I. AM. BACK!

I want to take this moment to thank everyone who has been following me with this story! You rock my world with every like, subscribe, kudo and comment!

Also, shoutout to YoungSkywalker for inspiring me to pursue the Déor-storyline. This one is for you! (I hope you like it!)

... also, SORRY in advance. *broad fucking hint*

40. Betrayal

The white horse with the black mane practically ripped the carrot from her hands when she held it out to her, and although a less kinder soul might have put down the impatience on the animal's part as mere hunger or rather frustration that she had been so scarce in her visits in the last few days, Lothíriel Queen knew that the black-haired mare was not driven by such base impulses. Perhaps it was the distant but fair Elven blood in her veins that allowed her to see deep into the hearts of beasts as well as men that told her so; or perhaps, it was simply the natural bond forged between a rider and her steed that showed her the truth behind the steed's impatience.

The mare simply sensed her own frustration, her depression and despair, and mirrored it in kind. And was that not what the Rohirrim believed at heart, that through riding, horse and rider became one and the same mind and heart and flesh, to share their sorrows and their joys in equal measure? It would seem she had at last adopted at least some of the Northern faith of Béma, the great Rider, even if she had lost all other faith. Fitting, is is not, Lothíriel thought then with no small amount of cynicism, that the Southern princess from the sea has finally come into her own as the horse-queen of the Mark?

But, alas, if things only ever were that simple.

Like a hazy dream she remembered well the fight from the night before. The hurtful words and painful truths laid bare, and the helplessness with which they were trapped in it; and how after her husband and king had left, she had allowed herself to break down and for the tears to fall at last. And how she had cried; cried and cried and cried, as hard as she had never done before in all her life – not even the day her mother had left this world – until, eventually, she had cried herself to merciful, even if uneasy sleep.

The morning after, however, hadn't brought much relief to her either. When she had awoken, she had found the bed next to her empty. Her husband – if he had ever come to bed at all during the night – must have slipped out of their chambers at the first light of dawn, so as to avoid her, and she, for her part, had been contend enough with that. The fight the night before had bereft her of what little strength she'd had left, and the headaches and nausea hat returned with a vengeance.

So, today, partially to ease her discomfort, but also to avoid her king and another draining and yet ultimately futile discussion, she had decided to seek refuge in the stables and to seek out the company of the one being she knew would never reject her. Her black-haired mare Cwén had been happy enough to see her, their rapport coming to life the moment she had stepped into the stables, and for a time at least all her troubles had seemed to fade into the background while she had groomed and petted the horse. But alas, that simple joy was not to last, and soon enough the old worries had begun to weigh down on her mind once more, and as her mood had soured, so had the mare's restlessness begun to manifest – until the faithful beast was all but chomping at the bit and whickering in protest.

To the queen then it seemed as though she were looking into a mirror made of flesh and bone, with her own face reflected back at her through the mare's eyes. It was a pitiful image really; seeing a once so proud beast diminished into restless hopelessness – or, perhaps, it was not the animal at all that she thought of here – and it must have been this picture of pity that must have formed the thought in her mind to give her the freedom she herself could not reach. And thus, after soothing the mare with calming words in the magical tongue of the Elves, the horse-queen had begun to saddle the steed.

A part of her knew that it was a foolish thing to do, and not the least because she understood so very well that logically setting her mare free would change absolutely nothing about the precarious situation she was in. At worst, it could even make it so much worse. She wondered briefly what the fallout would be when it became known that the queen had set free the horse giving to her as a traditional wedding gift by her king; the gossip and finger-pointing she could bear, surely, but the reaction of her husband, well, she was not so sure about that. Surely, he would feel disappointed, rejected even, because what else was the mare but the symbol of his affections made flesh?

But there were even more pressing things to consider here. The weather outside was too cold – freezing even, with the snows already almost a foot deep in December – and too wet, with the air as humid and clogged and almost oppressive as she had never known it in the South, and the winds were already howling. One winter in the North had told her already when a blizzard was quickly approaching, and this morning the signs had been all there. She had to be quick about it, or else she would be caught outside in the snow storm, alone and on foot.

But despite all of her misgivings, she did not let that deter her in the end from the plan she'd made.

