GUILT.

The king of Rohan strode with purpose down the corridor to his bedchamber, lips set, brow furrowed. He reached out a hand to the closed door which would take him into the royal apartments. Suddenly his hand froze upon the latch, he held his breath feeling his heart leaping wildly. A long low cry of pain drifted through the two heavy wooden doors, a seemingly impassable barrier between himself and his queen.

Eomer ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, and was just about to retry  infiltrating the room from which he had been banned for the last Bema knew how many hours, when a louder, longer cry came from his wife’s lips. This was followed by a sob, and the dull murmur of the women who were in attendance. He swallowed and did something he had never done in his life before….he retreated.

On his third step away from the room, a loud voice seemed to follow him, almost as if its owner had known he were there.

A string of colourful Rohirric expletives could be heard from their chamber.

He smirked a little in shock, astonished that his gentle wife would use or even know such Rohirric words, and not only that but she spoke them with perfection, and with much vehemence.

Guilt hit him hard, as hard as the newly fletched arrow rushing from the bow to seek its prey. And not for the first time he had felt this….

7 months earlier.

Once the news that the Queen was with child hit the city of Edoras, the ecstatic tidings spread to the entire country quickly, and it would seem that all took pride in the forthcoming event.

Eomer, proud and a little unsure of the pending months, tried unsuccessfully to wrap his pregnant wife in down. Lothiriel skilfully evaded such, but unfortunately her early elation was to be short lived.

Every morning, Lothiriel felt wretched and miserable, and even as Eomer watched with joy as her belly swelled with his child. He could not help the fear that crept over him when he saw her pale tired face

And her poor husband could only watch and wait, holding her hair out of the noxious liquid and trying to soothe her without much success. It seemed to Eomer that his wife was expelling more nourishment than she was imbibing. And try as he might, he could not calm the sobs of frustration that poured from her each day. He had never felt more helpless in his entire life.

 His warrior training had not prepared him for days like these. In battle he had control, he could issue orders, make plans and fight with all his skill and strength, knowing that at the end, defeat was what the enemy had to contend with while he would be victorious. He abhorred not being in control and despite being king he could not stop or order a cease to these unhappy mornings.

He felt a great pang of guilt that he was the cause of the misery that his beloved wife was afflicted with. It was he who had planted his seed within the passionate throes of their love-making, his fault that she woke every morn to sudden and heartbreaking retching. He had never known Lothiriel to be brought so low, and her tears of frustration and fear cut into him like a knife...and it seemed to go on for weeks ’til Eomer was almost in despair.

A sudden slap on his shoulders caused the king to spin round with such ferocity that he nearly lost his footing.

Eothain stood there holding a large mug of ale. “Majesty,” he coaxed, “Come and drink, ‘twill do you no good with all this fretting.”

The king’s chief captain and long time friend placed one hand upon the shoulder of his liege lord, and held out a large frothy tankard towards him.

Eomer smiled and ran his fingers through his hair with renewed desperation. Eothain moved not and eventually the offered ale was accepted by a unnaturally shaky hand

“How much longer, Eothain,” the king repeated, still with a frown upon his brow.

“All will be well, majesty,” answered Eothain with much laughter, attempting to lead his king away from the end of the hall, away from the royal bedchamber where Lothiriel was abed in the throes of labour with their first- born child.

Other lords and captains called their king to table with them. Ale was rife and Eomer sat down and sighed. He sipped hesitantly, not wanting to be too drunk when the time came, but wanting something to relieve his worries of the moment.  Tales were related with great gusto, jests spoken with hilarity and songs rang out to soothe the spirit.

Eomer succumbed with weary lethargy to his men, and allowed himself for once, to be the butt of their japes and teasing. Near all with him that day had sired a child and had gone through similar helplessness and guilt.

4 months earlier.

