Cushions

Imrahil knocked on the door to Lothíriel’s room. There was muffled sound from within, but the door didn’t open. He tried to open it but it was, clearly, bolted. He pursed his mouth and looked at Éomer and Hild.

“I don’t want to shout and make a fuss; at the moment her brothers are unaware of this… difficulty, and are socialising with Cena’s son and Éothain.”

Éomer still wanted to have a serious discussion with Éothain who, doubtless, would find out about this debacle soon enough. But just at the minute he wanted things sorted out. He wanted a bath, something to eat, and Lothíriel in his arms. And he still didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or shout loudly at someone over the way in which Lothíriel had got things so wrong.

“Let me,” he said.

He moved very close to the door and spoke, without shouting, but in a voice he knew carried well.

“Lothíriel. Open this door. I need to speak with you. I do not want to shout loudly enough to not only allow your brothers to listen in from downstairs, but also to disturb Cwenhild.”

He knew that was a rather unworthy thrust, but at the moment he would take any advantage he could.

After a pause, which he felt was plenty long enough for her to have crossed the room and open the door, he spoke again.

“Lothíriel, I have an axe, and Cena’s permission to simply break the door…”

He didn’t – but he knew he could, easily, have both within a couple of minutes.

Imrahil simply looked at him. But Éomer thought there was a glimmer of both admiration and amusement there. Hild’s grasp of the Common Tongue was not very good, which was doubtless part of the problem, but just at the moment Éomer didn’t care whether she understood or not.

This time there was the sound of the bolt being drawn and the door opened a little.

“Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”

He couldn’t see her through the crack in the door, but her voice wavered and he thought she might have been crying. It made him want to take her in his arms and comfort her, and to try to find someone other than himself to blame for upsetting her.

He was, however, a warrior and a man of action and so, whilst these thoughts flew through his mind, he inserted a foot into the space, put his shoulder to the door, and opened it.

He was right. She had been crying.

“GO AWAY!”

“Lothíriel,” her father said, “I do think you should listen to Éomer.”

“Short of putting my fingers in my ears, and singing loudly, it looks as if I have no choice!”

This spark of ‘his’ Lothíriel, despite her reddened eyes, made Éomer want to smile, but he thought it best not to do so. He moved into the room, followed by Imrahil and Hild, and nodded to their hostess to close the door.

Lothíriel stood her ground but refused to look at him.

He wanted to just yell at her “Look – this is what I was doing and why I was late,” but he had a feeling it might not be the best approach. He used, instead, the tone of voice he used with a frightened filly; calm but firm.

“Your father has told me what you have accused me of doing when I should have met you before you passed through The Paths under the mountain, and I can only say it is very, very, far from the truth. Imrahil tells me that Hild told you I had gone with my mistress to see her father. Lothíriel – will you tell me exactly what she said to you. Please?”

This time her head did come up and she glanced at him. He hoped what she saw convinced her that he really did care. She looked back at her hands, clasped together, and when she spoke her voice was flat.

“Lady Hild told me you had gone to Aldburgh with the Lady… Osdryth.”

Éomer nodded. So far he couldn’t see what the problem was.

“She said the two of you went together – to see her father.”

Lothíriel said that last bit in a rather accusing tone – he realised, now, where the possibility of his marriage to someone else had come from. Éomer himself had told her “it is our tradition in The Mark that a man and a woman who wish to wed go together to ask for the blessings of both families.”

It was a long way from the reality of the visit, though. And he still couldn’t understand why she would think he would want to marry Osdryth – or have her as a mistress for that matter.

“But – it was Osdryth,” he said out loud.

Lothíriel didn’t look convinced.

“You know… Osdryth,” he said again.

“No,” she said, “I do not know. Clearly you kept all mention of your mistress out of your letters.”

“But… why do you think Osdryth is my mistress?”

