matter, of course, (and her sources might possibly have been tainted by more than just her own bias), but when she had researched the history of the Mark, or at least, what little she could find on it in the Southern archives, in the advance of her marriage, she had more or less stumbled over the reasons for this violent, seemingly never-ending struggle between these two people fighting over the same soil. For she had learned that the wild people of Dunland had once lived all over the Mark, before it had ever become known as the Riddermark, only for them to be driven off the land they called home when one of the Ruling Stewards had gifted it to the Horse-Lords as reward for their services in battle.

Did they really think that a land already home to a people would take kindly to being given off to some random troop of soldiers? Or that the banished would never desire to return or to reclaim what was theirs? But what had been the root cause of this evil strife? Who was to blame? The Eorlingas for taking a land that was not theirs to take? The Wild Men for striking back with unforgiving fury? Or even that Ruling Steward – possibly her far away ancestor? – who had given away a land not his to give? But more than that, the selfishness, the heartlessness, the sheer uncaring with which the scripted lore spoke of this treachery and theft, as though injustice became just when done to beings deemed uncivilised – it was as unsurprising as it was telling.

But, of course, the queen knew that even her knowledge of these things would not help her sway her king to her side, and thus she stayed quiet on the matter. Better to be the naive queen than the intruding lady-politician. And so, she simply straightened her shoulders, intent to go down a different path; after all, like water she had never had need for brute force, instead she relied on the nature inherent to her element – she was sure that she would be able to wear away at his resistance, over time. Patience was key, and adaptability. So, no, she was not ready to give up just yet.

'You asked me what I know about all of this. The answer is: very little.', Lothíriel started again, her words a reflection of her new strategy, and she could sense that it was working right away as her king halted in his motions then and the sounds of a sword being sharpened faded into the distance. He had clearly not expected her to admit to such inadequacies and thus it made him more willing to open up to whatever it was she had to say – and that was a good thing too, because she did not exactly mince her next words here.

'But I do know some things, my lord. I know that a country ravaged by war should not be so foolish as to walk straight into another one. Because this is exactly what it will lead to, if we refuse this offer so carelessly. You and I both know that this offer was not made to us alone – as it takes two to make peace.', she explained slowly, and when she saw that he was listening to her intently (he considered the whetstone and sword in his hand with a thoughtful gaze, making her wonder exactly what a warrior like him might be thinking about), she dared to take a cautious step closer towards him, hopeful that her more forward approach would not spook him, 'I also know that a king without an heir should not so rashly put his life – or his kingdom – on the line, not even if it were for the sake of his kingdom, not even for the sake of his honour … or his pride – '

'Pride?! This has nothing to do with pride!', her king cut in then, his anger more than palpable as he looked over to her, clearly affronted by her choice of words, but she only held his gaze, glad to finally have his full attention.

'No? Do you not consider it shameful to even entertain the very idea of shaking hands with your former enemy? If you say no, I will call you a liar, and if you say yes, well … I could call you a fool.', she only countered with a calm demeanour she had developed during her tenuous education under her aunt's tutelage. It was a demeanour she had somewhat lost during her recent stay in the South, as shame and regret had chipped away at her composure, but now, she felt assured again, her determination sharpened and strengthened by the credo that as a queen there were just some things that needed to be said and done.

'But be that as it may, we most certainly cannot afford such vanities now, my lord.', she started again, this time intent to be less confrontational and more constructive in her criticism – now that she could be sure that he was really listening, 'The last thing we need now is a warrior that understands only honour and killing. What we need now is a king that understands that, sometimes, one has to sacrifice small virtues for the greater good. What we need now is help – help to keep our lands safe, help to keep us fed, help to keep us alive and living – even if that help may come from unlikely places.'

'Help?!', Éomer repeated slowly, the word sounding somewhat strange and unfamiliar on his tongue, and this confusion was also palpable in his face, distorting it, making him so incredibly easy to read. Her king had never been very good at hiding his thoughts or feelings – it was simply not a trait he had ever needed to learn – and so she could also almost literally see the moment his mind seemed to understand what she was implying, or the undiluted emotion of utter disgust that it elicited from him. To work together with the Dunlendings? To farm together? To pull their resources together? Surely, there were easier ways to starve and die, and they definitely didn't involve getting robbed or killed first! Or at least, that's how she chose to interpret the different twists and spasms washing over his face before he ultimately gave voice to them.

'You think those beasts would stay their bloodlust long enough to be of any help?!', he asked again, as though hoping this time the question would lead to a different answer from her, but as her face remained impassive and unyielding, it only led to him talking himself into a veritable frenzy, 'They know nothing of loyalty or kindness! If we were to reach out to them with an open hand, they would hack it off and roast it for dinner.'

