Chapter notes:
Eomer/Lothiriel rated PG13.
Lothiriel likes to write dirty letters...
The Diary
DF 44 – Hunger
LRS – during prologue
Poor Éomer. I hurt for him, I really do. I have never in my life seen a man so in love and besotted by a woman. If the union were political, I’d advise that he just go relieve himself at the brothel, but he’d probably order me beheaded or dragged. Éothain suggested it as a drunken jest and it took Gamling, Elfhelm, and Ceorl to pull the king off the poor young man. The moment the weather breaks, Gamling is sending him back to the Wold. I am sure he is missing Eadlyn. He is as starving for her as Éomer is ravenous for Lothiriel. I have resorted to leaving bottles of lotion in his room and pray he sees them and uses them for the proper purpose. Ceorl’s little Haradrim had plenty to say in that strange tongue of hers. I think I should like to learn some of her more colorful curses…
~~~…~~~
I hunger for her. Does she know? Have any idea that I am incomplete until she is mine? I starve for her taste, ache for her touch. Éothain proposed I am so cantankerous, I should take a serving wench to my bed; anything to sweeten my mood. I have no desire for any of them. I only want her.
Aefre knows or at least senses. I find vials of lotion, unscented next to the bed, the lamp. They are replaced daily and she herds irritating people from my line of attack. Gamling is damn lucky.
Last week, I received a letter… one I will cherish because winter is settling on the Riddermark and the snow now completely covers the mountains, making travel through them impossible and around them, except for emergency, unfeasible. I suspect she wrote it a-purpose to heat me through the long night and each time I read it, I spill my seed on my hand and anything else in the way.
I cannot wait for spring to arrive.
I miss you so. I cannot wait until this infernal drudgery of royal contracts and marital agreements between yours and my father’s kingdom are done and signed so I can get my hands on you. Why must there be contracts? Who cares about politics? Why can’t our countries come to agreements later? I want you.
In the day, I stand on my balcony, staring at the mountains, far on the horizon, trying desperately to see into Rohan, into your bedchamber. I fear my family worries about me. It angered me when I was young that I could not see the sea from my rooms. Now I am infuriated I cannot see over the mountains to you.
I play over and over in my mind, that evening in Gondor, when we were locked in the barn. I remember the taste of you, your mouth, your tongue. You tasted of wine and I wanted to drink from you until I could no longer stand straight. I remember the feel of your hands on me. I did not want you to stop. I didn’t want to go back to the reception. There was a Lamedonian with sweaty palms, others I did not wish to converse with, return to, deal with. They all spoke of asking my father and I already decided long before the wedding, I desire only you. I just wanted to stay with you, in your arms. I often wonder what I did to make you pull away. What did I do wrong?
When I told you I was joking about removing my dress… I was not. Had you given me the slightest encouragement, I would have peeled it off, slung it to the side, given myself to you there, in the barn. And now, now… the thought of standing before you naked terrifies me. Not because I am scared of you, but because I am terrified you will find me lacking and wanting. I am so different from your people… short and dark. I often wonder what do you see in me?
At night, I fantasize about your touch, when the lamps are off and my servants are gone, I wonder what your caress is like… is it firm? A whisper? I remember well the feel of your breath in my ear, the tickle of your beard. Am I reckless for wanting more? Your hands are rough, calloused, not at all like the soft hands of the lordlings who danced with me or walked with me, sought my hand before our betrothal. Once, I thought the rough hands of a warrior would be painful, sully my senses, but now, I find the softness of others to be effeminate, that I prefer the tingles and sensation of your hands on me. My ladies wail and faint at the thought of such maleness, but I revel in it. I want to wrap myself around you and never let go.
Do you wish to know a secret? I desire your touch so deeply that last week, I snuck from my bed and put on my leather gloves to touch myself. The very sensation of the seams and the smell of the rawhide set me over the edge so strongly that I feared I would wake my maidservant in my crying out for you.
I miss you so. I want you so. I want to know why the memory of the heat of your gaze makes me ache. I want to touch you, taste you, lick the very salt of you from your neck. I want to experience the hardness of you, the heaviness of you, pressing me to the bed. Many nights I have dreamed of you, only to wake crying because of the ache, the emptiness of my arms, when you were there just moments before.
Father says we will probably marry in the late summer or during harvest. I don’t want to wait that long. I want you now…Please don’t wait…
No, Lothiriel… I will not wait…
~~~…~~~
Léoma laid the paper down gently, a harsh blush rarely seen on her features.
“Is there more?”
She swallowed. “Like that?” She flipped through the stack. “Not that I can see.”
“Thank Béma!” The youngest got up and went to the sideboard where several bottles of Rohirrim Wine sat. He poured three glasses and after downing one glass, brought the other two to his siblings. “I say we burn those and pretend they never existed.”
Gamling’s spit shook his head negatively. “Mama wrote those for a reason. I say we give them to Éomer King.”
“Béma no!” Léoma burst. “I don’t know how I’m going to look him or Lothiriel in the eye ever again.”
The elder twin was nonplussed. “They love each other. They obviously loved each other before they were married. They had sex. Come on!” His arms went wide, encompassing the room. “They had five children! Even our parents had sex! We’re here and Léoma walked in on them, so we know they did! I’ll bet if we looked under the bed, we’d find silk scarves tied to the posts! Why hide?” He downed his wine as well. “Give it to them.”
Léoma was grinning. She took the entrees and set them in the bottom of the table. “I say we keep this group separate and hid so when Elfwine becomes king, we give them to him!”
Both brothers scowled. “You were always jealous he didn’t marry you.”
Léoma swirled her wine before taking a sip. “I was not. He was a obnoxious git growing up and by the time he became interesting,” she began to smile, “there was a member of the Swan Guard training here that I was very enthralled with.” She smiled to herself, despite her brothers’ open-faced disgust. “That boy could kiss.”
“Ew.”
“He could suck the moisture off of a rock, too!”
“EW!” It was now a duet.
“Don’t ‘ew’ me! I know about that dairy maid the two of you enjoyed together, when you were nineteen summers.”
Both brothers were now blushing. The red-head blurted out; anything to change the subject. “Give it to Elfwine? Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“What’s next?”
