bakerstreet | The Companion to Royalty

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The Companion to Royalty

Companion to Royalty Meme

There's one truth you must know of royalty: though power may lay in their hands, the crown is a cage. Whether you've always been noble, came into this position recently by complete surprise, or a simple person caught in the fray, you're realizing that leaders actually lead very little - even down to choosing who they spend their most intimate moments with. From eternal bonds of matrimonies to the distractions provided by courtesans, the people behind the throne make the rules. They cannot risk losing control of their most elevated and strategically placed pawn with a match gone wrong, which could create a domino effect and doom possibly thousands.

So, what part do you play in this game?

Lifetime Royal: This is what you've been raised to do.
Sudden Royal: You just learned of your position, which has been secret from you your entire life, or you unexpectedly inherited the job.
Spouse: You're to be married to nobility.
Concubine or Courtesan: For the royal, you're to be a sexual diversion.
Unaffiliated: You're either a lower-ranking noble or a peasant, but you're free from all the machinations of the shadowy cabal...for now.

How willing are you?

Completely Willing: Either you love the person you know you'll be matched with, or you're excited about the possibilities.
Wary: There's no choice in the matter for you, so you may as well approach this situation cautiously.
Unwilling: You didn't want to be matched up with someone. At all. Ever.

What path will you follow, once you're set upon it (there is, after all, little choice for the chosen ones)?

Prepared for This: Either you're a royal and have been one since birth, or you knew you'd marry or sexually entertain one.
Make Up for Lost Time: This life wasn't the one you lived until now, but times change. You're important or will be a companion to a very important person, like it or not.
A Sacrificial Token: Somewhere along the line, your people royally pissed off someone in a key position. So, in an attempt to smooth out relations, you've been given away as a gift to the highest power, either as a spouse for a political alliance or as a concubine or courtesan.
Pomp and Circumstance: All proper, this arrangement. You're to be married, as you've been promised to each other by your respective families. Consummation on the wedding night is key. Perhaps it's encouraged that the two of you act as if this is really a love match, to add insult to injury.
Genuine Love: Speaking of love matches, congratulations! You're one of the incredible few who gets to marry for love, so your lovemaking should be all the more enthused.
Only a Plaything: Heavy is the head who wears the crown, so you're expected to take on some side entertainment even if that's not your preference. Or you could be the courtesan...such a pretty, perfumed word for what the role really is...
Volunteered: You wanted this position, either of spouse or concubine. Your reasons are your own.
Cruel: You're powerful. You can do what you want to this person, a mere ant in comparison to you.
Forbidden: Even the most powerful can't have everything they want, such as someone who's promised to or with another; taking them for your own would create strife and destroy alliances, even to the point of tempting war.
Work Your Way Up: There's always a right tool for the job and you find no shame in using your own special tools to better your life.
Give Me an Heir: Whether you're legitimate or a concubine used as a surrogate, you must help in continuing the royal line.
Mutual Benefit: Both of you are comfortable with this arrangement because you're either compatible or it takes the pressure off of you otherwise.
Want to be More: Though you've been relegated to courtesan, you want to be there one and only spouse...no matter if that role is already filled or not.
Growing Affection: It may have started as all puppet strings and power plays, but now, you lo- care for them.
Loved Before: Before you became so important and powerful, before you became the focus of all the world, it seems, they were there with you. They were with you then, and you want them to be with you now. They ground you and they care about you for you.
Because You're Normal: They're outside of all the court's nonsense, and that's appealing to you. It's like a breath of fresh air.
WILDCARD

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[She's the princess no one wants to be stuck with. Come travel back in time to deal with her?]

[Lifelong Royal. Really likin' the sound of 1, 3, 6, & 9.]

[ I like 3, 4, 6, 7, 10. obviously au, either the companion or the royal, but either way he'll still have his haughty attitude ]

[Probably sudden royal, concubine or unaffiliated! 1, 4 and 10 probably wouldn't work, and neither 11 (but we can't talk about it, if something like a/b/o is wanted for that), but anything else is good! 3, 5, 6/8 or 15/16 would be especially loved.]

( companion to royalty )

[ could be either depending on your character. ]

[He's royalty... Or pretends to be...

Other CR muses available! AUs great, including modern, cross-campaign and crosscanon are both good, feel free to hmu!!]

Born in a clutch of many siblings, Faraday had learned to be both frugal and inventive. After retiring from the adventuring life, her parents had opened an inn, where they made good use of all the exotic recipes they had collected in their travels; though it was a running joke among her siblings that their mother’s true hoard was her children. It was in her parents' kitchen thar Faraday had first learned transmutation, and from that point on, she knew she wanted to learn more.

She'd worked hard to put herself through wizard school, knowing that her best bet to repay her debt to the academy would be to get a job working for someone well connected. She was working her way up through the ranks at the royal court when a new ruler came into power, and she hoped that she might catch his eye. She expected it would be her magic that piqued his interest, but perhaps there was some other reason she was being nudged in his direction. She was willing to keep an open mind, as long as they could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.

I am thinking of a kingdom where the line of succession for the crown is through matrilineal line. The Queen must have daughter (and a spare) to inherit the throne in the future and it doesn't truly matter who the father is (read, not necessarily her consort) as long as the Princesses comes from her womb. Mycroft here is the Queen's most trusted advisor, he holds a lot of power at the Court but because he came from a family with only minor title, he never can be the Queen's consort. His service to the crown doesn't stop only at the matters of economic and military might but also extending to the Royal bedroom.

[ obviously royalty ]

[ Ella hears what they say about her when they think she isn't listening - or when they know she is, the alternative that she can't decide is worse or not. Servant. Little-ash girl, keeper of the hearths and mouse-maid or kitchen-witch who magiked the heart of the king. Cinders. Rohan can accept many things, their tolerance for a woman with a blade higher than most other lands of note, but there are a few things they cannot stomach. One, it seems, is their king falling for a woman of meager birth with dirt under her nails and work calloused on her hands.

Ella hears the whispers from corners of chambers, slipped out in great halls, trapped behind interlocked fingers. Unfortunately, though she's a quick study for useful criticism and a good listener, these days she's found herself with less time for spiteful remarks.