'B-but how can you be so sure?', Lothíriel asked then, insisting, again, though she mainly spoke this time in order to shake off the imagery his words had evoked in her and that had left her shuddering in disgust. However, it must have been this very insistence, her unwillingness to budge that drove him over the edge then – or, perhaps, it was simply that her stubbornness reminded him of his own stubbornness in this regard, and that was what made his outburst all the more potent?

'Because I know, Lothíriel! Because I just know! Because I have seen it all my life!', he exclaimed with an almost mad fire glinting in his eyes, although she could hardly be sure of it, because it was difficult to tell what expression his eyes precisely held, as her lord and king had moved on to walking up and done the chambers by then; his inner turmoil now also manifested on the outside and through more than just mere words, although he did not exactly restrain his words either while he went on in his tirade, 'They burnt and pillaged and killed! I've seen whole villages destroyed in a single day, put to the torch; families torn apart. In the Westfold some areas have become nearly completely desolate because of them … '

And then, all of the sudden, he came to a halt in front of the fireplace, and for a moment Lothíriel actually hoped that he had calmed down, that in the silence inevitably following his outburst he would be open to suggestion now, but she was quickly disillusioned when he continued to speak. Because although he seemed calmer now, there was the same hopelessness in his words, the same despair, and ultimately also the same wrath.

'How could I ever make peace with them? My own people would never stand a peace.', he spoke then, almost as if to himself, but she had heard it all the same, and it was enough to make her understand that his whole struggle was indeed about more than just mere pride, and that even if he so much as considered the possibility of treading new paths towards a new future, the entanglements of his past and his own history with his people would prevent him from doing so. It was indeed a conundrum, and one that was even worse for a man whose sense of honour or freedom before this day had never permitted his choices to be influenced by anything other than his own code of morals, and now, now everything and everyone but him seemed to weigh in on the choices he had to make.

Surely, that was enough to explain the sudden surge of viciousness, because even though she had come to know him as a man capable of great violence and fury, he had never been cruel, or at least, never for no good reason. But now, like the wounded beast trapped, he was thrashing about, lashing out at everyone around him, and in this moment, unfortunately, that happened to be her, 'Would you make peace with the men who savaged your friends? Would you forgive them? No, as I recall you hatched some wild, fucked-up revenge fantasy!'

'This is different.', she managed to press out through bared teeth, once she had recovered from the initial shock of his words, and even though she knew that he was clearly grasping at straws here – and that surely would explain his insensitivity – she could not help the rush of sudden anger that flooded her thinking. A part of her – the part that had been reared by her father and her aunt and the cruel world down South – wanted nothing more than to jump at this chance to lash out herself, and to give back as good as she got, but she held back, knowing full well that it would achieve nothing. Still, the emotion was there nonetheless, just waiting beneath the calm surface, like a beast scratching to get out, and one could just see that in the way she was breathing hard through her nostrils, the tell-tale signs of her slipping control – but he was clearly too far gone to heed the warning signals her body was sending out.

'No, it fucking isn't!', her king thundered then as he whipped around to her, and even though she could see the same anger displayed on his face that had hardened his voice before, there was also something else there. Pain, perhaps, and fear as well, though not for herself, she reckoned; but those were passive emotions and her lord and husband had always been a man of action, and right now the only action he could take was to push forward, not minding the damage he left in his wake, 'You cannot go around and hold up other people to standards you yourself cannot even reach. So don't give me this pretentious talk of peace and working together. You're just an entitled Southern princess who doesn't know what the fuck she's talking about!'

In the sudden silence that followed his outburst, her head shot up as anger flashed through her gaze, and even though the king had not had the privilege of seeing her angry very often, he understood very well that he had gone too far this time. A part of him even prepared himself for the onslaught of words that was surely to come – or even for the slap across his face his own sister might have flung his way in a moment like this – but no, not her, never her. She was all princess, she would never defy him like that; she had been trained too well and was too well-bred. But the realisation came too late, and even if had wanted to apologise for his harsh words from before, he would not have been able to, because just in that moment she cut him off.

'I went to my lord father and I asked for what little justice he would have been able to provide at that point, but when justice was denied, yes, I chose my own path, and yes, that path had little to do with peace and everything to do vengeance.', the lady of the Southern courts hissed venomously then, her eyes turned to cold, hard slits, her very own brand of viciousness glinting in them, leaving little space for mercy of any kind as she continued, 'So, no, I didn't forgive and I didn't forget – as you so eloquently put it. But I didn't need to – because this situation is different, whether you want to see that or not. Because I am no king.'

