The sun had set beyond the mountains at last. The entire valley was covered in darkness, only a few remnants of a once bright blue and sunny sky visible on the far horizon to the west. Now it was finally time for the moon and the stars – and the bonfires.
As soon as the last rays of the sun retreated from the never-melting snow that covered the mountain summits, all of the innumerable bonfires that had been prepared the day before were lit at once, prompting cheers and claps from the excited crowd. It was Midsummer's Eve – the longest day of the year; a day when the darkness of the night had no power in the world of the living. The Rohirrim celebrated this day by dismissing the dark altogether; sources of light could be found everywhere one looked, from bonfires as high as two people standing on top of each other all the way to small lanterns prepared by local children and hung about wherever there was a spot that was not yet illuminated by the soft red glow. No one would sleep that night, Uffe had explained – this way, the Rohirrim guarded their families, dwellings and livelihoods from the dark powers that might think to claim them as their own, and showed them Men were the true masters of this place. Lothíriel wondered whether tonight was especially significant, being the first such celebration since a great evil had been banished from these lands, not only in folk superstition but in the still very tangible reality.
She walked through the buzz of the people in the direction of the Golden Hall. Not only were the squares and alleyways outside crowded, Meduseld itself was filled to the brim with people, tables full of food, casks of ale and the ever-present sound of music and laughter. The doors on all sides of the great building were wide open and people were filtering in and out of the firelit hall, the sounds of the feast following them out onto the big open square in front and the numerous alleys leading away from it.
While the bonfires – the highlight of the night – were only just lit, the feast itself had begun some hours ago. Although she was really looking forward to Midsummer's Eve, one of her favorites even in Gondor, Lothíriel got so caught up in her work she completely forgot about the ongoing celebrations and was lucky she even made it in time for the lighting of the fires.
When she entered the crowd of people packed inside Meduseld, she wondered whether she wasn't a tad overdressed; she had taken only one nice dress with her when she left Dol Amroth, and she realized she had never had an opportunity to wear it during her time in Minas Tirith. Now seemed a good a time as any to finally put the dark blue embroidered gown on again after so many years of disuse, but looking around the hall filled with people wearing mostly different shades of brown and green, she felt maybe something a little less extravagant would have been a better choice. However, Lothíriel had already spent so much time getting ready she instantly dismissed the idea to make another trip to her chamber to change.
She noticed the other healers sitting halfway across the room from her. As she made her way towards them, her eyes inadvertently wandered in the direction of the elevated dais where the King was sitting with his sister and some members of the Rohirric royalty.
And then her eyes met his.
To her surprise, Lothíriel found the King already looking at her, right at her with those piercing brown eyes. How long has he been watching me? For a while she stood frozen on the spot, unable to tear her gaze away. It felt as though they were back in front of the stables that day of their unexpected summer outing, when the young king had held her hand and placed his warm lips ever so gently on her knuckles. All she remembered from that moment was the intense heat she felt spreading in her stomach and those deep brown eyes looking at her unwaveringly. Lothíriel tried to deny it at first, but she knew that look very well – longing and desire. She was sure her own eyes mirrored those emotions exactly.
A few days later, the memory started to grow dimmer and dimmer and she found herself wondering whether she hadn't just been imagining it all. But now, here he was again, his eyes following her even in this huge crowd of people.
And then, the King bowed his head slightly in greeting. The spell was broken; Lothíriel was finally able to snap out of her hypnotic state and tear her eyes away from him. She immediately regained her composure, bowed back in reply and continued her way to the other healers. With a deep breath she sat down next to Torhild and the others and immediately took a big gulp of the ale that was laid in front of her.
"Gōd ēfen," she greeted everyone and hoped that would be the end of Rohirric conversation for the night.
Torhild had already opened her mouth to say something, but Lothíriel was mercifully spared by Uffe who emerged from the crowd and took the empty seat next to her. "Good evening, Méav," he greeted her and raised his mug towards the other women at the table in lieu of a greeting. "You look... different tonight."
Lothíriel raised her eyebrows at the remark. "I will take it as a compliment," she said with a friendly smile, but making sure the tiniest bit of offense was audible in her voice.
"By all means," Uffe replied with a grin. "I think this might be the first time I have seen you clad in something other than healer's garb or riding clothes." Instantly realizing his remarks might not have come across as especially well-meant, he quickly added: "What I mean is that the dress compliments you very well – you should wear it more often."
"Can you imagine a healer walking around like this on a normal day?" she snorted. "Even now I feel a little overdressed," Lothíriel admitted, pointing to the people around her.
