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CHAPTER 11

Confession

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The following morning Faramir awoke with the sun, though it had not been long since the feast had finally ended. Éowyn soon stirred at his side, and though she woke she drew nearer to him. “Faramir,” she murmured sleepily, “can you not tell the sun to go away?”

He laughed softly, slipping his arms around her. “Nay, my love, I fear I cannot,” he replied. “Perhaps we could lie abed until the sun has made his circuit once more.”

She nuzzled her nose against his cheek, drawing a contented sound from him. “Nay, my lord, I fear you cannot,” she said with a sigh. With that she sat up, holding the bedclothes over her body. Faramir soon snatched them back from her, as the morning was rather chilly, and before long the two were playfully wrestling over the covers and becoming warm enough that the blankets were hardly necessary.

The match ended with Faramir pinning his wife under his weight and Éowyn kissing him soundly. Yet before things progressed much further, there was a knock on the bedroom door. “My lady?” came Mithlomi’s voice.

“She will not enter unbidden,” said Faramir, kissing the hollow of Éowyn’s throat.

Despite the shudder that traced through her with the intimate touch, Éowyn frowned. “Something is wrong,” she said. “She did not sound well.”

Faramir needed no encouragement. He rolled off her, letting Éowyn rise, robe herself, and slip away to the door. Behind it stood Mithlomi, unusually pale, her eyes bloodshot. “Mithlomi,” said she, “are you unwell?”

“No, milady,” said the maid. Then she looked to the ground. “Yes.”

Tenderly Éowyn touched the girl’s cheek, and then her forehead. “You are too warm,” said Éowyn. “Far too warm. Would you like to lie down for a little while?”

Indecision filled Mithlomi’s features for a moment. Then she nodded. “Yes, my lady.”

The handmaiden curtseyed and went her way, one hand on her forehead as she left. Éowyn was still frowning as she turned around. Faramir had turned onto his back, clearly still exhausted, but he opened his eyes and looked over at her. “Where is Mithlomi?” he asked.

“I sent her back to bed,” said Éowyn. “She has a fever.”

“Will you call for one of Arwen’s maids?” Faramir asked, as they were staying with the king during this brief visit to the City.

Éowyn shook her head. “No, I believe I can manage for one morning.”

And she did. Both she and her husband were among the first to arrive for breakfast that morning, and they conversed quietly with Imrahil while the others made their way into the king’s private dining room. Lothíriel slipped into the room just after Aragorn, still pinning up a stray lock of hair. “Good morning, cousin,” said Faramir. “Did you sleep well?”

She mostly ignored Faramir, turning her attention instead to Éowyn. “I hope celebrations in Rohan do not last so long as this one did,” she said.

“No, cousin,” Éowyn replied, “they last longer.” The younger woman’s eyes widened, and Éowyn glanced at Faramir. “The feast on our betrothal did not end until dawn.”

“And life resumed its business at dawn,” Faramir interjected. “I believe there were a great many guards yawning that day.”

Lothíriel shook her head and took her seat across the table from her father. Then there was only one chair remaining, and it was at the princess’s left hand, between her and King Elessar. The door opened one last time, and Éomer entered the room.

At first glance Éowyn thought perhaps that Mithlomi was not the only one who had fallen ill since the feast. His countenance was grave, and while his appearance was impeccably neat, he looked as though he had had no sleep at all. “Brother,” said Éowyn, “are you well?”

The man’s eyes moved around the room, lingering on anything but Lothíriel and the empty chair beside her. “I neither know nor care, Éowyn,” he replied, much to the sister’s confusion.

By the look on her face, Lothíriel was as perplexed at his answer as were the rest. “My lord, will you not sit?” she asked, gesturing to the chair.

“I will not.”

An awkward silence fell, and Éowyn saw that Lothíriel’s pale face was reddened with mild anger. “If you have found more favorable company, Éomer—”

“Do not address me so informally, woman.”

At that, Imrahil stood abruptly. “You have crossed a line there, friend.”

“No, Prince, it is you who has crossed a line,” Éomer replied, “for you would have sold this woman to me as you would a fine jewel.”