And then a change came upon her, and the anger that had gripped her so tightly and so mercilessly before vanished as quickly as it had taken hold of her, and instead was replaced with an eerie calmness that had little to do with an actual peace of mind and a lot more to do with the kind of determination that had truly earned her the title of queen. And then, as she took a step towards him, she cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her and only her, forcing him to listen to the words she needed him to hear.

'You, on the other hand, my lord, you are a king and what you do matters. What you decide to do will affect tens of thousands of lives.', she spoke quietly, the words barely more than a whisper, but whatever volume they might have lacked, they made up for in intensity, and buried under the coals of determination shimmering in her eyes, there seemed to be a glimmer even of old tenderness, 'Put aside the warrior you've been all your life, Éomer. Become the king I already know you can be.'

In the aftermath of her words, there was silence, but in that silence there was a moment when the old connection between them seemed to flare up again. As he leaned into the touch of her hands, his eyes closed instinctively, and with need written squarely across his face, it seemed for a moment as though he would give in at last. But then the moment passed. As his eyes snapped open again and he straightened once more, he strategically moved out of her hands' reach, and as he turned away from her, he brought even more distance between them.

Reluctantly, she had released him then, and turned away herself. There was a part of her that seemed almost strangely relieved that the moment had ended, but then again, despite all the hollow touches in the night that they had suffered through, this had been the first moment of true intimacy in over two weeks. However, even as starved as her soul was for it, she also felt overwhelmed by it. And as she watched his broad back and the way his shoulder rose and fell in a fast rhythm, only slowly becoming more even, she guessed that it was the same for him.

But, perhaps, she had been entirely wrong in her assumption, and it had not been the sudden intensity of the intimacy between them that had been on his mind? How else could she explain the sudden shift in him? Gone was the warrior who only thought and acted with his fury, passionate but rash, and instead he seemed almost meek in the way he addressed her – a jarring contrast, but, perhaps, not an inexplicable one.

'I'm sorry, I should not have said that.', he mumbled quietly then, his words almost spoken more to himself, but no, she was meant to hear that – the bad conscience over his harsh words from before gnawing at him. She knew he was a hard man, strong in all the ways that counted, but it took an even stronger man to admit one's wrongdoings. But to accept an apology and to swallow one's own hurt pride? That took a strength she had never claimed to possess, and so she didn't work particularly hard to hide it, even if, on the surface, she made a show of reconciliation. Some lessons were harder to leave behind than others, after all, and she had been raised to be practical above all else.

'No need to apologise. You are a king, after all. You have every right.'

She didn't look at him as she uttered those words, and it didn't take a genius to know that they weren't genuine. The tense posture of her body was telling enough that his harsh words from before must have cut deeper than she would like to let on, because how else could one explain her reaction that managed to get under his skin so expertly and flawlessly. She knew so very well that her cold and stiff politeness hurt him more than anything else she could have said or done, and she knew very well just how much he hated the pompous and hollow ceremonials of the court, with their false courtesies that hid the truth as if it were a game. He knew that she knew that he hated lies and schemes, flatteries and empty reconciliation; and he hated nothing more than when she hid herself and what she thought and felt behind those courtesies of old. It was as if the woman he loved vanished behind a mask and became someone else – if only for a moment. It was a deliberate move and he had learned enough to know that it was meant to hurt him.

'That's not the kind of king I want to be!', he countered then, with, perhaps, a bit more fervour than he probably would have liked to show, but he could not help it; she knew just how to get a rise out of him, knew exactly what to say and how to say it to get a reaction, even if all he wanted was to remain as calm and serene as she was. The poised picture of a professional politician, and yet, the picture was crumbling at the corners, revealing the true feelings underneath, and one could just see that as she dared to return his look, her gaze loaded with the tension between them – somewhere between push and pull.

'What sort of king do you want to be then?'

FUN FACT #1: Éomer's sword must be the sharpest in all of Arda by now. But, call me repetitive, it makes for good characterisation and setting.

FUN FACT #2: I guess I am stretching the Dunlending history here a bit, but as Tolkien was evoking the Anglo-Saxon and Celtic clashes during the Celtic fringes with it, I guess, he won't mind.

FUN FACT #3: On tumblr I found a funny meme about writer struggles. In response to your writing your subconscious evaluates it in three ways.

"Damn, girl, you wrote this?" [affectionately]

"Damn, girl, you wrote this?" [derogatory]

"Damn, girl, you wrote this?" [confused]

To be honest, with this story I have encountered all three so far.