Inversely, she's grown fonder of sliding into Éomer's lap when he returns from a long trek, her arms resting at his shoulders as her hands splay down his back.

She's gentle with her touches intended to only ease tension right now. ]

[ In the vaguest of sense, Éomer thinks he remembers Ella from when they were both much younger, she a happy little tow-headed child playing with little butterflies in the market square that her father brought back from his trips to Gondor, and he a serious, grieving lad struggling with coping with the death of his parents and the fact that his sister was now entirely under his own care. As their lives had seemed so vastly different, and since he did not have the patience to deal with little girls he was not related to, his memories of her from that time are few and far between.

Somewhere, in the time that passed while he was training to be a rider in his uncle's éoreds, Ella's father remarried, taking a wealthy widow and her two daughters into his household. There was some idle speculation amongst the soldiers of his acquaintance about one of them marrying one or the other of the Tremaine daughters, but the general consensus was that they were both completely insufferable and not pretty enough to make up for it, so no serious suits were brought forth.

As preoccupied as he was with preparations for the war that loomed on the horizon and protecting the lands of his uncle, Éomer paid little mind to the fate of the little girl with her butterflies, and so when she turned up in the Meduseld one day, dirty and orphaned once again, seeking work, he had been quite surprised to see her. Still, another pair of hands willing to work would always be welcomed, and so his uncle offered her a position with the rest of the household staff. Thus dealt with, she was once more put from Éomer's mind, his attentions preoccupied with patrolling the Riddemark and lamenting his uncle's slow decline into enchantment.

The months that followed have all turned into something of a blur for him; first, losing his cousin to the fall of an orcish blade, learning that he will now be his uncle's successor, being banished, fighting Saruman's horde at Helm's Deep, the mad gallop to Minas Tirith once the beacons were lit, the battle of Pelennor Fields, his uncle's death, his sister's injury, the absolutely suicidal march to the Black Gate, Sauron's defeat, having to bury his uncle next to his cousin outside the gates of Edoras...

There are times Éomer feels that he has aged fifty years in the past five months.

Surprisingly, one of the few things in his new life that he does not secretly chafe about is the company of the little butterfly girl from his childhood, now a woman grown. Somehow, it has turned out that she has become his chief companion, her blue kirtle and blonde hair the first sights he searches for each day he returns to the Meduseld, her soft voice a soothing balm to his nerves as she sings quietly to herself or tells him of the details of her day. It is surprisingly peaceful to hear about the ins and out of running the Meduseld after a day of politicking, and he has never told her to cease her yammering even when he is not wholly interested in the finer points of laundry. It is a good distraction, if nothing else.

When she slips into his lap without waiting for an invitation, he allows an arm to settle about her waist comfortably in return, and he gives her a weary smile. ]

Hello, little fîfalde. I trust you are well? [ It is the same question he asks her every day, and every day, he seems genuinely interested in her answer. ]

[ Most people live one life, if they are lucky enough to see it through. For her part, Ella feels as if she's lead three, intertwined yet segmented, ones in short succession. The loss of her mother is the easiest demarcation. Before, there lay a loving family, times in the market and riding and tending to gardens. Her recollection of glancing Éomer as a child falls neatest here. After her mother's death, for a sliver of a year or two it'd much the same with her father able to keep his grief at bay long enough to care for his daughter. And he'd never stopped caring, even in within the swoon of a second marriage. That desire to give his child a proper mother once more had lead to a decision that had, in the end, proved ruinous.

The Lady Tremaine remains blameless in her husband's death. Never once, not even upon her flight from her stepmother, has Ella accused her of anything otherwise. But the implications still stood, the second wife stewing in the words her waif slave-daughter didn't have to say: familial greed sent the man further and further afield, the riches of surrounding lands no longer enough to satisfy.

Éomer is not the only part of this unusual pair that has shadows better left in check. Of course, she is not as burdened by new troubles as he, a fact that doesn't escape her. He has always carried matters so close and so dourly, from her earliest memory of him (he'd looked as if he was angry at her, her child's mind had reasoned, before wondering what it was that she'd done). Nothing has changed since the crown has become his.

King or no, that isn't the way to live. She often tells him as much. For the moment, her face does that speaking for her. Concern alights in her eyes until she returns the smile, then leans in to press her lips upon his forehead. ]

As I deserve. [ For there are still people in their lands that have so little. What gives those with a roof over their head and a pillow at night much cause to complain about their thicket of peace? All who live in the capitol are more equally blessed, from nobles to servants. ] And yourself? How fast and far did you have to ride to see me again, horse-master?

[ Éomer is a man that often keeps his own counsel. He is not prone to bouts of gregariousness, and his natural disposition tends to prevent others from indulging in chatter with him as well. In fact, he has often been described as "forbidding" and "severe." It is not intentional, this reputation of his, but a result of the way his face naturally falls, and the fact that much of his life has been occupied by much hardship and strife.

Now, with a different kind of hardship and strife looming on his horizon, he does not do very much to try and remedy his reputation as a dour man. He is too busy to care about such petty things, after all.

And yet, for some reason, Ella does not seem to mind his ill temper and occasional stormy moods, something she proves by leaning in and kissing his forehead like she is delivering a benediction upon him. She is a sweet girl, with far too gentle a mien to waste her time with him, and yet here she is, touching him with the kind of tenderness he has not felt for years. ]

Far farther than I would have liked, and not nearly as fast as I wanted, [ he replies, his voice a quiet rumble in his chest as he tightens his arm about her in a gentle squeeze.

One day, and one day soon, Éomer must marry. Not anyone he pleases, of course, for that life was ripped away from him the moment his cousin was slain and he was not allowed to be a simple Marshal any longer. No, he will have to marry someone expedient, most likely a foreign princess with a dowry large enough to rebuild the ruins of this once-proud land he calls his own. So much of the Riddemark was destroyed through Saruman's machinations, so many of Rohan's villages razed, so much of her farmland burned and salted and left as naught but a barren wasteland. He knows, thanks to the very un-subtle hints of his advisors, that there is not enough grain stored to feed what is left of Rohan's people through the upcoming winter, and not enough time left in the summer to plant what small parcels of land are still arable. He will have to buy food to prevent his people from starving, and the crown has not enough coins in its coffers to do much more than prolong the inevitable.

