Author's Note:
Oh my gosh! I have gotten a ton of hits on this story! Way more than I ever imagined! But I only have 7 reviews, so please let me know what you think or please feel free to offer a constuctive critique!
Special thanks to Danu F. Ritchie who has a great story with Eomer and O/C. Highly recommend reading it! Called a Maiden of Rohan.
Extra special thanks to my Beta, Vanwa Lullaby. She's a great beta; supportive and constructive! She also has a very heartfelt story about Legalos visiting his mother's grave called Memory.
Thanks Lady Demiya for catching my blatantly obvious misspelling of Rohirrim... I'm from da nort... we pronounce da wordz a little bit diff'rent here, ya know...lol
Umm... Warning... Bad Language in this chapter. There are those who think that men in middle earth would not curse, but I respectfully disagree, and would be willing to debate this. If there is unimaginable evil, powerful love, death, hate, contentment, happiness, sex, or yes even homosexual behavior... my guess is there are ways to express feelings, and emotions whether good or bad. All languages have there own colloquialisms, slang and curse words. i mean, hell, within the first week of spanish class I knew all the common swear words! Men, after all, are men, and if they don't act like it then no one will believe in them. If you want to believe in these characters as real people who belong to real cultures, and societies, and who have real thoughts and emotions, then the character must be free to express him or her self in what ever way they see fit. Plus, I like my Eomer raw and rough around the edges! LOL!
There was the trickling of something on her face, running down her neck and into her shirt, and burning the cut near her swollen, bruised eye. She allowed a groan to escape from her throat, lifting her head from its tilted stiffness and feeling the crick in her neck.
Sleep had finally come after they gagged her mouth.
Loti had howled most of the day, shrieking for the return of her book, cursing Eomer and Rohan in any language she knew, kicking with her legs at anyone who passed, taunting the men, and when she ran out of ideas or things to say, she simply screamed. Near dusk, she knew the King had his fill of her hysterics, as several items flew out of his tent and he yelled, aggravated, to no one in particular,
"Somebody shut her up! I can't fucking think!"
She laughed in satisfaction when one man tied the cloth in her mouth and knotted it, even if it did grate sorely against the cut in the corner of her lips, and felt quite pleased with herself and her ability to rile an uncontrolled reaction from the King.
Still groggy, she felt two fingers against her skin, loosening the gag and prying it out of her mouth. She felt more of the trickling stream down her face, warm and wet.
Her senses stirred. She felt the aching numbness from sitting in the same position all night, her hands and feet were tingling from cold and the delectable smell of food and wood smoke brought her fully aware.
The morning light straining her eyes, Loti weakly opened them, as best she could, to see a large man. Kneeling next to her, he wore chain mail and an elaborate leather chest plate, although he was not armed, and his tangled blonde hair hung in his face. When he pushed it behind his ear, and raised his head, she realized, this was no ordinary man, but the King of Rohan.
She made a sound and turned away from him, strands of her long hair catching in the bark of the tree and prickling her scalp. It would take too much effort to fight him off; her head pounded with a piercing headache, her face was sore and her mouth was dry with thirst and the coppery tanginess of blood.
Eomer gently pressed a warm, wet cloth to her face, causing her to look back in his direction. He lifted her bound hands to the rag and replaced his hands with her own. She pulled the washcloth from her mouth to see it stained crimson with blood.
He was the first to speak.
"You are the girl from the market."
She pulled the cloth from her face again, brows and face lit in surprise. How could he have possibly remembered a dirty peasant girl from weeks ago?
"What is your name?" he demanded smoothly, his thick northern accent dripping with vibrato and certainty.
He slowly took the rag from her hands, as not to frighten her, rinsed it in the bowl of water next to him, and gave it back.
She did not want to see him, or be touched by him for that matter.
"I want my book back," she said, trying not to sound like a whining child, while avoiding his question.
Eomer threatened with a measured voice, "You'll get it back when I get what I want."
Tact had never been his strongest quality, and, at once, he knew he should have chosen his words more carefully.
Chest heaving and ire rising in her stormy blue eyes, she threw the wet cloth at him hatefully, striking him in the squarely in the chest.