Uffe's remarks made her remember that in spite of her general distaste for life at court, there actually was a part of her life as a princess that she missed – the beautiful dresses, elaborately woven hairstyles, balls and dances whenever she wanted... and the inevitable attention of men. Admittedly a very superficial aspect to her royal life, but when she was dancing in the arms of a handsome lord wearing the finest silky dress money could buy, it had been one of the rare occasions when she counted herself lucky to be born the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth. Tonight, I could almost pass for a princess, Lothíriel thought nostalgically.
"Oh, a beautiful woman can never be too overdressed," Uffe proclaimed with a confident smirk on his lips.
Before Lothíriel had a chance to tell him how silly he was being, a sudden silence fell on the entire hall. She looked around and saw that the King had stood up, ready to give his long-awaited speech.
"I will translate for you," Uffe whispered in her ear.
Lothíriel nodded gratefully and looked back at the King. Even though he was dressed very simply in a green tunic with a gold-embroidered sun on his chest, she knew he could never be mistaken for a common man. He seemed so majestic to her, standing there in front of the expectant crowd.
"Mīn brōðr and swuster, tōdæg wē sind gegaderod tō hālgan līf, lēoht, and nīwe hīope, swā wē dōn ēall gear." "My brothers and sisters, today we are gathered to celebrate life, light and new hope, as we do every year."
"Ac þis gēar is speciel – se hīefedōm of Mordor hæfþ endebyrdnesse and wē mægð lēfan frēo eft." "But this year is special – the hideous darkness of Mordor has at last been defeated and we can live free once again."
At this, the silent room suddenly erupted in loud cheers, clapping and laughter. When the commotion in the hall finally subsided, the King continued: "Nū lātað wē ūser coppa āhebban, hīe ācwiellan and fyllan hīe eft mid ealu." "Now let us raise our cups, empty them and fill them again with ale."
"Letaþ wē ālīefan ūser, mīn frēondas, forþan þe wīg is forþfaren and blīeht fēorweard lēoht on ūser!" "Let us enjoy ourselves, my friends, for the war is over and a bright future lies ahead of us!"
The room came to life for a second time as people began to clink their cups all around the wide hall. "Gōd hælo!" the King managed to shout out with a laugh before his voice was completely swallowed by the roar of the enthusiastic crowd.
"Cheers," Uffe translated the last words patiently and raised his cup towards Lothíriel.
"That's probably the only part I understood myself," she laughed and reciprocated his gesture by clinking Uffe's cup and draining its contents.
The Rohirric ale was truly strong – Lothíriel could feel her cheeks heat up already after just the few sips she had taken so far. It had always been said in Gondor that the wine from Dol Amroth was one of the best in the entire country, due to its favorable location by the sea and its sun-filled vineyards stretching along the coast of the Bay of Belfalas. Lothíriel suddenly missed its sweet earthy flavor that couldn't be more different from the liquor she was drinking now. In spite of this, she reached for the jug of the strong ale on the table to refill her cup again – she already felt herself relax, and after all, that is what she needed tonight.
The evening turned out to be a lot more fun than Lothíriel expected. After two more cups were drained, she felt more carefree than she had in years. She was reminded of the rare happy moments she had spent in her castle as handsome men started to approach their table, asking her and the other women for a dance. She spent what seemed like hours in their arms, dancing the night away, laughing and chatting with Uffe and even with Eydis in what seemed to her pretty decent Rohirric considering she could barely put together a few sentences while sober.
She had almost completely forgotten about the man sitting at the head table, watching her closely.
ooOOoo
"Isn't that so, Éomer-King?"
Éomer was suddenly pulled back from his thoughts and looked at the man next to him. He vaguely remembered Elfhelm begin to tell some anecdote or other from the time they fought the battle at Helm's Deep, but he had lost trail of his words at some point. The whole group of men sitting to his right was looking at him with expectant smiles on their faces.
"Yes, yes, very much so," he replied, hoping his absent-mindedness hadn't been noted. Seeing the entire group erupt into fits of laughter at his reply, however, he thought he covered it up rather well.
Éomer took a sip of his ale and turned his eyes back to where they were pulled from before, watching the dark silky hair in a sea of blonde twirl around as its owner danced and danced, with seemingly unlimited energy.
"She looks very pretty tonight, doesn't she?" his sister asked him with a knowing smile.
"I suppose so," he replied with a shrug.
"You suppose so? You can't take your eyes off her ever since she entered the hall."
Éomer chose to ignore his sister and instead continued to watch the crowd in silence. Méav really did look stunning that night, he had to admit. He had always known she was pretty, but tonight, she truly surprised him – she looked like she didn't even belong down there with the rest of the people. If she was sitting by his side at the grand table on the elevated dais, she would fit right in next to all the other nobles of the Mark.