Éomer is too proud to go begging to his neighbors, so he must instead sell the throne to some ambitious young woman who is willing to trade her freedom for the chance to live at his side and bear his children.

Honestly, the idea makes him feel vaguely ill. He cannot help but compare it to buying a mare for his stallion to breed, and the thought of doing that to some poor girl who probably has just as much choice in the matter as he does — which is to say, no choice at all — does not sit well with him. Instead of lingering too long on such thoughts tonight, however, he lets his attention be claimed by the girl currently in his lap, penniless and parentless and perfect just the way she is. ]

What have you accomplished in my absence? [ Lifting his free hand, he tucks a lock of her hair back beneath the kerchief it had escaped, his touch surprisingly gentle for such a large man. ] Tell me everything.

[ Prior to her father's untimely death, her family name still commanding clout within select merchant circles, there'd been idle conversations of an arranged marriage set for her banded about by Lady Tremaine. A boy in Gondor who'd been the son of a merchant, this man of good repute who was only a few years Ella's senior, or someone else in the family's associates could all be perfect choices. 'Secure a good match for your only child, it is your responsibility,' demanded one side of her mouth; 'send away an extra mouth to feed,' cooed the other with an undertone that broke the surface. Immediately, her father had banished the very thought. His first marriage was a love match thus he'd have nothing less for his daughter. The status of his second marriage was not discussed. From that point onward, the idea never came up again.

All of which to say that Ella does understand that Éomer won't be hers but for a set number of days. As if he's hers now, as much as a stallion born on the wild plains will ever recognize the dominion of man. You could put a bridle on the creature. You might ride it, if you had scant value of your well-being. In the darker times when food and resources were uncertainties - a condition that could easily rear its head again - she'd seen desperate people use whatever horse they could as a pack mule to make a heedless escape. Short of breaking, there could be no luck in that venture. It didn't stop them from trying and losing precious valuables and more precious limbs in the attempt.

A need for survival crafts strange drives in a man's soul.

Ella would do anything not to see Éomer broken. Partly for herself, she's not selflessly uninvested and the ache in her heart when she thinks of his duty is proof enough, but for his merit as well. She would have him as proud and strong as he's always been.

Not so proud that fun couldn't be had with (rather that at) his expense, mind. As he worries with her hair, she threads her fingers in the crown of his, thumbs tangled in spun gold as she rests her forehead against his. Soon enough, she's cupping his face and tracing where temple meets cheekbones. ]

If you insist, I'll tell you all about the goings-on in the scullery. It will relax you much that I won't spare a detail.

[ She serious. Deathly. The cheeky grin must be ignored. ]

[ How could he ignore that cheeky grin when it warms him so much?

Ella is lucky that Éomer took the time to wash his face and hands when he returned home, or she'd be running her fingers through all the accumulated dust and sweat that he's managed to pick up during his ride, which would not be so pleasant an experience. Of course, he knows that she is not so squeamish as to turn him away were he a little grimy — she is not squeamish at all, as a matter of fact, and certainly not where some dirt is concerned, as evidenced by the hardness of her palms and the smudges on her apron, both facts that endear her to him more than repel him — but still, he feels it would be rather boorish of him to allow a girl he is sweet on to get herself dirty at his expense.

His free hand having dropped down to rest on her leg, he toys idly with the fabric of her kirtle, simple and serviceable as it is. It's quite pretty, in his mind, and the blue color suits her very well. One day, he will likely return home with a proper blue dress for her, one that is so frivolous she cannot wear it on any but the highest of holidays. He will never bring her a courting gift, no matter what idle daydreams drift through his mind, and so a dress will have to do. ]

Please do. [ His own grin is perhaps less cheeky, but all the more surprising for how natural it looks on a face that is much better suited to a scowl. ] Anything to distract me from Éothain's endless nagging about how I am neglecting my duties.

[ His is a correct judgment that she wouldn't chafe at the dirt of the road on him, the tang of sweat at his brow. On her hands that's no grand change and on her lips, it's of no concern. To her, the grime of his beloved Riddermark flatters him more than the robes of kingship to the point that she almost prefers him fresh. His mouth tastes like the sky then, his hair smells of hay, and if she closes her eyes she can feel the undulation of a thousand hoofbeats in his chest. Perhaps this is all too uncouth to admit. Perhaps she doesn't care.

She's always been an uncouth girl. Her admiration for beauty is for its own sake above worth, a light blue shift of muslin as treasured as any gown wealth could acquire. A handsome, honest man is as loved as a king, too. It's a painful sort of naivety or a lack of refinement that can end no way but poorly in this world. Butterflies, you realize, cannot buy what jewels can. ]

There was a scandal. [ But she does know how to begin a story, for any fault. Emboldened by the smile that only wins her anew, she continues after she urges him forward that he may rest his head upon her shoulder. ] Do you remember the hole in the chicken's roost not far from the kitchen door? I'd told you that they'd patched it...but not soon enough to catch several hens making their way into the servant's quarters.

[ And to think this recollection's only begun. ]

[ He cannot help but be quietly amused as Ella guides his head forward to rest on her shoulder, but he does not resist her urging, enjoying the opportunity to settle his forehead at the gentle curve of her neck, her skin warm against his and her clothing smelling of all the things he considers to be homey and comforting: the faint tang of sweat, the lye soap used in the laundry houses, the acrid bite of soot from the kitchen hearths, the grassy hay-like smell of the rushes in the great hall, the faint animal musk from the hunting dogs that lounge like kings in front of the fires. ]

My goodness. [ It is lucky that his face is hidden by the way he is sitting, for it hides the amusement he wears, although it is plain enough to hear in his voice. (Besides, he knows that Ella is trying to amuse him on purpose, so he does not work too hard to muffle the smirk warming his words.) ] They should count themselves lucky 'twas not a fox that found its way in. [ There are not many foxes on the plains, and Éomer's experience with them has tended to be mostly in the forested fringes of the land, but that is not the point of this exchange. ]

And what did Merwenna have to say about this? [ The self-appointed head of the household staff, Merwenna has been serving the crown since Éomer arrived in Edoras as a lad of eleven. There are still times she treats him exactly the way she did when he was a boy even though he is a man grown now, and her king to boot. ]

She was as amused as you'd expect, I'd daresay. [ Then, not at all. As much as Ella cares about the woman, she is the only person who's taken everthing more seriously than - well, forgive her - Éomer. There resides in her the hard, old spirit of Rohan that came from a scratched existence removed from fortresses and proper civilization. Her voice, commanding the negligent among the servants or otherwise, is a crackling flame that one cannot help but heed. Ella's never crossed her and intends to keep it the same, regardless of how she might sneak about the older woman's peripherals to take food for a small animal nestling under the stairwell or shoulder an extra shift to let a friend go see her rider.