"Bastard!"
Eomer whipped it back, displeased with her hostility and bullheadedness.
"Don't be difficult."
Again, Loti picked it out of her lap and promptly tossed is on the ground beside him.
"Stop it!" he scolded.
Beginning to lose his patience, he dropped the rag back in the bowl, wrung it out and prudently put it back in her hands.
Loti opened her mouth to tell him what he could do with himself, in a colorful and mean-spirited way, when she saw a plate of bread and cheese on the ground. She eyed the simple fare as a wolf stares down a deer from a great distance; hungry and waiting to strike. The empty hole in her stomach hurt and she felt like an emaciated skeleton.
Watching her salivate over such mundane food, he wondered when she had eaten last.
"Are you hungry?"
When her response was silent indifference, carefully, he offered her a mug.
This she was not too proud to refuse, and took it awkwardly. She emptied the whole cup, letting it spill down her chin, while quenching her thirst and eliminating the black taste from her mouth.
He then offered a hunk of bread, which she snatched from his fingers and ripped the soft chewy insides from the hard golden crust.
She chuckled inwardly at the image of the mighty King of the Mark waiting on a poor imprisoned girl.
Not resisting the urge to irk his supremacy, she asked while chewing, "Do you always wait on prisoners like a maidservant?"
"Only those foolish enough to get caught," he pricked in return, placing a hand on his thigh.
After finishing the bread, she pressed the cloth to her eye for a few more minutes, then flipped it helplessly into the water bowl and tried to loosen the blood encrusted bangs from her cheek and forehead.
She was startled by a touch that was not her own, as Eomer's fingertips grazed her forehead, plucking the matted hair gingerly from her face, and pushing it behind her ear. His fingers briefly brushed her neck and hesitantly followed the mane of hair to find the braided ponytail hidden in her coat. He lifted it out, stroking its silky brown length, and laid it over her shoulder.
"Spies are unwelcome trespassers in the Riddermark. What are you doing here?" he prodded severely.
Feeling indignant and pitied, she shrunk away from his delicate touch.
"I will never tell you anything! I don't need your help!" she hollered, kicking at the bowl of food and scattering its contents everywhere.
Rebuked and frowning unhappily, Eomer stood, and with a flip of his hand, he said gruffly, "Have it your way."
He turned and withdrew, spurned, but not defeated. There would be other days. She would talk if she valued her freedom.
Tolerant companionship and hunger beckoned Eomer to the fire, and he took a seat next to his childhood friend, Eothain.
He put a hand on his best friend's shoulder, giving it an exuberant shake and asked sportively, "How are the baby makers today?"
Eothain tightly closed his legs and grimaced, "Oo! That girl, she's got a wicked kick! My wife's gonna be so pissed!"
"It's more likely she'll be relieved," Eomer chided with a crooked smile.
Eothain, still sore and disinclined to remember the dark haired girl's knee in his groin changed the subject.
"She do any talking?"
Eomer could see the girl some distance away through the morning confusion of camp life, her head hung, and chin at her chest. She truly was a beautiful girl, even beaten and bruised, and he hoped she would not be too scarred from their attack. The black clothing she wore only highlighted her smooth sun kissed skin, the soft angles of her face and haunting dark blue eyes. She had the most unusual mark near her lip. In the Mark, they just called it what is, a mole! But in Gondor, were everything seemed to be of some sort of pompous significance, it was called the mark of the Valar, meaning she was blessed with the pure beauty and grace of the elves. He had seen this on a few Elven women, which led to a whole host of other questions he was certain this girl would not answer.
"Hey!"
Eothain's nudge in the arm brought him out of his thoughts, and he was handed a bowl of whatever was hot and cooking this morning; the same bland venison stew from yesterday.
"You learn anything?"
"Yah. She gives me a headache," Eomer quipped, then leaned forward in the chair, stirring the steaming bowl, "I remember her now. From Aldburg."
A big, lilting smile pulled at his friend's mouth, "Oh yah? You give her a royal screwing too? No wonder she's trying to kill you! You left her unsatisfied!"