By then Faramir had stood as well. “Sold her?” said Imrahil. “Is her dowry not generous enough? Is the greatest beauty Dol Amroth can offer insufficient? Is her love freely given now repugnant?”

Éowyn watched as her brother’s eyes finally rested on Lothíriel. There was fury in his eyes as he looked upon her, and Éowyn shuddered. She had never before seen her brother so angry, yet she did not understand the cause for it. “Yes, her love is freely given,” he said, “apparently to more men than me.”

“Éomer,” said Faramir, “of what do you accuse my cousin?”

“This is not your concern, brother,” the king replied, his eyes still on Lothíriel.

“Perhaps not, but it is mine,” said Imrahil. “Will you not explain yourself?”

“Perhaps it is not I who should explain, but Lothíriel.”

The princess’s expression had returned to puzzlement. “I know not of what you speak, my lord,” she replied. “You are my betrothed.”

“And I am not the first man who has held that distinction.” Éomer narrowed his eyes as Lothíriel stood at last. “How many have?”

Her face was flushed. “One other,” she said, slowly and softly. There was a note of fear in her voice, so subtle that Éowyn did not at first recognize it. “I did not love him.”

“Then you have a precedent of betrothing yourself to men without caring for them,” said Éomer.

“It was during the War—”

“Does that excuse it?” Éomer demanded.

“Lord Nadroth ended it, not me!” she cried. “I would have done my duty and married him, but he released me.”

“You would have married without love, and you would do so now!”

“No!” Éowyn watched in horror as her cousin’s face displayed a mixture of fear, anger, and confusion at once. “Why speak you thus, my lord? What offends you?”

“What man spoke with you in the king’s garden last night during the fourth watch?”

Lothíriel looked back at him in disbelief. “I spoke with no man in the garden.”

In a voice which chilled Éowyn to the bone her brother replied: “You lie.”

At last Imrahil interceded again. “You test my patience, horse-lord,” he said. “My daughter’s honor needs no such interrogation.”

“Then you do not know your daughter, Prince.” His eyes were steady on Lothíriel’s face. “What man spoke with you?”

“None!” she cried. “I did not even enter the king’s garden!”

“Éomer,” said Éowyn, finding an opportunity to speak, “what cause have you to doubt her word?”

“Because I have the proof of my eyes,” he replied. “She left the assembly, and when I found her again, I found her in the arms of this Lord Nadroth.”

“Lord Nadroth has left the City,” said Aragorn, speaking at last. “You must be careful, Lord Éomer, of this accusation. It is most serious, and your proof is tenuous at best.”

“You doubt what I saw, my lord?” he asked.

“No more than I doubt the word of a young woman who has never proven false or duplicitous,” he replied. “Yet there is no small discrepency here. One at least must be mistaken.”

Yet these words did not allay Éomer’s ire. He turned back to Lothíriel. “Do you love him yet?” he asked.

“I never loved him,” Lothíriel replied, seeming on the verge of angry tears.

“Yet with my own eyes I saw him take you in his arms and kiss you,” he replied bitterly. “And you let him.”

Horror filled her face. “My lord, I swear to you on my honor as a—”

“Do not swear!” cried Éomer. “Do not swear to me on your honor! I know not what honor you possess!” At last he stormed around the table and stood a pace from her. “Do not swear to me that you were not there. I saw you.”

“Then you saw wrongly, my lord!” she replied.

“He called your name, and he kissed you.” He raised his hand, and for a horrified second Éowyn thought he would strike Lothíriel. But instead he cupped her cheek and brushed his thumb against her lips. “To think that I have tasted of these lips,” he said. “How many others have?”

“None, my lord,” she protested.

“You lie.” He pushed her away and turned from those standing around the breakfast table. “I loved you!” he cried, more out of anguish than anything else Éowyn could detect. “I would have made you my queen, and I would have regretted it.” He turned back to face her. “Would I have wondered at your long absences? Would I have known the children you bore were not mine?”

“Éomer!” cried Éowyn, Faramir, and Imrahil at once at this accusation.