The cheerful quick song that echoed through the hall until now abruptly stopped and was immediately followed by another, calmer tune.
"Would you look at that?" Éomer groaned displeasedly in the direction of his sister. "He hasn't even let go of her and now they're dancing again!"
"I assume we are still talking about Uffe and Méav, correct?" Éowyn asked with a bemused expression on her face, failing to suppress a chuckle.
Éomer only grunted in reply. He had been watching her the entire night; watching as she danced, drank and laughed with other men. Except for a few quick glances, she barely even looked at him since they exchanged the brief greeting at the beginning of the evening.
"Why don't you ask her for a dance?" Éowyn suggested, as if she was reading his mind. "You can't very well expect her to come here and do it for you, Éomer."
He looked up at his sister, wondering how she managed to know so much about him without the need for words. "You know me too well, Éowyn," he admitted, drowned the rest of the ale in his cup and stood up. Emboldened by the strong liquor, he crossed the room and walked over to the couple who had just finished dancing and finally seemed to stop and rest for a while.
"Good evening, Uffe," he greeted the young man cordially. "Would you mind if I borrowed your dance partner?"
"By all means, my King," Uffe replied with a hint of surprise on his features, turned to Méav and bowed his head to her before he left them in the middle of the dance floor.
"That is, if you will have me, Méav," Éomer said and reached out his hand to the young woman in front of him.
ooOOoo
Oh my.
Did she actually manage to forget all about him this evening? The several cupfuls of ale she had helped herself to, combined with the constant twirling and jumping on the dance floor, must have had the desired effect – she lost track of time (and the amount of ale consumed) and for the first time in years she enjoyed herself superbly, letting go of all the troubling thoughts that had made it a habit to follow her around, including him.
But now, he interrupted her peace of mind again, with an outreached hand and a rare irresistible smile on his face. All she could bring herself to do was nod and take the offered hand. The tune that began to play was melancholy and slow, and after they started to sway back and forth in its rhythm, Lothíriel felt him pull her closer. Or was she the one who leaned on him? She realized she really was quite drunk, and without him leading her through the dance moves so firmly, she would probably be sprawled on the floor already.
There were too many new sensations for her intoxicated mind to keep track of, and for a while all she could hear was the blood rushing past her ears to her cheeks, which felt as hot as burning coals. It was overwhelming at first, but soon the calm regularity of the rhythm soothed her and she found herself enjoying the touch of his warm palm against the small of her back, his beard gently stroking her right temple every time his feet moved on the ground.
Inevitably and to Lothíriel's dismay, the calm music had ceased to play and was followed by a lively quick tune – a signal for the couples on the dance floor to split up and form two rows of men and women in order to commence the traditional folk dance.
"Let's get some fresh air," the King whispered in her ear and whisked her away by the hand before she even realized what was happening.
As soon as they exited through the open doors on the side of the great hall and entered the wide terrace overlooking the White Mountains, Lothíriel could feel a welcome whiff of fresh air on her face. Although the summers in Rohan could generally get very hot, the nearby mountains provided a very refreshing late-night chill. However, this meant that the two of them were not the only people who thought of taking a break from the stuffy hall and taking a stroll outside, arm in arm – the terrace was full of people walking about in conversation and of couples in various stages of drunkenness, exchanging affectionate glances and giddy kisses under the relative darkness of the night.
To her dismay, Lothíriel caught a creeping sense of disappointment on her mind upon seeing the crowd of people around them. It's a good thing, you fool! The last thing you should want is to be alone with him, she reminded herself.
But what if you want it really badly…? she heard another Lothíriel chirp inside her mind. Horrified, she realized this must have been what all those raving mad people stashed away in the basement of the Houses of Healing felt like. For a split second, she wondered whether she also spoke her thoughts aloud just like they often did, but the King showed no signs of being weirded out and simply continued walking along the terrace. Thank the Valar. Drunk Lothíriel was too honest for her own good.
They walked on in silence; a rather uncomfortable one once Lothíriel stopped paying heed to the conflicting voices inside her head. Following the outline of the terrace that surrounded all of Meduseld, they turned a corner and surprisingly came upon a spot that was almost vacant, except for a couple chattering on the opposite side, far enough not to recognize their King. Here he let go of her, leaned on the broad wooden railing and watched the silhouettes of the White mountains illuminated by the moon in the distance.
Lothíriel realized she must break the seemingly never-ending silence first, before he had a chance to say or do something her sluggish mind could not handle appropriately. She gripped the railing to stop the mountains in front of her from spinning and resorted to the most mundane topic she could think of.
