Another loss. Another miscarriage. Another child of Rohan dead before drawing a breath. Eomer leaned into the wind whipping across the heights of the upper story of Minas Tirith, eyes closed and silent tears tracking through his mustache into his mouth. Another child conceived in the passion between Lothiriel and him never to see the light of a day. So many dreams and plans died with this child, a little girl this time.
This was the third time in five years life had dealt with him thus, refusing to let another child of his live. He had railed at the Gods the first time, fallen on his knees to beg and plead for the life of his child the second. Neither had worked and he did not have the strength, or will, to try a different tact this time.
Aragorn stepped onto the high bridge of the castle and stopped, regarding his friend. Tall and warrior-built, the King of Rohan was normally a figure that exuded vitality and strength. Now, however, he looked a man defeated. With his head bowed between slumped shoulders and sweat-damp hair hanging limply around his face, there was no air of power about him now, only strain and sorrow.
Aragorn had watched Eomer tend to Lothiriel for hours, gently wiping sweat from her face and whispering quiet words of love and comfort. He had not left her side. She had clung pitifully to his hands and begged him to help her, to make the pain stop. Eomer had not faltered, even when the stench that accompanied his child's entry into the world had made others in the room retch. He had wrapped Lothiriel in his arms to stop her screams when she realized her daughter was not only dead, but so mal-formed that the healers would not allow her to look upon the tiny body before they spirited it away. Lothiriel had calmed some by the time the healers let her father into the room. She had reached for him with a desperate cry and Eomer had relinquished his wife to Imrahil. Stopping at the door to look back one time, Eomer had exited the room silently when he saw she was safely in Imrahil's embrace.
For such a young man, Eomer King had endured too much grief. Aragorn hated that he would have to add to that burden, but he had no option. He would give the truth to his friend and then do what he could to console him.
Strong hands grasped Eomer's shoulder and turned him around. He tensed, not wanting words of sympathy, no matter how well meant, because words would require a response and he was sure he could not speak now. He was relieved to find instead, Aragorn there, gray eyes full of compassion. His King's sword-calloused hands cupped his face, thumbs wiping tears away and pulling their foreheads together. Eomer could feel the strength flowing from his friend into him and accepted it. He was exhausted, from the frantic ride into Gondor when the messenger from the King had brought word that Queen Lothiriel was ill and the long hours in the sickroom, comforting his wife as she suffered. Soul-weary, from listening to his Lothiriel's cries of pain as her body fought to expel their babe. Sickened, from the sight of the mal-formed little body that finally emerged from her, riding on a flow of liquid that smelled of death and rot and his wife's pitiful pleading to be allowed to hold the little girl.
Aragorn pulled back from his friend and lifted Eomer's face up. "Brother, you must come inside and rest."
Eomer shook his head in denial. When he went back into the castle, he would go to his wife. She had been disconsolate after the first two miscarriages, and he expected her reaction to this one to be worse. "I cannot." His voice was raspy from grief. "I must see to 'Thiri."
Once more Aragorn forced the younger man to look at him. "Lothiriel is well. She has been given a tisane to make her sleep and she will be not be aware of anything for many hours yet. Her father and her brothers are with her."
Eomer pulled away this time, turning his back to the friends gathered to support him. He did not want to go inside, did not know if he could bear the hushed whispers of staff and visitors as he walked by. By now, word had no doubt spread through the castle and soon all would know that another Rohan heir had not survived. No matter how closely the healers guarded the privacy of their patients, tales of his daughter's death would soon circulate from the kitchen to the turret towers. At least this time, he thought with a black edge of derision, the truth would be horrible enough that no embellishing would be needed to make the rumors fascinating to those with little else to occupy them.
If he went to his wife now he would face her family, deal with their pain and their silent disdain and suspicion. Their manner had long indicated they felt he was to blame for these continued horrors. Imrahil's eyes had been cold on him as he reached for his daughter earlier. Who could blame him after she had suffered so? Eomer was the father of those poor blighted babes. His seed created them. Was he the source of the weakness that made them not thrive as they should?