As Lothiriel’s pregnancy progressed Eomer had learnt to read her mood swings, which could alter by the hour. He never failed to tell her of his love and pride, but as her belly grew ever bigger he worried over their intimate moments and even tried to broach the subject saying he would find another chamber ‘til she was delivered of the babe. This news hit her hard, and as the tears fell he apologised profusely, stating it was not because he loved her...he but worried for the babe, and for her health.

As she lay in his arms that night, he felt her hands begin to wander and she trailed kisses down his chest and onto his lower abdomen. He gasped as she stroked him.

“The midwife says all will be well beloved,” she whispered huskily, for a few weeks longer…” she broke off and held her breath, ”That is if you desire me still.”

“Desire you,” Eomer growled back, “How could I not beloved, but…are you sure?”

“Oh yes,” Lothiriel giggled, ”I have heard of quite a few ways….” And she proceeded to show him.

Another two hours passed and still no word from the chamber. A cold dread fell upon the king. The last queen to deliver a babe in that very bed had been Elfhild, nigh half a century ago…Eomer stood abruptly, trying to forget that the birth of his much loved cousin caused his mother her death in childbirth. All this happened long before Eomer was born, but every one knew the tale of his aunt and the grief of Theoden King.

“I need some air,” he announced to no one in particular and without a backward glance he strode out of the hall, to stand upon the courtyards of Meduseld and inhale the freshness carried on the wind. There was a chill in the air that mid-day the wind blew from the mountains. Spring would not be long. The snows had melted, and the land would soon be reborn within a sea of green pastures, and all looked forward to this new season of life.

Eothain had risen to follow his king, but marshal Elfhelm gently restrained him. “Leave him for the moment, Eothain,” he said. “Sometimes even a king needs to be alone.” He smiled at the captain and then both men beckoned a page for more ale, although they both kept glancing to the door from which their liege lord had departed.

2 months earlier.

Many celebrations were to be held in Rohan for the New year. This would be a time of thanks, for peace was now upon the lands. A young king sat upon the throne and was adored by all. And before the spring would see an heir born to the house of Eorl. It was indeed a time of joy.

Eomer waited in his anteroom for his wife to finish her adornments. She was now heavy with child and her movements and rest were sorely disturbed by the activity of the babe she carried in her swollen belly. In fact, Eomer thought wryly, when almost being kicked nightly out of his own bed by his unborn child.

Lothiriel was a beautiful woman and her advancing pregnancy did noting to deter that in the eyes of her husband. Secretly he found her rounded belly quite sensual, but lately had had to curb his desires as his wife was feeling none too comfortable and had firmly put a stop upon any intimacy until after the birth.

He knocked at the door and entered when bidden. The queen stood before him, a vision in green and gold. He held his breath and smiled. “You are beautiful,” he sighed, “Simply the most lovely woman I have ever seen.”

“Huh,” she remarked waddling round the chamber to find her shawl.

The minute he saw her face, however, he knew that Lothiriel was in no mood to be receptive to sweet talk. Her spirits had often been low, the more she neared her time, and he found it difficult to lighten her downcast mood

Lothiriel spun round, “How can you say so…I am just a great fat lump…” she sobbed, hands pointing down to her girth and trying to walk with as much dignity as her belly would let her out of the chamber to cry out her frustrations.

“Sweetling,” protested Eomer, as he easily caught up with her and tried to take her in his arms.

“Leave me be,” She struggled with not much conviction and he easily held her with a gentle and tender touch. Soon she relented and laid her cheek upon his chest whilst he stroked her hair and tried to comfort her with soothing words.

“I meant not to upset you, my beloved, I know you grow weary as your time nears. Come, if you want not to attend this night, ‘twill be no matter. We can stay here and rest. No one will mind. We shall not be missed,” Eomer whispered with love.

Feeling her relax within his embrace he felt relief when she in turn wrapped her arms around him and her weeping ceased. Lothiriel shook her head, ”Nay husband mine, we will attend,” she insisted with a determined expression. “ I would not have the people think that there is dissent between us.” She raised her head up to look at her husband and he wiped the trace of tears from her eyes. “I love you,” she said simply.