First she put the saddle pad on its back, then the saddle; and as she was tightening the straps of the saddle girth and adjusting the stirrups, she allowed herself to get lost in the comforting tranquillity of this mundane task. Every movement of her hands, every cooing noise she used towards the horse to ease it into the head collar, it all helped her to relax and to push her worries to the back of her mind once more (at least, for a moment), and as she relaxed again, so did her mare; and by the time she was finished with saddling the horse, there was even the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth – even if it was tinged with melancholy.

'This way, mellon-nîn, at least one of us will be free.', she whispered with a sad but determined smile, and as she petted the horse's head and held its gaze, it looked to her as though the animal seemed to understand her words, or at least the reasoning and intention behind it. Moving its head forward, she allowed her forehead to rest against the mare's forehead, and as she did so, she felt her eyes close at the touch and for the tears to come once more. She wouldn't have thought that she had any more tears left in her, but still they came, though she wasn't even sure anymore for what or whom she was crying exactly. For the faithful mare she would lose to the freedom she intended to give, for herself and the purpose in life she could have had, or for the man she could have lov –

It was the sound of footsteps approaching that pulled her out of her wildly spiralling thoughts then, and instantly her eyes flew open in shock, her mind coming to the dreadful conclusion that her lord and husband could walk through the stable doors any moment now. All of the sudden, Lothíriel became acutely aware of her state of distress: her tear-stained cheeks, her breathlessness, her so very obvious weakness. Immediately, she tried to wipe away the tears and to smooth down her appearance, but to little avail, and when she heard the stable doors being pulled open and turned around at the sound, she found herself shocked for second time today – because it was not her king who greeted her there.

'My queen.', Déor exclaimed in surprise, and with his hand still holding on to the handle of the stable doors his surprise seemed even genuine to her, although the lady of the Southern courts in her couldn't quite shake off her suspicions. After all, so alone together in the confined space of the stables, so far away from supervising eyes (and yet not far enough away from wagging tongues and ears to hears its gossip), well, she became highly aware of the compromising situation they were in.

'You shouldn't be here.', she whispered then, her throat all of the sudden tight with an unknown feeling, the hairs in the back of her neck standing up in anxiety and with a sense of foreboding. But if the Northern knight noted her body's tension, he misinterpreted it; because while she took a step back towards the stall of her mare Cwén, he let go of the handle of the door, showing no sign of running for the hills. Nay, instead she found him sporting that insanely charming crooked smile, and his eyes that softened as they focused on her.

'What kind of Rider would I be, if I didn't follow my heart to the stables?', Déor responded then, and that dreamy expression on his face gave him the look of a madman who didn't know he had just uttered a death wish. Lothíriel held her breath; outside, it seemed, that the winds blew just a little harder. Of course, his words had seemed innocent enough at first glance – after all, riding was at the heart of every Rohirrim – but the double meaning of it hadn't been lost on her, or perhaps that was just the paranoia in her talking? Because when she glanced at him again, the reckless smile from before was gone; instead he was frowning at her, sharp green eyes that saw right through her.

'Lothíriel, what's wrong?'

'You should leave. I can't be seen with you … or people will come to the wrong conclusion.', she advised with no small amount of irritation, hoping her allusion to the obvious would be enough to stop him in his tracks – to stop whatever was happening here – but instead a look of determination came upon his face that had her more than just a little worried. Perhaps he actually cared enough not to put her in a compromising position like this; perhaps he didn't care for the same reasons she did. Because even though he was smiling no longer, he also didn't show the slightest inclination to leave her alone either.

'Lothíriel – '

'Leave.', she all but commanded then as she straightened her back and took a step forward to have her demeanour emphasise the tone of authority she was hoping to achieve, but still the Northern knight would not move, and as she felt goosebumps prickle her skin in reaction to the tension of this strange stand-off, she felt her hands form into fists at her side and her chin rise up in defiance of the cold feeling of panic that was slowly but surely burrowing itself into her heart, and when she spoke once more, she could not quite keep the tremble out of her voice, 'I-I am your queen, and I order you to – '

'No. I won't leave until you tell me what's wrong. Not until I've said my piece.', the Northern knight countered impatiently, and the frustration that was egging him on was more than palpable in his voice as he spoke, but there was also something else there, at the end when his voice was strained and hoarse and barely more than a whisper above the air, something much more tender and far more dangerous. Lothíriel closed her eyes, trying to block him out, but try as she might, she could not stop the words from flowing out – and what was said, could not be unsaid.

