Tolkien Fan Fiction
| 12 |
| Chapter Twelve |
| His thoughts were raging in his mind. ‘No one rides my damn horse. He won’t let anyone else ride him. By Béma, she won’t be able to control him. She’ll kill herself.’ Elflight was a superb second horse. He often kept the two close to his lodgings in case he needed an urgent ride from the city, but none matched Firefoot for speed. He had Mearas blood in him. Of course, Éomer was the better horseman, but he was heavier and on a slower horse. She was well out of the city and galloping over the Pelennor by the time he came close to her. She was whooping with joy at the rush of the ride. He whistled commands to his horse and steered him towards Harlond. Fortunately, it was almost full moon and a clear night. He could see she was so exhilarated by the freedom of the ride that she did not care where they went. As he slowed their pace to a canter, she drew Firefoot close to him and turned in the saddle so she was riding backwards. He made a grab for Firefoot’s loose reins and brought both horses to a walk. Éomer allowed himself to regain his breath and calm the horses down. With no warning Lothíriel leapt in between his arms on to his horse, straddling him face to face. Éomer abruptly brought both horses to a halt. ‘Lothíriel, get back on my horse,’ he commanded her. ‘But I am on your horse, Sire,’ she replied saucily. She was unbuttoning his tunic as she thrust herself closer to him in the saddle. They were not far from Harlond, the first buildings loomed in the distance. He was trying to stop her from undressing him, while simultaneously walking Elflight forward together with a still skittish Firefoot and attempting to maintain his dignity. Having succeeded in unbuttoning his tunic, she delved underneath his shirt, probing his expansive chest with her hands, before settling them around his waist. He was finding her touch irresistible. Holding the reins of both horses, he could not defend himself from Lothíriel’s inquisitive roving. He let the reins go and grabbed her hands. ‘Stop,’ he commanded. She lent back along Elflight’s neck and pushed herself up against his groin even more pointedly, wrapping her legs securely around him. He gasped, releasing her hands involuntarily to steady her by the waist, while her bells were still tinkling their merry sound. She drew herself up against him abruptly, grasping the back of his head with both hands and kissed him with an intensity that caused in him an instinctive spasm of uncontrollable desire. He picked her up by her buttocks to sit her higher upon him and responded forcefully to her kisses. Eventually, she gently pushed his long hair away from his face so she could study it as they paused for breath and she took his chin in one hand, caressed his cheek and nudged him into another lingering sensuous kiss. His lips were so soft, his beard surprisingly silken, she had never felt such desire. Her first awakening with him weeks ago felt but a pinprick compared to this. And she felt no fear of him, nor of the physical ache he was creating within her. She arched backwards in his arms as he gently kissed her neck and she thrust herself rhythmically into the hard bulge in his breeches. Her cheek brushed against his as she moaned softly, and his lips once again found hers with renewed intensity. They were now riding through the town, which was deserted as it was so late, but Éomer was conscious that although they were here alone at the moment, Lothíriel was dressed in almost nothing and there would be people around the ships. His concern over her reputation overrode his increasing desire which, if he did not curtail, he would find impossible to pull back from. However, when he forced himself with difficulty to refrain from kissing her, taking off his unbuttoned tunic to put it around her, she suddenly went rigid with alarm and started to resist him. It had triggered another memory for her. Not wanting to restrain her, he reluctantly allowed her to squirm out of his arms and she bolted through the town. ------------------------------------------------------------------- He followed her with both horses to a large square with a fountain. The clattering of more horses coming behind him soon filled the square. Tuor was the first to appear on a horse Éomer knew well, it was his sister’s. He was accompanied by three others, one of whom was his own Master of Horse, Genting. Tuor jumped off his horse when he saw Lothíriel walking towards the fountain and barked some commands at his men, the two of them disappeared to the ship which was moored only a few streets away in the harbour. While Genting took control of the horses, Tuor indicated to Éomer to descend and follow him. ‘She’ll go into the fountain,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s a ritual, she will always seek water when a memory of that time is triggered. I can only assume it is to wash off the filth of that bastard. I’ve sent the men to get blankets and heat up her cabin. She’ll stay with us tonight. Now that everyone will find out that I am her uncle, they will rue the lies they have spread about her – her brothers most of all…’ he said almost viciously. They were both watching her closely. She did not however go into the water. She sat at the edge of the fountain and just stared at it. ‘Lothi?’ her uncle called out to her softly. She continued to stare into the water. They both walked cautiously towards her. Tuor gestured Éomer to walk around the fountain to face her on the opposite side while he came behind her. She looked up at Éomer as he stood opposite, and he could see that she had been crying. ‘Why can’t I remember?’ she cried sniffing back the tears. ‘Why can’t I remember? she cried out more desperately. ‘What did I do? It must have been so bad that my mind won’t accept the truth,’ she whimpered in despair. ‘I know what you all think, Uncle, I know what Father thinks, what you think, what everyone thinks – that it was me who killed Mother. I see things in my mind, flashes of memory but never the whole picture. I cannot tell you what happened to her, and so the agony goes on for us all. I’m trapped. We are all still trapped in this nightmare that won’t end.’ She was beginning to shake. She sat on the edge of the fountain and pulled her knees to her chest, curling herself into a ball with her head down over her knees. Tuor came slowly to put his hand on her shoulders, and he took her gently into his arms. Éomer wanted nothing more than to do the same, but it was not his place. He stood rooted to the spot watching her distress unhappily, wishing there was some way for him to take her pain from her. Tuor encouraged her to stand to make the short walk to the ship with him. One of his men had come back with the blankets which he wrapped around her, but when she made to stand she said faintly, ‘I feel dizzy, Uncle, I cannot stand,’ and she fell back on the edge of the fountain still conscious, but with her mind whirring. Tuor yelped as he caught her and held his hand close to his chest in pain. He grimaced over to Éomer who immediately came to his side. ‘I missed the last castata she threw at me as I realised she was about to turn. I think it probably broke a few bones in my fingers. I don’t think I have the strength to carry her at the moment.’ ‘Please let me,’ Éomer answered quickly. Seeing she was still semi-conscious, he stroked back her hair and said very softly, ‘Lothíriel, I’m going to pick you up and take you onto your uncle’s ship. Is that alright? If you feel you want me to stop, I will, and we can wait wherever we are until you feel stronger. You consent?’ he asked. He thought he saw the faintest nod of agreement and he smoothly picked her up covered in the blanket and carried her to the ship. Tuor eyed him deep in thought. ------------------------------------------------------------------- It was a magnificent vessel. It was, as Tuor explained as they walked up the gangplank, one of Dol Amroth’s own ships which he had ‘purloined’ on the high seas to maintain his reputation as an outlaw pirate. Tuor led him below deck and showed him Lothíriel’s cabin, where he lay her down gently on her bed; she was seemingly in a deep sleep. Nevertheless Éomer checked that she was breathing regularly. ‘Could we not get a woman to help her out of these clothes?’ he ventured, disappointed that he could not respectably fulfil that service himself. ‘She cannot be comfortable lying on all those damn bells,’ he said showing a level of concern and sensitivity Tuor would not have expected from such a hardened fighter. ‘Cissy will be coming. She always looks after Lothi when she’s with us,’ he replied and at that moment a large figure appeared at the doorway. With luxurious long bright blonde hair, elegant, poised and softly spoken, Cissy was also taller than Lothíriel and had muscles most men would be proud of. She was disconcertingly beautiful in that she would be equally handsome as a man. Éomer found himself perplexed, although reassured by her charming femininity and tenderness as she sat beside Lothíriel to caress her brow to ascertain any fever, before shooing the men out. ‘Cissy is a great healer, our best healer after Lothíriel and devoted to her. She will be given the best care, I assure you,’ said Tuor allaying Éomer’s concerns as he motioned his guest to sit in the captain’s quarters just outside Lothíriel’s cabin and poured out two drinks for them both. ‘This