Lothíriel observed her reflection from the far side of the room, struggling to ignore the flurry of people that entered and exited her chambers. Voices were raised in unison, blending into one another until she couldn't discern what was being said, but she knew that it was serious. Her ability to focus had been replaced with a numbness she could barely fathom. All she could see was the woman in the mirror, and that woman was covered in mud, dust, and blood. The left side of her face was a swollen mess, red from the blood that continued to drip down her cheek, red from the gash that smiled above her eyebrow, and red from pure humiliation. If she had been told that the woman in the mirror was a queen, she would have laughed. A queen wouldn't have fled from her home, pursuing a life beyond the parameters of the one she had married into. The woman that stared back at her was nothing more than a disappointment, and that hurt more than the torment she had endured on the banks of the Harrowdale. She tried to hide her face in her hands, hoping to shield herself from further ridicule, but someone gently pulled them away. The voices stopped almost immediately. Éomer said something in Rohirric and in the span of a few moments, only the two of them remained within the room. She could feel his eyes on her, but she refused to look into them. Instead, she let him guide her across the floor until they had reached the foot of a tub. Hot water had been brought into her chamber while she had been indisposed, and with it, a variety of towels, herbs, ointments, and bandages.
In another life, she would have recoiled at the idea of undressing in front of a man. That life had ended. She reached for the laces that adorned the back of her kirtle, trying to loosen the knots she had made that morning, but her fingers were clumsy, stiff, and sore. For the first time in hours, she summoned up the courage to look him in the eyes. She couldn't deny the anger that lived in there, but fear stood out above all else, overshadowing the embers that shimmered within their depths. She had seen the same look in her father's eyes when the rumors surrounding Mordor had begun to stir, and it was the same look he'd given her brothers when they had decided to accompany him to the Black Gate. Fear looked the same regardless of who it belonged to, and Éomer looked at her as if he were afraid that she would slip through his fingers. Her guilt returned in full force, but he ignored it for the time being, nodding his head to indicate that he understood what she was asking for. He took the laces from her and began to loosen them one section at a time. Her dress slipped off of her shoulders, pooled at her waist for a brief moment, and then fell to the floor. The air inside of the room was cold. His stare lingered briefly, following the contours of her body to ensure that it remained intact, but the fear within him remained. He offered her his hand and she took it, stepping over the edge of the tub and into the water. She settled in slowly, sinking into the basin until her shoulders and knees were the only parts of her body that could be seen. He draped her braid over the back of the tub, unraveling each strand so that it spilled over her shoulders and into the shadows beyond, darkening the water like ink. The blood, dust, and mud had begun to wash away.
"I asked you to stay in Edoras," he said quietly, sitting solemnly on the edge of her bed. "Why did you leave?"
"Because I wanted to," she replied, trying to ignore the way her voice had cracked.
"That's hardly an answer."
"What would you like to hear?"
The anger within him made a brief appearance, fanning the embers in his eyes until a flame had sprung forth, lighting the words that slipped through his lips. They burned in the space between them as brightly as the emotion on his face. She nearly recoiled at the sight of it, but it was well deserved.
"The truth. You have developed an aversion to it."
"I fear that you loathe me. That I am a burden. I fear that I will never know my husband and that he will never know me. I feel trapped within my life, and I refuse to spend the rest of it with a stranger."
"I couldn't agree more."
"Then why are we living like this?"
"Because I fear that I am not good enough for you. I have always been a simple man, destined to a life far removed from that of a king, but you are a queenly woman. You deserve more than what I can offer."
"You are quick to assume what I do and do not want. You are a foolish man."
"Then we are well matched, for you are a foolish woman," he replied, folding his arms across his chest for good measure.
She stood up angrily, disturbing the water in the tub. It sloshed over the edge, spilling onto the floor. Her irritation with him had bubbled up from within her like a spring of cold water, washing over her skin the way the Harrowdale had a few hours earlier. This time, she was in full control of it.
"I married you," she said, fighting the fire in his eyes one word at a time. "You are a man above all else, and I married that man irrespective of the fact that he is now King of Rohan. I wish to know that man and I expect the same courtesy."
Lothíriel was taller than most people, but in that exact moment, she looked ethereal, embodying the stories Éomer had heard about the Elves in the Golden Wood. Her hair was as black as the night sky, streaming down her back and shoulders as if it were a canvas, allowing her to shine in the candlelight as brightly as a star. The water had washed the day away. She stood before him unabashed and completely unprepared, unaware of what she was bringing out in him. For the first time since they'd met, the full weight of his gaze was unleashed upon her. He memorized the lines of her body with his eyes, watching her so intently that she could nearly feel his hands on her skin, tracing the column of her neck, cupping the curve of her breasts, and exploring the warmth between her legs. The fire in his eyes had begun to change, and in turn, it had started to bring out a change in her. Heat bloomed within her, spreading through her body until her face had turned an entirely different shade of red. She fought the urge to hide from him, holding her hands at her sides so that he could see every inch of her. He looked at her and she looked at him, daring him to back down. Conceding wasn't an option. She thought that she saw a smile on his lips, an obvious indicator that he was amused by her attempts at intimidation, but it was short-lived. The anger she had incited within him hadn't completely died. It was still there, kindling to a fire that wasn't familiar to her, a fire she had been told of in hurried whispers many years before.
