Author's Note: Hello again! Sorry this didn't get published right away but i wanted to finish chapter 8 and post it together for reasons you might understand when you read it.

Thanks for all the nice reviews! The more you leave the more likely I might be to write faster! It is really encouraging!

Just something to keep in mind... Men and women are different, duh, but beyond that, men don't tell women how they feel. They show women how they feel. It really is the little things that can show a man's true feelings.

Thanks again!


The return journey took twice as long.

He carried her the whole, entire miserable way back to camp; her wretched little body slung over his shoulders if for no other reason than to humiliate and cripple her pride. She fidgeted considerably, and jawed, jeered, squawked and swore with virtually the every step; this he had expected. But it was his loyal friend of seven years that gave Eomer the most trouble. Whether it was from the girl's hysterics or the beast's patent dislike of his treatmoent of her, the answer mattered little. Firefoot balked, shied, whinnied, reared and generally acted rude, impertinent, and sour as he was led through the trees and undergrowth until his master threatened to deprive him of the company of his favorite mare for a month. After that brief one sided exchange, the stallion changed his tune drastically and was the model of perfect behavior, something Eomer wished the girl would emulate.

His men must have heard them coming from a distance, bellyaching and yammering as she did. Large congregations of men stood together in the center of the camp as he emerged, stalking purposefully from the woods into the clearing. Seeing his leader double burdened, a young man approached as he entered the circle of tents, generously taking Firefoot's reigns, and leading the beast away from the impending fracas.

He was hot, feeling as though he had entered the caverns of Mount Doom, dripping with sweat and parched with thirst. His temper and his anger were also as hot as he was, as hot as the liquid thick day had been.

The crowd of soldiers parted allowing him to pass.

"Find the healer!" He shouted as he came to a stop in the center of the camp, his men backing away hastily.

Eomer searched the crowd of soldiers; forcibly grabbing two of the biggest men he saw and angrily dumping his undulating female load into their waiting arms. They forced her to her knees, pressing down on her shoulders as she fought their restrictive holds. He paced in the space cleared by his men, as more faces came to see the cause for the disturbance.

She knelt before him powerless, restrained, and uncompliant, but she would be none of these things for long…

He smoothed any stray strands of wet hair from her face, his calloused hands abrasive as sandstone on her soft skin. She must see, know, and remember everything that would happen; everything he would do to her tonight.

And he must find the strength to do it.

He loomed ominously above her slavish subservience with the shadows of evening darkness masking his face.

"Monster! Don't touch me!" She exclaimed, trying to wrestle forward, teeth and claws bared, "Just kill me so I don't have to spend another day with you!" Screaming and shaking, she struggled to break free.

In a restrained calm, he spoke through gnashed teeth, "Kill you? No, I'm not going to kill you."

He turned, walking through the pool of light created by the roaring campfire.

"That's because you don't have the stones!" She declared heatedly.

Eomer spun again with direct purpose, eyeing her narrowly, and slowly unbuckling his sword belt. The sword rang with a metallic shriek as it was unsheathed and, casting aside the scabbard heedlessly, he brandished the weapon in her direction. There was little he would do for her now. Everything else she would have to come to terms with on her own.

"Oh, no. I'm not going to kill you," he confessed, wiggling the blade at her chest, "I'm going to do exactly what I said I would do. I'm going to cut off your arm."

She froze, solid as an ice sculpture, and her blood ran like cold water in her veins.

"What?" she cried in disbelief, frantically scanning the faces for Eothain's protection. Only he would have the ability and influence to stop Eomer's madness.

"Hold out her arm. Her right arm," Eomer corrected tersely, even as he seemed to be checking the weight of the sword in his own fully functioning hand, "She's right handed."

Helpless against the strength of the warriors, one soldier stretched out her arm to its fullest length as she released another torrent of obscenities and the other man continued to stay her left arm and the rest of her rigidly tense body.

"You can't do this!" She shouted desperately. Her fists were balled and she breathed raggedly through her teeth, chest heaving. She closely resembled a snake, coiled and ready to strike.