is not Sharkrat, which is what Ottakar offered you. This is from Lothi’s vineyards near Elfhaven. I consider it the best fortified wine there is, as does King Thranduil, I believe…’ They both took a sip and savoured the wine. ‘I must ask if you would stay on board tonight. While Cissy is more than strong enough to deal with Lothíriel, she refuses to lay a hand on her, even if she is in distress. My hand is damaged and most of my men are in the city. I will be sleeping here outside her door tonight, so you may take my cabin which is just over there. I have already asked for clean bedding, and I will have one of the men fetch you new clothes from your lodgings as soon as your household rises. I know you are leaving tomorrow but there is much I would discuss with you. Imrahil will be here mid-morning, and I have things to say to both of you,’ he said commandingly, but respectfully. As Éomer was keen to learn more, he nodded for Tuor to continue. ‘I know Aragorn has asked Lothíriel to spend six months with you in Rohan after the funeral of your uncle, and your sister also told me last night that this was what both she and Faramir want. I have up to now counselled her against this and to go north. If I am to cease my opposition, and she will listen to me over Imrahil and Faramir, there are some things you need to know and accept about my niece. Tonight was a good example. If she comes to stay in Rohan, you must put protections in place. Those in the North already know this and that is why I was keen for her to go there first, as this will be the first Hithui since her captivity that she will be away from Dol Amroth.’ Tuor paused to take another sip. ‘Will you stay? This way I can explain what you need to know, you can get some sleep and we can all go to the signing ceremony with Imrahil from here. Your sister is more than capable of making all arrangements for you to leave thereafter, if indeed, she has not already done so. By the way, Faramir has found himself an incomparable match. He is a very lucky man. I don’t know him well, but I know that Lothi adores and respects him and that is enough for me.’ With Imrahil Éomer had felt an instant ease and connection, their friendship forged on the field of battle. Tuor was a patently different and more complex personality, but Éomer appreciated the openness behind Tuor’s offer and accepted the validity of his judgement. The more time he spent with Lothíriel and her family, the more he realised how much he did not know. He felt as though he was pulling on a thread unravelling a ball of wool, a ball of wool he could not see but which he hoped would eventually lead him to her, only to find that the ball of wool was much longer than he had thought. No other woman could interest him now, he was too far enthralled by her. His very soul was attached to that thread and this could not be severed. Her passion towards him had overwhelmed him, but how much had she been conscious of what she had been doing? Controlling his own desire for her had been challenging enough and he had not the excuse of imbibing an aphrodisiac. He needed to understand as much as he could about Lothíriel’s past and her family. Wary of Tuor though he was, Éomer readily agreed to stay and raising his glass in thanks for his host’s kind words, they both toasted his sister’s impending marriage. ------------------------------------------------------------------- Tuor refilled the glasses. ‘What Lothíriel said tonight was partly true. There is a suspicion that she may have caused her mother’s death, by accident of course. There were no other survivors of the three days Lothi and her mother were captives of Pallakir but what we have pieced together only begs more questions than answers. Her mind has cut it from her memory. You do not know Lothi well but perhaps well enough to know that she remembers everything, the slightest detail. She can read any manuscript and book and remember all the words on the exact page they are written, but what happened to her and her mother is a blank sheet in her mind. And then something will happen which suddenly makes some of the words on that page reappear but in random order, and when that happens she can be violent, uncontrollable and unpredictable, or sometimes unable to move, almost as one dead. She then seeks out water, whether it’s a fountain, a stream or a lake. She stays in the water, and she forgets. As soon as she’s out of the water, it’s as though nothing happened. For the three nights from her mother’s birthday on 27th Hithui, someone has to sleep close to her. Someone strong enough to stop her from hurting herself, or anyone else, must be either in the room or right outside. For the first two years it was