Eothain made a crude gesture at his crotch and gave Eomer a playful shove while the other men sitting at the fire laughed boorishly. Eomer smiled and shook his head as he always did whenever he became the butt of Eothain's tasteless jokes. Thanks to Eothain and his cousin, Theodred, his promiscuity and countless not-so-romantic liaisons had become the stuff of legend amongst the Rohirrim. Eothain was also, possibly the most vulgar and crude man in all of the Riddermark, which was saying a lot, but he was also kind and generous, with a rather plain looking family he adored.
Eomer snorted, "No, I think I'd remember that one."
Eothain, who enjoyed any chance to embarrass his old friend, hooted, "There's so many, I'm surprised you remember any of them at all!"
"You're jealous," Eomer spoke jokingly with a mouthful of food, "I could teach your wife some new tricks if you want."
"No, thanks! I don't want you giving her some disease from those cattle you sleep with!"
Laughter rolled through the crowd around the fire and he shot his friend a dirty look, but as usual, Eothain paid him no mind.
His eyes drifted away from the vulgarity surrounding him, and back to the girl. Twenty, no more than twenty two years old, she huddled against the tree, now with her knees to her chest. She was hungry, tired, and cold.
He felt a strange sense of pity and concern regarding his unsubmissive captive. She was brave, if a bit reckless, but obviously troubled in a way he did not yet fully understand. She needed him now, even if she didn't want to admit it. And, reluctantly, he knew he needed her too.
Eothian broke into his stream of consciousness again, "So, if you didn't screw her, how do you know her?"
"Remember in the market, I bumped into her."
"Oh, yah," Eothain remarked snapping his fingers, "Wonder why she didn't try to kill you then."
Eomer exhaled and shrugged speaking between bites, "Don't know. She's scared, doesn't trust us… I can't say that I blame her."
"Why do you think she had that flag?"
Shaking his head, Eomer sucked on the tip of the spoon in contemplation.
Drawing his lips in to a thin line, he pointed the spoon in her direction, "That black scarf, don't Southerns wear those? She doesn't look southern, but she doesn't dress like a Gondorian either… Even the way she speaks. It's refined, no hint of an accent."
In twenty nine years, he had rarely, if ever, been out of the Riddermark until last year, and knew little about Southern culture, and even less about what clothing they wore, but he was not as ignorant as some would like to believe.
Breathing out heavily, Eomer continued thinking aloud, "She's defiantly a spy…But I don't get it… Who sends a single girl after a hundred armed men? How did she expect to get away?"
Eothain glanced at his friend from the corner of his eye, "Maybe she wasn't."
She wasn't supposed to get away... He hated admitting when Eothain was right.
"So she kills me, you kill her."
Eothain started breezily, "Two problems…"
Eomer raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.
"One stone," he finished, "Whoever sent her knew it would be suicide. They expected us to kill her."
"The way she talked yesterday, I think she expected it, if she got caught," Eothain hinted, unusually sober, "A good conspiracy always eliminates everyone who might be compromised…"
Eomer was sickened by the cruelty involved with sending a girl to her death, even if she herself was not so innocent. He was right to pity her.
Pensively, he scoffed, "I don't know any girls who grow up wanting to be killers."
He hesitated briefly before continuing, "She has information..."
What he would have to offer in trade for her to give that information freely was an entirely different question.
"I'll keep talking to her. See what I can find out."
"What are you going to do with her in the meantime?"
Eomer lifted his shoulders, unsure, and brought a mug of watered down ale to his lips.
"Why do you care?"
Eothain shoveled the last bite of food into his mouth and answered, "She's feisty. I like her. She reminds me of your sister."
Eomer coughed, nearly choking, and gave his friend a glare that would kill a lesser man.
His sister!
Well, the girl certainly gets herself in trouble like my sister, he thought wryly.
After a moment, Eothain turned to his friend, putting a hand on his shoulder.
In a hushed voice, he poked, "If you're gonna get yourself killed today, try to knock some girl up first. I'd hate to see that fairy future husband of your sister's beat you to it!"