"Can you hear it, your grace?"
"Hear what?" he asked, looking up at her for the first time since they left the warmth of the hall.
"The wind."
"What about the wind?"
"The sound of it as it blows through the dry grass," she explained. "It reminds me of the sound of the waves in the sea on a calm summer evening just like this one, back home."
He turned to face her fully with a look of complete confusion on his face. Apparently, the King of the Riddermark had never made small talk with a Gondorian lady before.
"Do they?" he raised his eyebrows. "Well, perhaps one day the waves in Dol Amroth will remind you of the sound of the wind in the Mark," he mockingly reiterated her own words.
"Perhaps they will, your grace," Lothíriel smiled, actually impressed by his quick reaction. Perhaps this northern savage, as he was affectionately referred to among some of Gondor's finest, wouldn't be entirely lost at court in Minas Tirith after all.
"I do hope however that the Mark will not turn into a mere memory for you just yet," he said, this time seemingly in earnest.
Lothíriel had to break off the intense eye contact before she could continue: "Oh, I'm not nearly finished with my work, your grace. You will have to bear with me for a while longer I'm afraid," she blabbered tipsily and chuckled at her own attempt at humor.
"It's only ever been a pleasure, Méav."
"Oh really?" Lothíriel smirked and looked at him doubtfully, completely forgetting that this was probably not the most appropriate way to speak to a King.
He didn't seem to mind, though, as he softly chuckled and said: "Well, recently, anyway."
A hearty laughter erupted close by and broke the relative quiet of that tucked-away corner of the large building. They both turned to see where the loud noise was coming from, and saw the couple that had been standing some distance away from them clutching their bellies and giggling as they made their way past them and then back into the roar of the Golden hall, not awarding them even a passing glance. As soon as they disappeared beyond the large wooden doors, King Éomer turned back to Lothíriel.
"So, what happens when you are finished?" he inquired.
Lothíriel bit her lip and contemplated the question. "Well, to be honest, I haven't really given it much of a thought yet, your grace."
"Would you want to return to Minas Tirith?"
"I suppose it is the only feasible option, really," she nodded, although standing there next to him in the moonlight, she wished for nothing more than to not have to think about leaving just yet.
"What about going back home though, to the south? You speak of it rather fondly."
What is it with this intense questioning? Lothíriel suddenly felt like she was being suspected of some unspoken crime; perhaps the crime of keeping her secrets her own.
"It is mostly just the sea and the wine that I think fondly of, your grace," she joked, but she feared he knew her smile wasn't genuine anymore. "Besides, you know I have my reasons for not going back there."
She hoped this small confession would be enough to satisfy his curiosity, but he still pressed on: "Surely your family would welcome their daughter back after all this time?"
"It is a bit more complicated than that I'm afraid," she said, more harshly than she had intended.
"You're without a doubt not the only girl in Dol Amroth who ran away from an arranged marriage, Méav. I'm sure your family wouldn't hold a grudge against you after all these years."
Lothíriel couldn't believe her ears. Had she really misconstrued all the signs? Had she just let herself be swept by her own emotions, projected her own desires where there were none? This man spoke as if he couldn't wait for her to leave his country and go back where she came from. She had to blink fast to prevent the sudden tears that started forming in her eyes from being discovered.
As soon as she knew her voice would not break, she turned back to him and said: "My family's willingness to take me back aside, your grace, I will take care of myself. In Minas Tirith, Dol Amroth or elsewhere. You may rest assured I will not overstay my welcome in your country."
He eyed her dumbstruck. "Méav, you know you are welcome to stay here for as long as you like," he said after a few moments of utter silence.
Another sarcastic and much less whimsical "oh, really?" almost slipped from her tongue, just before she bit it and took a deep breath to gulp it down. Maybe she should have let the whole thing go at that point and excused herself, drowning her disappointment in a few more cups of ale and regretting it all the more the next morning. But now, drunk Lothíriel had assumed full control over her words.
"I know it was your lady sister who wished me to come here, not you, your grace. My assignment was to pass our knowledge to your healers, and once that is done, my services here will no longer be required."
"But that's not-"
"Really, your grace, I understand," she said with a reassuring, faked half-smile.
"Do you understand?" His eyebrows contracted and his tone changed from kind to rather harsh all of a sudden. "If I told you right now that I want you to leave this country as soon as your work is done, you wouldn't mind at all?"
"If that is your decision, your grace, then I would do as you command."