Imrahil who performed the vigil. Since he was called to Minas Tirith, it has been myself, Cissy and another whom I know well and trust beyond all others with her life. Imrahil does not know that this still afflicts her as badly as it does. She does not want to trouble him with it. She is hesitant about coming to you in Rohan because she is scared that she might hurt someone unintentionally,’ he explained. Tuor was not telling Éomer anything he had not suspected already although not to this level of detail. He had instinctively sensed very early on in their friendship that there was a deep pain within her she could not control, and he began to understand much more of the complexity of her situation. ‘Why would she be any better in the North than she would be with us? I will look after her as well as any of the Northern lords,’ he exclaimed. Tuor sighed in some sympathy and explained further. ‘You are not her kin and the Northern lords are.’ Éomer looked up in some confusion. This possibility had not occurred to him. Tuor continued his explanation of his family’s past. ‘Now that the truth will come out about my origins after the signing ceremony, and it needs to be after it, I will tell you now on that condition.’ Éomer nodded his assent. ‘I am Amahlia’s half-brother. We share the same father. Lothíriel’s mother’s mother, Idril, was sent by the Dúnedain of the North to marry my father, the last Prince of Harondor, to fulfil a prophecy. Idril had already fallen in love with another of Aragorn’s kin in the North, but they both sacrificed their love for Idril to marry my father. On my father’s death, she was free to marry her first love and they had a daughter, Lothíriel’s aunt, Estríel, the wife of King Bard of Dale. Why do you think Lothíriel has so much influence across Middle-earth? She is closely related to all the royal houses, even your own through your mother’s mother and those ties will be strengthened further with the marriage of your sister and Faramir.’ Éomer was very tired and the wine was not helping. It was a lot to understand. Tuor’s next question threw him off guard. ‘What are your intentions towards my niece?’ Tuor asked pointedly. Éomer head jerked up, uncertain how to answer. Éomer did not appreciate the tone or the line of questioning but he was not going to lie. ‘I am in love with her. I wish for no other to become my wife, if she will have me,’ he replied succinctly. He reflected on his answer. ‘But I realise this will take time. Time I hope we can have in Rohan.’ ‘Good, in that case I will drop my opposition to her going to Rohan first, but she will go with Cissy and another guardian of my choosing, not Imrahil’s. You are wise to be patient, Éomer. If I may give counsel, I don’t think she will trust herself to anyone until she overcomes this deep torment, and my heart tells me that she will only find out the truth in the North….’ Tuor drained his glass and set it down on the table. ‘Now, you look tired. Your bed has been prepared. I will sleep out here in case Lothi needs me. We will meet formally again, I believe, before Lothíriel would leave for Rohan. You will be back here late Ceveth to accompany your uncle’s body for burial in Edoras? If you will be back in Minas Tirith by the 29th of that month, I would be honoured to have your and your sister’s presence at my wedding.’ Éomer could not hide his surprise. Tuor continued in some amusement at his reaction, ‘Well, to be fair, your sister’s presence is essential as I believe she has become very close to my intended,’ he smiled wryly. ‘I know you may think that because I surround myself with men of a certain persuasion that I am that way inclined myself but there were many facts about myself I have needed to hide. I will wed Lady Gelian, a distant cousin and much beloved friend before I was captured at sea, but this is a tale which will have to wait until the morning and Imrahil’s presence as he will most certainly want to hear it in full. Now let’s try to get some sleep.’ Éomer’s mind was reeling with the information he had been given. Tuor and Gelian? That would explain why he might know how he felt about Lothíriel. Who was this other man Tuor trusted with Lothíriel? The prophecy? It did not seem real. But what was real was her torment. As his father before him, Éomer was renowned in Rohan for his skills at healing the emotional scars of horses traumatised by battle. There had never been a horse which would not calm to his touch. He did not know if his touch calmed or inflamed Lothíriel, there seemed to be no middle ground between them, only she most certainly did not induce calm in him. She beguiled, infuriated, incited uncontrollable desire in him, made him laugh and intrigued him. |