"Why? Because you're a girl? Do you really think I care about that? You're a prisoner, and by rights I can do whatever I want to you," he paused contemplatively, then continued, "You're brave, too brave. And I don't think you're afraid of death. You ask for it, beg for it. It would be a relief for you. No…you're going to be punished for disobedience. I'm going to cut off your arm. Then I will see that you are properly healed and sent back to the Mark to work as a servant in my household. You will wait on me, serve me, and deny me nothing."

He stared intently at Loti as she swallowed distraughtly, tasting the acidic bile that rose at the back of her throat. Her mind lingered on that phrase 'deny me nothing'…

He went on, pacing in agitation, his breath heavy with excitement, "You will be under my protection, at my mercy for your entire existence. Everything that you need to survive, everything that you want will be given by me at my discretion. I will never allow you to marry or be committed to any other man but me. Who would want you? What good would a one armed girl be to any one else but me? Whenever you look at me you will always be reminded of what I've taken from you."

Loti knew exactly what he would be taking from her; any last remnants of her pride, talents, and abilities. He would take her future, hopes, dreams, and her beauty all in one swing of his blade.

She felt the pounding in her temples, the breathless spinning and swaying of fainting, the sickness in her belly, and the tight choking in her throat as if the men behind her held her around the neck instead of by the arms.

"For you, that would be a punishment worse than death." He spoke these words with absolute certainty.

The man recognized as the healer stepped forward then, but Eomer stopped him with a quick wave of his arm. He was twisting the sword in his hand distractedly, like a man bored with the trivialities of life altering events, the steel flashing and reflecting the flames and light from the fire.

"Have you ever seen a man lose his arm to a sword?" He narrowed an eye and sniffed, knowingly arrogant. "Of course you have. You're a murderer. So you'll know then if it's not sharp, it won't cut clean through on the first swing."

He drew his thumb over the blade's edge, nicking the skin's tough pad and showing her the blood that oozed from the slice. A large ball of blood bubbled, and he brought it to his mouth, cleaning the cut by sucking.

"If you promise to hold still, I'll make it as painless as possible," he said with a vicious lilt in his voice, laying the flat of the blade across her slim arm.

Her eyes were as clouded and waxy as candlesticks and he didn't have to cut her to know she bled; not the hot stickiness of iron rich blood, but the cold despair of fear.

"No! Stop! P- Please!" She stammered, unable to move.

"Why should I offer you any mercy? I'm a barbarian! A monster! Isn't that what you said?" He retorted, using her own words in a malicious taunt, holding out his arms, palms up, in that supreme gesture of dominance only a man of his size could command.

"Please!" Loti implored, gagging on the words as they came out, "Please, no!"

The cold, flat steel shaft of the blade swept methodically, first over, then under her arm, choosing where he would sever it. He was choosing were he would maim and cripple her. Where he would leave her a freak, a shell of her former self, a scorned and worthless woman to be ridiculed and laughed at. Everyone would know he had done this to her, and why. He would be the only one to have her then. He was right; she would be at his mercy forever.

She jumped when he yelled, "If you won't talk you're of no further use to me!"

"You wouldn't?"

He reached out, a hand digging though and twisting a handful of her wet hair, jerking her head back, demanding her eyes. Loti sucked a breath in through her teeth, her face glistening with sweat and contorted in pain.

"Wouldn't I?" His voice was getting louder, more belligerent, the muscles of his neck and jaw strained, "How many men do you think have died by this sword? How many men do you think I've killed? If this sword killed your brother you should be lucky now it will only take your arm. Girl or not, you are a murderer, and under our laws that is punishable by death. You should be grateful I don't slit your pretty white throat! You should be thankful I've shown you any kindness at all!"

"I'll tell you whatever you want!" Her words tore lose from her throat in a high scream.

"It's too late for that! I'm done with you!"

Terrorized and panic stricken she uttered a constricted, gagging scream and blurted, "There are more just like me. They want you dead. They're planning something. That's all I know, I swear by the Valor! I beg of you, please, don't hurt me!"

