WESTU HAL
I like vikings and good beards and books and horses and mountains and lord of the rings. also superheroes
It should therefore come as no surprise that I love Éomer and want to live in Rohan.
Kissing prompts. In the water or in a bar. Eomer/Lothiriel or Faramir/Eowyn. Pretty please 😘
At some point the trees that were scattered sparsely over the fields have become more numerous, until they are riding beneath a canopy of leaves that rustle gently in the summer breeze and are pierced here and there by shafts of golden sunlight. Lothíriel is beginning to wonder if they should turn around and start back towards Edoras – having left at dawn it is now close to midday – but Éomer seems sure of where he is going, directing his horse confidently through the forest, so she bites her tongue and follows.
Were they here to witness it, her brothers would no doubt be asking if she felt ill, for she has certainly never held her tongue with them. But it is different, somehow, with Éomer; Lothíriel still does not know what to make of the young King of Rohan, and finds herself oddly tongue-tied around him.
Her gaze lingers on him as he rides a little ahead of her on the path. He sits tall and confident in the saddle, looking far more at ease on a horse than he does in Meduseld talking politics with his ealdormen and her father or did in the grand halls of Minas Tirith when she first met him, several months ago now. Back then Lothíriel thought he seemed solemn and grim-faced – which wasn’t helped by the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbones; while handsome, undoubtedly, they give him a stern look – but here in his own land, she catches glimpses of something softer and lighter underneath it.
Somehow that scares her more, because it makes her want to dig deeper, to find that softness and pull it out of him, to understand him from the inside out, and she doesn’t know what to do with that.
His hair is falling loosely down around his shoulders, a few strands blown back by the wind. It gleams bright gold where the sun catches it, and Lothíriel’s fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch it, to see if it’s really as soft as it looks. Instead she tightens her grip on her reins and clicks her tongue, urging her mare to make up the short distance between them.
“Where are we going?” she asks, mainly to distract herself and move her thoughts in a less disconcerting direction.
Éomer glances at her sidelong and the corner of his mouth pulls up into a smile. “You’ll see.”
A nettled sort of irritation washes over her. “You should know, sire, that I do not generally like surprises.”
“I think you’ll like this one.”
She blinks, then scowls, not sure what to make of his confidence or the fact that he thinks he knows her well enough to claim that when they’ve only really spent a few days in each other’s company.
She not sure if she wants him to be right or not.
They ride a little way further, then Éomer brings Firefoot to a halt and gestures for Lothíriel to do the same with her horse. He dismounts easily, and turns to offer to help her down.
Part of Lothíriel wants to toss her head disdainfully and jump down just to show him. But once when she tried to do that after Amrothos was particularly irritating she caught her foot in the stirrups and went flat on her face and she would rather not repeat that experience in front of Éomer (though she doesn’t think that he, unlike her elder brother, would just laugh instead of checking to see if she was alright). But she’s still uncertain exactly how far she can push Éomer without causing offence and, besides, it’s not really his fault that she’s irritated.
Well, it is, but he can hardly know how confounding she finds him and how off balance she feels in his presence. He’s done nothing but take her on a ride to some mysterious place he thinks she will like – hardly something to be blamed for.
So she puts her hand on his shoulder to steady herself, and lets him hold her waist as she drops down to the ground. She can feel his strength; he’s solid and sturdy as she leans on him, and when her feet are on the ground she’s reminded how much taller than her he is, towering over her, and yet she feels entirely safe. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Lothíriel shivers as he takes his hands from her waist.
“This way.”
Éomer pushes aside a branch and Lothíriel realises another, small path diverts from the main, snaking away between the trees. She follows him along it, and just a moment after she recognises the sound of rushing water they emerge into a glade at the side of a large lake that stretches out for several feet, blue waters clear and glittering like crystal. It’s fed by a small waterfall on the eastern side – the sound of water that she could hear – that cuts its way through rocky hills that she’s fairly sure if they had kept to the main path they would eventually have ridden over.
“You said you missed the water,” Éomer says behind her. “This isn’t the sea, but I thought you might like it.”