“Hild said she was. I asked ‘who is Lady Osdryth?’ And Hild said that Lady Osdryth had lived with you at Meduseld since Éowyn left, that she had moved there to be… something. She used a word I didn’t know. I told her I didn’t know it and she said clearly, in Westron, ‘Mistress’. So you cannot deny it.”

He couldn’t help it. He laughed. Imrahil and Hild (on whom much of the conversation had been lost, being in the aforementioned Westron) both looked at him in surprise. Lothíriel looked as if she might hit him. That was certainly better than her sitting crying.

“Hild,” Éomer said in Rohirric, turning to their hostess, “what did you actually say to my betrothed when she asked you where I was?”

Using the same tongue, she replied “I said you had gone with Lady Osdryth to see her father. But Princess Lothíriel didn’t seem to recognise the name and asked me who Lady Osdryth was.”

Then Hild looked at him as she used to when she caught him up to mischief as a boy. “Surely you told her that Osdryth was living at Meduseld?”

He thought he had.

“So I told her Osdryth was your hlæfdige since Éowyn left.”

“Hild – did Princess Lothíriel understand hlæfdige?”

He risked a glance at Lothíriel; he was sure that she was listening, and Imrahil would just have to cope.

“No… Cwenhild cannot have given her that word. Or in all the upset the Princess Lothíriel might have forgotten,” she added, as if defending her daughter from any criticism.

“So how did you explain?”

“I remembered enough of the Common Tongue to give her the word – but for some reason she seemed shocked.”

He was almost there now – he could feel and touch the answer – but he needed Hild to tell him.

“What Westron word did you use?”

This time Hild answered in that language. “Mistress.”

“Oh, Hild!” He continued in Rohirric. “In the Common Tongue ‘mistress’ can mean a woman who is kept by a man only for him to lie with her, without marriage, or outside his marriage! The word for hlæfdige is ‘chatelaine’.”

Hild, rather than looking guilty or worried, burst out laughing.

‘Like the mother, so the daughters,’ Éomer thought ruefully.

Imrahil had clearly got the gist from that last word, and Lothíriel looked… actually she looked upset, guilty, relieved, annoyed – he really wasn’t sure what she looked.

“So who is this woman that she is your chatelaine? And why would you put taking her to your old home ahead of coming to meet me?”

Actually, Éomer decided, angry might just have the edge. He was sure he had told her.

“She is my cousin. I am sure I told you my cousin – my father-sister-daughter who is a widow since her husband fell in Théoden King’s guard…” He was losing the point a bit, he realised. He rallied and began again. “Éowyn said she had told you our older cousin was coming to be the mistress of the household for me,” he finished slightly accusingly.

Lothíriel almost wailed, “She never told me her name Neither of you did!”

He felt a bit guilty now – but best to answer her last question.

“And how could I let her travel to Aldburg alone, or just take her there and then leave, when she had been called to my uncle Osulf’s sickbed?”

………………..

Lothíriel felt terrible. She had felt terrible before – but angry as well. Now she felt terrible and guilty. If only Éomer had just taken his cousin home (and why on earth hadn’t either he or Éowyn ever mentioned her name?), and then thoughtlessly stayed too long, she could have kept feeling angry. Actually she felt terrible, and guilty, and untidy, and hungry. And Father looked as if he was going to tell her off.

But before he got the chance Éomer stepped forward, gathered her into his arms, and held her. She could feel his cheek resting on the top of her head, and his tunic was crumpled against her own cheek, and he smelt of horses and sweat, and so must she and… But it didn’t matter. He was murmuring that he was sorry, although she wasn’t sure what for, and she was saying that she was, too. They might have stood like that for ages, Father and Hild forgotten, but Éomer’s stomach grumbled, and hers followed suit.

“Wash,” said Hild, looking at both of them. “Your maid is in the kitchen; I will send her up.” This to Lothíriel. “You can eat together.”

She somehow managed to chase both Father and Éomer out of the room, then turned back.