The King let out a deep sigh and rubbed his brow, annoyance clear on his features. Suddenly he took two steps closer to Lothíriel, more than she felt comfortable with. For a second she felt her head start to spin again and heard a strong pounding of her heart through the blood circulating in her head, but she suppressed the faintness, supported herself on the railing and didn't budge. She had a feeling about where this conversation was headed, and stepping back to her comfort zone would only betray her weakness. This was not a fight she could afford to lose, she knew.
"See, I don't believe you," he said quietly, shaking his head. "I don't care for your rehearsed phrases and empty replies anymore, Méav."
What?
"I was taught that's how one spoke when addressing a King, your Majesty," Lothíriel said through clenched teeth. She pretended to be offended, but deep down she was as scared as a lamb circled by a hungry wolf. He seemed to have moved even closer now; she could see his blood-shot eyes and perceive the faint smell of ale around him, but she wasn't scared of his nearness. What scared her more were the words that had remained unspoken for so long, contained in seemingly innocent questions and meaningful glances, but always permitting hope that she was only making everything up in her head. Yet now, she knew for sure – he could see right through her; every word, every glance, every lie. Was she really not that good at pretending to be someone, something, else? Or was he simply the first one who bothered to look beyond the healer's mask?
"You're not such a master pretender as you think you are, Méav," he shook his head, his face grave despite his drunken state.
Lothíriel felt her breath tremble before she steadied herself and looked him square in the eyes. "What do you want from me?"
If the directness of the question surprised him, he never let it show. "I want you to be honest for once. To be yourself."
"You want the truth?"
He nodded.
Silence hung between them for a moment, before Lothíriel decided to take his advice and be sincere, first and foremost to herself, possibly for the first time since she had abandoned her royal self for good.
She closed the small gap remaining between them and kissed him.
Or at least she tried to, only he was too tall and her lips couldn't reach so far up. Lothíriel froze in horror for a split second just inches from his face, but before gut-wrenching embarrassment had a chance to set in, the King leaned in and pressed his lips gently against hers.
Lothíriel felt a deep warmth spill inside her stomach, her heart pounding excitedly in her chest. She was dizzy again, just like she had been on the dance floor when he took her in his arms for the first time. The smell of ale on his breath, the faint whiff of smoked bacon and trout, the soft graze of his beard on her chin as his lips and tongue moved over hers in a slow rhythm; the sensations were overwhelming. She felt like the firm palm pushing her toward him could burn a hole in the small of her back.
BANG!
Lothíriel let out a yelp and jumped what felt like ten feet in the air. The loud noise was like a splash of freezing cold water in her face, piercing and sudden. Her heart thudded loudly in her throat, so intense she thought it would jump from her chest and she would soon throw it up on the floor.
"Eeeey, there you are, Éomer!" a jovial man shouted as he spotted the King in the corner of the terrace. A whole drunken group scuttled toward them, laughing and spilling their mugs with each step.
"Éothain," the King laughed at his second-in-command with a surprisingly calm voice, as if the unexpected interruption left him totally unshaken.
The same could not be said of Lothíriel. Her heart refused to cease pounding and the dizziness she felt before only increased. She realized it wasn't the excitement of the kiss that made her feel that way – it had been the ale she had drunk all along. The faces of the approaching men were a blur to her.
"We thought you have already passed out from the ale somewhere in a pig stall," another faceless blurry man chimed in, followed by an eruption of raucous laughter and distinct clinking of mug against mug.
Shit.
Lothíriel's insides turned upside down and she felt a familiar contraction in her throat, salty saliva gathering on her tongue. There was no helping it now – she gripped the wooden railing and threw up the contents of her poisoned stomach into the street below. "Méav!" someone had called out and stroked a gentle hand across her back. After a few heaves she was done, coughing and spitting the disgusting remnants out of her mouth. She wiped her lips with her sleeve, took a few strained breaths to fill up her lungs with air again, and turned around. Everyone was watching her in stunned silence.
"Méav, are you alright?" the King looked at her worriedly.
She couldn't bear to look him in the eyes anymore. The combination of intoxication and public humiliation had been enough to almost make her swoon, but she knew that would only make things worse. She kept her eyes fixated on the ground and said: "I'll be fine, your grace, I just need to go lie down."
"I'll walk you to your room."
"No, no, please don't," her voice broke and turned into a weird squeak. She felt a sour aftertaste on her tongue. "I can manage on my own."
Before he could protest again, Lothíriel stumbled through the group of men that came up on them and made her way toward the healers' chambers. She didn't even know how she got there in the end; next thing she knew she was taking her dress off hastily and jumping into bed, hoping for swift sleep to take her. Her head was still spinning after she had laid it on the straw pillow, until a sweet dreamless nothing enveloped her at last.