Cushions Chapter Six. Avoidance?
Here is the next chapter of my Éomer/Lothiriel story.
Chapter Six - Avoidance?
1,825 words.
Rated PG.
Beta'd as usual by speakr2customrs
Previous chapters are HERE
Disclaimer as chapter one.
The trouble with travelling in one of the wagons, Lothíriel thought, was that you felt every stone and rut in the road; she was glad of her cushions. But she did, almost, wish that she had agreed to have one of the army healers examine her newly healed buttocks and thighs; she was fairly sure that she could have ridden part of each day, at least, and it would have been smoother than the wagon-ride.
She had good company, however, as the four hobbits travelled in the same wagon as Lothíriel and her maid. Merry, Pippin, and Frodo all commented that they would have preferred to ride - if only someone had thought to bring ponies for them. Lothíriel was tempted to bemoan her own lack of a mount as well but, as it was clear that there were spare horses, she knew she would then have to explain why she was in the wagon. So she said nothing on the subject.
They were not short of other interesting company, either, as Gandalf, Legolas with Gimli behind, or even the new King of Gondor, often rode alongside them giving Lothíriel the chance to come to know these great heroes better. One or another of her own family often rode beside the wagon, too. All in all, the first day’s journey was not unpleasant… apart from the stones and the ruts.
At night she ate with her father and the King, as did the members of the Fellowship. Éomer King had chosen to eat with his own men, which was understandable, but, from Lothíriel’s point of view, a little disappointing.
On the second day of the journey Éothain rode up to the wagon, a little after they had set off, with a request from Éomer King that Merry should come and spend the day riding on Firefoot with him. Merry was happy to comply and they saw no more of him for most of the day.
“I wonder why Éomer did not simply come to collect Merry himself?” the king mused from his own position near the wagon. Lothíriel wished she knew - she realised she would very much have liked his company, even if only for a short while.
It took almost three days to reach Minas Tirith, at the careful pace of the wagons, and Lothíriel saw no more of Éomer King on the rest of the journey than she had on the first day. She told herself it was because he needed to ride with the Rohirrim. She did not totally believe herself.
………………….
“You’re moping!” Éothain said.
“I am not!” replied his king.
“You are so!” Pause. “My Lord.”
“My Lord?” Éomer questioned. “Since when have you called me your lord in private?”
“Since you became King and I became fed up watching you moping!”
“I am not moping.”
“Huh.”
The two friends glared at each other.
“Éomer, you are moping. You have been moping since the night before we broke camp. Whenever no-one is talking to you, you are gazing into nothing with a glum expression. Even, quite often, when someone is talking to you. And,” Éothain went on, “you are avoiding your pretty princess.”
This time Éomer wasn’t sure what to deny first; the moping or that he was avoiding Lothíriel, or that she was in some way ‘his’ princess.
Change the subject, he decided.
“I worry about Éowyn,” he said.
Éothain just looked at him.
……………………..
Less than twenty-four hours later Éomer thought he might, after all, have some sense of foresight.
When he had last seen his sister she had been pale, listless, lying on a bed in the Houses of Healing. Although he knew that Aragorn had lifted the deadly curse of the Black Breath from her she had shown little will to eat, drink, or rise from her bed. She had also admitted to him that she had been on the battlefield because she had no hope for her own future as Aragorn had rejected her advances.
Seeing her waiting to greet them as they rode into the Mundburg, colour back in her cheeks, the light back in her eyes, had gladdened Éomer’s heart, for he had feared that, despite what Lothíriel had said, Éowyn would still be little more than the shadow of her old self. Instead she looked like the young woman she had been, not only before the events of the last few months, but before Grima had cast his shadow over her.
He had even been pleased to notice the son of the late Steward there to welcome Aragorn, his King Returned, when Faramir had been pointed out by Imrahil. The man had clearly recovered from his wounds, the lungs full of smoke, and that same Black Breath as Éowyn.
But by the end of the welcoming feast (and, not for the first time, Éomer was impressed by the amount of food available in a city so recently under siege) Éomer was a good deal less pleased.
He had been pleased to have Éowyn as his partner over dinner. Pleased not to be near Princess Lothíriel as he had told himself, firmly, that he had nothing in common with a princess who preferred to travel in a wagon rather than riding. Nothing at all. Best not to give her, or her family, the wrong impression.