“And I you,” answered the king as he bent his head to brush her lips with his own, “We shall only stay a short time,” He said with firmness and as he felt her lean heavily on him he finally realised the weariness of his wife and berated himself internally for dismissing it as a mood and for not noticing it sooner.

Eomer sighed and leant back against the wall, rubbing his hands over his face in frustration. He wanted a child…his country needed an heir…but at what cost?

He knew only too well that the bearing of children had cost many a woman her life and had left in its wake older motherless siblings and a bereft and heartbroken husband. There were a couple of riders in his Eored who had suffered so. He remembered being sympathetic with them and uttering the correct responses….but he was then young and had not been so utterly in love with a woman as to  know what he would do should she be taken by death.

Since his marriage to Lothiriel he had been happier than he ever thought to be. Her simple presence in his life gave him great joy and comfort…and when she yielded her body to him he was complete. Could he ever learn to live again…to breath again should her life-force be spent in producing an heir for Rohan? Guilt coursed through him again as he berated himself for his needs.

A cough interrupted his thoughts. A page stood before him a little uneasy at disturbing his king. “Majesty…” he ventured.

“What news,” barked the king, making the lad jump with fright.

 “M..Majesty…a party of riders approaches Edoras…”

“Well, what of it,” replied Eomer impatiently.

The lad gulped again, “They bear the banner of Dol Amroth.”

“Dol Amroth,” muttered the king, “It must be a delegation from the prince, come to attend the…the birthing.”

And so Eomer departed Meduseld to greet the oncoming riders and was not surprised to see Prince Imrahil himself, come to attend and visit with his daughter.

Both men met formally and then wrapped their arms around each other to embrace. Imrahil was about to inquire where and how his child was when he saw the raw emotion in Eomer’s eyes.

“When did the labour start?” Imrahil asked with a sudden grim expression, his face now set after the cheery welcome.

“ In the dead of night my lord,” Eomer replied in a soft voice tinged with worry as the noon bell rang out,” And near a full day…”

“Then we shall drink to the impending birth, lad,” Imrahil clasped the king of Rohan round the shoulders and steered the younger man back into the busy halls.

The baggage from Dol Amroth had been stowed way in guest chambers and after a quick drink Imrahil retired albeit briefly to wash and change after the dusty ride. Soon he was back at Eomer’s side to offer the comfort and right words that only father of four could give.

Soon the men from both countries were mixing well and relating to each other tales and events of which had happened since the war. All were interested in the treaties that were forming with some of their past foes, with not a little doubt over the proceedings.

A sudden figure at the end of the halls interrupted Eomer from the tales from which he was only half listening out of politeness. He stood abruptly, almost spilling his ale as he realised it was Freadlyn, skilled midwife of Edoras. He paled and his stance brought a sudden silence as all looked as to what their king was so rapt in attention of. He felt a hand on his shoulder, Imrahil, he thought, or was it Elfhelm?

The stout figure of the midwife beckoned to Eomer, but his feet seemed unable to move, and his knees felt like jelly.

“Go on, son,” Imrahil whispered, grinning broadly, “Go to her, and greet your babe.” Eomer set off at a quick dash, to the amusement of all.

More ale was called for at the kings’ departure and pending reappearance, and Imrahil was toasted as father of the Queen of Rohan.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Eomer approached the midwife. “Is..is all well…” he stuttered.

Freadlyn smiled at her king, “Aye, Majesty. All is well. The Queen would like to see you.”

She turned to move away and Eomer could only follow, although he knew not what to say to his wife, what comfort to give her and how he would feel when confronted by his newborn babe. Growing up in a time of war, children had held no part in his life. His peers had young ones and many of his men had wed and in due course their wives had borne them children…but he had only looked in awe, had never known the deep love that only comes with holding your child in your arms. His mind had dwelt over this during the preceding months. He was a warrior; death was metered out through his skill and strength of arms. How was he to cope with a helpless babe, how would he even hold him, let alone love him?