"Then you shall know me," he said, moving towards her. "I give you my word."
He reached for a towel and passed it to her, averting his gaze with some level of difficulty. She accepted it as graciously as possible, wrapping it around herself before her nerves became readily apparent. He helped her out of the tub and over to the bed, collecting the medical supplies that had been left for them to use along the way. He wasn't accustomed to bandaging wounds, but he was receptive to her advice, applying the correct ointments to the gash above her eyebrow. It wasn't deep enough to require stitches, but she knew that it would leave a scar. He was convinced that she had injured several of her fingers, and while she tried to deny it at first, he was all too familiar with that kind of injury. Before she could stop him from doing it, he had already splinted her fingers, wrapping the bandages firmly in place. She wanted to hear the story behind his sudden know-how, but she knew that it wasn't the right time to ask. He offered his own insights into head wounds while she sat there, reiterating information she had learned long before she had taken an interest in healing, but she appreciated his perspective. His concern for her had tempered somewhat, but there was something more to it, something she remembered hearing from her brothers back in Minas Tirith. His experience with loss exceeded what was customary, and he had nearly lost his sister on the Pellenor. She couldn't deny the similarities after she had thought about them long enough, and the guilt she had been feeling promptly returned. The woman who had stood before him moments before had vanished into thin air. She retreated from him, growing smaller and smaller in the candlelight like a dying flame, succumbing to the day's tribulations in one fell swoop.
"I am going to stay with you," he told her, watching as her eyes began to close. "No harm will come to you while I am here."
"I am more than capable of handling myself."
He looked more convinced than the last time she had told him that, but the result was still the same.
"Humor me just this once," he said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
She tried to think of something witty to say in response, but she couldn't find the right words. His gaze had softened, soothing the worries that raced within her mind one by one, giving her the reassurance she needed to fall asleep. The fire in his eyes had finally been extinguished.
Éomer's expertise on head injuries had proven to be correct. Her recovery was slower than what she had anticipated, and the days dragged by without any indication that they would somehow change. Her routine was the same. She'd spend the majority of the night tossing and turning, reliving her experience at the Harrowdale over and over again, and during the day, she'd pace the floors in search of relief. Éomer had driven the Wildmen away, but he hadn't been able to drive them from her mind. He had gone out of his way to invite her on excursions she had been desperate to participate in, checking in on her every single day in the hope of seeing an improvement, but she couldn't find it in herself to humor him. Every time she looked out of her window, she saw Rohan's green slopes in a different light. The cost of freedom was steep and she had paid the price. She was too afraid to step outside of her door, preferring the walls and windows of her room to the grassy hills and rocky outcrops she had nearly died for. Time had begun to dull the pain of her injuries, but her recollection of them had yet to tarnish, touching the far corners of her mind until she couldn't sleep at night. Her nightmares kept her up, and although she refused to admit it to herself, Éomer had begun to notice. His anger had turned into concern, altering the expression on his face until she could barely stand to look at him. She had grown accustomed to his indifference, prepared to see the same look every single time their eyes happened to meet, but this look bothered her more than any of the others. He cared about her and she felt entirely undeserving of it. His attentiveness had done nothing but heighten her guilt, and although they had agreed to get to know one another, she didn't have the energy to try.
Avoiding him felt like a safer option. Edoras had its fair share of hiding spots, but Éomer had discovered all of them long before she had, seeking her out every time she thought she had managed to evade him. His bright head of hair would alert her to his presence, and before he could speak to her, she would slip through his fingers, shutting herself away before he could approach her. He had always been a patient man, but she had worn his patience thin. Her attempts at evasion had come to an end. She had learned in passing that they were to ride together the following morning, and the very idea of it was enough to ignite a fire within her, one that refused to die. She didn't like having decisions made for her, she despised being told what to do, and she hated being left in the dark. She would have forgiven such a transgression if it weren't for the emotions swirling around within her, but she was too far gone to see reason. Before she could talk herself out of it, she was already halfway to his study, striding down the halls with a renewed sense of vigor. Everyone she encountered fled in the wake of it, pressing themselves against the walls just to get out of her way. They had never seen her so agitated before, watching in awe as she glided down the halls in a blind fury, navigating every twist and turn without giving it much thought. Her nightgown trailed behind her like a thundercloud, rolling down the hall in search of someone to rain on. The downpour began as soon as she had found him, flowing from her lips as freely as water.