'For weeks now you've been avoiding me when … when all I want is to talk. And … I am haunted by the words I long to say to you.', he confessed with a voice laden with some emotion she was too scared to name, and even though she didn't see it happen, she could sense the slow steps with which he drew closer towards her, and every step was a step closer to a path that could lead to ruin. But he could not see that, as all he saw was the one chance to clear the air between them, to free himself of the burden that had chained him to her side – and it left him blind to the burden he unwittingly put on her by doing so.

'I know I'm a fool to think I could ever have a chance, believe me, I-I know that. And I know you will never look at me the way you look at him.', the Rider continued then, and the barely-veiled strain shining through in his words spoke volumes of the pains he had suffered through on account of his unrequited affections for her – and it broke her heart to listen to him, because she knew that there was no remedy she could offer for the wound he had been carrying for so long, no remedy anyway that wouldn't wound her in the process. A healer she had been all her life, but not in this; in this she had been the knife, beautiful and bright, but also cold and cutting to those unchosen to wield it.

'But I don't care any longer if I'm making a fool of myself. We Rohirrim do not lie, and I can't keep pretending that I'm not feeling what I'm feeling.', he kept on saying blindly – blinded by his own emotions weighing him down – not hearing the whispered plea that had escaped her lips in protest even though, by now, he had drawn close enough to be able to hear it, (or perhaps it were the gathering winds that had all but drowned out her protest), 'And the truth is, I care about – '

'Stop. Stop.', she hissed then as her eyes snapped open, and this time he actually heard her and halted in his steps a few feet from her; and just like that, the spell that had been cast over both of them, like a dark cloud shadowing all, was broken. Only now, blinking a few times, did the Northern knight seem to become aware of how far he had actually advanced on her, and when he searched her face … well, she couldn't be sure what expression her face showed, but whatever he saw, must have distressed him quite a bit, or at least enough to have him raise his arms in a gesture of pacification, to show that he meant no harm. Nevertheless, when he tried to approach her once more, she put an end to it before he'd even made one step.

'Lothíriel, what's – '

'Don't. Don't come any closer.', she commanded then, like the queen she truly was, and she did well to remember it now, for it took all her efforts to straighten her back and rise to her full height rather than to flee or double over in pain. The stress of the whole situation had brought the dull throbbing of her headache back to a sharp and sudden pang, and the latent feeling of nausea had her stomach churning and her knees shaking. Trying to control her uneven breathing, she closed her eyes for a moment; behind her back, she could feel her mare nuzzling her neck, trying to comfort her in the simple and effortless manner only animals could, allowing her to find her calm again.

'Lothíriel … what's going on?'

The oblivious question was enough to have her eyes snap open, and even though she could see the genuine concern in the young rider's gaze, with his forehead in frowns and his eyes soft, she was too riled up still to accept it. Instead, she simply laughed – not an honest laugh, mind you, but rather a sound made of desperation, a sound born out of a tension so thick it was choking her and she had no other form of release.

'What's wrong?!', she repeated with scathing sarcasm once her manic laughter had ebbed away, but what was left behind by it, was only rage, a rage she hadn't felt in a long while – and for once she didn't let the manners drilled in by her social upbringing rein in her emotions, for once she allowed herself to indulge in the messy, raw chaos of her feelings of anger, for once she allowed herself the freedom to be a warrior of words, lashing out at anything and anyone, simply because she could.

'You dare ask that? Now?!', she continued then with true menace in her voice, and in her step as well, for it was her turn now to slowly but surely advance on him as she laid out the truth of the situation for him that he had been too blind to see, 'After stalking me for weeks – weeks! After watching my every step with love-sick eyes and following me around like a fucking puppy in love? After crooning about your admiration for your lady at court and having the fucking audacity to take care of my mare as though you have any right to do so – as though you didn't know full well what it meant?'

Swallowing hard, the queen had to pause for just a moment, to catch her breath and to try and suppress the angry tears that were pricking in her eyes once more. Or at least, she thought them to be tears of anger, but they might as well have been tears of exhaustion and despair, or even tears of sorrow – what her heart was bleeding for here, though, she could not rightly say. For herself and the hopeless situation she had been forced to manoeuvre herself in, for the hearts she had been forced to break along the way, for the happiness she just could not have with the man she –

Ulmo spare her! Why could she not stop crying?!

