#lothriel: eomer (omniphrenia)

[melnchly-a]

@omniphrenia​ (EOMER!) said: “you are unexpected” to LOTHIRIEL!

          there is a difference between not expected and unexpected, a difference she notices only now. only when his voice says the words, when he’s looking at her. with his eyes and his voice and his words, it’s different. not expected would be one thing, unexpected is...quite another. the first had hints of not-wanted, not-anticipated, not-welcome, the other seems to speak of something quite the opposite. 

        funny, though, how she thinks she would know how to handle the first. faced with the reality of his unexpected, she finds herself rather at a loss. like suddenly the very floor has been swept out from underneath her, or like he expects an answer in a language she hasn’t quite mastered. not yet. 

           her head tips, inquisitive, grey eyes mastering the impulse to shyness enough to look up at him. the rest of those thoughts, the differences between one set of words and another, she tries to sweep from her mind. for all of those considerations of differences, she still isn’t sure she quite knows what he means. and all she can think about is what he could mean. “unexpected?” she says, tries to draw comfort, to draw stillness, from the sound of the sea just beyond these old, familiar walls. they pass a window and she stops, resting a hand on the sill as she turns her gaze out to the waves and the sky. “this is my father’s house, eomer, king of rohan.” a note of playfulness to the soft-pitched voice, grey eyes turning from the sea to look up at him again. “how could i be unexpected here?” 

MISC LYRICS : ACCEPTING

[melnchly-a]

omniphrenia​:

⪻ @melnchly​​ : lothiriel ⪼      —       plotted starter  

his head bows forward –yet again– as if beneath the burden of a heavy crown, in greeting to another passing courtier. none, however, can be found atop his head. he refuses to adorn one, for grief is far too fresh upon his mind akin to a bleeding, aching wound that cannot heal. such an act against his uncle, not yet entombed with their forefathers, would be heinous. almost a betrayal.

nonetheless, his people, specifically the counsel of elders, urge him to; he is the newly uncrowned king of the mark, and to cavort about without proper officiality is just as abhorrent to their traditional ways. a compromise then: his coronation is to be held after Theoden-King’s funeral. it is something the elders cannot readily balk at, and the least they can be patient for.

the amount of responsibility is daunting; however, the waiting is what ails him most. a rope steadily tightening upon his throat is the sensation he feels when he ponders over the prospect: he is not ready to be king. yet, he would not have another take his place. it is his right, even if the nonexistent heft of the impending crown is too much to bear at present…

sudden strumming strings of music interrupt his reverie.

standing between a pair of columns within the great hall, he shifts uneasily. stiff fabrics adorn his great frame; each stitch is elaborate and fetching to the eye - such flamboyancy is something he is unused to. the threading is soft and light against his skin, as if he wears a tunic spun from water. he is highly uncomfortable.

the proceedings of a great wedding feast carry on about him; his comrade in arms and the newly crowned king of the reunited kingdoms, Aragorn, sat captivated with his attention completely set upon his wife, Arwen. the sight of the pair inspires the beginnings of a smile to finally grace his lips.

hazel eyes dash away, taking in the courtiers cavort about the room. such festivities do little to distract him; in fact, he finds himself upon another battlefield… aside from their pressure to bear the weight of the crown, the elders’ constantly insisted before he left that he find a proper lady to settle with in the White City. the smile remains upon his lips, but lessens as pair of noble ladies giggle behind their fans at the sight of him. the king of a fell people he may be, but a king he still is… such women only want his title; it is easy to glimpse the greed within their pretty gazes.

taking a step back, Éomer maneuvers behind the pillar. he finds himself relaxing in his brief respite of solitude… however, the whisper of skirts upon the stone floor quickly rid him of it; another approaches from behind.

shoulders tense. his mouth is a thin line, set with derision as he pivots upon his heel. stress from everything within his life grasping for his throat and squeezing, and the appraising glances of the women about him, as if they were purchasing a stallion, rid him of all decorum. expression dour, he cannot help the vehement impatience that seeps into his tone, ❝  I must apologize, I am in no mood to sashay across the floor in dances I am unfamiliar with.  ❞ hazel clashes with gray. ❝  I insist you find another partner, my lady.  ❞ he all but spits her title out as if ridding himself of a disgusting taste.

          sheltered and protected she had always been, the youngest and the only princess in her family’s bevy of sons. a prince’s daughter, well-loved, ever-happy. and still, despite the title and rank to which she had been born, never had she been spoiled, never raised to expect from others the same behaviors some high-born ladies had been born to expect. (long had her father spoken mournfully of the ways in which the lord and ladies of gondor had made little kingships for themselves, dressed themselves in gems and titles in the absence of a king. (and all of this more important even than the fact that she had never liked the pull and tug of crowds, the endless repetitions of polite conversation that made her wish for nothing more than a quiet room, a book, a window-seat to curl up upon.) 

           all of which was but to say she did not know what she had done to so upset the king of rohan by a simple question, and the surprise and mild hurt of it shows in her eyes, replaced in a moment by a flash - - quick and bright as lightning on the sea - - of anger, there then gone. her father and her brothers had convinced her at last that she should ask the king of rohan to dance, had noticed how alone he seemed here on the fringes of the crowd. had known what loss and newfound responsibility had been set upon his shoulders, thought perhaps she (and how laughable this was, now!) could help him feel just a little less alone. it was the polite thing, the right thing, she was the closest thing that gondor had to a princess for so long, it was only fitting - - - that she should be the one to approach a new-made king. and all for this? 

          but she is her father’s daughter, and though something in her quails at the tone of his voice, her pride will not allow her to turn and flee the way her feet seem to wish. she is her mother’s daughter, raised to know each courtesy and each response. (and he, she reminds herself, is in a strange land beneath a strange new title, watching the wedding of a new king to a new queen, all beneath the shroud of loss and loss and more loss again.) 

            “i beg your pardon, éomer king,” she says, her voice all softness despite the strike to her pride. “i did not mean to cause offense in asking a friend of my father’s to dance.” (does he know who she is, she wonders now? does he know whose daughter she is? that her father is the man who had fought beside him beneath the banners of ship and swan?) she knows nothing of the ladies whose possessive gazes had found him, whose ambition had put more longing in them for crowns and titles than for anything else - - - she has the only title she has ever even thought to want, is not searching for another.) a pause as she considers him, shyness in her gaze when it turns away. “if you seek to find respite from the festivities, there is a garden hidden upon this level of the city. few go there, and you would be unbothered.”

[melnchly-a]

@omniphrenia​ (EOMER!)  said:  ❛ You are safer here. You should thank me for protecting you. ❜ to LOTHIRIEL!

            the swift arc of one dark eyebrow, the telltale press of her lips that means a smile comes next. and, indeed, there it is, small and soft and quiet. “oh, indeed?” she says, eyes narrowing as she looks up at him. (she had been so shy of him once! how strange it seems now, how far away.) “protecting me from what, eomer king?” all around them the festivities reel on, a celebration of the good harvest that had come that year, a celebration overflowing with ale and food and dancing, all loud voice and laughter. and she, though she would have soon retreated from it, had been in its midst until mere moments ago, dancing, until the music of one song had ended and she had been swept away before another could begin. - - - not that there is any complaint in her voice or in her eyes, or in the way she leans against his shoulder. “from my feet being stepped on by eothain?”