...His...

His
Chapter 04

I saw less and less of the Marshal during the spring and summer. Aldburg continued on as if nothing were awry. As promised, the carpenters rebuilt the stable, making my cow and ‘loaned’ farm horse very happy and comfortable. In fact, they enlarged the stable, making room for more livestock if I choose. Gossip filtered through the town that Théoden King was turning the day-to-day running of his hall and eventually the country over to his new advisor, Grima Wormtongue, much to the dismay of our Marshal. Éomer spent more and more time out in the countryside patrolling. The few nights he spent in my arms, he whispered that it was not Dunlendings they fought so much, but orcs.

“Orcs? But they are in Mordor, so far from here!”

“These orcs are different.” He pulled me in close to his body. This eve was one of those rare nights where we did not couple; he simply held me tight and desired for someone to listen to him. “They come from the north, are stronger, more blood-thirsty.” I gasped at that. Orcs from Mordor were blood thirsty enough. “Unless Théoden comes back to his senses, we will be overrun and over-taken.”

I did not wish to speak of battles or war. I simply burrowed in closer, trying to give comfort by my presence.

~~~…~~~

Another autumn, another harvest came and went. Aldburg’s storerooms were full, thanks to a plentiful season that kept me busy, however a darkening pall hung over the land. Seeing Éomer became an infrequent treat anymore; as rare as the small bit of coaco that I purchased from the merchant caravan for my tiny Yule festivities. This year, I bartered for more, hoping that we would celebrate Yule much as we had the previous year. I enjoyed his attentions, even though they were few and far between these days. Often times, he left me feeling like a rag doll, every muscle aching, yet feeling fulfilled and desired. I was scared to think far into the future: I had no idea if he had a love elsewhere and I was simply comfort here. I was afraid to ask, afraid to dream. My cycles came with the same steadfast regularity; although I admit I held my breath during the time of the moon it was due. What would happen if I came with child? Despite every effort, Irminric and I never conceived. Was the fault mine? So far, I had not been forced to discuss that with the Marshal.

Yule came and went. There were festivities again at the manor, but Éomer and his éored were not in residence and I did not feel right going there a stranger. Food and grain for the loaned farm horse continued to find its way to my stable and cold box; apparently he told someone to watch for me. More gossipy wenches were now speaking about me aloud, even within my hearing: Where is your lover now? What happens when he is gone? Do you think you are the only one?

“Who would take you to wive, now that you have been the Marshal’s whore?”

“Keep your tongue behind your teeth, you viper!” In all the years I knew Ábiterian, she was a nasty, sour girl and had grown to be an equally disagreeable and unpleasant young woman. “Do not blame me due to your lack of companionship!”

“Bicce!” Several people in the street stopped to watch our argument. It made me uncomfortable that we were the center of attention.

“Is there a problem, ladies?”

Both of us looked up at the tall rider on his horse. So angry was I, I did not see or hear the battalion come into the town. Éomer was in full battle leathers, his helmet with its long horsetail, dangling down his back. His éored came to a stop behind him. He leaned back, the saddle and his hand tooled hide armor creaking ominously.

“No sir.” Ábiterian mumbled. She dug her toe into the muddy snow, her shadowed look to me mutinous.

“Wudurose?”

I smiled up at him, feeling catty. “Can I expect see you at the ale house?” It was a favorite haunt for the two of us together. In a moment of bitter triumph, my grin became wicked. “Or should I anticipate you for dinner?”

He did not return my grin and it took him several moments to answer. Beneath his helm, he looked exhausted and I now regretted my very public and foolish request. This was a catfight between two equally armed opponents and he need not be dragged into it. “Aye. I will be down after I tend to Firefoot.” I nodded my head and in doing so, caught the look of pure hatred sent to me by Ábiterian. I turned and headed to my cottage as quickly as possible. My back was heated, as I felt every angry imaginary dagger that woman mentally threw at me.

The moment I entered my cottage, I lit every candle, every lamp. I put water on the fire to boil and dragged the washtub to the fireplace. In my root cellar, there were a few choice pieces from a hog that a neighbor had slaughtered and I put them on the spit to roast. I boiled potatoes, carrots, set out a small container of fresh butter I had churned this week, along with a bit of brown sugar and maple for the ham that I was turning on the spit. I filled the tub, pouring oils of sandalwood and pine.

He arrived within the hour. As I suspected, he was exhausted, every muscle dragging. I put him in the tub, fed him there, and massaged oils into every muscle I could reach. Eventually, we arrived in my bed with me straddled on his back, working more knots from his shoulders. There were injuries; cuts and I rubbed healing salves into them. As I worked the honeyed skin, I finally thought about what he did, what he went through, every danger he faced and it dawned on me how lucky I was to have him return to me each time.

“Why do you cry?”

I was startled out of my musings. “My lord?” Éomer was looking curiously over his shoulder. He flipped, impaling me fully and thrust up once. My hands went to his chest, to steady myself.

“My name is Éomer. I prefer you use it at all times, rather than my formal title. I like to hear you say it. Besides, we are too close for that. Now again, why do you cry?” His finger went to my cheek and he lifted the proof of my misery from it.

“You would think it silly, my… Éomer.”

He rolled me over, pining me to the bed. Both of my hands were clasped in his. “I will be the judge of what is silly. Why do you cry?”

I sighed deeply. “Because I am afraid. I am afraid you will ride off and not come back and I will be alone again.”

He stared at me for a long time, a muscle working in his jaw. With his knee, he spread me wider and sank in deeper. “You will be provided for, taken care of. I have seen to it.” He nuzzled the sensitive spot beneath my ear.

“Is that why food and feed mysteriously find their way into my home?”

“That is part of it, but not all.” He lifted his head and stared at me intently. “Why did the little sour-puss call you a bitch? What was the argument about?”

I swallowed hard looking for gentle words. “She is of the opinion that your standards for companionship are low.”

“And?”

He was persistent.

“She believes I am nothing more than a whore.”

“Are you?”

My jaw flapped. “Well… I…”

“Are you seeing anyone besides me?”

“No, my… Éomer.”

“Then,” and with this, he began that age-old dance he and I were perfecting, “you are not. Consider yourself well fed, secure, and watched over. She would do well to sweeten her temper as at this time, she is useless to even the most desperate of men.”

With that, we concentrated on more physical things.