He had been amused to notice the eyes of the new Steward resting often on Éowyn. Well they might, Éomer had thought for, even though she was his sister, he could see that she was prettier looking than all the other women in the room. (‘Almost all…’ a small voice muttered somewhere inside. ‘ALL!’ he told it firmly.)
But then he realised Éowyn smiled back at the steward every time. And her own gaze lingered on Faramir even when he was talking to someone else.
No-one had ever accused Éomer of being overly diplomatic or of excessive caution in broaching any subject. He was quite proud of himself for waiting until they were out of earshot of the man in question before asking Éowyn what was going on.
“We are… close. We shared the experience of the Black Breath. He helped me recover.”
“How close? It looked to me as if he would wish to be very close indeed. He hasn’t bothered you? Forced himself into your affections? I will warn him off.”
“No. No. There is no need. He would think you a boor and uncivilised. And I would be most displeased.”
“What? Don’t tell me you welcome him making eyes at you? It’s only weeks since you gave your heart to Aragorn. Or is that why? Do you hope to make Aragorn jealous when he sees another man look at you that way? There is no need, for Legolas told me Aragorn is betrothed, and so you do not need to use his steward in that way.”
“DON’T BE STUPID!” Éowyn emphasised each word by stamping her foot. On STUPID she only just missed Éomer’s own foot by an inch. He did wonder if that had been her intention, or whether she had miscalculated; and, if so, in which direction.
……………………..
Lothíriel sat in a chair by her bedroom window, looking out over the White City, clutching a cushion to her chest.
As a child she had owned both a much beloved doll and an equally beloved cloth cat known, unsurprisingly, as Beruthiel. One, or both, had accompanied her to bed and been her companion in sorrows, in this very chair, throughout childhood. But both doll and cat lived now, in honourable retirement, in Dol Amroth.
She pulled her knees up, tucked her feet under her, and cuddled her cushion.
At least she no longer had to sit on it. The senior healer who had treated her burns, almost three months ago, had visited and examined her before declaring the skin healed enough for her to undertake ‘normal activities’. So much had happened since the day of her injury that she almost wondered what ‘normal activities’ might be.
It seemed as if they did not include visits from the King of Rohan.
Father had told her, as the lady of the house, that he intended to ask Éomer to dinner. Father and Éomer King had become good friends; he had spent much of his time at Cormallen with Lothíriel’s brothers, and been very happy to eat at Father’s table there. But he had sent his apologies. Not just for last night, but for the whole week; inviting, instead, Imrahil and his sons to join him in an early morning ride.
And so Lothíriel sat in her chair, in her window, watching her father and brothers ride out with a party of Rohirrim whilst she cuddled her cushion and wished she was out there with them. Especially with Éomer.
……………………..
They had been in the city for a week now. Éomer wished he could gather his men and begin the journey home. To allow for those who were still recovering from injuries, and not to over-tax horses who had already given much, the journey would take a couple of weeks; and the sooner they started the sooner he could begin to take stock of the state of his kingdom. But he had promised Aragorn that he would stay to see him crowned, and it seemed this could not be arranged at short notice; Éomer was stuck here for at least another two weeks.
Mundburg did have its attractions. There were one or two taverns that served tolerably good ale, and the landlords and patrons could not tell one Rider from another, so he could leave kingship behind for an hour or two and enjoy the evening with his friends; he could never be that anonymous at home.
Now that the members of the old steward’s court were returning, to form the court of the new king, there were many females all too happy to be friendly towards him; but he was well aware that anything more than a chaste kiss on the hand would be seen as tantamount to a proposal of marriage, and none of them appealed that much. He certainly had no time for courtship, and no wish to take a member of the Gondorian court back to Édoras to be his queen. Any such thoughts he may have had, fleetingly, at Cormallen were the result of too much wine. Definitely.
The attractions were outweighed, though, by having to watch Éowyn either making eyes at Faramir, or moping if Éomer insisted she spend her time with him, Éothain, and the other commanders.
‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘if Éothain wants to accuse anyone of moping it should be Éowyn, not me. I am completely over whatever fleeting attraction Imrahil’s daughter had for me.’
‘Then why are you avoiding meeting her?’ that small voice in his head muttered.
‘I am not,’ he answered it firmly. ‘I simply have other engagements.’