'You dare ask that?!', she repeated again, but even though the cruel smile on her lips never reached her eyes, there was also something else in her voice now, something other than malice, something like despair and exhaustion, and at the end of it, her voice was on the cusp of failing, 'After exposing your king – your best friend – to the ridicule of all? After making me the object of their gossip? And even now – now, after you've cornered me like – like some – like some – '

'I-I'm sorry, I never meant to – '

'Stop. Stop it.', she hissed again, as the Rider had inadvertently taken another step towards her with arms held high and opened wide – perhaps to apologise, perhaps to take advantage of her in the vulnerable state she was – but at her words of warning he had stopped dead in his tracks, arms falling down to his sides, to hang there uselessly, 'Have you no honour left, sir? I am your queen. I am the wife of your king. I am the wife of your best friend. Don't you get it? There will never be anything between us … so if you're just here because you think you can sweet-talk your way into my – '

'I know that.', Déor spoke then, cutting her short, and it was the first time since she had started talking herself into a veritable frenzy that he had been able to get a proper word in. And even though his rude interruption should have offended her polite sensibilities, it perhaps forced her for the first time to properly consider the man standing a few feet away from her. There had been anger in his voice when he had spoken, and perhaps that was only to be expected as she had questioned his honour, but his eyes, so relentlessly, unabashedly, searching for her gaze, were filled with water rather than fire, or perhaps that was just him finally having the good grace to feel at least a modicum of shame for the havoc he had wreaked in all of their lives. And indeed, as he spoke once more, the frowns on his forehead deepened and his eyes were cast down, and his voice was barely more than a strangled whisper, 'I'm not here for that.'

'Then why won't you leave me alone?', she managed to press out then at last through barely suppressed sobs (Why couldn't she stop crying?), and it was all she could say to give voice to her desperate confusion. Because – if he had not come to sway her to his side, if he had not confessed his feelings to have her swoon over him, to have her fall into his arms like the ladyloves she had heard the minstrel sing so many songs about, then why was he here? Why had he come? Why had he spoken of his feelings at all – if not to talk her into falling for him? The lady of the Southern courts, who had been reared into believing that everything and everyone had hidden intentions, could not but feel frustrated and confused at the idea that there was someone who was actually just saying and doing things for the sake of it, with no other agenda but the truth behind it. But as she saw his eyes soften at her obvious distress, she began to realise that he was indeed a man with a very own code of honour, even if the world would not see it as such.

'Because I'm probably the last friend you've got … and because I can see that you're upset.'

And that was indeed enough to the render the queen speechless. In truth, for a moment, there was the impulse in her to deny his so very accurate observation – if only to spite him and her own weakness – or even to throw a few choice observations of her own his way. (Oh, yes, indeed, what a fine friend he were, the kind that would steal another man's wife, the kind that would accost a married woman!) But instead she bit back her spiteful response and simply turned away, unwilling to face him, unwilling to look at him and to have him see right through her. But, in the end, he was a Northerner like all the others, and therefore not so easily deceived.

'You're crying.'

The observation had been small, barely more than a whisper, and yet it was enough to have her break down into a thousand small pieces – the princess, the lady, the queen, the wife, the politician, the woman – as though she were shattered like a mirror, with the sharp shards of glass cutting into her flesh, drawing only more blood forth from her already bleeding heart. And yet, once again, she laughed; laughed with sobs breaking free from her breast, with tears staining her cheek, with despair pushing her to the brink of exhaustion and madness.

At this point, she was barely holding on, and she was sure that he could see that. Why else would the young Northern knight cast down his eyes and avert his gaze now, if not because some long-lost feeling of decency had caught up with him at last, compelling him to respect her boundaries in this at least, even if nowhere else? And the absurdity of it all, the humiliation she felt at being pitied in such a way – and by one who had contributed to her misery no less – had her spiral into a frenzy of viciousness.

'Ah, and I suppose you see yourself as the big, strong shoulder for me to cry on now, eh?', she spat out then, the words coming out of their own free will, but even if she had been able to stop then, she would not have done so. In her head she heard her father's words, blackening her mind: If they hurt you, hurt them back. But even though it should have felt freeing to let loose her rage on so deserving an opponent, she felt only the hollow pull of darkness enclosing her, ever pulling her down into the depths she had lost herself in before.

Is this to be my fate designed by the pull of the tides? Ulmo, save me, I am still drowning …

'Fuck it!'

