The wet wooden deck felt slippery underfoot, and worst of all, it was almost completely invisible in the omnipresent dark. She could feel heavy raindrops stinging her skin like a thousand tiny needles, made all the more painful by strong gusts of wind coming from… coming from where? She didn't recognize south from north, east from west, or even the stern from the bow. She knew she was trying to run, but couldn't remember where, or from what. The cacophony all around her - the wheezing wind, thunder and lightning, enormous waves crashing against the creaking wooden hull of the ship - made it impossible to concentrate and think.
The vessel was rocking so violently she had to get down on all fours and fumbled for something to hold onto before she was washed away to the roaring sea below. Her heart was pounding so hard that the sound of it in her ears almost drowned out all the rest. In all the confusion and obliviousness to the events surrounding her, she knew that she was fighting to survive. But survive what? Fighting what…?
With the sound of a whip echoing through the night, the sky was suddenly pierced by an enormous lightning the like of which Lothíriel had never witnessed before. It spread its venous web as far as the eye could see, from horizon to horizon, pumping bright light into the darkness as if prompted by an invisible heartbeat of the storm, cutting it into a million pieces. In that moment, Lothíriel finally saw the ship she had been crawling on; the casks flying across the moving hull, the strings of rope scattered about, and the mast she had almost crashed into. She grabbed the wet wood in front of her and pulled herself up, burying her nails into the softened surface. Strangely, the lightning wasn't fading away and kept illuminating the night like a never-ending star constellation. She looked around and suddenly noticed a figure standing by the railing not ten feet away from her. It was a man, dripping wet and with his clothes flapping about him fiercely, yet he seemed to be standing firmly on the deck, without so much as swaying back and forth.
Lothíriel barely had time to notice that the mysterious ship stopped rocking under her own feet, too, before the man spoke. At first, she didn't understand him, but it seemed as if his voice was carried toward her on the gusts of wind.
"… éav. Méav. Méav."
Lothíriel froze. She recognized the voice; she would recognize it anywhere, even after all this time. Suddenly he stood in front of her, and Lothíriel wanted to cry, and scream, and kick and run all at the same time, yet her body wouldn't move, and her voice was lost.
"That is not the name I have given you," he rasped closely in her ear. Her muscles contracted in a desperate attempt to dart away, but there was nowhere to go; the wild sea was still roaring all around the now strangely still an unmoving vessel. "You are Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth. You are Lothíriel, and there isn't a place in this world where you can be someone else. You are not Méav. You can never be Méav, Méav, Mé-"
"-av! Méav!"
Lothíriel flinched at the sudden touch and her eyes shot open. For a second, she thought she was still looking at her father, but the mists of dream quickly cleared and she realized it was Torhild looking down at her and shaking her awake. She could still feel her heart racing in her chest and found she had broken quite a sweat. It was just a dream, she thought, relieved, yet she still couldn't shake that terrible feeling of fear and helplessness.
Torhild pointed to the book laid open on the desk in front of her. "Þis sceolde hæfde beon gegearwod for to morgen." This should have been prepared for tomorrow.
Lothíriel looked down at the desk she had fallen asleep on, and sure enough – The Art of Mixing Herbal Tinctures had served as her cushion. Shit. She had promised to make one last quick copy out of it and bring it to Meduseld, where it would be added to the other cartloads of things that would make their way to Minas Tirith together with the King and his party. No one knew how often visits of this scale would take place between Rohan and Gondor, which is why Lothíriel had been tasked by the Warden of the Houses of Healing in a letter that had arrived a few days ago to dispatch as many volumes back to the Gondorian capital as possible, provided they had already been sufficiently copied and consulted.
"Crap," Lothíriel cursed and stood up, wiping off a bit of drool that ran down the corner of her mouth.
She thanked Torhild for waking her up, closed the volume hastily and stuck it under her arm as she scuttled out of the small library, Torhild mumbling and shaking her head as she passed by her. Thankfully, the important parts had already been copied long ago; the last thing Lothíriel insisted on taking down was a short prologue written by the author of The Art of Mixing Herbal Tinctures during the Great Plague, which she found fascinating, yet she had to admit she had read it so many times she could probably recite it by heart at that point. If she had known she would fall asleep and therefore take much longer than the hour or two in the afternoon that she had estimated, she would have just given it up altogether.