To which the small voice replied ‘Huh!’
Chapter Six - Avoidance?
1,825 words.
Rated PG.
Beta'd as usual by speakr2customrs
Previous chapters are HERE
Disclaimer as chapter one.
The trouble with travelling in one of the wagons, Lothíriel thought, was that you felt every stone and rut in the road; she was glad of her cushions. But she did, almost, wish that she had agreed to have one of the army healers examine her newly healed buttocks and thighs; she was fairly sure that she could have ridden part of each day, at least, and it would have been smoother than the wagon-ride.
She had good company, however, as the four hobbits travelled in the same wagon as Lothíriel and her maid. Merry, Pippin, and Frodo all commented that they would have preferred to ride - if only someone had thought to bring ponies for them. Lothíriel was tempted to bemoan her own lack of a mount as well but, as it was clear that there were spare horses, she knew she would then have to explain why she was in the wagon. So she said nothing on the subject.
They were not short of other interesting company, either, as Gandalf, Legolas with Gimli behind, or even the new King of Gondor, often rode alongside them giving Lothíriel the chance to come to know these great heroes better. One or another of her own family often rode beside the wagon, too. All in all, the first day’s journey was not unpleasant… apart from the stones and the ruts.
At night she ate with her father and the King, as did the members of the Fellowship. Éomer King had chosen to eat with his own men, which was understandable, but, from Lothíriel’s point of view, a little disappointing.
On the second day of the journey Éothain rode up to the wagon, a little after they had set off, with a request from Éomer King that Merry should come and spend the day riding on Firefoot with him. Merry was happy to comply and they saw no more of him for most of the day.
“I wonder why Éomer did not simply come to collect Merry himself?” the king mused from his own position near the wagon. Lothíriel wished she knew - she realised she would very much have liked his company, even if only for a short while.
It took almost three days to reach Minas Tirith, at the careful pace of the wagons, and Lothíriel saw no more of Éomer King on the rest of the journey than she had on the first day. She told herself it was because he needed to ride with the Rohirrim. She did not totally believe herself.
………………….
“You’re moping!” Éothain said.
“I am not!” replied his king.
“You are so!” Pause. “My Lord.”
“My Lord?” Éomer questioned. “Since when have you called me your lord in private?”
“Since you became King and I became fed up watching you moping!”
“I am not moping.”
“Huh.”
The two friends glared at each other.
“Éomer, you are moping. You have been moping since the night before we broke camp. Whenever no-one is talking to you, you are gazing into nothing with a glum expression. Even, quite often, when someone is talking to you. And,” Éothain went on, “you are avoiding your pretty princess.”
This time Éomer wasn’t sure what to deny first; the moping or that he was avoiding Lothíriel, or that she was in some way ‘his’ princess.
Change the subject, he decided.
“I worry about Éowyn,” he said.
Éothain just looked at him.
……………………..
Less than twenty-four hours later Éomer thought he might, after all, have some sense of foresight.
When he had last seen his sister she had been pale, listless, lying on a bed in the Houses of Healing. Although he knew that Aragorn had lifted the deadly curse of the Black Breath from her she had shown little will to eat, drink, or rise from her bed. She had also admitted to him that she had been on the battlefield because she had no hope for her own future as Aragorn had rejected her advances.
Seeing her waiting to greet them as they rode into the Mundburg, colour back in her cheeks, the light back in her eyes, had gladdened Éomer’s heart, for he had feared that, despite what Lothíriel had said, Éowyn would still be little more than the shadow of her old self. Instead she looked like the young woman she had been, not only before the events of the last few months, but before Grima had cast his shadow over her.
He had even been pleased to notice the son of the late Steward there to welcome Aragorn, his King Returned, when Faramir had been pointed out by Imrahil. The man had clearly recovered from his wounds, the lungs full of smoke, and that same Black Breath as Éowyn.
But by the end of the welcoming feast (and, not for the first time, Éomer was impressed by the amount of food available in a city so recently under siege) Éomer was a good deal less pleased.
He had been pleased to have Éowyn as his partner over dinner. Pleased not to be near Princess Lothíriel as he had told himself, firmly, that he had nothing in common with a princess who preferred to travel in a wagon rather than riding. Nothing at all. Best not to give her, or her family, the wrong impression.