And cover when the friend returns, skirts mussed and fading lovemarks left upon her neck. Ella cannot hold the tryst against her; she remembers...

(It's like riding, you never forget.)

Éomer's slowing, relaxed breath is hot on her skin. It's not unenjoyable, this closeness, so much so that her delivery of the ultimate punchline of her anecdote comes out more lulled that sharp. Her right hand strokes his hair downwards with a dip in between his shoulderblades. ]

Of course, that was before the lords and ladies complained of feathers in their bedding!

[ Not that she can dull the peal of laughter it tugs out, though. ]

[ He chuckles quietly, fully well able to imagine Merwenna's less than amused expression as she discovered the wayward chickens. Some might consider her too old, or too cantankerous to keep on in his employ, especially now that even her grandchildren are wedded and expecting children of their own, but Éomer has too wide a soft spot for the old biddy to be able to do anything remotely like dismissing her.

There are times, late at night, when the crown sits heavily on his uneasy head, that he slips down to the kitchens to sit at the great table there, cradling a mug of heated milk while the kitchen maids get started on the next day's baking, and Merwenna sits beside him while she knits quietly, and he is able to forget what the truth of his life really is, even if only for a short moment. Once again, he is just a youth without any parents, trying to keep his heart hard to protect himself, but scared out of his mind and desperately trying to be strong for his sister, trying to make his uncle proud, trying his best to keep the man who saved him and showed him such kindness from regretting extending a hand to his floundering nephew.

(Later, as he grew older, it became obvious to him that Théoden would have offered to take in Éomer and Éowyn even if they hadn't been dutiful wards and heeded his every word, that a gesture like that was not some sort of contract that had to be repaid, that his uncle's love for him and his sister was not conditional. Théoden had become a second father to him, and he is more grateful for that than he can properly express.)

The stinging of his knuckles after they've been rapped by Merwenna's wooden spoon when he gets caught trying to sneak treats does almost as good a job as the warm milk and honey to send him straight back to his childhood, but overall it is far less enjoyable. ]

Let them sleep on the floor if they find it so distasteful to find a few feathers under their pillows, then. [ What a good royal decree. To Éomer, who has spent nearly the majority of his life sleeping mostly outdoors, with the rest of the éoreds, the sumptuous down-filled pillows that litter his bed are a nearly unforgivable extravagance. He does enjoy them, of course he does, but most nights he winds up throwing them off the bed at some point in the night, sleeping more or less on a bare mattress. He does not envy the servants who tidy up his rooms each morning their duties. ]

[ Though reserved maternalness emanates from the head servant in waves, in temperament, Merwenna could not be farther removes from Ella's mother. The latter, her shadow long cast as her time in her daughter's life short, had been a woman her acquaintances still talk about to this day, of immense beauty and grace. Her voice, her father said, could bring a grown man to tears when she sang of ballads of heroes and old kings. As she worked at her embroidery, she would make up new songs fo Ella to hear, reveling in her girl's laughter as she dipped high and low to imitate a character she'd pulled from her mind into a rousing tale. Her art had always been in her kindness: a gift to know what one needed before they even knew themselves. She was sunlight. She was dappled shade under the rare tree. To Ella, she'd been everything.

It's been years since her illness and decline until death. When evenings grow into night and Ella finds herself brought to memories, she can't recall the particulars of her mother's face although she hears her voice.

Have courage and be kind.

If she can be half the woman her mother had been to anyone (to Éomer), she'll find work well-spent. ]

Is that your official stance? [ An arch of her neck and she's looking down at him with a petulant curiosity swimming in her eyes. Her smile turns to a jesting purse of her lips. ] Why, I wish that you had informed me before I made sure to remove all the feathers and burrs from your covers.

[ Marwenna's expression had been unreadable as she'd heard Ella say she'd manage the king's quarters unattended. ]

[ Éomer's mother died when he was eleven, allowing herself to waste away in her grief after his father had been slain by orcs venturing deep into Rohan's territories. Théodwyn had always loved too deeply, her attachment to his father stronger than the one to her children. His strongest memories of her are of watching her starve herself, the terror he felt knowing that she would die and knowing that all the tears he might shed would do nothing to stop her. For years, he had been furious with her for doing that to him, for burdening him with his sister who was too young to understand what was happening, for forcing him to grow up into a man when he should still have been allowed to be a child. Now, when he visits the graves of his parents, all he can feel is a numb sort of sorrow, the sharp edges of his grief dulled by time and distance and all the things that have happened in his life in the intervening seventeen years.

Anger is an exhausting emotion, and he has spent so much of his life angry at other people and things outside of his control, the thought of holding on to the anger that once roared within his breast at the thought of his mother is too much to bear. It was easier to let it go than to try to cling to it.

He does not remember Ella's mother, but he does remember hearing stories about her told by local women, and while there had been a time he had been bitterly disappointed that his own mother was not more like Ella's, he can now admit that he is glad that at least she was able to feel that warmth and nurturing love for part of her life.

Humming agreeably when Ella shifts against him, he does not lift his head from her shoulder, shifting instead to scratch his beard against her pale skin. ] Don't worry, I'll be sure to deposit more tonight.

[ One of the less than positive aspects of royal life is that Éomer has absolutely no privacy. Even when he was just a ward of his uncle's court, he had been attended by servants for many tasks, so having someone in the room while he bathed was never something he found odd, but now as king, there are very few times he is ever truly alone. The servants of the Meduseld could paint a vividly detailed description of his every waking and sleeping moment should they so choose. ]

If you wish to make chores for me, there are better ways than that. [ It's a jape, surely, and the nuzzle she provides him, her face buried in her hair, may show that it's a toothless and loving one as always. Inhaling, she lets him in, senses filled with him until the overflow curls from her lips to the pit of her stomach. The tickle of his bristled facial hair compounds the effect; a flush settles on her cheeks, the product of the rising warmth that is not, to the contrary, a disgraceful feeling. Every tiny smile he manages, all the chuckles he makes in that deep timbre of his: they are not only noble treasures to seek, they strike her square in the chest to quicken her heartbeat.