Eothain posed, stroking his chin philosophically, mocking the scholarly Steward of Gondor; Eomer's future brother in law. Before he could sneak around his chair, Eothain was caught in the stomach with a backhanded slap from his friend.
"Ghaw! Baby talk. You're worse than my sister!"
Eothain wasn't just his closest friend, but his favorite unofficial advisor. Although Eothain was two years older, they had grown up together, spending long summers running like unsupervised hooligans through the streets of Aldburg. He had always been a joker, but fiercely loyal, even if Eomer never enjoyed the kidding about his sister, Eowyn.
Standing, Eomer left his bowl and spoon on his chair, and proceeded to prepare for the day's patrol.
He tried to put the girl from his mind.
She would be there when he returned.
For Loti, her first day with the Rohirrim was endlessly long. Her first day, but surely, she thought, not her last. The ground were she sat was still damp, as were her clothes and boots, which made her feet itch. She shifted frequently trying to bring feeling back to her aching arms and benumbed backside. For the most part, she was left to her own devices, with only the occasional offer of water or weak ale.
Entertainment for an incarcerated female captive was limited, so she passed the time as she had in her room in Umbar near the palace; with silence, apprehension and wandering thoughts. She watched the handful of men who did not ride out with Eomer as they went about their daily chores, thinking she might learn something about camp routines in the unlikely event she could escape. Plans of escape became daydreams as the day wore on and the warming afternoon sun speckled through the trees draping over her like a blanket of lace. The sun's warmness and her indulgent imaginative thoughts lulled her into a light sleep. She stirred again at the sound of commotion and the merry banter of tired and hungry men returning from the day's excursion.
After dusk, she saw a large man approaching. In the dim firelight, she could tell he was the same man who was on the receiving end her knee in the stream and, by their constant good natured ribbing and harmless teasing, this man must also be in Eomer's closest circle.
Loti curled her legs to her chest in an act of protection. There was no telling if he would hammer her again with his huge hands.
He knelt beside her, setting down an bowl and cup, and reached behind his back. When she saw the flash of a dagger blade in the faint firelight, she squirmed, trying to scoot away.
"Relax," he teased with a slight laugh, and cut the rope binding her hands.
He offered her the wooden bowl and she peered precariously inside.
"It ain't much," he sympathized, "But we can't have you waste away either. You're so skinny! I think you disappear when you turn sideways!"
The contents of the bowl contained only one item, some kind of meat in a brownish sauce with a lonely piece of bread floundering on the edge.
Gnawing off a piece of bark from the tree she was tied against looked more appetizing.
As she still stared into it questionably, his eyebrows furrowed together.
"It's safe," he assured, "Here…"
He grabbed the spoon and scooped a piece of meat out of the bowl and into his mouth.
"See," he said chewing and speaking at the same time, "It might kill you, but not 'cause it's poisoned!"
Reluctantly, Loti brought a spoonful to her mouth and ate.
She grimaced and coughed, shaking her head and flaring the muscles of her neck.
"It's a little salty," he added apologetically.
"A little," she replied sarcastically, pressing her tongue against the burning cut at the corner of her mouth.
She dug the bread from the lake of gravy and handed back the bowl.
"You know," he began, sounding remorseful and shifting slightly, "If I would've known you were a girl, I wouldn't have hit you. But then again, maybe you're lucky it was me and not my wife! She'll be plenty mad at you if I can't get my cock up again!"
He chuckled, and handed her the mug.
Watching her drink and munch slowly on the crusty bread, he continued, "I'm Eothain."
Inclining his head towards the camp, he said, "I'll be around."
She turned to him as he pushed himself up, feeling the need to take advantage of this opportunity.
"Hey," she implored as pathetically as she could muster and playing on his sympathies, "Can I get up and walk around?"
Scratching his poorly maintained blonde beard, Eothain nodded and smiled impishly in a way that made her a bit worried.
With a wink, he concluded, "I'll see what I can do."
She followed him with her eyes as he poked his head inside Eomer's tent, and quickly exited. Eomer emerged from his tent a short while later, shirtless, and clad only in a pair of loose, drawstring linen pants.