"I understand that I am to go riding with you tomorrow," she said angrily, shutting the door behind her. "I dislike being the last to know."
"I am sorry for the falsehood, but it was necessary."
"Nothing is ever truly necessary."
"You wouldn't have left your chambers otherwise," he countered, rising from his desk. "I am worried about you."
"I am fine. I escaped that man and I survived to tell the tale."
"Yet you dream of him," he replied, making his way towards her. "That much is plain to see."
Lothíriel clenched her fists, struggling to keep her emotions at bay. Honesty had never been a strong suit of hers, especially when it came to matters of the heart, and she was afraid of letting her guard down in front of him. He would have claimed otherwise, but she continued to feel as though they were at war with another.
"They are just dreams," she choked, gripping her nightgown until her knuckles had turned white.
"I share the same ones, so I know that they are not."
"How would you know?"
"I recognize the look in your eyes. I have seen my fair share of bloodshed, and many men have died upon my sword. Although they are gone, they live on in me. That is the price of war. No one wins," he said, holding her gaze.
She stood there defiantly, refusing to break eye contact with him. He didn't smile this time, nor did he back down. The flames had returned, rising up from within him almost instantly, growing larger and larger with each passing second. She had feared the sight of it once, but this time, it was different.
"You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met," he said, standing close enough to touch her. "I know you'll fight me every single day, but I am prepared to let you win. If that's what it'll take to keep you in my life, I'll gladly do it. I can't lose you, Lothíriel. No victory is worth such a cost, and I am not strong enough to bear it."
Once the tears had begun to fall, she couldn't get them to stop. Her breath left her mouth in ragged gasps and her body began to shake violently, releasing an onslaught of emotion she had suppressed for weeks. He grabbed hold of her, pulling her into his arms before she could collapse, keeping her upright so she wouldn't fall to the floor. He had called her a fool once, and he had been right. In her desperation to be seen, she had assumed that Éomer would be just another hurdle for her to overcome, jumping to conclusions in fear of being treated with complete disregard. She had spent so much of her life relying on herself, watching her family participate in battles at a frequency she had grown to fear. They had left her one by one, fighting for freedom while she had been left to fight for her own liberation, trapped within the confines of convention, social etiquette, and the duties surrounding her own sex. They had been given swords to wield and she had been handed a sewing needle. All attempts to include her in things that had been perceived as endearing stopped the moment she could no longer be called a child. She'd watch their lives unfold from the sidelines in envy, wishing that one day, she could ride off into the distance too, fighting for something that she had only ever read about in books. If she had been born a man, her life would have been different. Her aspirations had dwindled and her hopes of living that life had been extinguished like the coals in a dying fire. Their lessons in swordsmanship had turned into legend, something she would recollect every time her life felt out of her control. Even sewing needles could be turned into weapons, so she had done almost everything in her power to fight in her own way.
"I am so sorry," she said softly, burying her face in the crook of his neck. "I am sorry for everything."
"I am sorry for my part in it."
"What do we do now?"
"Lay down our arms," he replied, pulling away to look into her eyes. "I do not wish to fight anymore."
"I do not wish to fight anymore either."
He enveloped her entirely, surrounding her with strength until she felt strong enough to stand on her own two feet. With his forehead pressed against hers, she could feel his breath fanning out across her face, tickling her cheeks. Her tears had stopped, and for the first time in weeks, a sense of calm began to overtake her, spilling into her fiery feelings as slowly as a change in tide. The anger, irritation, and frustration that had made up the brunt of her personality since her arrival in Rohan had vanished. Her relief was palpable. When she looked into Éomer's eyes, it was as if she was seeing him for the first time. He was strong beneath her hands, firm and unyielding, but he looked at her like a man deprived of water, convinced that she could sustain him when nothing else could. He hadn't said a word to her, but she knew that he'd given her the power to unravel him, stripping him of his fortifications so she could see what lurked inside of them. A fire burned brightly within those walls of his, and it was the same fire she had seen from the bathtub several weeks beforehand. It was a fire made entirely of desire; a desire to know her, a desire to be known by her, and a desire to have her. His hold on her was gentle, but she could tell that he was holding himself back from her, struggling to keep the flames at bay. The smile that appeared on her mouth was brief, but it lingered long enough to be seen. His struggle was in vain. She had already begun to burn, glowing in the circle of his arms like a shooting star, one he had finally caught after many unsuccessful attempts. She leaned forward, running her thumb across his lower lip. His breath hitched, his grip on her tightened, and she pressed her lips against his own in retaliation, embracing the flames that burned within him.
