Tolkien Fan Fiction
| 9 |
| Chapter Nine |
| While Lothíriel was in The Wold, Éomer was occupied with ratifying the final settlement with Leofric who had, on securing what was seen in Dunland as unexpectedly favourable terms, been acclaimed as the new King. Honourable though the terms may have seemed in Dunland, there were powerful lords in Rohan who were not in accord. Éomer had struggled to find it so after he had himself taken many of the Rohirric captives of the last decades of war back into Rohan. These had generally been young women forced to service Dunlending men, or children kept as slaves. It had been grim work, and he found it hard not to think of the Dunlendings as savages when he saw the faces of those rescued. Gandlend had proved invaluable in enforcing the ruling, helped in no small measure by the presence of a large number of Éomer’s Riders. With a foot in both cultures, he was able to navigate with great diplomacy the difficult task of retrieving those who had been taken and punishing any ill-treatment. Éomer had learned from Gandlend of the considerable difference between the Dunlendings of the north and those of the south. The keeping of captives as slaves was frowned upon the further north you went. Leofric had long forbidden it in those lands under his sway and as part of his Kingship, he had made it clear that forthwith it would not be tolerated in his Kingdom. Once back in Edoras, Éomer realised how much he yearned to have Lothíriel close to him. Her absence from Meduseld made it feel empty to him. In the weeks before her expected return, he buried himself in Delwine’s first reports on how to improve Rohan’s economic situation. They were extremely detailed, wide-ranging and imaginative in their insights. He recognised Lothíriel’s touch within them and his mind took to imagining which town or village in his lands she would be in at that moment. Never a man of great patience, he found he could wait for her no longer, and there was one member of his family Lothíriel had yet to meet, whose blessing he would value before he asked Lothíriel to marry him. He sent an urgent message to Delwine instructing him to make his way with Lothíriel without delay to Aldburg, the old capital and Éomer’s hometown, the last town on their itinerary before returning to Edoras. It was also the home of his Aunt Morwyn, elder sister to King Théoden and Éomer’s mother. The town would play a key role in the new trading route being built between the Gondorian lands south of the White Mountains, leading to Pelargir and Dol Amroth, and Lothíriel and Delwine had expected to stay there for at least four days. If Delwine received his missive in time, they would all arrive for the famous celebrations of the town’s founding. The King’s command proved unnecessary. Delwine had already devised an itinerary which ensured their arrival in Aldburg to coincide with Rohan’s most celebrated Founding Day Fair. Much to Lothíriel’s discomfort, Éomer and Éowyn had insisted that both Delwine and Lothíriel stay with them at their ancestral home, which was surrounded by beautiful gardens in the main residential quarter of the town. However, refusing their kind offer would have raised more questions than she wanted to answer. She had steadfastly tried to put all thought of him aside while she had been travelling with Delwine in The Wold and East Emnet, but on hearing of Éomer’s invitation, she registered the stab of uncharacteristic nervousness in the pit of her stomach and the maelstrom of her feelings for Éomer had flooded back. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On that crisp Autumn day, Lothíriel’s first view of the beautifully situated town, nestling above woodlands, rising into the foothills of the White Mountains, their white peaks glistening like a crown encircling the town, provoked a visceral reaction of awe and enchantment. She had found all of Rohan to be magical and diverse, the sheer expanse of it made her tingle with excitement, but Aldburg entranced her body and soul. Throughout her childhood she had always looked north, to the White Mountains and what lay beyond. There had been an invisible pull, a yearning she could not explain but which was so real she could almost touch it. Finally, she felt she had found that which had eluded her all her living years; Aldburg made Lothíriel feel she had finally come home. While Minas Tirith had the reputation for grandeur and hauteur; Pelargir for being decadent and wild; Dol Amroth an air of permissive elegance, Aldburg was so different. It retained an atmosphere of nobility without pretentiousness, refinement without formality. As the confident joy of the town seeped into her, she seemed to channel the very energy of this most vibrant of the towns of Rohan. On entering the main gate, she ignored Delwine’s directions to their lodgings, riding around the town as though in a trance. Delwine had immediately sensed the shift in her mood. In his long years of experience, he had met those with