A day, very soon, will come when he will claim a wife that is not her. She's never come to him laden with any other expectation, that he'd break his kingly responsibilities. She may be his woman (now) but she will never be queen. Yet for all of this, she is completely, entirely smitten with him.

In the interest of fairness, she will have to tilt his head up to kiss him fully to share her wealth of sensation.

...her retort was also devoid of intentional innuendo, let the annals of history show. ]

[ She may not have intended any innuendo, but Ella is currently sitting in the lap of not only a king, but a soldier. Éomer has spent much of his life surrounded by other men, and some bawdy humor is definitely not outside his wheelhouse. Her innocent remark instantly brings all sorts of potential responses to his lips, each one more salacious than the last.

However, because Ella is not a fellow rider, she is a sweet girl who means well and doesn't have a wicked bone in her body, Éomer does not make some kind of risqué comment, instead opting to allow her to prise his head off her shoulder so that she can cup his face in her palms and duck her head down to his for a kiss.

Each time she kisses him — that is, each time since Théodred died, when he realized that the course of his life had changed drastically and he no longer had space in it for a girl with a heart of gold but not even two copper coins to rub together — he has told himself that this one would be the last. And yet, each time those slender hands of hers find his skin, his resolve crumbles, and he allows them to prolong this thing between them that will only bring more pain the longer it goes on.

It is wearying, being strong enough to cut yourself off from feeling. ]

There are many things I wish to give you, my sweet, but more work is not one of them.

[ If Éomer severs his connection to his feelings, Ella drowns in hers for good and for ill. In happiness, it is a boon, her tendency to turn into a feather on the wind that doesn't fear the oncoming storm. In sadness? She bears the sharpest brunt of a force that would crush her if she loses her head. That's not to say that she can allow herself that; to crumble inwards, while not a vice, is a luxury. Misery isn't currency, it cannot buy bread or keep a roof over her head nor win her the good grace of staying in the king's employ. So, the pendulum above her head as she sits in his arms, she knows this will end.

She, on the other hand, will not.

Still, it needn't end now, she not sharing in Éomer's opinion that to snap their bond in two with a clean break might spare them down the road. For her part, she would have him now rather than not at all. Maybe it is selfish of her. With a clear conscience, she couldn't admit that this is solely about giving him a chance to shed the role that yolks him, even if for an hour or for a night. Should she apologize for that? To do so would be to apologize for loving him.

She will not.

She shifts against him, one arm wrapping around him when she can find purchase against his side. In defiance of his best effort, her curls have wriggled out of her kerchief again, cascading over them both and grazing their faces. ]

And if I could, I would give you song every night until you fall asleep. Or a week's leave. [ Her nose bumps his in their proximity. ] What would you give me?

[ One does not get "leave" from a crown. Éomer never wished for the burden, but it is his to shoulder now, and he is going to face up to his responsibilities with his head held high and do all that he can in his power to make his forebears proud.

Somehow, he will have to pull his nation from the brink of starvation, he will have to rebuild it stone by ruined stone, and returns its once fertile fields to their previous tillable state. He will have to produce a child, so that the line of Eorl does not end with him — technically, Éowyn's children will have the same bloodline, but that is assuming she even has children, which is something he's never been quite sure she's been interested in — and to prevent a civil war from breaking out within what is left of Rohan's people.

The thought it exhausting, and he wants to put off the thinking of it for as long as possible, which is why he does not pull away from Ella as she nudges her nose against his, her words a soft wash of warm air over his lips. ]

What would I give you? [ A crown, perhaps. The world laid at her feet. Gold and jewelry and anything she might possibly ask for. All things he couldn't possibly give her, no matter how much he might wish to. ] A horse. A mare, perhaps, whose coat shines in the sun like your hair, with your sweet disposition to boot. [ He has seen such a horse on the plains, and has made plans to capture and tame it. If he cannot give her that specific horse, he will certainly give her its foal, perhaps bred with one of his finest sires (although perhaps not one of the chargers, for he does not think a massive war horse will suit her overmuch). ] Is that something you would want?

[ As for what will become of her once she can no longer be by Éomer's side, she hasn't given that overmuch thought. Will she find a man in her station with which she can make a life? Her options are not as pathetically limited as naysayers (her stepmother, chiefest of all, if the woman still even thinks of her stepdaughter) would say. A merchant's son wouldn't knock on her door, granted, though a tenant farmer or a stablehand might. Even a rider, of lower birth, isn't out of her social reach - this hasn't escaped her flights of fancy when she half-fantasizes what could have happened had she and Éomer had met in a different time or place. But then, she wouldn't be her and he him. That wouldn't do. There are certainties in life, she thinks, that shape people into who they are, very akin to how she's been compelled to some strength by a childhood dream of being a wife to a man as honest and loyal as her father and mother to a babe. ]

How you describe her makes me wants to see a horse like that right this second. [ How he indirectly describes her, too, interestingly - noted with a wistful smile. ] A gift like that would be an honor to anyone.

[ She is born and bred of Rohan. The value of a reliable horse is worth ten times its weight in gold. But-!

Palms on each of his shoulder, she slides back on her haunches so that her eyes can meet his. For the first time since she'd trapped him in her embrace, she hesitates. Catches herself, wonders if she's going too far, asking to much.

Though she would be remiss to deny her truth. It's not in her to do so. ]

For now, I want something else from you. [ Breath, heavy, hangs in her throat. ] Only you might give it.

[ Her fingers fold into the cloth of his undershirt. ]

Yourself - I know what you will say - if just for this moment...