The words hissed out in spite came as a shock to her, or perhaps she was only so surprised by the Northern knight's words because she had been distracted by her own spiralling thoughts and was thus caught very much off guard. Before she could have reacted, before she even could have processed what was happening, it was already happening. It seemed in that moment that the Rider's patience had run out at last, and he simply snapped.

With three large steps, Déor was in front of her and with a lunge of his warrior-arms he pulled her flush against him. There was a short moment of struggle, as she fought tooth and nail to get out of his grasp, but in the end exhaustion and weariness overwhelmed her quickly enough, and so, she gave in at last and allowed herself to settle into the embrace and to take what comfort she could from it. And the moment, frozen in time, was almost peaceful, if it weren't for the winds gaining momentum outside.

She could feel his obvious surprise then at how tightly her arms held on to him, or how willingly she buried her face into his chest, to hide the tears the world was not allowed to see, but he overcame his surprise quickly enough and simply enfolded her in his arms. And if he held onto her a little more tightly then, with his nose buried in her hair, a deep sigh of content tickling against her tresses – what of it? The queen was under no illusion; this right here, for him, had probably as much to do with a knight comforting his queen as it had with a heart full of unrequited love sucking up what meagre morsels of fulfilment it could, and she imagined that the Northern Rider had probably dreamed of holding her in his arms like this for many, many nights past.

But in that moment she didn't care about that. In that moment it didn't matter to her what that embrace meant for him, or whether it was born out of genuine concern for her or not, or whether it was merely pity dressed up behind a pretty mask. In that moment the only thing she cared about was the comfort it brought her to be embraced like that. How long had it been since she had been held so sweetly in anybody's arms, as though she were safe and whole and deserving of love?

The thought made something in her chest constrict almost painfully, as she secretly yearned for the arms of another to hold her so close and so tight and so lovingly, and in response her eyes began to overflow anew. Tightening her grip on the knight, she was sure he could feel the nails of her fingers burying themselves into his shoulder blades even through his waistcoat; but even if he did, he didn't comment on it, and instead held her only tighter in return, giving her the comfort she needed. And after she had spilled all her tears at last into the comforting hollow of his chest, after she had slowly calmed down again, she began to talk, and she told it all then.

She talked of the life she had lived before and after she had become a queen. She talked of the war and of the vicious lady that had been turned into a traumatised healer during it. She talked of the struggles she had faced in the beginning of her marriage, but she also talked of the happiness she had experienced when she had allowed her heart to open up to another (she ignored the way his arms around her tensed at that). And she talked of her betrayal that had run like a lightning strike through that happiness to cleave husband and wife in two, casting them on opposite sides of a running river.

It seemed as though once she had started to talk, she could not stop again. The words seemed to flow out of her like rivulets from a stale stream, like a dam breaking at the seams only to overflow and break at long last. She felt as though poison were sucked from a wound she had been carrying around for weeks (or were it years?), and at the end of it, she felt almost healed, in a way.

Through it all, the Northern knight remained unusually quiet, allowing her to let it all out, and he just listened; listened to the tragic tale she spun, listened to all that had transpired and that she had been carrying around in silence. But even though he did not say a word, she could feel that he was taking it all in, and she knew that he was listening – really listening – because she could feel, under her touch, the way he tensed in response to her words regarding the peace treaty and the corner they had manoeuvred themselves in. She believed she understood the reason for his tense reaction, but she came to realise that she had been wrong about the Rider in more ways than one.

'You have to see that peace treaty through to the end, Lothíriel.', Déor spoke then into the cold morning air that, by then, had turned into the air of noon, and for a moment she believed that the winds howling outside (the onsets of the storm she had hoped to avoid for her ride) had messed with her hearing. Because the image of the swash-buckling knight with a constant smug smirk on his face and a wink gleaming in his eye just didn't fit the sombre and tense tone with which he had spoken just now, and she imagined that every-present smile on his lips turned into a thin and resolute line.

He wanted peace.

'But … but you're one of the Rohirrim, born and raised.', she protested then, unable to process that she, perhaps, might have found an ally in the unlikeliest of people (so shocked indeed that she didn't even register the familiar tone he had taken with her), unable to bring in line what he had just all but confessed to her and what she had come to know of him, 'You are a warrior. You've always flaunted the glory days of the war in front of everybody's faces, you – '

'Because that's what everybody expects to hear from a warrior, isn't it?', he cut her short then with a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, but rumbled so low and dark in his chest that she trembled at it, for there was not the usual levity in it that she had come to know him for, 'Do you really think they would look twice at a Rider that shits his pants at the mere thought of seeing another battlefield again?! I have seen enough of war in my life. I am tired of it. And if you want to give us peace, then I am more than ready to take whatever it is you can offer us.'