When she arrived at the entrance of the healing quarters and opened the wooden doors to go out, she felt a splash of water on her face and saw a persistent wall of raindrops in front of her. It was pouring hard. You could have written it down from memory, but you just had to insist on copying the damn prologue, didn't you? Lothíriel mentally cursed herself. She turned around and hurried to her chamber to grab a cloak and something to cover the volume with. Eydis was already sound asleep when she entered. Is it really that late? She put on the thickest cloak she could find in the semi-darkness, wrapped the book several times in a blanket and lighted a small glass lantern she kept on her bedside table.
Lothíriel hesitated a while before the open doors again, but there was no helping it – judging by the proximity of the thunder ripping through the night air, the storm was not about to give out anytime soon. She lowered the hood over her head, grabbed the book firmly underneath her cloak and darted outside into the pouring rain. The candle in her small lantern gave out at the first gust of wind mere feet away from the safety of the healing quarters, but Lothíriel couldn't complain about darkness. The sky was pierced by enormous webs of lightning more often than not, and she could distinguish the faint light coming from Meduseld's windows up the road as soon as she turned left onto the wide market street, now deserted.
As she struggled through the mud and puddles, it suddenly all came back to her – the nightmare of the rocking ship and her father standing so close she could almost feel his breath on her ear. Lothíriel shuddered at the vivid images reignited in her memory.
You are Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth. You are Lothíriel, and there isn't a place in this world where you can be someone else.
But that wasn't true, she assured herself. She had left Lothíriel behind hundreds of miles away, down south in the castle by the sea, and her father with her. He had no influence over her in this faraway place, not as long as she remained Méav, the healer, and no one was the wiser. It sounded rationally, and yet she still didn't feel quite convinced.
After a few minutes of struggling through the rain she finally made it under the roof that covered Meduseld's entrance, although it didn't provide a lot of protection as the rain came pouring almost horizontally due to the strong wind. Lothíriel pitied the guards positioned at the door as they held it open for her. The warmth and calm of the hall was welcoming, compared to the tempest that was raging outside. Sure, the wind could still be heard howling through the windows and cracks in the wooden walls, and yet the inside was strangely cosy this late at night. The hall was almost empty save for a small group of men huddled by the fire in the middle, sharing a drink and talking, laughter interspersing their conversation here and there. Lothíriel approached them, hoping they could help her locate Lady Éowyn.
"I'd say Éowyn is already sound asleep," one of them answered, chuckling. Lothíriel turned to the man and felt her heartbeat quicken immediately.
"As should you be before such a long journey, my king," one of the others, Éothain, replied with a grin.
"Meh, I'd rather enjoy one last good old evening with my fellow Rohirs, before I have to act and talk like a puppet for the next few weeks, Gondor-style," the King japed, at which the group of men erupted in laughter again. "No offense, Méav," he added once they calmed down, not very apologetically.
"I can't say you are wrong, your grace", she had to admit. "I just need to add this last remaining volume to be taken to Minas Tirith tomorrow. If someone could just point me to where I can leave it…"
"Right," the King interrupted her and stood up, leaving his unfinished drink on the bench beside him. "I'll show you, come on."
"Oh, there's no need, I just need the direc-" Lothíriel tried to protest, but he was already strutting down the large hall ahead of her, turning a corner at one of the doors. She had to quickly scurry behind him to catch up.
He was leading her silently along one of the hallways to the back, towards a well-lit storage room full of different things piled up almost to the ceiling, it seemed to her. A handful of people were scurrying back and forth, packing everything into wooden chests, crates or different sized bags. They will be working the entire night to get all of this ready, she thought. When they saw them enter, they just gave a quick bow towards the King and continued in their labor, probably well aware they would need all the time they had if they wanted to get at least a couple of hours of sleep that night. "This is the remainder of the things that have to be prepared for tomorrow's journey, you can leave the book here," the King said.