charisma before, but none with the strength and reach of hers, and he felt that even then she held back much of what she possessed. She radiated a presence that turned the heads of all the busy townsfolk to watch the arrival of this extraordinary dark-haired woman escorted by her well-known and respected companion. It was on this wave of heightened excitement the pair and their guard arrived at the grandest residence in Aldburg, Éomer and Éowyn’s family’s ancestral mansion. The siblings were both at home supervising the opening of the house when Delwine and Lothíriel rode into the large courtyard with their escort. Éomer and Éowyn needed no formal announcement of their guests’ presence, they had been too eagerly awaited and they both made their way swiftly to the courtyard from their different wings of the house to welcome their guests. Lothíriel jumped off her horse radiating happiness. She hugged them both warmly, much to Éomer’s huge relief that she had included him in such intimacy. He sensed Delwine’s intelligent gaze closely monitoring his actions. When he raised his own eyes questioningly to his foremost advisor, he thought he caught the glimpse of caution. Lothíriel was acting strangely, he had to unwillingly concede. He allowed Éowyn to whisk Lothíriel away from him, so he could interrogate Delwine in private. Éowyn shooed the over-excited Lothíriel to their wing of the house. ‘How is Cissy?’ she asked first, hoping to calm her friend down by imparting some factual news. Lothíriel’s eyes shone with uncharacteristic emotion. She grabbed Éowyn’s hands and pressed them to her unable to contain her feelings. Éowyn was beginning to find it unnerving. ‘Oh Éowyn, I have never seen her so happy. They love her as much as we all do. Her mother never stopped missing her. And I am sure the man you met at the Fair, Alfrind, I am sure he is going to ask her to marry him. And he knows, he knows how she is different from others. She had trusted him with her secret that day they met at the Fair and it was because of this that he found her family so quickly, being so unusual as she is. He doesn’t care. He loves her anyway, as she is.’ Éowyn was not following, glad as she was to hear that Cissy was happy. Eventually she felt compelled to ask, ‘Lothi, I don’t know what secret you are talking about, pleased though I am about Cissy’s love.’ Thankfully this caused Lothíriel to pause for a moment and she cautiously nodded her understanding. ‘I am sorry, of course. It has remained hidden for so long. Too many people find it difficult to accept what is different from them. I know you will not, and you see her for who she is.’ Lothíriel regarded Éowyn candidly and continued with compassion. ‘Cissy looks both male and female, because she is both in some ways. While it is rare, it is by no means unknown. Cissy is very unusual; she has both male and female…err… attributes. She had lived as a male all her life when she was enslaved but when Tuor liberated her, she rejected the violence of men and Tuor allowed her to decide for herself who she wished to be.’ ‘You mean Cissy is really a man? I confess Éomer and I did wonder, especially after Ottakar’s visit.’ Éowyn asked, far less shocked than she would have been before her stay in Minas Tirith. ‘While she is more male than female physically, she is both. You are not too shocked? She is only attracted to men and you know how that would not be accepted easily in Rohan in male form. Alfrind appears to be as in love with her as she is with him. I’d prefer it if you told no one of this, not even Éomer as I’m not sure he is as accepting as he pretends…’ ‘Thank you for trusting me with this. I can see how people will think differently of her, in the same way that people look at you differently when they hear about… your past. It is human nature. But for me, while it is interesting to understand this aspect of her, she is still Cissy, and that won’t change,’ she said reflectively. ‘Now tell me what you thought of The Wold? I have only been once myself and I want to hear about everything you saw!’ ‘Éowyn, all of Rohan has touched me deeply, but there is something here in Aldburg that I am finding overwhelming. Please forgive me. I have truly not been myself since I caught sight of the town. Let me change out of my travelling clothes and I will come and tell you everything as soon as I am dressed for tonight,’ she explained more calmly to her relieved companion. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- As she prepared herself for the evening, Lothíriel paused to take stock of herself and her surroundings. Something had fundamentally changed within her. It was not just Aldburg, although the town had stirred a mystifying emotion deep within her. If she was being more honest with herself, she would have been able to pinpoint the change in her to that moment she had shared with Éomer, but she was not being honest. It was still too raw and sensitive a memory and one which had been bound up in the wrench of Finglor’s departure, which had left her reeling. Only the loving welcome of Cissy and her family had been able to lift her out of her despondency. She had confessed all to her beloved Cissy, whose wisdom and unconditional love had soothed her self-doubt and shame. While Cissy had been philosophical about Lothíriel’s ‘impropriety’, as she termed it, with Éomer, she had nevertheless lectured her at length about the necessity of avoiding ‘an unwelcome event’ and had sternly admonished her to behave with greater restraint. She advised that rather than try to ignore the incident and pretend it never happened, that Lothíriel should acknowledge the growing bond between them and ask for his patience. ‘But Cissy,’ Lothíriel had countered, ‘we can never marry, why make him wait for someone he can only take as his mistress. He will have mistresses enough. What he needs is a wife… and that cannot be me.’ ‘What makes you think you are not good enough for him, Lothi?’ asked Cissy, her heart breaking for her beloved charge. ‘You know why, Cissy. You better than most…’ Cissy came to hold her close as Lothíriel’s tears fell onto her broad chest, not able to find the words to refute what she had said. Lothíriel had recovered quickly under Cissy’s astute care, enveloped as she was by the comforting warmth of Cissy’s family and Cissy’s joy with Alfrind. By the time Delwine arrived with her horse, she felt different somehow, whether it was the effect of Rohan or freedom from the oppression of her family’s expectations of her, she did not know. It was the first time in almost nine years that she had not had Tuor, Finglor or her father near her. She was without Galador, who had been her constant companion from birth. Intimidating though that had been, it had also been liberating. Delwine treated her as an equal. She had no one to fall back on but herself; she had to exercise far greater responsibility for her actions. In Rohan, she was not little Lothi, the sad strange child of Imrahil’s foreign wife; she was the Lady of Dol Amroth; one who spoke their native tongue fluently, who tended to the sick and injured with great kindness and who showed an unaffected interest in all the people of Rohan, not just the great lords. Her natural playfulness with those she had come across had been a revelation to them both. She had entertained all from the highest to the lowest in Rohirric society wherever they went, with song, music and recitals of stories, particularly the tale of the Last Ride of King Théoden. In one town, she had even replaced a sick actress in a play as her phenomenal memory knew the woman’s part to perfection, although she had told all there that her name was Cellebriel to disguise her high-born status. In Rohan she felt accepted, she felt valued, she felt free. Only she was not free; her mind was still trapped. This she knew, just not why nor what was hidden there. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Supper that evening was to be at Lady Morwyn’s, King Théoden’s eldest sister, whose estate was only a short walk away. As Lothíriel ambled arm in arm with Delwine on their way over to Lady Morwyn’s just beyond the grounds of Éomer’s family home, they passed a large, shuttered mansion. Lothíriel was drawn to it, it was both elegant and homely, very similar in style to Éomer’s own. ‘Who lives there? It’s a beautiful house,’ she enquired of her companion admiringly. ‘Ah,’ he sighed, ‘That is a sad, sad business. I believe it is now up for sale. The owner was killed on the Pelennor Fields, as were so many of our Riders. He was a most beloved Lord, closely related to Éomer’s father’s family and from one of the oldest noble families of Rohan. He was highly regarded, but with no heir the property falls to his half-sister, who lives in Gondor. She tragically lost both her son and husband in the Battle of Minas Tirith and her daughter was badly injured. Her husband’s family is pure evil. His stepmother forced her out of all inheritance as both her late husband’s male heirs had been killed, and so the lady must sell her family’s home here to survive and provide for her daughter. Still, at least she has this to sell. It is one of the best properties in the land, after Éomer’s. Indeed, they share the grounds backing on to the Elven Pools.’ They arrived at Lady Morwyn’s house to a welcoming fire and even warmer greeting. It was to be an intimate supper with just the five of them. The sister of the old King of Rohan was not as formal as Lothíriel had expected, nevertheless she was undoubtedly in august company. To Lothíriel’s trained eye, the lady herself resembled most closely the Dúnedain of the South; she had inherited her mother’s dark hair and pale blue/grey eyes. They were distant kin, both of high-Númenórean heritage, both from branches of the Princes of Dol Amroth through Morwyn’s mother Morwen Steelsheen, wife of King Thengel, father of King Théoden, Morwyn and their youngest sister, Théodwyn. There had been two other sisters, Thenwyn, the eldest of the five and Lothwyn, the first to be born in Rohan. Delwine had been close to all the family in his youth and had yet been unusually reticent on sharing his knowledge of the family with her. She thought of the dark hidden secrets within her own family and often wondered how she might be able to tease whatever he was concealing about the royal family of Rohan out of him. Lothíriel found Lady Morwyn fascinating; her knowledge was as wide-ranging as it was deep. They conversed freely about the successful negotiations with Dunland, the opportunities Delwine and Lothíriel had identified in The Wold, Éowyn’s upcoming nuptials to Faramir, the exotic culture and fashions of Umbar, the prospects of trade in the north - all were touched upon. Lady Morwyn seemed to have been able to keep herself remarkably well informed for someone ostensibly afar from the political pulse, but no one other than Lothíriel was surprised in the slightest, as those who knew her well had a great appreciation of her political astuteness and breadth of learning. Despite being absorbed in the conversation she sensed a veiled interplay between Delwine and their hostess. She wondered if Éowyn and Éomer had detected the undercurrent of tension between the two, not hostile, but nevertheless, obscured. For their part, Éowyn and Éomer were trying to gauge what their esteemed aunt made of their friend and intended bride, but their aunt was too skilled an operator to give them any indication of her feelings on the matter, not even to Delwine who was similarly curious. Only Lothíriel seemed to be oblivious to the dynamics of interest surrounding herself, intent simply on learning what she could from this remarkable lady. It was with considerable regret therefore that, given the lateness of the hour, they needed to say their farewells. Delwine and Éowyn quickly formed a twosome to walk back to the house together, leaving Lothíriel no polite choice but to walk with Éomer. Lothíriel’s mind was still whirring with the delights of the evening and overall impact of Aldburg, and happily distracted as she was, she was able to momentarily forget she was so close to him. But she was close to Éomer, and his touch on her arm brought it all back to her with a jolt. She could not fathom what he felt about her nor what he remembered of that night in Dunland. As so often happens when sudden doubt overturns elation, the despair can be all the greater, the reality of Finglor’s absence overwhelmed her. She trembled involuntarily; close as she was, Éomer immediately sensed her abrupt change of mood. ‘Lothíriel?’ his deep voice was full of concern. ‘Are you quite well?’ he asked. Lothíriel slipped her hand quickly from his arm and pulled away from him. ‘In truth, I do feel a little unwell Éomer. I will go straight to bed when we return. My apologies,’ she said weakly. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- She quickly changed out of her clothes and into her nightwear, only it was not the usual night dress she changed into but a shirt, loose britches and shoes. She was fearful that she might walk that night. She was being cowardly, she acknowledged to herself. Cissy had urged her to confess openly to Éomer what had happened between them, but she just could not. She lay on top of her bed in emotional turmoil, remembering how it had felt to have his cock in her hand and in her mouth, how it had excited her to give him pleasure, how her body had responded to his caresses as he lay fevered, how sensuous his lips had been on hers and the violence of his kisses as he fought the poison coursing through his body; and how shameful it had been of her to have taken advantage of him when he was weak and not of sound mind. It had been an unforgivable presumption. It did not matter that Cissy had assured her that Éomer would not have felt the same way. Cissy had indeed found the idea that he would have been somehow upset amusing. Perhaps he genuinely had no memory of it, or perhaps he knew full well. Perhaps Cissy was right. He could not hate her for it; if he did, he would not behave in such a welcoming way. Or perhaps he recognised her for the harlot she was and was hoping she would do it again, which if she was honest with herself, she so desperately wanted to, and so much more. Even had she not shown herself to be so unvirtuous and unworthy, marriage was not an option open to her at present. Would she be willing to be his mistress? She already knew the answer to that. But would he allow it? He had shown nothing but the highest sense of respect and honour in everything he did. She was sure he would not countenance such a proposition, for the sake of her father if for no one else. It was no good. She could not sleep. She badly needed to have Finglor’s reassuring arms around her. She paced up and down the room before making her decision. She crept out of her room and found her way in the dark down the stairs to the parlour, where the embers of the fire were still glowing, and she let herself