[ Were he any kind of merciful, selfless man, Éomer would send her away. To Aldburg, perhaps, where she can make a life for herself in the city of his birth, finding a more illustrious position in the great house there, selecting a rider or farrier to be her husband, removed from him and the crown so she doesn't have to see him every day. So he doesn't have to see her every day, truthfully. So that his wife doesn't have to see her every day and know that she was not even second-best in his heart, a fate too cruel for him to properly contemplate. What a life he is dooming that poor woman to, whoever she is. The only thing he can console himself with is that she will likely not love him either, but that is cold comfort in the face of the knowledge that he will have to lie by her side every night while wishing she were someone else.

Any horse gifted from the king of Rohan would be a fine gift, indeed. There are very few servants who own horseflesh, especially those that live in the cities, and fewer still who might lay claim to a beast such as the one he described. That he would even mention giving her something of that nature is meaningful, but Éomer is not the type of man to make promises lightly, which means he fully intends to follow through.

If he has to send Ella away, he will send her away with all she needs to make a good life for herself. If he cannot give her himself, he can at least give her security. A fine horse whose offspring she can sell, a hope chest and a small dowry to help her find a proper husband who would treat her well, the promise of good and fair employment.

He knows what she will ask before she asks it. ] Ella...

[ Catching her hands in his, he lifts them from his chest so he can press his lips to her work-roughened fingers, trying to come to a decision he can stick to and stalling for time in which to do so.

Does he want her? Of course, desperately. His life is so uncertain now, so different, and there is little he wants more than the comfort of her familiar embrace. But that does not mean he should have it. He cannot do this to her, put her in this position. It is cruel of him, to take this from her when he can give her nothing in return and they both know it.

Nothing will come of their tryst. Nothing good, at least. ] We shouldn't.

[ Were he to offer his generous bargain to her, hope for security in life in trade for her home here, she would chafe under the ruling. There is no twist of words that could make her appear the diligent martyr for love, willingly leaving behind what she cares for in order to make a smooth ending to make a stabbed heart. That's not her story. Both of them know that she'd fight him when it counted. In his best interest, she might yield.

Might. Any trajectories meticulously plotted for the future or girlhood aspirations ripple into nothingness. Might. What is certain is that she'll not leave the stone she now holds in her hand, the scrap of reunion and the chance for more, unturned. ]

'Should-' [ She begins, brows knitting together as she skirts her thumb against his bottom lip: ] -isn't always the right thing, Éomer. [ The terrible shadow in the east shouldn't have been defeated by host of men, elves, dwarves. Many said Rohan shouldn't come to the aide of Gondor. By all rights, Éomer shouldn't be king.

'Shouldn't' is a relative term.

Though her mouth had hardened into a frown at her proclamation, her gaze softens when she cradles his face. Two months ago, the lines that pepper the skin about his eyes hadn't hinted they were there. ] You want to protect me. I understand, yet you can't protect me from my own heart.

[ As she speaks, she's taken his chin in the loop between her fingers so there's no dodge he can make. ]

Edited 2019-02-10 21:35 (UTC)

[ "Shouldn't" may be a relative term, but that does not mean it doesn't have weight.

He frowns at her as her expression softens, the determination in her face seeming to shift straight onto his, the lines she sees etched in his skin deepening as his brows furrow. Yet he doesn't try to wrench his chin out of her hands, allowing her to hold his face still so she might look at him. That will not stop him from speaking his mind. ]

I will not turn you into my mistress, summoned when I am bored and then set aside just as quickly.

[ That is not what she is asking him tonight, he knows, but he also knows just as well that it is exactly what will happen should they continue down this path. Éomer will find himself a rich wife to make his queen, he will bed her out of duty, and when he is done with her or needs the familiarity of a tender touch, he will turn to Ella instead. She will be relegated to a life in the shadows, resented by the serving staff and nobility alike, always knowing she is less than the queen and reminded of it at every turn.

And Béma forbid they have children. Bastards are not especially shameful, in the Mark, but it is one thing for a rider to have a child on the wrong side of the wedding cloak, and something entirely different for a king to do so. ]

You deserve better than that.

Anyone does. [ So-called 'scarlet' women are still women with souls and minds, after all. She's had sympathy for those who found their reputations ripped asunder for simply falling for the wrong person before she'd fallen into their ranks. He'd also guessed correctly that she'll defend her position, for she's quick to add that: ] I've not requested that you do any of that, either. All I've asked for is that you let us be us while we can.

[ How can she make him see - especially when, in the furthest, darkest corner of her mind, she knows that he has prescience (but it doesn't matter, because what is right, their love, overrules what lies right before them)? A slump of her shoulders and she sighs, reaching down to take his free hand. One by one, she threads her fingers in his, the pads of hers running down the inner length of his. Her mother used to take her hand like this when she'd start a story.

Once upon a time... ]

Answer me this: if the finest soothsayers and wizards in all the land prophesized that to ride a horse would cause your death, would you never ride again? Not today, not tomorrow, but someday, the horse is your end. Could you stop?

[ Now their palms kiss. ]

I know that this has to end. When we...began, I promised that it would for you. For your family. Until then - [ She's foolish, except she is at least foolish upon her own terms. ] let me decide for myself again.

[ While we can. Does she not realize how much it will hurt to know what they are losing? A few hurried embraces while war was looming on the horizon and things were looking bleak are one thing. Long, lingering evenings spent in each others' arms while there is naught ahead but a long peace is something much different.

Éomer had not expected to survive the Ring Wars, let alone to escape them more or less unscathed. Physically, that is. When imminent death is a surety, things like morality start to become less important. The comfort of the moment is of higher value, but he cannot indulge in that for much longer. ]

That is different, and you know it. [ For one thing, Éomer does not trust magic of any sort, not after having seen what influence the wizard Saruman wielded over his uncle. Even though he considers the wizard Gandalf to be more or less a friend, even though he trusts him to do what is best for the rest of the world, he cannot allow his guard to settle enough around magic to view it with anything but the utmost suspicion. He knows none to whom the gods have given the gift of foresight — although the dwarf Gimli claims his ethereal queen Galadriel has such a gift — and so he trusts that even less.

He sighs, allowing her to thread her fingers through his, pale and slender for all that they show signs of her life of hard work. ]

In two weeks' time, I will ride to Gondor for King Ellesar's coronation. [ Notably, there has been no coronation for Éomer, and he is hoping to put it off for so long that people forget about it. He does not wish to go through any sort of pomp and circumstance on his behalf. The circumstances of his becoming king warrant no celebration, after all. ] There, in his court, I will undoubtedly have to find a foreign princess to marry.