Lothíriel looks up at him, eyes wide with surprise. “You remembered?”
She told him that days ago, not long after the Dol Amroth delegation had arrived in Edoras. There had been a feast in the evening and at some point she found herself by one of the windows, staring out at the vast plains of Rohan that, even from the vantage point of Meduseld, seemed to stretch endlessly out to the horizon. Éomer had joined her, and asked softly after a moment, “How do you find Rohan, my lady?”
The tone of his voice and the keen way his hazel-flecked eyes watched her made her suspect he was not really asking what she thought of the land so much as what she thought of its king. Although nothing had been said openly, they both knew that her father’s visit to land of the horse masters was not only to reaffirm Dol Amroth’s trade agreements with Rohan’s new lord, but to see if they might forge an alliance of a much more personal nature – through a union between Éomer, and Imrahil’s only daughter.
Lothíriel tilted her head as she turned from the window to look at him, her gaze travelling over his face as she considered her answer. Most everyone she knew had some praise of him to offer, and from what little they had spoken in Gondor and now here he seemed a good, honourable, albeit rather stubborn, man. He was handsome, and she had to admit there was something about him that intrigued her. She could do far worse for a husband.
But then she thought of the affection shared by her parents, and that she had seen between her cousin Faramir and Éomer’s sister, and even between King Elessar and his elf Queen and she had to ask . . . was it enough for a marriage?
“I admire what I have seen thus far,” she said finally. “But I don’t feel I know it well enough to have made my mind up yet. It is very different to what I am used to.”
“How so?”
“Everywhere you look in Dol Amroth you can see the sea, and smell the salt on the air. It seems strange to look out and see only land. But . . . I think I could come to like it, given time.”
He nodded and half turned to leave, but then looked back and said almost as though he had not expected to, “I hope you will.”
Now as she stares up at him he nods again and asks, eyes bright with amusement, “Was I right? Do you like it?”
There’s a hint of a smirk already playing about his lips that makes Lothíriel want to roll her eyes, but she can’t pretend that she isn’t amazed by the gesture.
“Yes, very much.” The smirk comes out fully and at that she does roll her eyes, as she turns to walk over to the edge of the lake. “. . . don’t let it go to your head.”
She’s not said anything like that to him before and winces, wondering if she will have ruined what goodwill he seems to feel towards her. But he lets out a bark of laughter and when she glances back he’s still grinning. Without really meaning to, she smiles back.
“As I said I know it’s not the sea, but I thought perhaps you’d like to see that Rohan is not as different as you might think.”
Lothíriel lifts an eyebrow. “Perhaps not.”
There’s a nearby boulder that’s sturdy enough for her to sit on and start unlacing her boots. Éomer, stepping closer, looks curious but doesn’t say anything until she kicks them off and wades out into the water, hoisting her skirts up to above her knees, when he comments, “You’re not what I expected.”
“No?” she says, turning her face up to the sun. “What did you expect?”
There’s a pause and then a quiet, “ . . . not you,” is his very unsatisfactory answer.
When he doesn’t continue, she brings her head back down and looks at him over her shoulder. He’s standing at the edge of the water watching her, his brow furrowed into a frown, and a strange intensity in his gaze that makes her chest tighten and her breath catch.
It’s only a moment and then he smiles again, eyes crinkling with amusement, and says, “Is this what you do in Dol Amroth? Just stand in the water?”
The sudden change of subject is disorienting, her thoughts a muddled mess as her pulse slows back to normal, which is perhaps why Lothíriel answers truthfully, “No. Usually in Dol Amroth, I would swim.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Here?” She looks at him warily. “Does it not seem inappropriate?”
Éomer shrugs. “There’s no one here but us. I won’t tell, and we can always say you just happened to fall in.”
A slow smile starts across Lothíriel’s face. Her father will never believe it, but she has not been swimming in weeks, not since they left Dol Amroth, and oh, she misses the water. Before she talks herself out of it with her own good sense, she come back out of the water and gestures for Éomer to turn around.
“Don’t look.”