Oh no, she thought when he looked in her direction, catching her eye.
She looked away, embarrassed to be seen staring at his bare chest. She again realized the same feelings of overwhelming physical attractiveness she had a few weeks before.
Eomer was not as bulky and brutish as his thick, protective armor made him appear. He was long and lean with moderately cut chest and abdomen that would be both firm and supple yet soft to the touch. The muscles of his neck, shoulders and biceps were well defined and veins bulged from the skin of his forearms; evidence he could wield a broadsword with deadly force in either left or right hand. A flush of heat spread throughout her body, as she let her eyes settle on his flat belly and the trail of dark blonde hair that ran down its length and disappeared somewhere beneath the fabric of his flimsy linen pants. Dreamily, she recalled the following the line of hair down Theodred's hard stomach with her fingertips or lips to find the not so subtle secret he hid beneath the blankets.
Eomer pulled a loose-fitting, white shirt over his head as he walked, flipping out the ends of his long hair with one hand. Also, she noted he was barefoot and carried a very large, evil-looking knife.
Wordlessly, Eomer knelt, holding both her wrists in one hand, and bound her hands tightly with a length of rope that lay nearby. Using the injurious knife, he cut the knot from the rope that tied her to the tree, freeing Loti to shake the bonds loose and stretch her sore back.
Grabbing her under the soft part of the arms, he hauled her upright in one swift motion.
Loti swayed unsteadily on her feet, feeling faint, as the blood rushed to her head from standing too quickly. Her forehead fell into the hollow of his chest and she smelled the scent of soap and sun from his clean shirt.
And she was sure she smelled like the backside of his horse.
Still holding her by the arms, he pushed her back. Knife in hand, Eomer tightly gripped her chin with his thumb and forefinger, tipping the side of her head into the mix of moon and firelight. He felt her straighten with tension and suck in her breath at the sight of the knife so close to her face. Examining her more closely, he noticed the strain in the muscles of her square jaw, but her darting, wild, almond shaped eyes told him more than body language ever could.
Fear.
She was overcome with it and she lashed out not necessarily in anger, but in self preservation.
If done properly, he could use that fear to his advantage.
Gently letting go of her injured face, he promised, "I'll have some one look at your cuts tomorrow."
He led her through the camp and along the edge of a grove of trees, his hand securely around her arm. There was a distinct uneasiness about her and she tugged against the vigor of his grip, trying to keep a distance between them.
Alone now, he stopped twisting the knife distractedly between his fingers and placed it against the small of his back inside the waistband of his pants.
Again Eomer spoke first.
"Tell me your name."
Loti kept her head turned from him out of both fright and disobedience.
She heard him breathe out heavily in frustration.
"Where are you from?"
She still refused to speak and unable to use her arms for balance, Loti stumbled over an uneven patch of ground.
Eomer's strength kept her from falling and he forced her to face him by grabbing her other arm.
"We can't help each other if you won't talk," he coaxed.
The moon was full and the light cast a silvery glow on the steadfast features of his face. He glistened with a raw masculinity that made him radiate like the god he worshipped. His light blue eyes flashed with a vacillation between concern and distain, and his untrimmed, dark blonde beard could not hide the tension carried in his jaw as he clenched his white teeth together.
He was undeniable handsome even without trying, and there was likely no red blooded woman who could resist his presence.
His closeness, though, was a reminder that he could hurt her in any way he wanted.
Loti gathered together all of her courage, knowing she was at the mercy of his power and will.
Looking into his eyes, she said with calm defiance, "You are my enemy. I will never tell you anything."
Eomer cocked a cynical eyebrow, and his voice dripped with contempt, "The assassin's creed? How touching."
Jerking her by the arm, he compelled her to walk again.
"You will talk eventually."
He spoke with authority, as a man of indomitable confidence, unshaken by self doubt. Nevertheless, she tossed, "I think not! What makes you think I need your help?"
He stopped abruptly, and whipped her around, digging his fingers under the muscles of her thin arms. She winced in pain and pushed her fists against his chest hoping he would ease his grip.