Lothíriel nodded and carefully unwrapped the precious volume from the damp cloth. Thankfully, she had used enough layers to protect it from water damage. The same couldn't be said about herself, though – she quickly put the volume on one of the piles after she had noticed drops of water falling on it from her dripping hair. She took the cloth that the volume had been wrapped in and wiped her face with it.
"The storm is that bad, huh?" the King eyed her up and down as they left the servants to their work and closed the doors to the storage room, leaving only the dim light of several torches placed along the hallway. "It's quite a tempest, yes," Lothíriel nodded. "Hopefully the mud will not cause you too much trouble tomorrow, your grace."
"Oh, I'm sure it will," he chuckled.
An awkward silence descended upon them as they were walking along the hallway back towards the main hall. Strangely, even the King seemed uncomfortable, clearing his throat several times until the voices of his companions slowly grew more and more audible from behind the half-open doors. Lothíriel tried to convince herself it was best this way, the Gondorian way for a change – to simply forget anything that had ever happened, part ways for several weeks and once the King returned with his chosen bride, things would go back to normal again, as they should. You are Éomer, King of Rohan. You are Éomer-King, and there isn't a place in this world where you can be someone else. Her father's words echoed in her mind, more true about him than they were ever about her. It was the way of the world.
And yet, why did it feel so wrong to just let him go like this? Why was the thought of her father haunting her even now, in this faraway place?
Lothíriel stopped in her tracks, moments before they reached the large wooden door. She felt a sudden urge to do something, to say something…anything. The urge was so strong she made her mind up then and there. Fuck father. And fuck the way of the world. Just fuck it all.
"What's wrong?" he asked when he saw she had halted.
It's now or never, Lothíriel. She took a deep breath, looked him square in the eyes and said: "Is this how we will part ways tonight? After everything?"
He eyed her silently for a while. Lothíriel expected to feel shame, regret, even fright, and yet none of those emotions came; she had understood by now he had wanted her just as much as she had wanted him. There was no denying it. No matter what his response would be, that knowledge gave her a strange sense of calmness.
"You mean bidding you a good night and sending you back out into that horrible storm?" he grinned, then paused. "No, that is not how I want us to part ways tonight," he said more seriously, his gaze so piercing it almost hurt. She understood there were no more words needed; they would only make things more complicated. He finally looked away as he grabbed her hand, a touch strangely gentle despite the hard calluses on his palms. Their fingers intertwined naturally, as if they had done it a thousand times before. The King pressed his forehead against hers and pulled her close. Lothíriel enjoyed the sense of expectation, her heart beating in her chest like a drum.
Inevitably, their lips connected, a contact that sent a burst of sparks down her spine. She was dripping wet in a cool hallway, and yet she felt like a burning pile of embers. The feeling of freedom was overwhelming; she had finally allowed herself to be open and honest with herself and with him, something she hadn't done in what felt like eternity. Her life circumstances may have been making her miserable in countless ways ever since she could remember, but now she desperately wanted to feel happiness, fleeting as it was, at least for tonight.
Mirroring her own emotions, his kisses became more desperate and intense, his palms stroking her back and slowly venturing lower and lower. He let out a low growl as he burrowed his fingers into the softness of her buttocks, like a lion baring its fangs at its prey. Lothíriel felt like she was melting under his touch. It reminded her so much of that night on Midsummer's eve, the first time she let her infatuation for him show, her drunken self ignoring any inhibitions she might have otherwise felt. She smelled the same whiff of ale on his breath now, his beard had the same surprising softness she remembered.
And just like that night, the King's companions interrupted them yet again - a sudden burst of laughter coming from the main hall snapped them back to reality.
The King eyed her for a moment, then looked over at the door slightly ajar and hesitated, as if he was deciding what to do next. Before Lothíriel could say anything though, he whispered: "Come with me," and whisked her away by the hand, leaving the glowing light of the hall behind them. They made their way down the hallway in silence, and when they turned the corner, Lothíriel recognized the door to the King's study farther down. To her relief, there were no guards stationed there at this hour of the night. She was reminded of the time she burst in there the first time, complaining of being mistreated as a guest. It feels like a century ago.