Once he’s turned away, she unlaces her dress and pulls it over her head, so she is only in her shift. She practically runs back into the lake, diving in headfirst. The water is cold for the first few moments, but then her body starts to adjust and she just feels a rush of joy. When she breaks the surface again she laughs aloud, pushing her hair back from her eyes.
Maybe it’s the thrill of doing something she loves, or perhaps it is the excitement of doing it when she really shouldn’t be, but as she treads water and looks over at Éomer on the bank she calls, “You know, if I did fall in an honourable man would come to my aid.”
Éomer laughs and sweeps a bow. “Of course I would.”
His hands go to the clasp of his cloak and Lothíriel spins around in the water, flushing. She shouldn’t look - but the thought that he is behind her undressing is tantalising and she cannot resist a quick glance back over her shoulder.
He’s pulling his shirt over his head so doesn’t see, but Lothíriel is mesmerised by the side of his broad, muscled chest and arms, silver scars noticeable here and there and golden hair trail down from his navel to the waistband of his breeches. The image of him undressing like this in a candlelit chamber - a bridal chamber - seizes her, and heat pools low in her belly.
Then his head comes free from her shirt, and she quickly whips her own back round before he catches her staring. Resolutely she stares at the waterfall, until she hears a splash behind her indicating that Éomer has finished undressing and joined her in the lake.
Hoping her blush has faded, she turns back. “And what do you think of my Dol Amroth customs?”
Éomer swims toward her and grins. “I could get used to it.”
“But it is not what you expected, perhaps?”
He sighs. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
Lothíriel scrunches her nose in thought. “No, probably not. So what weren’t you expecting? Someone who does this?”
She brings her hand up on the last word, sending water splashing soundly over him. He lets out a shout of surprise, shaking his head, then a gleam of competition enters his eyes. He brings his own hands up to splash her - and for the next while it’s as though they’re carefree children, seeing who can send the most water the other’s way while their shouts and laughter echo up around the glade.
They’re both still smiling when the water-fight ends with no clear winner, and Éomer runs his hands through his hair as he says, “No, I definitely wasn’t expecting that.”
“And what else?” Lothíriel asks.
“I don’t know . . . I don’t even know if it’s right to say I was expecting anything. But still, you surprised me.”
That is still frustratingly vague so she demands, “How?”
He fixes her with a look. “Rewriting entire trade agreements, for instance.”
That makes her pause.
“You knew it was me?”
“Your father’s negotiating strategy changed almost overnight. And I had heard his advisors the previous day. None of them could have come up with it - the only person who wasn’t in the room was you.”
She is a little surprised that he was paying that much attention, and that he put it all together so easily - but then, she supposes, he was a military commander, and that must require a man to be perceptive and think strategically. It speaks well to the sort of king he will make.
But it is her next question that she really cares about. “Do you object?”
“Not at all. I’m impressed. I wish I had half your diplomatic skill.”
“You don’t seem to be doing badly to me. Your alliance with Gondor has never been stronger, thanks to your friendship with King Aragorn, and your sister’s marriage to my cousin. Your men would clearly follow you anywhere. My father and his men only have good things to say about you.”
My father wishes you to marry me. And Lothíriel is starting to think she would not be opposed to the idea.
Éomer drifts a little further away, clearly pleased by the praise but still doubtful.
“You don’t believe me,” Lothíriel challenges.
“It’s not that.” He frowns again, and speaks carefully, measuring each word before choosing it. “I know I have done . . . as well as I could hope, at the moment, given the war we have been through and how suddenly I lost my uncle and my cousin. But that is just it. I never expected to wear this crown, it is a burden I have never asked for nor wanted. It should be Théodred. I would have been his Marshal, and I would have been a good one. That is what I was raised to be, and I know how to do it and to do it well. I do not know how to be a king.”
When she thinks about how Amrothos or Echirion might feel were something to happen to their father and Elphir, leaving them with the crown of Dol Amroth, she can understand Éomer’s uncertainty.
“Did you always know how to be a good Marshal?”
“What?”