"I'm trying to be easy on you because you're a woman!" he growled through bared teeth.
"Well," Loti baited his hot headedness, "If listening to you badger me with questions is the easy way, then I'll choose the hard way."
He lifted a hand to assault her face again, but stopped short. She stood as tall as her petite figure would allow under his towering enormity; never flinching, never blinking or turning her head. He concluded, scared, yes she was, but intimidated by him, she was not.
Seeing him drop his hand, she blurted thoughtlessly, "Asshole!"
Eomer shook her belligerently as if she were a rag doll instead of a full grown woman; his great hands squeezing the nerves in her muscles, making her fingers tingle with fire.
He threatened steadily, but intensely, cocking his head in domination, "You wallowing whore, I've never hit a woman before, don't make me start now."
"I'll make you wish you would've killed me!"
"I think I already do," he lamented, his words rimmed with icy despisal.
Barely able to control his flaring temper, he dragged her back to through the camp to the tree, forcing her to run to keep up with his long steps.
Whirling her around in a blur of hip length brown braids, he commanded, "Sit."
Watching as she held her chin up in out right defiance, he bellowed, "Sit!"
When she still refused to obey, he held out his arms in vexation.
He would let her choose.
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way?"
Pursing her lips together impertinently, Loti taunted, "The hard way."
Eomer's chest heaved with exasperation, and he bit his lip as he looked up to the night sky.
Bema, he prayed, give me the strength not to wring her bloody neck!
Of a sudden, he reached out, shoving her in the chest and she thrust back against the tree. She heard the dull crack of her head against the bark, and a shadow of black dotted with exploding white pinpoints covered her eyes. With a souring moan, her knees buckled and she slumped down to the ground.
Eomer put his hands on his hips, triumphantly.
"That was the easy way."
Unhurried, he tied her securely back to the tree, cinching the rope as tight as possible.
She lost track of him for a while; his goading words arousing her own churlish temper and causing a throbbing headache. He stalked back a short while later carrying what she recognized as a green cloak of the Rohirrim. Eomer tossed it over her, purposely covering her head, spun on his bare heel and started back to his quarters.
Wiggling her head out from beneath what was now an impromptu blanket, she spit out caustic curse.
"Your mother was a wailing whore, you…you ass-fucking barbarian!"
Eomer came to a dead stop, and turned, slowly. His expression was one of unmanageable restraint as he crossed the short distance between them.
Wrapping her hair around his hand, she squealed when he yanked sharply on a braid, and gasped when he pulled harder. The distrust, suspicion and anxiety emanating from her were tangible as he drew her ear to his mouth.
If his body was under control, his voice certainly was not.
"I gave you a choice. You chose wrong!" he whispered corrosively.
His lips were so near their mere presence tickled her ear and his deep throaty voice and bullying manor sent shivers of crawling goose bumps from her scalp to toes.
"Don't you ever," he jerked the braid for emphasis and listened to her chirp in pain, "Ever, speak of my mother again."
He flipped the braid in her face and left, allowing her to massage her injured pride and scalp.
Loti squirmed in an attempt to spread the green mantle over her evenly, and snuggled the finely woven wool fabric under her chin. She inhaled the familiar spicy, masculine scent of the of the cloak- Eomer's cloak.
Before sleep took her, she pondered the contradiction that was Eomer, King of the Mark.
The next two days were very similar to the first. Eomer kept his word and sent a man to examine her blackened eye, sliced, fat lip and the new tender, bulging protuberance on the back of her head. By the look of indifference and annoyance on the King's face after her rudimentary examination, apparently, she would survive.
Eothain, an overly exuberant lover of early mornings, would come to break her nightly fast with food fit for neither man nor beast, while Eomer the Insomniac came in the evening to trade repetitive questions for crankiness and spiteful name calling.
The fourth day Loti woke to find both Eothain and Eomer standing over her as she huddled for warmth inside Eomer's green cloak. The impressive blonde warlords looked like rough hewn, stone statues as they stood side by side fully armored in leather and steel and heavily armed.