[ His eyes are dark as he looks her straight in the face, almost as if he is memorizing the details of her features. ] In less than a month, I will have a wife. Will you content yourself with that?

[ She is quiet after his quandary, expression tight as she hangs over the precipice that is what he just told her. None of it is new information to her, per se, but it would be a lie to posture that the immediacy doesn't hit her straight in the stomach. So soon, he will be out of her reach, not only because of his obligations, but also her own. She swallows back a roughness in her throat. On no path in life, under no circumstances, would she steal a man from his wife. Emotions, affection, all free to share in her eyes - out of marriage, with a measured allowance as long as it is the one you hold dearest, in marriage bound to the vow.

A man belongs with his family. ]

I have no other choice. [ There are no tears in her eyes, the worst of them locked away for times alone (courage, courage). At worst, there's a waver in the thinly drawn line of her lips, a quiver in her jaw. Her hands ball into fists at her sides, knuckles white and fingers pink.

She's had so few choices in her life. Actual, unburdened choices with two even sides that she can mull over. When she can have one, she makes it, often recklessly. ]

What I can't content myself with is having a single regret when I think about what we could have done.

[ Her father had a loveless marriage. But before that, he'd known the grandest romance of his life, no matter how fleeting. Ella refuses to believe that was less because it did not last, tragedy cutting it short.

So, she makes her choice. With a single, smooth motion, she leans in to claim his lips with hers. ]

[ Of course, Éomer knew the choice she would make before she made it. Ella is predictable in her convictions, and were he in her shoes, he cannot pretend he would have chosen any differently.

She kisses him again, and he does not prevent her from doing so, letting his arms slide around her as she presses herself close to him. ]

You foolish girl, [ he murmurs against her lips. She's not the only foolish one here, that's for certain. He should push her away and tip her off his lap so that he can remove himself from this situation, to spare them both the inevitable pain coming their way since it is clear that Ella will not spare herself. And yet... ] I am not worth all this.

You are, [ Her chiding broken up by the kisses she leaves in a trail from his lips to his temple again, the impact might be lost somewhere in the delivery. ] and this is. Every bit of it.

[ Again and a thousand times more she would make the same decision, to end up here with him. Even if her heart shatters into a thousand pieces, she'd fall for the sullen boy in the market 'til the ends of the earth.

A tiny gasp - sob? outpour of the very core of her? - is muffled against his skin, though it may be close enough for his ear to hear. How close she holds his shoulders, forefinger snuck under his collar, gives her unfair collateral. ]

Please, let me show you.

[ Éomer may be able to stand tall in the face of the most fearsome of adversaries, may be able to keep his head on the battlefield, may be able to hold his ground when it seems like everything is going to fall apart, but one thing he cannot resist is a woman in pain.

All his best intentions fly out the window when Ella sobs against his temple, her ribs hitching beneath his palms as her breath catches, and his resolve crumbles. ]

Oh, sweetling. [ He spreads his hands wide against her side, feeling the warmth of her through her dress, before shifting his grip on her so he can gather her into his arms and push himself to his feet. ] If we are going to make mistakes we will come to regret later, let us at least be comfortable when we make them.

[ Carrying her into his bedchamber does not leave much in the way of ambiguity, but it is the one place in the Meduseld where Éomer has some small semblance of privacy; no servants will enter the room while he is in it without his verbal permission, which means that they will not have to worry about someone barging into the room when they are busy with each other. He does not set her down on his bed, at least, instead depositing her onto the cushioned bench at the foot of his bed, sinking to his knees before her as he lifts his war-scarred hands to cup her cheeks. ] Don't cry, Ella, please. I can't bear it.

[ Intentions do matter - Ella doesn't intend to worm her way past Éomer's practiced defenses by misty eye or batted lash, such manipulation isn't in her nature - but they pale in comparison to the end results. He lifts her up and carries her beyond his walls herself, stone and mortar as physical as it is mental once they enter his bedchambers, and she clings to him out of as much swelling emotion as need for safety lest she fall to the ground. He takes her to his chambers; she can't help but realize that he takes her to someone that is not king, not rider, not unshakeable nephew or stalwart brother. Instead, she sees Éomer.

Only. Éomer before her, as so few have ever seen him. If she's expected to quell her tears now, there is no hope. ]

I- I'm not. [ Ah, on a technicality, she is, and she shakes her head dismissively at her own expense. Big, fat droplets fall upon her wrist as she scrubs at her cheek. ] Oh, forgive me. I meant to say - I am, but not from sadness.

[ Then, she wastes no time in grabbing his larger hands in hers to bring them up to her lips, giving each knuckle and scar nestled in between its due. ]

My dearest heart...do you remember what I said to you before you left, back then?

[ Éomer, I will never hurt you. Only the horses in the stable might have heard. I love you too much to even be able to. ]

Edited (ruining my own life) 2019-02-11 19:51 (UTC)

[ If she did burst into tears in an attempt to manipulate him, Éomer would be far more suspicious of the performance she puts on, but knowing her as he does, he knows full well that any tears that glisten on her cheeks are genuine, and that makes them far more terrifying.

However, it seems his attempt to comfort her has backfired, as she begins to cry in earnest now, which sends Éomer into a bit of panic, as even though he grew up with a sister and he likes to think their relationship is fairly close, it was not to him that Éowyn went running when she was in tears, it was to their uncle or even, at times, to Théodred, already a man fully grown when they arrived in Edoras. He does not have much experience with comforting distraught women, and it shows in how wide his eyes have grown, the uncertainty in his touch. Luckily for him, Ella wastes no time in taking his hands in hers, so at least he knows she wants him to touch her, but that does not necessarily tell him what she wants to hear. ]

I remember. [ He sighs, watching her kiss his hands, taking the opportunity to wipe away a stray tear where he may with the pad of his thumb or the edge of his knuckle, his heart in his throat. ] But it is I who is hurting you. I don't wish to, but I must. For all our sakes.