In the aftermath of his confession, Lothíriel could not say a word at first, as she did not know what she could say at all. She had not missed the way his arms had tightened around her almost painfully at his bitter words, as though it were really her that was comforting him here and not actually the other way around, and she doubted not that old horrors of war were haunting him still, even now, even here, and at that thought she felt her heart overflow with compassion for him and in her mind doubts began to form about the perception she'd had of him all this time.

Unbidden came to her the times he had laughed so freely only to cover the scars beneath that mirth, and with it she remembered the many times he had sought her companionship, and now she began to wonder whether him seeking her out had really been nothing more than a fool in hope pining after his ladylove or if, perhaps, there had been more to it. And the anger in her king's eyes as he looked at his friend, had that really been only jealousy, or had it not been a feeling of betrayal as well – betrayal at the realisation that his best friend was not on his side in this matter of war and peace? Indeed, she had been too pre-occupied with her own troubles to pay much attention to the attendees of the council meetings, but if she had, perhaps, she would have heard the Northern knight speak out in favour of her, earning him some disapproval himself.

'See it through to the end, Lothíriel, and I shall follow you to whatever end you will lead us … ', Déor whispered into the tresses of her hair, and the way his breath tickled her skin made her shiver in return and close her eyes. She would have to brand herself a liar, if she pretended that the way he held her and spoke to her didn't affect her in some way. But, perhaps, it was not so much the closeness itself but the conviction that lay behind his words, the unwavering belief in her, the hope with which he regarded her, that affected her so? How long had it been since anyone had believed in her with such conviction and such fervent hope – if ever? And who would be strong enough to remain unaffected by such sincere loyalty?

'It's not that simple.', she protested softly, lifting her head from his chest, to bring at least a little bit of distance between them (even if she noticed that he would not let go of her just yet). A part of her feared the ramifications of failing to live up to the hopes he'd set on her; the disappointment that would follow, the bitter resignation it would lead to, the horrors that haunted them still coming back to life. She knew that even with this new ally at her side, it might not be enough, and tried to convey that as best she could, 'Éomer no longer trusts me. When he looks at me, he sees barely more than the traitor who tricked him and – '

'He's always been a stubborn son of a bitch!'

'It's more than that!', she insisted then, looking up to him with some frustration, and maybe also a little bit of exasperation, feeling her own protective impulses flare up at the way he had spoken of her lord and husband, and even though a part of her was inclined to agree with the criticism, she could not help herself from defending him, 'He is stalling out of fear – but not for himself. This peace treaty has not exactly helped to make me more popular, quite the contrary, actually. And there are other threats to consider as well, threats no one can know about. His fear paralyses him, and his fear is for me.'

'And for good reason, too.', the Rider spoke then with a haunting tone, and as he did so, his arms set her free, but only so his hands could grip her shoulders with surprising vehemence, forcing her to meet his powerful gaze as he continued with a low and warning enunciation that seared his words right into her, 'You might not have heard the whispers in the dark, out on the streets, my lady, but I have. Your position on this treaty has put a target on your back. Éomer has every reason to fear for you.'

In the momentary silence that followed, while the weight of his words slowly but surely settled on her mind, Lothíriel could feel her brother's dagger burning a tattoo onto her skin, right through her clothes, from where it hung low at her belt. Ever since that talk she'd had with her handmaidens, she had developed the habit of carrying it around with her. Not that she would be able to handle herself even halfway passably well with it – she was under no illusion that a lady born and bred would not stand a chance if push came to shove and the public's malcontent over her involvement with the peace treaty would boil over. That was not to say that she actually believed that anyone would be so foolish or so mad, so as to actually try anything (although remembering the vicious looks the councilman Braenn had thrown her way of late, had had her concerned more than usually). But still, she carried the blade at her side nonetheless, because for these people seeing was believing, and there was no harm in exuding the air of a woman well prepared and capable to defend herself when necessary.