Eomer ripped back her head again, keeping it at a painfully awkward angle, bringing his face only inches from hers so she couldn't avoid his gaze.

"Swear to tell me everything. Swear it!"

"Yes, I swear! Please, don't hurt me!"

"Are you afraid of me, girl?" he roared, raging, blue eyes burning, and shaking her by the length of her rich brown hair, "Are you afraid of me?"

She made a quiet strangling sound, like that of a girl choking on a sob, and her lips began to quiver. Loti shivered despite herself and the heat. Eomer slowly felt the tension leave her body until she hung limp as a dead flower in their arms. Her eyes were clear now, as round and glossy as polished gems stones. Tears of hurt and pain pooled, and then broke into streams when she blinked. Finally, she released an anguished cry of defeat, and humiliation; the cry of a girl broken beyond repair.

"Yes!" she wailed, choking on that one small word.

He stepped back, letting go of her hair, still watching as she bravely made an effort to control her weeping.

"Good," he answered coldly, "I don't want the blood of any woman on my hands. Get her out of my sight."

Eomer spun, giving directions to the healer, and bullied a path through the crowd. Heedlessly, he bumped in to Eothain, who had been standing in the back of the mob, but now blocked the way.

"Was that really necessary?" He asked, standing shoulder to shoulder with his friend, a look of disapproval furrowing his brow.

"She knocked a perfectly good tooth out of my head, so, yah," he replied shortly, rubbing his sore windpipe, "Put extra men on guard tonight. Every orc in Ithillien could her scream," and brushed past, wishing for the solitude the emptiness of his tent would bring.

He barged through the opening, whipping back the flap, and ducking his head. With what strength he had left, Eomer spread his hands on the desk, and dropped his chin to his chest.

Damn her!

His fist struck the hard wood of the desk causing the miscellaneous items on the top to jump, and the ink well rolled to the ground spilling its precious contents.

Damn her!

A bottle of whiskey was on the desk, still upright, and with a sweep of his hand, he snatched it, then sank on the edge of the bed. The pull he took from the bottle was long and he swallowed several thick mouthfuls of the stomach burning liquor. He was sick; sick with the mouth watering nausea of disgust and self loathing. Head held in his hands, he tried with all his might to block out the image branded in to the backs of his eyes; the sight of her curled, wet lashes and heavy tears, like pearls against her sun touched skin. At that moment, he considered, no man hated himself more.

He brought the bottle back to his lips.

Bema forgive him for what he had just done.

Eomer barely looked up when the healer brought her in some time later; her hair, face, and clothes looking worn, damp, and as disreputable as he felt. He left her standing in silence for several tension filled moments while he finished reading one page of the endless stack of reports, notes, letters, and other various communiqués from his leaders in the field.

His peripheral vision saw her shifting her weight from one foot to the other front of his desk, and not waiting for his permission, she spoke very succinctly.

"So, what? Am I to be your slave now?"

Nothing about him changed; he continued reading with his feet inclined on the corner of the desk, crossed at the ankles, looking prepossessing and collected.

"Don't be silly. Men of the Riddermark don't keep slaves." Eomer answered in his markedly matter of fact way.

Her wrists were tied again and she raised both arms to wipe the sweat that glowed on her cheeks with the sleeves of her shirt. As she did so, his glance fell on the loose, rounded outlines of her breasts hidden beneath the linen fabric and his palm tingled with the memory of her hard, taught nipple alive beneath his hand. Was it only last night he had held her in his lap and smoothed his fingers over the firm, rounded lines of her body?

"What is your name?" He asked coolly, looking challengingly into her eyes, and set the page down amid the stack of other sheets. It was best if he didn't let his mind linger in remembrance of the pervious night.

Her mouth twitched with the unwillingness to speak, but she took a deep breath of resignation.

"Loti."

"Loti. That's a pretty name," he nodded agreeably, not taking his eyes from her,"Where are you from?"