She could hear the hustle and bustle of the camp behind them, and craned her neck to see the commotion. The men of the Mark were systematically and efficiently dismantling the campground; packing away everyday conveniences, folding tents and loading wagons and beasts of burden.
They were moving out.
And Loti knew where the King would lead them.
South.
She had seen the correspondence between the Kings of Gondor and Rohan requesting the assistance of the Rohirrim.
Eomer snatched the crude blanket from her, tossing it aside, and reached behind his back to produce the same dangerous knife she had seen only days before.
He asked, pointing the knife at her before slicing the ropes that held her to the tree, "Can you ride?"
She shrugged out of the bonds.
"You're taking me with you," she stated.
"Unless you'd prefer to rot in the snake pit at Edoras for the next eight months. I think I might find a use for you yet."
Again, he asked, "Can you ride?"
Without proper use of her hands, Loti twisted clumsily on her knees, in an undignified attempt to stand. To keep her from tipping over, Eomer extended a gracious hand. Not wanting his pity or help Loti parted her lips, rolled her tongue and promptly spit on the outstretched hand.
She would submit to none of the uses he had in mind.
"You'll use me for nothing!"
With his patience disintegrating, Eomer kept his composure long enough to wipe his hand on his pants and give orders to Eothain.
"Take her shoes," he said through clenched teeth, "She walks…Everywhere."
Eomer put a well placed boot in her chest, knocking her back to the ground in a pile, and gestured again with the knife, "This is the easy way."
Already feeling the pain of walking barefoot, Loti looked pleadingly at Eothain, who shrugged, "Can't say he didn't give you a chance."
When Eomer was out of earshot, Eothain raised an eyebrow and muttered, "If this is the easy way, I'd hate to see the hard way."
At least they were headed in the right direction.
Although she hated to admit it, Eomer was right. Moving south with him was considerably more desirable than being shipped to Edoras to await his return. This way there was still the possibility of escape. In Edoras there would be the doleful trifecta of darkness, disease, and death, along with the ever present threat of rape.
The rope, with which she was tethered, pulled taught and Loti stumbled forward, stepping on another jagged piece of gravel that gouged into the arch of her foot.
Escape…, she ridiculed herself.
Where would she escape to?
She had no family or friends to fall back on, and no skills to earn a living.
The only constant in her life was the compound in Umbar.
The rope jerked again, and Loti let out a whimper; a cross between the pains of her raw, battered feet, and the stinging remembrance of her humiliation after her inability to eliminate Theodred.
She needed to kill Eomer in order to return home. Or die trying. At this point she would not meet her contact in Minas Tirith, so it did not matter when or how or where, as long as Eomer was dead.
Then she could go home.
She could go home and everything would return to normal.
She knew what she could expect at home. Over time, she had become accustomed to the dysfunction and abuse there; like she had become used to killing and enticing men to take her to bed. It was a place of security that no one or nothing else offered. Here, the uncertainty of strange men in a strange land and the daily unknown of Eomer's hot temper left her feeling morbidly irrational.
Until then, she would just have to bide her time and wait for the perfect opportunity to get close to him.
And she would get her book back. If she had to scoop him apart, bit by unforgiving bit, with a rusty spoon, she would get her book back!
The parade of horses, men and wagons seemed to be coming to a halt. The day was waning and Loti desperately hoped the procession would stop for the night. The Great West Road was not so great. Horribly neglected and besieged by war, it was riddled with ruts, and blighted by bottomless potholes that caused the wagon she trailed behind to jostle. She would then lurch forward, unprepared, and scuffle ungainly across the gravel. Her feet were bruised, cut, and bloody, after what she thought must have been a twenty five mile walk, and each step was laborious and an effort of sheer willpower to take.
Eomer was trying to break her, and he was coming very close.
Loti collapsed against the wagon with a squawking grunt of appreciation. She defiantly felt broken.
After dark she curled into a ball beside the wagon's wheel, her hands tied around one of the wheel's spokes. She heard Eomer coming, and feigned sleep, hoping he would forgo his nightly question and no-answer session. He stopped and she listened as he knelt and let out a long exhausted breath. Then she felt the enveloping warmth of his cloak as he gently laid it over her, and dutifully covered her up to the shoulders. He lingered, and proceeded to interrupt her solitary peace with, "I know you're not sleeping."