“Silence!” he roared, standing so close and so tall over Lothíriel that she seemed to shrink before their eyes. He shook his head. “You have the beauty of the Elves, but the wantonness of a wild beast. If I cannot trust you to keep your lips for me, I cannot trust you for anything else.” And Éomer’s eyes grew dark. “And I will not bed a woman who is no better than a common whore.”

And he stormed out of the room. Faramir and Imrahil tried to restrain him, but it was to no avail. He pushed both aside with ease and left, leaving a room of shocked people in his wake. Lothíriel sank into her chair, and Éowyn knelt before her. “Cousin,” she began, “have you any explanation?”

“I did not even speak with Nadroth last night,” she whispered. “I avoided him.”

Imrahil, still reeling from the argument, leaned forward and supported himself with his palms on the table. “Why did you leave the assembly?” he asked.

“A — someone spilled wine on my gown,” she managed. “I had to change my clothes.”

“Did anyone accompany you?” Aragorn asked quietly.

“No.”

“Then you have no proof to counter his,” said Faramir, returning to the group at last.

“This is not like him,” Éowyn murmured. “He has always been quick-tempered, certainly, but to make an accusation like this? It is not like him.”

Lothíriel raised her hand to her brow. “I had not told him,” she said. “I had not told him of Nadroth, and now he will not trust me.”

“I know my brother,” said Éowyn, rising. “His temper is quick, and if he believes himself wronged, he will dwell upon it and make the matter worse with his constant thought on it.”

“As he has done with me,” Lothíriel replied, her face set in a shadow of Éomer’s anger. “I have given him no cause to think me capable of this.”

Faramir touched her shoulder. “We believe you, cousin, but unless you can explain what he saw, he will not.”

“I know.” And she rose at last, gracefully, but with a weariness she could not hide. “I shall retire to my chambers to think of what I shall do. Please excuse me.”

With that she left, and those who remained gathered back for a meal taken in silence.

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With Éomer’s accusations still fresh in her mind, Lothíriel did not return to her chambers as she had planned. Instead, her feet carried her to the stables, though she knew it was a bad idea.

He was there, a fact which was hardly surprising. In the course of their short acquaintance, she had learned that he would often visit his horses in times of trouble. It had been a mistake coming here, she knew, but once there, she could not leave. She watched him with Fleetfoot, who recognized his master’s distress and rubbed his nose against Éomer’s cheek. Then the horse saw her and whinnied. Vainly Lothíriel tried to hide herself, but she was not quick enough.

To her surprise, Éomer’s voice was weary as he spoke, though drenched in annoyance. “Have you come to torment me more, Lothíriel?” he asked.

“Is my presence necessary for that?” she replied, tentatively. “It would appear that last night, it was not.”

He seemed much calmer, but Lothíriel yet kept her distance. “I know what I saw, lady.”

“And I know what I did.” Across the stable he looked up, and their eyes met. “I did not drink so much wine last night that I would forget my own actions.”

“Nor did I drink so much wine that I would imagine such a thing.”

A long pause followed, and when Lothíriel did speak again, she chose her words carefully. “No matter what you choose to believe,” said she, “you are the only man who has known the touch of my lips. Was that not clear when first you kissed me?”

“I know not what to trust in you,” he replied, crossing the length of the building to stand before her.

“Then I cannot sway you.” She looked into his eyes, hoping that he would see that she told the truth. “I love you yet, Éomer, son of Éomund,” she said, her voice filled with sorrow. “Yet I cannot have a husband who will not trust me. And you will not trust that I am blameless.”

“I will not have a wife whom I cannot trust,” said Éomer in reply.

“Then it is best we learned this now.” Then, quite suddenly, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his in a gentle kiss. He did not recoil, much to her surprise. When she drew away she did not look at him, but turned away and left the stables.

To her chamber she retreated, and none saw her for the rest of the day. Then after the sun had set, she slipped out of the king’s house, cloaked and hooded, to the stables once more. Though the night was dark, she saddled her horse and rode away, and alone she returned to Dol Amroth.