“Did you always know how to be a good Marshal?” she asks again. “Or did you learn?” When his expression clears in understanding she nods. “You see? You will learn how to be a king, too. It may take time, but you will learn. And honestly, that you have even thought to ask the question says much. I’ve met plenty who never would.”
He cocks his head, considering her words. “And while I am learning?”
“You rely on the counsel of the wise, and those you trust.”
Abruptly, his gaze once more becomes piercing. “Such as a wife?”
Lothíriel’s mouth feels dry of a sudden, and her tongue darts out to lick her lips before she answers. She tries not to notice the way Éomer’s eyes flicker downwards, but her chest is tight again and her heart flutters against her ribs. “Perhaps, yes. If there is a woman you trust, and who you - whose opinion you would value.”
Quiet winds around them, thick and heavy with unspoken things, broken only by the sounds of the birds in the trees, the waterfall behind them and the beating of Lothíriel’s own heart, which is so loud she is sure Éomer must be able to hear it.
“You are not what I expected either,” she blurts suddenly, when the tension feels too much to bear and she has to break it because she is a little afraid of what will happen if she doesn’t.
But it doesn’t break. Instead, somehow, it feels more intense, as Éomer slowly swims back toward her until he’s so close that she could, if she wished, count every drop of water on his face and shoulders. His gaze is locked on hers, and although she’s mostly still submerged in the lake she is suddenly very aware that she’s only in her shift. She wants to break away, to swim to shore and wrap herself in something, to hide from those dark eyes that seem not just to see her but to see right through her. Yet at the same time she wants to close what distance there still is between them, to reach out and touch him and - and -
Lothíriel isn’t sure what else, but she knows she wants.
“No?” Éomer says, voice soft. “But perhaps that’s not a bad thing?”
“Perhaps,” Lothíriel whispers.
Carefully, achingly slow, giving her every chance to stop him, he reaches out and gently tilts her chin up, then brings his head down and lightly presses his lips to hers. The kiss is soft, chaste, but as Lothíriel closes her eyes and tentatively returns it, it deepens, becomes surer - and then Éomer’s arms are around her in the water and her own are winding around his neck, her fingers curling into his hair.
He pulls her close, their bodies pressing against one another. It takes a moment to find their balance, so they can keep treading water, and their lips briefly come apart but only for a moment before Éomer’s mouth crashes back against hers. Even wet his beard scratches a little against her skin but she doesn’t mind, lost in the pleasure of his kisses. The passion with which he kisses her takes Lothíriel by surprise, but what surprises her more is the depth of feeling that rises up in her in response. She wants this. She wants him.
They break apart when they need to breathe but Éomer makes no move to let her go, and Lothíriel has no desire to leave his arms anyway.
“Have you had enough time?” Éomer asks huskily. “Have you come to like Rohan, my lady?”
She did not know it was possible for her heart to beat so fast.
“. . . yes. Yes, I like it,” she says. “I think, perhaps, I could - I think I could like it very much.”
I think I could love it.
The words are on the tip of her tongue, but she’s not quite ready to say them.
But she thinks, from the way Éomer lowers his head to kiss her again, that he knows anyway.
“In my own life, I have a deep connection with my family and the value of those bonds. I’ve always loved stories about people who put their families before themselves. It’s such a noble endeavor. You can’t choose your family, as opposed to friends. Especially in L.A. You really get to see how friendships are put to the test; it stirs everyone’s egos. But if something goes south with a friend, you have the option to say we’re not friends anymore. Your family—that’s your family. Trying to make that system work and trying to make it not just functional but actually enjoyable is a really challenging endeavor, and that’s certainly how it is with my family.“ - Chris Evans photographed by Mark Segal for Esquire Magazine’s April 2017 issue.