Again, she felt the defiance rise inside her chest. Fighting him was useless, though. Her spirit was broken; she had no leverage, and was dependent upon him for her survival. The King of Rohan would have his answers one way or another.

"Umbar."

"And who do you work for, Loti?"

"The Corsair Lords," Loti replied reluctantly as a gust of wind stirred the canvas tent, rushing in through the door way and blowing wisps of hair in her face. The brazier burned high in the center of the tent and crackled as the breeze tickled its edges and encouraged the lapping tongues of flame to ripple faster.

Eomer smiled wryly within himself. So they had been right; she was from the South. But there were so many other unanswered questions.

"I didn't know they used women as spies," he stated, hoping she would take the hint and elaborate.

"That's because we do not actually exist."

Mmhmm." This was a gruff noise made in the back of his throat, and he steepled his fingers.

Plausible deniability, he thought shrewdly. The girl before him was a resource. A spy burned, cast out. Sent on a mission to kill… and to be killed. But, she was a girl nonetheless. A girl who was meant to die… Let Eomer, the marauding, raping, pillaging, man eating barbarian and his horde of ruthless beasts destroy the chit. After all, the dead never speak… No one would ask questions, and if by chance someone should, they would deny she ever existed.

And they call me barbarian.

They, whoever they were, had not counted on the mercifulness of EomerKing.

Loti shifted her weight again, but stood stiff, tense and proud with her head high.

"The location of that camp was secret. How long had you been following us?"

Her answer was trite and noncommittal, "For a few weeks."

"What were you doing in Aldburg? In the market?"

Rocking back in the chair, he crossed his arms, keeping a suspicious eye on her for any indication of untruths in her story.

She answered in the same short, quick manner as her other responses, "Trying to get into your bed."

"You mean trying to kill me while you were in my bed," he corrected sternly.

A hesitant nod was her answer.

His expression softened in sympathy for a woman who could not be living a life of her own choosing, but of another's.

"You are no killer," he observed confidently.

Loti's eyes flashed and the features on her face widened in reaction to his words. The only reaction she had given him since the questioning began. Then she hardened again, her face returning to its stone carved expressionless and she spoke arrogantly cold.

"That's not what Durward would say."

"Durward?" Eomer repeated incredulously, and raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement, "That was you?"

She smiled satisfactorily in response to his surprise before sobering again, as if remembering a coveted victory.

Durward, his obnoxious, and enormously fat ambassador from Gondor, vehemently refused to reside at his family's ancestral home in the rolling countryside outside Aldburg, with the objection that is was too far from courtly civilization. Instead the foul, greasy haired man had taken up residence at an inn inside the small city. Eomer and five of his guard had ridden to town without haste the morning a messenger appeared on his doorstep immediately requesting the King's presence at the inn. Upon entering the room, they found the gluttonous Durward of Gondor in bed, lying on his back, naked as a jay, and dead, with his throat cut. Not just cut, slashed, nearly severing his head and his body brutally mutilated. He had seen brutality before, even caused some of it himself, but never considered a woman would have committed such a barbarous, bloodthirsty act.

As though she were reading his mind, she shrugged and said absently, "Things got out of hand," but could not meet his eye.

"Indeed," he agreed critically.

So seduction was her method of operation. It was how she did things, but not necessarily why. She let the sweaty, obese man find his ease inside her, and then killed him when he did not supply the information she needed. The ambassador's killing plainly accomplished two goals. First, she knew the fat bastard's death would draw him out of his home and into the city, leaving him exposed and accessible, and, second, she would have full accesses to any and all of Durward's documents. That answered his questions about her knowledge of the hidden camp.

Durward was never without his three Gondorian guards, not trusting his safety to the perceived ignorance of the Rohirrim. Those three men, though, could not be found that morning, and it was assumed they had killed the ambassador for any number of reasons and deserted the Gondorian army.

"What happened to his men?" He asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

"What do you think happened to them?" Her words were calm when she spoke, almost remorseless, unfeeling, and although she faced him, she appeared to look through him and not at him.