He had been amused to notice the eyes of the new Steward resting often on Éowyn. Well they might, Éomer had thought for, even though she was his sister, he could see that she was prettier looking than all the other women in the room. (‘Almost all…’ a small voice muttered somewhere inside. ‘ALL!’ he told it firmly.)
But then he realised Éowyn smiled back at the steward every time. And her own gaze lingered on Faramir even when he was talking to someone else.
No-one had ever accused Éomer of being overly diplomatic or of excessive caution in broaching any subject. He was quite proud of himself for waiting until they were out of earshot of the man in question before asking Éowyn what was going on.
“We are… close. We shared the experience of the Black Breath. He helped me recover.”
“How close? It looked to me as if he would wish to be very close indeed. He hasn’t bothered you? Forced himself into your affections? I will warn him off.”
“No. No. There is no need. He would think you a boor and uncivilised. And I would be most displeased.”
“What? Don’t tell me you welcome him making eyes at you? It’s only weeks since you gave your heart to Aragorn. Or is that why? Do you hope to make Aragorn jealous when he sees another man look at you that way? There is no need, for Legolas told me Aragorn is betrothed, and so you do not need to use his steward in that way.”
“DON’T BE STUPID!” Éowyn emphasised each word by stamping her foot. On STUPID she only just missed Éomer’s own foot by an inch. He did wonder if that had been her intention, or whether she had miscalculated; and, if so, in which direction.
……………………..
Lothíriel sat in a chair by her bedroom window, looking out over the White City, clutching a cushion to her chest.
As a child she had owned both a much beloved doll and an equally beloved cloth cat known, unsurprisingly, as Beruthiel. One, or both, had accompanied her to bed and been her companion in sorrows, in this very chair, throughout childhood. But both doll and cat lived now, in honourable retirement, in Dol Amroth.
She pulled her knees up, tucked her feet under her, and cuddled her cushion.
At least she no longer had to sit on it. The senior healer who had treated her burns, almost three months ago, had visited and examined her before declaring the skin healed enough for her to undertake ‘normal activities’. So much had happened since the day of her injury that she almost wondered what ‘normal activities’ might be.
It seemed as if they did not include visits from the King of Rohan.
Father had told her, as the lady of the house, that he intended to ask Éomer to dinner. Father and Éomer King had become good friends; he had spent much of his time at Cormallen with Lothíriel’s brothers, and been very happy to eat at Father’s table there. But he had sent his apologies. Not just for last night, but for the whole week; inviting, instead, Imrahil and his sons to join him in an early morning ride.
And so Lothíriel sat in her chair, in her window, watching her father and brothers ride out with a party of Rohirrim whilst she cuddled her cushion and wished she was out there with them. Especially with Éomer.
……………………..
They had been in the city for a week now. Éomer wished he could gather his men and begin the journey home. To allow for those who were still recovering from injuries, and not to over-tax horses who had already given much, the journey would take a couple of weeks; and the sooner they started the sooner he could begin to take stock of the state of his kingdom. But he had promised Aragorn that he would stay to see him crowned, and it seemed this could not be arranged at short notice; Éomer was stuck here for at least another two weeks.
Mundburg did have its attractions. There were one or two taverns that served tolerably good ale, and the landlords and patrons could not tell one Rider from another, so he could leave kingship behind for an hour or two and enjoy the evening with his friends; he could never be that anonymous at home.
Now that the members of the old steward’s court were returning, to form the court of the new king, there were many females all too happy to be friendly towards him; but he was well aware that anything more than a chaste kiss on the hand would be seen as tantamount to a proposal of marriage, and none of them appealed that much. He certainly had no time for courtship, and no wish to take a member of the Gondorian court back to Édoras to be his queen. Any such thoughts he may have had, fleetingly, at Cormallen were the result of too much wine. Definitely.
The attractions were outweighed, though, by having to watch Éowyn either making eyes at Faramir, or moping if Éomer insisted she spend her time with him, Éothain, and the other commanders.
‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘if Éothain wants to accuse anyone of moping it should be Éowyn, not me. I am completely over whatever fleeting attraction Imrahil’s daughter had for me.’
‘Then why are you avoiding meeting her?’ that small voice in his head muttered.
‘I am not,’ he answered it firmly. ‘I simply have other engagements.’
To which the small voice replied ‘Huh!’