He had brought Lothiriel to Gondor as soon as she told him she was again with child, partially in response to Imrahil's scarcely veiled comments that apparently "something" in Rohan did not agree with his daughter. He knew his father-in-law felt the fault was his, or in the care Lothiriel received in Meduseld. Lothiriel had argued with Eomer over her "banishment" to Gondor, as she called it, wanting instead to remain at Meduseld. When he had finally made her see the sense of going to Minas Tirith, she had fought fiercely to stay in her family home of Dol Amroth. She had not wanted to stay in the castle, even though the royal healers there were above reproach, even to her family. There was plenty of staff to watch over her and she would have no need to exert herself in anyway.
The Queen of Rohan had eventually given in but remained adamant that there was no fault in Rohan, Eomer, or herself. She said it was simply the way it was for her and steadfastly believed they would have more children. After all, they had Elfwine and he was the epitome of a happy, healthy child. What more proof could they need?
His heart sank at the thought of again explaining to his son that the longed-for brother or sister would not miraculously appear with them when they returned to Meduseld. Elfwine was six years old now, and like all Eorlingas he understood the cycle of life and death very well. But it was still difficult for him to grasp that it was not always the old or injured that died, that sometimes the very young were taken as well. The time he'd spent with his son had eased the long empty hours of Lothiriel's stay at Minas Tirith during this pregnancy. Eomer had eased the boy's fears for the new baby a thousand times and now he regretted having to face Elfwine with the truth.
He could hear soft voices behind him and knew his friends still waited to help him. Eomer knew he needed to rest and eat in order to carry on. He would need to help his wife and son through the next few weeks of grieving. And he was King of Rohan – he could not disregard his country's need for him. His people too would grieve the loss of another child – and he would need to be strong for them as well. He would find time for his own healing when he could.
Turning, he sought Aragorn first, and then locked his gaze with Legolas and Faramir. Eomer nodded his head and indicated they should precede him into the building.
The four had retired to Aragorn's study, well away from the sick rooms. Near silence reigned as the friends ate from the collection of bread, cheese, cold meat and fruit and sipped from goblets of chilled light wine.
Eomer had first sensed the tension between the other three men after he had choked down the last bite of some tasteless something. He thought little of it then, given the circumstances, but as he forced himself to finish the wine, he realized they had gathered with him for more reason that just to care for him. Eomer felt chilled at the prospect of news that would make these three warriors nervous. Aragorn had told him his wife was well so he knew her health was not the source of their discomfort. His fatigue was bone numbing at this point and his nerves, already frayed, could bear little more. "Enough!" he snapped and slammed his hands on the table, startling his friends. "What is it?" he demanded. "You have something to tell me that I will not wish to hear, I am certain. I do not have the patience to play any type of waiting game, friends."
It tore at his soul to do so, but Aragorn began his sad message. "Eomer, the healers came to us after you left the room. They examined the babe and the afterbirth as they always do." He paused, searching for words.
Eomer nodded, knowing all too well the rituals surrounding a miscarriage. He struggled to wait patiently for Aragorn to continue,
Legolas was closest to Eomer and placed a gentling hand on his forearm. "Eomer, it is most difficult to tell you this. The physicians determined that Lothiriel's miscarriage was intentional."
Anguished hazel eyes swept to Aragorn. "Intentional? I do not understand. Are they saying someone poisoned my wife, killed my child? How is that possible? She has not been ill since the third week of her term." Hard, calloused fingers raked through a mane of hair long loosed from its customary leather thong.
Aragorn went to his friend and knelt by the young king. "Eomer, Lothiriel dosed herself with herbs known to cause miscarriage. Apparently, the herbs she had were old and not potent enough to instantly kill the babe and trigger the miscarriage." Aragorn watched the pain flicker across Eomer's face but knew he had to continue. "The babe had been dead in her womb for several weeks before the infection finally caused her body to purge it."
Eomer stared at him in disbelief, and then erupted from his seat. "They lie! Or they are simply mad! To say Lothiriel lost the child on purpose, did something to cause the babe to die in her womb? That she wanted the child to decay within her body? Nay, it cannot be so. They say this to cover their own incompetence." He stalked across the room, every muscle taut with anger and barely leashed violence. Abruptly turning back to face the other men, he shouted, "Do they understand the chance they take with their lives? Rohan will not abide this type of slander, Aragorn! Wars have started over words less foul." Chest heaving, the Rohan King fairly shook with outrage, waiting for response from the man he had so recently called brother.