The inner doors to the royal bed-chamber opened before him. The maids were scuttling about at the far end of the room, his wife’s ladies casting many a smirk his way as they quickly left, bobbing quick curtsies and giggling as they left.

The slight figure in the large bed caught his eye. Lothiriel. She lay back on the plump pillows, her face blanched and pale telling him of her pain and exhaustion ere she even spoke. He walked to the bedside and gingerly sat beside her. She opened her eyes and smiled with weariness. He could see the extreme tiredness that assailed her.

Freadlyn approached the bed and handed Lothiriel a small wrapped bundle.

“Your son, my king,” Lothiriel said with weary pride, watching her husband closely, holding the babe out for him to acknowledge.

Eomer gasped and held out his arms to take the babe from his mother. He was awkward with the act but under his wife’s tutelage was a very willing pupil.

“Lothiriel,” he whispered, “He is beautiful, he..he is so..so beautiful..” he added lamely. He looked at his wife, eyes moist with emotion, “And you are beautiful my beloved, “ he added, leaning over to brush a kiss over the lips of his exhausted wife.

“Is he not perfect, my king?” whispered Lothiriel, as she leant forward with a slight grimace and stroked the soft cheek of her babe.

“Aye..” he answered, totally lost in the emotions which were racing through him, a surge of love and a feeling of fierce protectiveness which surprised him.” He is my beloved….and so are you.”

“Maybe a girl-child next,” Lothiriel mused, “A little sister for you, my lamb.” She nuzzled nose to nose with the babe as Eomer watched with love and awe, before he fully realised what his wife had said.

“Another?” he replied with shock, “After all you have been through, and you talk so glibly of another begetting.” He shook his head.

“They say the next one will not be as bad,” Lothiriel added hopefully, taking her now hungry son from his father’s shaky grasp and pulling her nightgown off one shoulder to nurse him.

The past hours had faded and all that Eomer held dear was before him. He sighed with relief that all had gone well, the babe suckling with fervour had relieved all his worries and feelings of guilt… and yes, another would be nice…but not yet a while. His love was on this small mite for the moment, and the mother who bore him. Lothiriel had suffered to bring him forth into this world and was prepared to go through it again, until this hour he never knew or thought on the inner strength and courage of women.

“Well, wife, I shall have to teach you a little more Rohirric before that,” Eomer carried on wryly, “Although where you heard the other I know not.”

Lothiriel laughed softly, cradling the babe tenderly but now feeling heavy lidded, “I do hear more than you know...and understand more than you thought.”

“Well I shall have to speak to the men if this is to be your way of learning.”

“Who said your men were to blame?” Lothiriel rolled her eyes.

Eomers eyes widened with attempted innocence. “Your Lord father has arrived,” he swiftly changed the subject, smiling at the happy surprise in her eyes. ”Will you see him before you rest?”

“Oh yes,” whispered the queen with unsurpassed delight, ”But duty first, I deem,” she sighed, remembering that they were king and queen and that certain Rohirric traditions should be observed ere any private greetings and celebrations should occur.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

The great hall waited with anticipation, the atmosphere tense and strained. All eyes were on alert from the direction from which the King had departed as they awaited his return.

Minutes seemed to stretch into hours until at last the door opened and Eomer reappeared and in his arms he bore a treasure.

He smiled at his people and held his new born high, “Behold, a son born into the house of Eorl. His name shall be Elfwine. My heir and prince of the Riddermark.” He acknowledged his child before his people and all bowed their allegiance to their king and future king.

And the babe lay content within the strong arms of his sire, totally ignorant of the outpouring of emotions he had caused with his birthing, and yet feeling loved and protected by being held thus.

The End.