Déor, however, took neither notice of the dagger at her side nor of her train of thought, as he was instead moved by other thoughts. Holding on to her for a few moments longer, as if to impress the scale of the danger on her (as if she didn't know already), or, perhaps, simply to hold on to her for the sake of being close to her, he relinquished his hold on her then with a shaky sigh at last. And then he leaned back, hands falling from her shoulders, as though all hope had drained from him in the quiet admission of a truth he might have tried to forget for a time but that had ultimately caught up with him, only to torment his conscience. There was an almost unbearable sadness in his eyes as he spoke again, and it was unmistakable how much effort it took him to say those words, 'He cares about you – more than anyone in the world ever could.'

'Don't you think I know that?!', she snapped back then, taking a step back and averting her gaze, shaking her head wildly as she went, unable to bear the sadness in the knight's eyes any longer, unable to bear the truth of the words he had spoken, unable to bear the self-loathing rising in her throat, 'Don't you think I know that he cares too much?! That his feelings for me put him in a bind?! That I have put him in an impossible situation?! Don't you think I don't hate myself for – '

At this point she had begun to talk herself into a veritable frenzy; words barely understandable under barely suppressed sobs, tears that drowned them out even more, and before long she had been in such a state of emotional distress that she had been nothing short of hyperventilating. Like before, the arms of the knight shot out, although this time there was no more struggle from her. Blind in her overwhelming emotions, the queen simply allowed the Rider the pull her into his arms, and in his embrace she allowed herself to break down for a second time.

'I fucked up.', she sobbed against the comforting hollow of his chest, burying her face there, to hide the tears the world was not allowed to see her shed, holding on to him as he was holding on to her, enveloping her in an embrace so warm and tight and complete, she felt safe enough to admit to truths she, otherwise, would not have had the strength to admit. But right here and right now, she felt, no, she knew, that if she allowed herself to fall from the lies and determination into the naked truth and the pain that came along with it, then she would be caught in strong arms that would help raise her up again. Right here and right now, she understood that it would be alright to allow herself to feel what she had forbidden herself from feeling for so long, lest it would cripple her and her ability to do what needed to be done.

'He trusted me and I … I betrayed him.', she whispered then into the dark space of solace that was his chest, eyes closed against the violent judgement of the world, a part of her, perhaps, even steeling herself against the self-righteous reaction that was surely to come at the admission of her dishonour (he was still a Rider of the Rohirrim, was he not?), but even though she could feel his arms tighten around her at her words, she said nothing in return; Déor only listened to her, just like before, and stayed graciously silent, and she was glad for it then.

'He … he will never forgive me for this, will he?', she mumbled then, and as soon as she had spoken those words, she perceived them as the only possible truth, and it broke her. Feeling all energy drain from her as tears overwhelmed her once more, she clung to the Northern knight then with desperate fervour, clinging to the strength in him and the faith he had shown in her, begging him silently, with the way her hands held on to him like a drowning man to a raft in the sea, for him to help her – even if she knew that there was little he could actually do to help. But despair had never been born out of reason before.

'It'll work out, I promise. You're not alone in this.', was all he said then, his voice barely more than a whisper over her quiet sobs and the winds that had begun to whistle louder outside, as he stroked her back in small comforting circles, and the action was made up of such soft and tender innocence that she could not but be reminded of her brother Amrothos, comforting her in much the same way not so long ago, when their aunt had just passed away. Closing her eyes with a weak sigh, she felt herself melt into his touch and his chest, lapping up with a deep sigh the warm comfort he offered her. In this moment, indeed, she could feel herself willing to believe that, perhaps, against all odds and all better knowledge, there was indeed hope still, until –

'I might have known.', a voice from the entrance of the stables spoke then, and at the angry, calculated sound of the words, the queen and the knight immediately sprang apart in shock, eyes wide in terror, as though they had been burned, and perhaps, they even had been – because they both knew exactly whose voice it had been and to whom it belonged. And out of the shadows of the stable entrance walked Éomer King and a murderous expression was on his face as he fixed the pair before him with a deadly glare.

The winds outside were no longer whispering; they were howling.

Frozen in shock, Lothíriel could do nothing but stare in horror at the face she had once held with such tenderness between the palms of her hands, a face she had kissed, a face she had lost herself in – a face that was now twisted in cold fury as it beheld the woman he had once confessed so fervently to love. There was no love lost now in those green eyes as they burned with rage. And yet, there was also something else buried in his gaze; something much deeper, something much darker.

Jealously. Possessiveness. Betrayal. Hurt.