Her kiss was gentle at first, but that quickly changed. She could sense another battle brewing, igniting the space between them like lightning, and she was determined to see it through to the very end. Her fingers slid down the length of his jaw and into his hair. His lips parted and she captured them again, tasting his heat, his passion, and his hunger for her all at once, bursting from within him like an explosion. To surrender was one thing, but surrendering to Éomer was another. He pulled away briefly to look at her face, searching her features for any sign of uncertainty, but there were none to be found. Her expression reinforced his resolve. He kissed her back, leading her across the room until her legs had collided with the desk in his study. The collision rattled ink bottles and disturbed stacks of paper he cared little for, and before it could become a problem, he reached out blindly, dumping it all onto the floor. The sound of shattered glass could be heard from down the hall, but it mattered very little to him. His hands had found the curve of her hips, pulling her up and over the lip of his desk, allowing her to take up as much space as she needed to.
The fabric of her nightgown had slid down her legs, tormenting him further, inviting him to touch her in places she had only ever explored herself. It had slipped off of her shoulders, exposing skin he had seen very briefly, skin as golden as the candlelight that flickered throughout the room. He dragged his hands down the length of each thigh as slowly as possible, savouring the sensation of her soft skin against his own, spreading her legs so that he stood between them. Her breath hitched, her lips parted, and she looked up at him through hooded eyes, sliding her fingers into his hair. She tugged at his roots and he pulled her against him, slipping his hands under her nightgown, over her hips, and into the curve of her spine. She could feel him pressing against her through the fabric of his pants. His mouth drowned out the sound that escaped from her lips, but his touch continued to extract them from her, and he devoured every single one. His kisses were sloppy yet thorough, the result of a desperation so intense, she had begun to feel as though she had done nothing but starve him in their short acquaintance. He traced the column of her neck with his tongue, pressing open-mouth kisses between her breasts and below her navel, pushing her nightgown aside until his lips grazed her sweet center. She squirmed beneath him, rattling the drawers with every twitch of her hips, tugging at his hair, his clothing, and his body, begging for something she didn't know the name to. She reached for his pants, pulling at the laces in desperation. He stopped his ministrations just to look at her, memorizing how her hair had spilled across the top of his desk like ink, forming a dark halo around her head. She was radiant.
"You will be the death of me," he said in a low voice, all too aware of how his pants had fallen to the floor. "Béma help me, Lothíriel."
"Éomer—"
He slipped into her mid-sentence, silencing the sentence that had formed inside of her mouth. His name turned into a high-pitched moan instead, ringing out into the room like the sound of a bell. She wrapped herself around him, looping her arms over his neck in an attempt to eliminate the space between them, hooking her heels together for good measure. Éomer's response was immediate. His teeth grazed her neck, his lips brushed against her skin, and his voice caressed the shell of her ear as softly as a kiss, eliciting sounds from her mouth that she had never made before. His whisperers fuelled the fire within her, and the more he told her, the more she burned beneath him, rolling her hips against his own in a rhythm she seemed to instinctively know. The desk began to shake, skidding across the hardwood floor in tandem with his thrusts. Her legs started to shake along with it, imbued with a sensation that had begun to torment her from the inside out, rising from within her like a tidal wave. She wanted nothing more than to topple off the top of it, and he wanted nothing more than to see to it himself. He quickened his pace, slipping his arms under her knees until she began to tighten around him. His name escaped her lips again and again, culminating in a sound that pushed him to his limit. Her eyes snapped shut, her breathing faltered, and she rode the wave within her to completion, toppling over its edge. He followed suit without a second thought, releasing a moan that sounded exactly like her name.
Their battlefield was a sight to behold. The desk had migrated a third of the way across the room, dragging sheets of paper along with it. Marks had been made in the hardwood floor, evidence that the desk had been moved with substantial force, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Ink had been spilled, ledgers had been damaged, and glass decorated the floor like far-flung stars, glittering in the candlelight with an innocence that felt entirely out of place. Éomer had collapsed onto Lothíriel, propping himself up just to look at her. Her nightgown was draped loosely around her waist, her breasts were bare, and her legs framed him in, pinning him against the desk. He was too distracted to notice that his pants were still wrapped around his ankles or that his shirt had been pried off of him. The sight of her had rendered him incapable of logical thought.
"Will you come riding with me tomorrow?" he asked, struggling to catch his breath.
"Yes," she replied after a moment, brushing a stray piece of hair from his face. "I am fond of my own company, but I will tolerate yours since you asked so nicely."
He laughed out loud, pressing a kiss into the corner of her mouth. It was the first time she had ever heard that sound come from him, and it was like music to her ears.