Aragorn rose and went to his friend. He stood calmly in front of his fellow King, showing no fear of the angry warrior, only concern for the younger man. "It is true that wars have started over less than their words, my friend. I would not come to you with this if that was the only proof I had." He waited until his words and presence took effect on Eomer, and then rested his hand on the other man's shoulder. "Do you have faith in me, Eomer? As your friend, your brother-in-arms.. and your King?"
Eomer had the grace to be ashamed of his previous words regarding war. This man had stood with Rohan at the end of the world. They had fought at each other's side, shed blood and tears together. He trusted him as he had few others. With dread building in him for what he might hear, he mirrored Aragorn's stance, placing his hand on the shoulder of his friend.
Calm, sad gray eyes reached into him and a chill gathered in Eomer's soul as Aragorn said quietly, "Arwen and I walked through Lothiriel's mind as she slept, Eomer. The healer's words are true. Lothiriel caused the death of this daughter."
The look on Eomer's face would haunt Aragorn for the rest of his days. Horror and sorrow warred for dominance and dark brown eyes filled with tears. His shoulders drooped and he turned his face away.
"I am sorry, my brother, for there is more. The two children lost before were also Lothiriel's doing."
Eomer was lost. How could it be? His beautiful, beloved Lothiriel had killed their babes. What sort of madness could possibly lead a woman to do that? He sought wildly for some other explanation. "Some one else – perhaps her maid – gave her the potions without her knowing!" He stopped as Aragorn shook his head.
"No, Eomer. Her memories were clear. Lothiriel procured the herbs and created the potions herself. Since she was here in the castle this time, she could not obtain a fresh supply and had to resort to using an older batch that had lost its potency."
"Why?" A single word that held a world of pain and confusion made Aragorn pull the younger man into his arms.
"We did not delve that deeply, Eomer. To do so might have caused damage to Lothiriel and we dared not risk that." The body in his arms was stiff as stone except for the rapid breathing. "I am so sorry, brother."
Eomer nodded mutely, and pulled away from his friend's comforting touch. His pulse was pounding in his ears and it felt like his heart would burst from his body so violently was it beating. The tight grip he kept on his emotions was slipping and he needed to get away from his friend, from everyone. His pride was all that kept him upright now and he needed to escape before it failed him. He started calmly toward the door, saying as he went," I thank you for your honesty, Aragorn. If you will excuse me-". He bumped into an ornate chair and stared at it for a long moment. A wild roar came from deep within him and he exploded, hefting the chair above his head, and slamming it into the wall. The chair exploded into shards of wood and tufts of bright colored cloth. A second chair met the same fate. Aragorn, Legolas and Faramir stood silently, waiting for him to spend himself. None of them would approach Eomer in his fury. But there was one who would.
Eomer was reaching for the third chair when Eowyn ran into the room. She had heard his cry from where she waited in the hall. Faramir tried to intercept his wife, fearing Eomer would harm her in his rage. "Eowyn, no!"
Eowyn twisted away from him, "He will not hurt me."
Eomer had frozen when she entered the room. She stepped close to him now and extended a cautious hand toward him. She whispered, "Eomer, brother-mine, I am here." Her trembling hand stroked his arm and she continued, "I am here, brother. Please, Eomer. Hear me. Let me help you." Arwen had told her of the gruesome discovery and Eowyn had been waiting impatiently outside the room until she knew her brother had been told. She knew how he would react and would shield him from the eyes of others, no matter how compassionate, until he had regained his composure.
Wordlessly, he released his white-knuckled grip on the chair and reached out for her. Within a heartbeat, she was there, holding him fiercely and murmuring softly to him. Eowyn could feel him begin to tremble and the sting of his scalding tears on her shoulder as he buried his face into her hair.
The other men headed to the door. Faramir slowed long enough to say softly "Wife, I will be outside this door. No one will enter without your permission." He sent his love to her in the looked they shared.
Eowyn returned her husband's gaze, grateful for his understanding of her bond with her brother. When the door closed, she tried smoothing the hair back from Eomer's brow. "They are gone, brother. It is only us now, Eomer, only you and me, big brother. I am here and I will not leave you." A broken, keening sound escaped him and she went to the floor with him, rocking him gently and stroking his hair. She would be his strength now that he had none, his comfort as no other could be.