~~~…~~~

I saw him often over the next few weeks. I noticed that he was withdrawn, quieter. Rather than talk, he wanted physical comfort. I had nothing against this; I rather enjoyed the physicality of our relationship. My sex life with Irminric had been comfortable, nice even, however it was predictable.

Sex with Éomer was not predictable. Ever. Every piece of furniture in my home, what few pieces there were, had a grand, sweaty memory attached to it now. We had sex laying down, sitting down, reverse positions, in the tub, standing up, on the table, in the chair, in the floor…

In the floor many times…

At times, I felt like a much twisted bread roll.

He talked of making love to me under the stars in the summer. He thought it would be great fun to go into my field in the rows of corn and make the stalks shake. He seemed to think we would scare the crows.

But more often than not, he was quiet. He would partake of my body and then rather than cuddle up, he would lay on his back, hands cupped behind his head while I rested. Many nights, I would awake to find him staring at the beams in the ceiling of my cottage.

After some weeks of this behavior, I ventured to get him to speak of what trouble him.

“You should not be burdened with my problems, my wild rose.” As of late, he had taken to calling me that, likening me to the wild briar roses that bloomed in the thickets and shade trees of Rohan.

“Your problems affect me, especially when they are so obvious.” I curled up next to him, playing with the carved emblem he kept on the rawhide around his neck. My thumb worried with the carving. “There was a time you talked to me, confided in me. Now I fear you are moving away from me, that you find me boring or uninteresting.”

He snorted through his nose, before looking at me in the dark. “Do you truly wish to know?”

“Aye.” I braced myself for the worst.

“Wormtongue has poisoned my uncle’s mind so that he does not recognize me as his kin.”

“Éomer, that is ridiculous! He knows your mother-“

“He does not know who I am. He does not know who his son is, who his heir is. He is aware of Éowyn’s presence, but he doesn’t recognize kin or friend. No one gets near him, save through Grima and Grima lets no one near him. We worry the King with our tales of war-mongering, of hate. We are not being attacked by orcs or Dunlendings; rather his is a troubled mind, it is all in our heads. We should not bother him with triflings.” Éomer slung his head the other way, discontent clearly seen in his profile. “Théodred has taken command of the army, but I fear Grima is in league with Saruman.”

“I thought Saruman was our friend.”

Éomer’s mouth was in a hard, grim line. “This Saruman is not. I have killed orcs with his emblem on their armor.” He snarled, fury radiating through his body. “He stirs up the Dunlendings, tells them we will burn them alive and steal their lands. Our allies are no longer our allies. I have no idea who our friends are. The Riddermark is changing, shrinking. We owe allegiance, our very soil, to the King of Gondor, yet there is no king, only a steward who is bitter and greedy. The world is changing and I am at a loss on how to stop it.” He turned back to me with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Come. I would rather enjoy my time with you, than talk about war and uncertainty.” I knew nothing else but to accept him as he came.

Ten days later, Théodred, heir to the king of Rohan, was killed at the Fords of Isen. The world was changing and war had come to the Riddermark.

~~~…~~~