“Mistress!” she said in Westron. “Oh dear!” she added in Rohirric, laughed again, and was gone.

Lothíriel found herself laughing, too. Cwenhild and Cwengyth were very like their mother.

……………………

By the time Éomer had eaten, and had had a chance to speak alone to Éothain, the urge to shout very loudly at his friend and blame him for everything that had gone wrong had worn off somewhat. He was certainly not happy about the orcs. But he had to admit that, even had he been there himself, he would not have expected orcs to have entered the Paths of the Dead at all; there had been no sign of them doing so before. They must be more careful about messengers going through only one or two at a time in future.

He decided to tell Éothain himself about the misunderstanding that had almost broken his betrothal and sent Lothíriel back to Gondor; Éothain would find out some other way otherwise – he always did. As expected Éothain found it as funny as his law-mother did. It hadn’t been funny at the time. Imrahil had taken some convincing to even let him try to speak to Lothíriel despite this actually being Éomer’s kingdom.

Now the household was quiet. Even the men camped outside had mostly settled for the night, although there would be guards. Probably twice as many as usually after the orc incident. He had taken off his boots and his tunic, and was standing at the window in just his breeches, needing to sleep but with his mind too awake to let him.

If it hadn’t been so quiet he might not have heard the gentle knock at his door.

‘Éothain,’ he thought, ‘or a servant…’ but he picked up his sword by instinct before saying “Come in.”

He almost dropped it when Lothíriel, in a long white nightgown with her hair down, entered and shut the door behind her.

“I came to say I’m sorry for being silly,” she said. “I was not really thinking straight.”

Éomer wasn’t sure where to start. Well, part of Éomer thought the best place to start would be her mouth and then just work his way down, but the more sensible part was more undecided. Having learnt from Éowyn, and others, over the years he plumped for the simplest reply.

“I’m sorry too. I should have been with Éothain, to welcome you to your new land, Mðdleófu.”

Then he found he had inadvertently distracted her.

“I really like the way you say that,” she said, “it makes me go all mushy inside.”

“Mðdleófu” he said again, caressing each syllable with his tongue as if it was Lothíriel herself.

“Mmm…” She looked slightly flushed and took a step nearer.

Éomer’s more sensible part took over again.

“You really shouldn’t be here. What would your father say?”

“I won’t tell him if you won’t. This is the last room on the corridor, and mine is next to it… I don’t think anyone will hear us talking. Anyway – what could he do? Insist on you marrying me?”

“Woman, you are a temptation!” he said.

She giggled. “Your, no our, language is more romantic, but I think I like ‘woman’ as well.”

“I had better stick to the Common Tongue right now, then,” he replied, “but I will certainly remember to use Rohirric in our bedroom.”

This time she blushed. The less sensible bit of Éomer definitely wanted to take over now.

“I wanted to talk, too,” she said.

‘Bother’ answered that less sensible part – which was beginning to settle in his breeches.

“I… I have learnt a lot from Cwenhild.”

‘Good’, thought Éomer, ‘that was the idea.’

“I, em, I was worried that you might think me ugly when you saw the scarring from my, um, burns… and it would be too late for we would be married. Cwenhild was kind because she didn’t laugh at me, or be shocked that I had scars and tell me that you would certainly not want to… um… lie with me.’

‘Praise Béma for Cwenhild – well, for Éothain and Cwengyth suggesting her!’ thought Éomer.

He was about to reassure her, even though he had never thought of her accident scarring her, but she was still talking.

“She made me show her, then said there wasn’t much scarring and, anyway, you doubtless had worse ones. And I pointed out to her that I wouldn’t know anything about that until we were married. Then she said it was a pity Princesses of Gondor, even if they were marrying someone from the Riddermark, didn’t go bundling.”

“Oh?” Just at the moment Éomer couldn’t think of anything more sensible to say as he considered the implication.