Her eyes suddenly opened with a flash and she sat up as if the ground were a bed of red hot coals.
Feelings of neglect, misuse, and humiliation burst to the surface and Loti's words smoldered, "Haven't you done enough! If you want me dead, do it already! Don't keep dragging me around like a war prize, you wretched excuse for a man!"
Eomer rocked back on his heels.
There was something familiar about her hate, and her rage… Something familiar in her tone, her words, her eyes; something he had failed to notice before now.
Her anger, her loathing, her undampened spirit to fight against his will went far beyond duty. It was a deep, penetrating, personal hatred of him that bit venomously in to every fiber of her being and consumed her entirely.
"What did I do to you that makes you hate me so much?" he urged.
He could see she wanted to say it.
She wanted to say it in the way her chest heaved heavily; rising and falling with each exhausting breath. In the way she bit her teeth together. In the way she glared up at him under creased eyebrows that marred the loveliness of her blemished face. It was there, just under the surface, ready to erupt like a volcano, bringing with it unbearable heat, fury and death.
But she reigned in the need, as if saying it would hurt her more than him.
"It's why you're here, isn't it," he ventured, "What you won't say… It's why you hate me."
Eomer could see her internal struggle. The need to keep a secret that might make her vulnerable versus a desire to scream slanderous epithets at him in an illogical release of frustration.
"Tell me. I can help you."
He wanted to reach out, touch her, tell her he would not cause her any harm if she explained. But he refrained. She would come to her own conclusions about his intentions.
"Help me?" she hissed.
Then she let it out, the dam of her inhibitions bursting, "You killed my brother! He was just a boy, and you offered him no mercy! My mother died of heartache because of it! How do you plan to help with that!"
Eomer broke away from her gaze, realizing what was so familiar about her anger. He had seen that uncontrolled resentment before… in himself. They shared the same loss of family, of a connection and an unconditional love that could never be replaced. And if they were alike in any way, there would be no words that would give her comfort. She did not want apologies. She wanted action; and killing him was the way to right wrongs done unto her.
"I've killed a lot of men," he acknowledged quietly and with out pride, "But that is my burden to carry. Not yours, and I will not apologize for it.
"You're right, it is your burden!" Loti bit poisonously, "Not apologize? The only thing I want from you is to die! You're a killer and an animal! I know what you'll do with me! I will choose death before that!"
"Animal?" he repeated, fighting back aggravation, "What have you heard that I will do with you?"
"You'll sell me to some man, some lord, who'll want to make me his whore. I know that's what you do to women. I'm surprised you haven't used me yourself!"
Eomer's face clouded. Sell her? Into Slavery? Is this what was said about him? That he bedded women without their consent and then peddled them like common chattel to men for exploitation. She actually believed he would engage in such depraved acts as slavery and rape?
"You think I'm going to rape you and then make you a slave?" he asked quizzically.
Saying those words, even thinking there were men who did such despicable things, especially to women, made his stomach turn.
"This is what you've heard? This is what you've been told?"
He shook his head, dumbfounded. She was out of her mind.
"Well, you are a pretty girl," he laughed, absurdly, "I could probably get a lot of money for you. But money means nothing to me. So I guess I'll just keep dragging you around, torturing myself, listening to you howl like a bitch in heat."
Watching her mouth pucker, he jumped forward, pressing one leathery smelling hand over her bruised mouth and another behind her head.
He squeezed tightly and suddenly very serious, he strongly advised, "If you spit on me again, I'll cut out that pretty tongue. My generosity only extends so far. Do you understand me?"
Loti nodded, his dirt encrusted hands still clenched about her head. She easily could have bit his finger, but held back, wary of his rather impulsive, unpredictable nature.
His definition of generosity was his alone.
When he finally did let go, after an exchange of glares testing the mettle of the other, Loti yelled after a departing Eomer, "Cocksucker!"
Eomer's voice also pierced the quiet, cool night, "Dirty bitch!"