out into the garden. The sudden rush of cold air caused the sleeping figure hidden from view on the couch in front of the fire to stir. She had not noticed him there. She had not expected him to be there, but he had been expecting her. He followed her carefully outside. She had seen earlier that there was a large wooden deck beside the lake, where in summer there were likely to be little boats moored. She had taken a thick shawl with her and wrapping it tightly around her, she stood on the wooden deck staring at the silver sheen of moonlight shimmering in the lake. It was a clear night and the stars twinkled brightly. She knew them all. She picked out one in particular, turning her face up towards it, and closed her eyes. Her mind called out to it. She began to dance, slowly at first, swirling the shawl around her as she fluidly twisted into arabesque poses and twirled elegantly. It was not as dramatic as it had been when she had danced with Finglor. That had been both an intimate and yet powerfully explosive dance as he had lifted her high above him and she had sensuously wrapped herself around his body. But she was dancing as though he were there, almost willing his presence into the dance. After a while she had dropped the shawl and was dancing free of all constraint, her hands grasping for her absent partner. As he watched, it seemed to Éomer that the starlight illuminated the deck more brightly than before, like a celestial spotlight on the dancer. He almost felt the presence of another, as though Lothíriel was now truly dancing with someone unseen but somehow there. She cried out in Quenya, a language he did not understand. He knew she was speaking to Finglor. He could hear the longing in her voice and the intensity of the love. It cut into him deeply. He was not inherently a jealous man, but it hurt him to know that Lothíriel loved another more than she loved him. He could match almost any man on Middle-earth, but he was no match for an Elf. And yet, and yet, he knew he meant something to her that Finglor did not. She kept coming back to him. She had kissed him in a way she did not kiss Finglor, deep in his soul he felt, he hoped, she may have done much more to him, he was not sure, but he could remember his own hands reaching for her, finding their way under her clothes to caress her skin and he thought perhaps pushing her head down onto him. Had it been real? Through the confusion and the pain, through the dreams and the ecstasy, he thought that there had been something illicit, sexual and momentous that had happened between them, but he could not be sure. That she had touched him there, he was in no doubt; how it had ended, only his dreams made real. The dancing had stopped. He heard a sniff, then a stifled sob. He cautiously moved towards where she had dropped the shawl and picked it up. It was a cold night. If she was awake, she was unlikely to go for a swim. Neither Tuor nor Imrahil had ever mentioned dancing as one of the phases she went through when sleepwalking, and he judged that she was conscious of what she was doing. He realised she had felt his presence when he saw her tense. ‘Lothíriel,’ he said softly. ‘It’s cold, here is your shawl.’ She allowed him to put it around her. He stood close in front of her, not knowing what to do next. He wanted to put his arms around her and hold her close. He wanted to do so much more than that but not at his instigation, he did not want to frighten her. She hesitantly put her hands on his chest and when he did not move away, she wrapped them around his waist and buried her forehead onto him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…. I shouldn’t have…. please forgive me,’ she sobbed, the tears falling fast now. She clung on to him and he held her tightly to him, holding her head while he nuzzled his face into her hair. ‘You saved my life, Lothíriel. You have nothing to be sorry for. Whatever else happened….’ She looked up at him sharply, ‘… it was a dream. A lovely dream.’ She lay her head back on his chest and wondered why she had felt disappointed in his words when she should have felt nothing but comfort that he had forgiven her. She was ashamed to admit to herself she had wanted more, she wanted him to kiss her and... Her passions were clouding her judgement, she needed to behave with more dignity. She disengaged herself from him reluctantly, squeezed his hand and motioned for them both to walk back to the house, which they did in silence hand in hand until they came to the door. She fought her strong urge to place his hand on her breasts and push herself onto him. She had promised herself that if he forgave her, she would behave more appropriately. He unwillingly relinquished her hand so he could open the door for her. She passed by him and without looking back, she glided upstairs to her room, leaving him in a turmoil of emotions. Had she made to kiss him again, he had decided he was going to ask her to marry him. But she had gone, and he was left deflated. |