Lothíriel felt herself begin to tremble at the sight of it, and even though she wanted nothing more in that moment than to flee from that gaze, she found that she could not move. Paralysed by shock, the queen felt the sharp pain of her headache return to her with a vengeance as her numbed mind began to slowly grasp the full picture of tragedy that was unfolding before her very eyes … and as she realised what things must have looked like for him.

His queen in the arms of another – and not just anybody else, his best friend! – and holding on to that other man with willing arms and a willing heart. How much had he heard? How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there in his silent fury, eyes staring – staring, but not seeing. His eyes hardened, tightened, blinded by a love whose shadow now only threw hatred.

Ulmo, save her!

But while the queen had been frozen in place, scrambling to process the weight of the situation the three of them were in, Déor had recovered much quicker from his initial shock. Because while he had at first instinctively stepped in front of his queen – a pure impulse born out of his knightly disposition – as if to shield her from their king's wrath, he then thought better of it and instead sought to de-escalate the situation in the only way he thought he could. Bracing himself with a rueful smile, the Northern knight slowly walked over to his friend with open arms, trying to explain the situation, but the Rider did not get very far in his explanation because as soon as he was within reach, Éomer struck him down with one well-landed, brutal punch.

And then the warrior-king turned his attention back on his wife and for the first time in her marriage, Lothíriel was actually, truly, deeply afraid of her husband. She knew him to be a warrior, capable of deeds of great violence, and she had seen glimpses of that violence simmer through, every now and again, but now … now she saw it all, bared in naked brutality. There was just such a fire of fury in his eyes, burning as hot and all-consuming as she had never seen it before, and a part of her just knew that there was no amount of water that would quench it this time.

'TRAITOR!', he yelled then and Lothíriel flinched at the sheer volume and violence of his voice, and for a moment she actually thought he would now turn on her too, to exact the same kind of brutal judgement he had already bestowed upon his best friend, but her king only stood there, and even though the fury on his face scared her, the pain buried deep within his eyes broke her heart even more. No, she realised then, and the deeper meaning behind it chilled her to the very bone, her king would never again lay so much as one finger on her.

Déor, for his part, however, who had been lying on the floor so far, rolling in pain and gasping for air with an ugly rattling sound, seemed to be of a different opinion, as he grabbed onto his best friend's leg with all the might he had left, as though to keep his king from advancing further on his queen. Perhaps the Northern knight groaned towards her to run and get away, but one couldn't be sure as it might as well have been just another sound of pain. And the feeble act might have only distracted the king for a moment – having him shake his leg as if to try and shake off the hands of his best friend, as though he were nothing but an inconvenient, albeit clingy insect – but a moment was all she really needed.

Blinded by her own tears and overwhelmed by the whole situation as she might have been, Lothíriel still had the good presence of mind to know when it was time for a retreat. Willing her legs to move, the queen turned around and wrenched open the stall of her mare Cwén before stepping inside the box. As she grabbed the saddle horn and put her left boot in the stirrup, to pull herself up on the back of her mare, she was at least glad then that she had saddled it earlier, before … before … before everything had fallen apart.

Holding on to the reins with trembling hands, the queen did not even have the guts to gaze upon her lord and husband one last time, before she spurred on her horse and rode off – to leave behind the stables and everything and everyone in it. But if she had looked up, she would have found her king's gaze resolutely turned away from her and his hands balled to fists at his side, to keep himself from reaching out to her, though to whatever end would now forever be unknown.

FUN FACT #1: I'm sure I lost a few readers over the Déor-storyline a while ago but I will not hear a word against my dumb-knuckle knight again. He is my foolish cinnamon roll and I will defend him with my dying breath. In other words, I wanted to wrap up Déor's arc with a grand finale and this here was but a taste of it!

FUN FACT #2: Lothíriel really must have the worst week of her life. The talk with her handmaidens, the talk with her husband, the talk with Déor - and now THIS.

FUN FACT #3: I've known that this scene would happen. I've known it 20, 30 chapters ago - and I was hungering to write that shit. You cannot imagine how starved I was to finally write it out. You cannot imagine how hard it was not to say anything to you guys.

FUN FACT #4: I am sorry. I know you're probably in pain right now. I won't say it'll get better with time - because the next two chapters won't be much of a balm on your tender reader souls either - but there is light on the horizon. You guys just can't see it yet.