[ Had she relied on him to be her gentle comforter within the turbulence, he would have made a valiant yet fruitless effort. Ella, however, hasn't needed anyone to soothe her since she'd been an awkward girlchild of about twelve or eleven and two knobbly elbows, who'd holed away from her stepsisters' wrath by climbing into attic rafters to hunch among rats' nests and soot. How she'd wept then - that she has salt water to spare in her is an unexpected grace! For hours she'd sat, mice her companion. They had hovered nearby, never biting at her bare toes nor scuttering off at repulsion towards this monster in their home. In the view of a child, it'd been a suitable approximation of desperately needed hospitality.

None of the other servants approve of her habits that end up with morsels left out for mice.

Thankfully, she can fare without his inexpert care, no matter how appreciated it is. And it is, for she beams at him while she draws his hands lower, to the dips of her collarbone, to the curves of her shoulder. She bows forward, their previous positions inversed as she burrows her chin into the crook of his neck. ]

It is your position that hurts us, as it must. You could never hurt me. [ If mirror imaging is the order of the day...

Her cheek pressed against his arm, she can't gauge his response to what she says next, thus goes by faith alone: ] Because you love me far more than that allows.

[ She's admitted her feelings for him time innumerable. Until now, she's yet to press for anything in return or even imply what he does not say.

To give neither time to dwell on the idea of hurting one another any longer, she extracts herself enough from his grasp to leave the bench and settle on the foot of the bed, pulling him up with her. ]

[ Éomer does not fully comprehend Ella's habit of leaving food out for mice and other vermin — one does not bother the king with such minutia, after all — but if he did, he would not be wholly surprised. That her heart is so soft that she looks out for little creatures that would otherwise be ignored is entirely within her character. Never mind that mice are pests, and can wreak havoc within a storehouse should they enter undetected and be allowed to breed there and gorge their little bellies on hard-won grain. Of course Ella would still be concerned with their welfare.

She curls herself into him, and his arms go about her automatically, his chin nestling in her soft, flaxen hair, the kerchief she wears to keep it mostly out of her face soft and smooth beneath his cheek.

Ella has never been shy in telling him how she feels. But Éomer, for whom actions are more important than words, has struggled to express himself fully their entire acquaintance, and he certainly isn't any better at it now. At first, he simply didn't have the words to explain himself, but then, once he grew more sure in his own feelings, the reality of his situation had set in already.

He knew he could never call Ella his wife, that he would have to marry some foreign woman he did not know and did not love. But still, somehow, it had always seemed like it would be unfair to tell a woman not his wife that he loved her, when he knew that love would come to naught, no matter how much wishing and hoping they might indulge in. So he had refrained from saying the words, allowing his actions to speak for him instead. Ella has never pressed him on his long, lingering silences in response to her declarations of emotion, for which he has always been grateful. He did not want her to think that he didn't love her, but actually saying it seemed cruel both to her and to his mystery future wife.

In some sense, he is glad that she knows how he feels without him having to say anything about it, as surely that would absolve him of needing to speak the words, but in reality, her quiet statement simply serves to accent the truth they both know: he does love her, and his refusal to say anything about it is not a kindness, it is cowardice.

So after she pulls him up onto his bed beside her, after he has tucked his fingers into her kerchief and drawn it down and off of her head, allowing her hair to spill free across the velvet covers that spread across his bed, after he has settled himself down on one arm and used the thumb of his free hand to draw a doting caress across her cheek, he finally allows the words to slip from his lips. ] I do. [ He draws his thumb across the pout of her lower lip, the tucks it beneath her chin to hold her steady so he might lean in and kiss her. ] Love you, that is.

You do not have to say it. [ And yet you'd truly believe that he had told her the most important, most liberating enlightenment in the world. It's reverence made sunbeams that dart in her eyes, for in this very span of a breath, he is the sun in her sky and every star she could count at night. Kindled by the spark that smothered over stretches of disconnection from any tender indulgence, the fire in him is the blush that spreads from the apples of her cheeks to the rise of her chest. Ten thousand men could storm the room right now, swords drawn, and she'd be hard-pressed to see anyone but him. ] I've never doubted that you do. It's what I tell myself every day.

[ Incidentally, it's why she also doesn't - couldn't - resent the wife that lives in hypotheticals...and, perhaps, someday his heart. Part of her (that barely overcomes innate selfishness, a sliver that counts nonetheless) hopes that she will. In spite of the state of their union, a wife ought to be cherished by her husband, and few can worship a woman with Éomer's subtlety.

All the nuance he has, Ella lacks, no restraint in her as her excitement and passion for his confession catapult her into a kiss. Still soft, she brings him down to him, a cradle that becomes a tug as she envelops what of him that she can. Fraught with its own rewards, the angle also gives full access for his beard to rub against her chin, brushing the corners of her mouth.

If those lips weren't tucked upward into a smile before, they're pleasantly curled now.

She'll have them in a mess of limbs by a respectable amount of time if she has her way. ]

[Unaffiliated ~~Niflheim~~ Lucis peasant reporting for duty! Down with 3,5,6,9,10,14,15, or 16 sound fun! Or if you have a scene in mind HMU!]

[ either ]

[Lifelong royalty, probably.]

[ooc: I'd be more than willing to put him in any role! Let us discuss.]

[ooc: Most likely the Unaffilated, like a servant or other commoner. But I would also be more than willing to put her into any role. Let us discuss.]

Edited 2019-02-10 17:49 (UTC)

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The Companion to Royalty

Cassandra of Troy | Mythology | F/M if shippy

Tony Stark | MCU | OTA

Yuri Himemiya | Prince of Stride | m/m

Juri | original | m/m

yuri lowell | tales of vesperia

Mary Crawley | Downton Abbey | M/F

Mollymauk Tealeaf | Critical Role C2 | OTA

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Mycroft Holmes | Yukoku no Moriarty

éomer éomundsson | tolkien legendarium

hope some vagueness is okay so we can fiddle with stuff later

i'm game!

i already love their pet names

better than his real name which LITERALLY MEANS "horse famous" lmfaaaooo

tolkien is king dork calling it rn

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i...i love them

they are already adorable

my heart

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Prompto Argentum | | OTA

Wanda Maximoff | Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU)

Cassandra de Rolo | Critical Role

Nico Acosta ;; OC ;; M/F

Evie Montgomery ;; OC ;; F/M