this photoshoot was literally sent by Satan to punish ME SPECIFICALLY and i’ll tell you why: because these are pictures not of Your Hot Goofy Boyfriend, Chris Evans, but of Your Sexy and Reliable Husband, Chris Evans, Who Swore Before Your Friends and Families and God to Care for You Forever and Meant It. Your husband Chris Evans likes to listen to old Dinah Washington records while doing the dishes. Your husband Chris Evans loves to make breakfast but never touches the coffeemaker because he’s weirdly convinced that he doesn’t know how to use it. Your husband Chris Evans always smells like detergent and Kiehl’s. Your husband Chris Evans is learning to refinish furniture from Youtube so all your kitchen chairs are stained different colors because he hasn’t decided which one he likes best and “it’s a process.” Your husband Chris Evans loves it when you scratch his head while he’s reading the newspaper. (Your husband Chris Evans insists on continuing to subscribe to a physical newspaper.) Your husband Chris Evans is considering buying a kayak. Your husband Chris Evans is finally after like 8 years finishing his dissertation on Samuel Beckett’s use of parataxis and hypotaxis and he likes to read passages aloud to the dog because it “helps him think.” (“Per Adorno, paratactical strategies permit the emergence of an aesthetic unity that knows itself to be inconclusive,” croons your husband Chris Evans in his gooboy voice as the dog drools adoringly on his face. “Don’t they? Yes, they do.”) Your husband Chris Evans insisted you spring for a land line when you bought your house because “real houses have phones in them” and you were like, this is a real house and we already have two phones in it, and your husband Chris Evans was like “not cell phones“ with that grossed-out hippie face he gets when he’s thinking about how modern technology is invasive and how he wants to be more present in life, and you were like LOL eyeroll, but then he got his arms around you and was like “i want a phone so people can call us at our house, you know?” and you JUST KNEW he was thinking about when you have kids, and you were like, Oh, God.
full offense but the new mummy film seems terrible as hell except for the mummy herself (she’s amazing) and nothing will ever even come close to the glory of Evelyn and Rick O’Connells fighting mummies
“greek life? oh no, i’m into roman life,” i say as i burst into frat parties with an army so that i can conquer these beer-drinking, pants-wearing barbarians for the glory of the res publica
I am 100% convinced that “exit, pursued by a bear” is a reference to some popular 1590s meme that we’ll never be able to understand because that one play is the only surviving example of it.
Seriously, we’ll never figure it out. I’ll wager trying to understand “exit, pursued by a bear” with the text of The Winter’s Tale as our primary source is like trying to understand loss.jpg when all you have access to is a single overcompressed JPEG of a third-generation memetic mutation that mashes it up with YMCA and “gun” - there’s this whole twitching Frankensteinian mass of cultural context we just don’t have any way of getting at.
no, but this is why people do the boring archival work! because we think we do know why “exit, pursued by a bear” exists, now, and we figured it out by looking at ships manifests of the era -
it’s also why there was a revival of the unattributed and at the time probably rather out of fashion mucedorus at the globe in 1610 (the same year as the winter’s tale), and why ben jonson wrote a chariot pulled by bears into his court masque oberon, performed on new year’s day of 1611.
we think the answer is polar bears.
no, seriously! in late 1609 the explorer jonas poole captured two polar bear cubs in greenland and brought them home to england, where they were purchased by the beargarden, the go-to place in elizabethan london for bear-baiting and other ‘animal sports.’ it was at the time run by edward alleyn (yes, the actor) and his father-in-law philip henslowe (him of the admiral’s men and that diary we are all so very grateful for), and would have been very close, if not next to, the globe theatre.
of course, polar bear cubs are too little and adorable for baiting, even to the bloodthirsty tudor audience, aren’t they? so, what to do with the little bundles of fur until they’re too big to be harmless? well, if there’s anything we know about the playwrights and theatre professionals of the time, it’s that they knew how to make money and draw in audiences. and the spectacle of a too-small-to-be-dangerous-yet-but-still-real-live-and-totally-WHITE-bear? what good entertainment businessman is going to turn down that opportunity?
and, voila, we have a death-by-bear for the unfortunate antigonus, thereby freeing up paulina to be coupled off with camillo in the final scene, just as the comedic conventions of the time would expect.
I think my least favorite Hetero Trope is when the girl eats a burger or whatever and the dude is like “Wow, I like a girl who can eat” like what the fuck did your last girlfriend do, photosynthesis?
baratheonpilled
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