“Cwenhild said she and Sighard had no worries about their wedding night because there was little left that they didn’t know about each other. And I thought… well, I wanted to say ‘sorry’ to you alone anyway, and I thought if I came to see you now it would be a bit like that.”

She looked at his bare chest. “Um – you don’t mind me being here do you?”

Éomer could think of a couple of reasons why he ought to say she shouldn’t be here.

“Mðdleófu” he said, then paused and looked straight at her. She blushed and he grinned. “I won’t ask to see your scars – much though I might want to strip your nightgown off you.”

She was blushing even more now, but she didn’t lower her eyes from his.

“But if you come closer you can see that Cwenhild was right and I have scars of my own.”

She closed the gap between them and he schooled himself to simply stand as she put a finger out to the puckered white mark below his collar bone.

“Arrow,” he said. “Dunlendings raiding to steal cattle.”

Next she traced a line across the flesh near his nipple. He steeled himself not to respond, but the nipple itself was determined to stiffen, and her finger began to drift towards it as if drawn by a magnet.

“Éothain,” he said, which had the desired effect, and she stopped her exploration and looked into his face with surprise.

“Practice sword, not blunt enough. We were fifteen and adjusting to our new strength.”

She nodded. “Erchirion has a couple from such incidents, too.”

“I have some more,” Éomer offered. “I still bear the marks of a hoof on my backside, and a crescent moon shape on my knee from falling from the roof of the stable block when drunk at twenty.”

This time she smiled, but continued to look at his torso, before reaching out a hand to touch a ragged scar, a little above the waist of his breeches, which continued down below it.

“Orc,” he said between gritted teeth, desperately trying to will his cock to behave itself. “Shallow cut with a knife, but no healer so one of the men stitched it.”

The ‘desperate willing’ was not working. And even in the fairly dim lamplight he was sure Lothíriel had noticed.

“My lady princess,” he said, “I am beginning to think you are trying to seduce me! I could take my breeches off and give you a clearer look… at the rest of the scar, if you want.”

She smiled and then giggled.

“Perhaps it would be best to leave the rest of that one, and the other two you mentioned, until we really are wed. Unless…” she faltered but then continued. “Unless you were to take me to your bed now, so that I would have no fears at all on our wedding night?”

He took her into his arms at last, buried his hands in her hair, and kissed her. She wrapped her hands around his neck and kissed him back.

Eventually he broke the kiss but kept his arms around her.

“Mðdleófu, oh woman… There is only one reason why I am saying no, even though you must know how much I want to sweep you up and carry you over there.” He indicated the bed, as yet untouched. “And that reason is nothing to do with honour, or your father and brothers, or any of those ‘proper’ things. Not even because our marriage bed will already be prepared with plenty of cushions.”

She laughed.

He brought a hand up to her face and held it so that he could look into her eyes. “I am saying no because I do not want to make love to you and then have to sleep in separate beds. I want to make love to you, sleep holding you, and wake up looking at you.”

“Oh.” A pause. “I think that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Better even than Alphros promising to save me from all the orcs in the world when he grows up.”

She brought her own hand up to his cheek, then tilted her head slightly and said, “Perhaps I should go back to my room. But it has worked, you know.”

“What has worked?”

“I know you truly have forgiven me for being so silly. And I’m really not worried about our wedding night now at all.”

She paused, but made no effort to move away from him.

“Miraina told me to eat plenty the evening before our wedding because I will probably be too nervous to eat much on the day. Now I think that although I might be nervous about our vows, in case I say something wrong, I won’t be nervous at all after that. Isn’t that good?”

It was. He decided to watch to see whether she really did eat properly at the wedding feast, though.

She lifted her face to be kissed again, he obliged, and then she was gone.

Éomer peeled off his breeches, lay on the bed, and thought ruefully that with any luck it might be the last night for some time where his own right hand would help him sleep.

……………………………

hlæfdige - mistress of the house, mistress over servants, chatelaine.
Mðdleófu - beloved