#eadrg

HER HEAD TILTS, AMBER GAZE UNRELENTING IN HER STARE, already lost to the vision before her ― AN ADONIS, crowned in strength and beauty... eyes linger upon his form, lips pursing as imagination runs wild ― liberated from the bore of formalities, and thrown atop his horse... his skin bare for lips to explore as wind combs through strands of ebon silk, ‘til passions grow and her back is nestled into the soft lush of rohan’s rolling fields, and her king -- plucked from the princess’ fantasy, is her own to claim...

tongue peeks for a hungry taste, wishing -- longing for something sweeter than the wine wetting her lips as attention is finally gained -- lifted from the clouds of her daydreams as father and guests stand to make their leave. her head turns to watch their departure, awaiting the heavy thump of a closing door before gaze would return to the man at fault for her distraction. a subtle smile -- more smirk than a simper and shaped in sin.    ❛  alas --  ❜    she starts, mischief blooming beneath her ample breast, dressed in silk and jewels, a princess as bright as the dornish sun itself; legs cross, tender thigh resting atop her knee, reaching across for her near emptying  glass.    ❛  -- we are alone.  ❜

      ❛   i found no reassurance in the walls of our own home.   ❜   there had been much time between the departure of her brother and the arrival of gandalf the white.   for too long had the darkness consumed her uncle and had taken over her life,   her thoughts.   she knows he had been banished   . . .   and yet.   grima had been present long before she had ever seen him come at odds with her brother.   ❛   you may have face battle on the field.   i have faced the darkness every day from the confines of meduseld.   ❜

      the look she gives him is almost sharp : close as she ever comes to it, at least, and she shakes her head as she inspects those cuts with gentle fingers. “and yet they were bleeding recently, i would imagine,” she says, turning away only long enough to fetch the bowl of warm water and the cloth she had set aside. she perches beside him, tries to ignore the hammering pound of her heart at feel of simple nearness - - - the warmth that emanates from his skin, the scent of the air and grass upon his clothes. it is a studious gaze that avoids his eyes, focuses on the cuts instead, on the gentle and familiar motion of cleaning them. (how often had she cleaned her brother’s wounds, when he had come back from some late-night sea excursion, scratched on rocks or from some other misadventure? ....though the feeling then had been much different.) “....do they hurt you?” she asks at last, chancing a quick glance up at him - - - one that reveals silver-grey eyes made liquid-soft in concern, and the rose-colored blush beneath the skin. 

      she has grown used to the way celebrations here turn raucous - - - it no longer makes her feel like running from the noise, the laughter, the flowing ale. she is no guest here, she is home. she is the queen, and their celebrations are hers. different as they are from the celebrations of gondor, she lets them wrap around her, now : all that noise is merely joyful abandon, and there is so much that is beautiful in it. but she is not quite used to the abandon of affection given so much in public, and so lets out a little startled yelp when her husband reaches for her as she passes....yet she is laughing once he settles her upon his lap. laughing and blushing at the sudden nearness even now, cheeks glowing coral pink beneath the skin. “hello,” she says, loud enough for only him to hear her, wraps an arm around his shoulders. shows no signs of even the thought of moving. “have you truly missed me so much? i was but half a room away.”

oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy okay. gonna run wild and just do this according to our initially political match plotting:

like éomer, the first time that she sees him is during the coronation and the next is at faramir and éowyn’s wedding. she notices him, of course, and thinks he’s hansome. but the drinking and the rowdiness in the rohirric celebrations take her a little by surprise. all she really knows of him are stories told by her father and her brothers, including eomer’s almost bloodthirsty ferocity on the battlefield, shouting death, running headfirst into hopeless odds, etc. she’s a little intimidated by it all, and it makes her shy around him. any interactions they may have had in that time period are brief and polite and very formal : her father making introductions, for example. 

when her father begins to speak of arranging a marriage between them, lothiriel is hesitant at first. cautious. but by now she has heard other stories of éomer, stories that go beyond his shouts of “death!” upon the battlefield. she knows that he is a good man, and that his land is in need of help, and that a match between them would certainly be smart. so she agrees to consider it, if éomer agrees, and her father sends the suggestion. (she trusts her father completely, and trusts his judge of character. if he believes it is a good match, she’s certainly willing to consider it.) 

when éomer comes to dol amroth to settle the matter of the betrothal, her impressions of him begin to change. it isn’t difficult to see that he is a good man, that he would treat her well, that the match truly is a good idea. her opinion of him is sealed when he lets her know he would not go through with it if she did not like the match. it’s at that moment that she knows, knows, that she’s going to accept. 

after they’re wed, it still takes her a while to get used to him. rohan is very different, he’s different in his ways and manner than anyone she has ever known, and she’s a little shy for the very beginning of their marriage. but over and over again he treats her so well and so gently that she begins to trust him easily. and after she begins to trust him, it is easy for him to grow to like him enormously….and then, from there, it’s a very quick fall into love. and when she does fall, she falls hard. (lothiriel doesn’t do love by halves. she doesn’t know how.) 

even after she falls in love with him, though, she isn’t really sure how to say it. éomer is the first man she has ever truly fallen in love with, and she’s a little bit frightened by it. most of all, she’s frightened about what would happen if she told him and he didn’t love her. if he was only treating her well because he was good and would have treated anyone as well. and while she’s more open with him, more easily affectionate (taking his hand, touching or kissing his cheek, etc) she probably starts to seem? a little skittish? stopping herself from saying things, etc. once they both admit how they feel, though, that pretty much disappears entirely. 

       she had always thought the songs and stories silly, when they spoke of love. how could a heart flutter? how could someone’s simple touch send the whole world spinning? but now she can barely breathe because his eyes are molten-warm and right there, so close she could just melt into them. so close that she can barely look away, unless it is to glance at his mouth. fingers tremble as they alight upon his shoulders, breath coming more quickly between slightly parted lips. it is a strange feeling, this wanting. the feeling of being caught between two natural inclinations: to dive headfirst into the pull of it, or to fly. but, oh, she doesn’t want to fly. she wants to be here, to dive into whatever comes next, let the tide of it wash over her. so as his head dips closer to hers, she tips hers toward him, eyes fluttering shut as his lips press gently - - - so gently! - - - to hers. as though one kiss too hard and she will dissolve into sea-mist, be pulled away by the breeze. she nearly melts against him instead, gives herself over to the warmth and the breathlessness. he pulls away before she is ready, and it takes a moment longer for her eyes to flutter open again, to meet his with a wide-eyed, half-stunned wonder. and....curiosity, and desire, and affection, and half a million other things swirling beneath the calm grey of them. where does she find the bravery to lift her hand to his hair, to thread her fingers with the strands just above his ear? where does she find the bravery to only step closer though he had pulled back? to lift herself onto her toes until their noses brush, until his lips are but a hair’s breadth from hers again. and, this time, it is she who kisses him.