The King opened the door for her and let her in first, his gaze following her every step. Inside, the fire was out and Lothíriel felt a sudden chill; she realized she was still wearing her soaking wet cape. She unbuttoned it underneath her chin and let it fall on the floor. Then she finally turned to meet the King's gaze again. She couldn't quite tell what he was thinking; the room was dark save for the lightning illuminating it at varying intervals through the windows. This cover of darkness made her feel emboldened somehow, as if she could finally drop the mask she had gotten accustomed to wearing these past years.
He didn't move, so she took a few steps towards him first. As soon as he had seen her approaching though, he closed the remaining distance between them and kissed her, deeply and desperately. "Méav…" he started to say something, but Lothíriel wasn't in the mood for words. She knew anything he could possibly say would only ruin the moment.
"Shut up," she said and leaned in for another kiss.
If he was surprised by her audacity, he never let it show. Uninterrupted, his lips moved down the curve of her neck, tracing its shape softly. His left hand was buried in her wet hair, his right pushing her towards him, not letting her budge.
Lothíriel instinctively grabbed at his tunic and began to pull it out from where it was tucked below his belt, caressing the muscles underneath with her fingers. The King suddenly stopped, but he didn't pull back entirely, his forehead still pressed against hers. Their lips parted only for a split second, but as Lothíriel leaned in to reach them again, the King suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders and stopped her.
"Méav, wait," he said, breathless and panting.
"What?"
He sighed. "We should talk."
"Why?" she asked, annoyed. What's the point of talking now?
He let out a disgruntled groan and let go of her. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath. "You must be cold. Let me start a fire." Then he bent down and pulled open one of his cabinets, rummaged through it and found a flint and a fire steel.
While he was doing all this, Lothíriel remained glued to where she was left, speechless. Is he for real? Slowly, her newly-found confidence and boldness began to dissipate and doubts started to circle in her mind. Did she just totally misjudge the situation? Were all her feelings unrequited? Did she just imagine things that weren't really there?
Surely, that can't be. He kissed me, more than once, and now he seemed more than eager to reciprocate my advances. And yet…
Sparks flew and soon a few flames emerged here and there from among the scattered tinder in the fireplace, illuminating the room in a soft orange glow. The King stood up to look at her, and even though she could finally see his face in the dim light, his expression was unreadable. Lothíriel infinitely preferred the darkness.
"I should go," she blurted out, determined to avoid conversation at all costs. She quickly bent down to grab her fallen cape and turned around to make for the door. Before she made it much farther though, he grabbed her wrist and made her turn back around.
"No. I'm growing tired of this game, Méav," he shook his head. "We will talk."
"What's the point?" Lothíriel asked, frustrated. "Your grace," she added, remembering her manners. She started to feel like this impossible infatuation was a gaping wound on her body, and instead of stitching it back up, he was just trying to drive his knife inside again and again.
"The point is to finally have an honest conversation. Don't you think it's about time?"
"I think it's the worst time. You are leaving tomorrow, your grace."
"I'm not leaving forever."
Lothíriel furrowed her eyebrows in disbelief. Was he really that blind to the whole situation? Or worse - did he mean to reconnect with her while betrothed to another? Lothíriel didn't want to know; it didn't matter. She let herself fall so stupidly for the worst possible man in the universe, and now she just wished she could disappear and, with time, forget about this folly. Maybe she would be able to do so once she returned back to Minas Tirith, a day she felt couldn't come fast enough.
No matter how much she wanted to wriggle free of his grasp and run out the door, it seemed she needed to tell him plainly, her insinuations obviously ineffective. "Everyone knows you will be returning to Edoras a man betrothed, your grace. Whatever this folly was, it best be forgotten and not spoken about anymore, for both our sakes. With all due respect," she added.
The King groaned frustratedly. "Dammit woman, can you drop your Gondorian act already? You've been in the Mark long enough!"
"It's not-"
"It is an act, don't try to make a fool out of me," he blurted out loudly. Lothíriel was taken aback by the harshness in his voice. He seemed to immediately regret his tone and next he spoke more softly, yet firmly, not leaving her any wiggle room out of this. "A moment ago you were willing to give yourself to me, and now you can't even tell me honestly how you feel?"
He eyed her silently, his gaze beckoning her to open up, like someone luring a scared lost puppy out of the hole it had crawled into so it can be saved. Suddenly, she remembered feeling this exact way in this exact room, by this exact fireplace, when he seemingly hypnotized her to admit the real reason she had left Dol Amroth.
Lothíriel closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath. She knew he was right; she was so full of confidence a few minutes ago when she threw herself at him in her despair to have him at least for a fleeting moment, and now that he was here, with her, and wanted to see not her body but her soul, she found it infinitely harder. Maybe the Gondorian way was wrong, maybe it couldn't hurt to open up for once and let her true heart show, the one and only time she got to be with him.
"I don't know that I've ever spoken honestly to anyone in my life," Lothíriel admitted, her gaze trailing to the flames dancing happily in the fireplace. She felt his grip on her arm loosen and he slid his hand down to hold hers instead. She had to take a deep breath to steady herself, as if she was about to plunge into the dark unknown waters of the sea.
"I'm a nobody, who stupidly let herself fall in love with a King, and now my heart breaks knowing that you will leave and come back with someone else who will call you her own. And even though I know it's silly and ridiculous, and that we are meant to be worlds apart, I thought…I thought tonight…" She had to blink back tears and tried to steady her voice before she could finish, but she didn't manage to keep it from quivering. She wanted to conclude her thought, but the sudden tidal wave of emotions took her by surprise, as if her true words finally spoken aloud burst a dam that she had been building for Valar know how long. The feeling of vulnerability was overwhelming; Lothíriel had never felt so exposed, so naked, despite all the layers enveloping her body.
She wasn't able to keep the tears from streaming down her cheeks anymore. Her hands instinctively shot up to cover her face, unable to show herself to him fully, even then. She felt him pull her close and wrap his arms around her, his breath warm in her hair.
"I wish things were different," he whispered in her ear once she had calmed down, and placed a fleeting kiss on her cheek. He looked down at her and gently wiped her tears with his calloused fingers. "The thought of picking a bride in Minas Tirith like I would pick a new horse at the market gives me no pleasure, believe me," he scoffed.
"I am sure it won't be quite so bleak," she tried to give him a reassuring smile, her lips contorting strangely despite her best efforts.
"You don't happen to be a lady or a princess by any chance?" he chuckled at his attempt to lighten the mood. It was a silly joke, she knew, but for a desperate moment she was tempted to confess everything.
Think rationally, Lothíriel. Your secret may not be received favorably.
"Unfortunately no," Lothíriel said, unable to lift her gaze from the floor, the lie so blatant it made her sick to her stomach. "I think it's time for me to go. I wish you safe travels tomorrow, your grace," she blurted out, waited a brief moment for a response, and when none came, she knew it was her cue to leave. She crossed the room retreating from the warm fire, dragging her wet cape behind her. The cold air coming from the hallway sent a shiver down her body when she opened the door. She was about to step outside into the dark, when she heard the King call out from behind her: "Wait!"
He crossed the room towards her and pushed the door shut again before Lothíriel could even turn around. "Stay," he whispered in her ear from behind. "If you still want to."
She felt the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up, reacting to the sensation of his warm breath on her skin. For a moment, she hesitated; she was ready to leave, her confidence faltering under the soft orange glow of the fire, unprotected by the merciful darkness. However, the decision had been made for her as soon as he wrapped his hands around her waist and started placing soft kisses on the nape of her neck. She yielded to him as easily as a wooden barge that is swept by the fierce waves of the ocean, unable to regain control – and she enjoyed every minute of it.
That night, there were no kings, no princesses and no healers in that room; only Lothíriel and Éomer, and that was all that mattered.