Not sure if he wanted to find out, he probed further, "How did it happen?"

"They wanted me. I gave them what they wanted," she admitted plainly, "They were not gentle. Neither was I."

"What did you do with them?"

"I dumped them in the woods outside of town."

Eomer recalled the scene from the room at the inn. There was blood in the bed, but not nearly as much as there should have been. She must have been beneath his body when the murder took place and she must have been drenched in it.

If Durward's desecrated body didn't make him violently ill, the thought of her shapely, beautiful body being ridden by that fat, conceited lout certainly did. Had she no self respect?

"Well," Eomer began with a rueful curving of his mouth, "I think maybe I should thank you for doing me a great favor. But that is not who you are."

"You know nothing about me," Loti snapped bitterly, "Your arrogance presumes too much."

"I know enough."

His feet dropped from the desk. Rising effortlessly from his chair, he strode to tower before her; his face soft, relaxed and unconcerned. Loti, too caught up in fear of another potential physical confrontation, barely felt the cool metal of his knife slicing the ropes that bound her hands together. Her wrists were sore and chafed from the rough fibers of the hemp rope and she soothed the irritated skin, gingerly rubbing with circled thumb and forefinger. Wordlessly, he spun; purposely presenting his back to her and sheathing his knife against the leather back plate of his armor as he strode to a large traveling chest near his bed. Throwing open the lid, he rooted around inside with a clattering racket before choosing one item and allowing the top to slam shut with a loud thud. He held up a leather bound book, shook it in acknowledgement as if to ask if she recognized it, tossed it lightly on his desk, and relaxed back into his seat.

Loti lunged forward, leaning on the desk, attempting to snatch the book away. Eomer's huge hand slapped down on it loudly, fingers spread, smothering the entire book.

"Na-ah!" He admonished, pushing her away from the desk with only the pointing of a finger.

He removed his hand from the book, resting it on the arm of the chair.

"You're sloppy."

Her chin lifted higher in indignation, but she said nothing.

"The first thing a solider learns in his training is not to carry anything that may compromise him if he's captured by the enemy. You got careless. You know what else I know about you," he continued answering his own question, "You're not very good at what you do. Carelessness and emotions are not qualities highly prized by any good spy or killer. You care more about this book than you do your own life. So tell me, why does a girl who says she's nothing more that a killer have a book of poems about love?"

She leapt forward again, swiping for the book. "That's mine! Give it back! How dare you!"

Eomer grabbed the book from the desk top before her thieving fingers could reach it. She snatched for it again in the air and he blocked her with his shoulder. Lazily, he swished though the pages, some of them crinkling and looking rippled from their wet foray in the rain as she retreated.

"I was able to dry it out. Only a few of the pages are badly damaged," he confessed, somewhat appreciative of his own work, "I can see why you're so desperate to get it back."

Hissing, she said, "You mock me."

"Hardly," Eomer scowled, paused momentarily, and then baited her like a fish, "What are you willing to do to get it back."

"Anything!" She jumped in immediately, not caring about the consequences of what 'anything' might be. It meant everything, and she would do anything.

But the book lay open in the palms of his hands, forgotten.

"Swear loyalty to me."

"What? Why?" she sputtered but was interrupted.

"Let me make you a deal for your freedom."

Eomer turned in his seat, put the book down, and leaned his forearms on the desk with the slithering sound of chain mail. There was nothing alacritous in his eyes, only a businesslike austerity.

"Go on," Loti prompted hesitantly, crossing her arms in a defensive posture.

"You can obviously read," he gestured at the book, "I assume you can write?"

"Yes."

"And you speak the language of the Haradrim?"

Loti narrowed her eyes into slits, frowning in confusion and feeling a tinge of suspicion, "It's one language, many dialects, but yes, I speak many of them. What do you want from me?"

A thought filled pause hung between them before he slumped back in the chair, kicked his feet back up on the desk, and spoke in that deep, husky voice Loti was sure always got him what he wanted.

"You know were we're going, don't you?"

"Yes. I have an idea."

Eomer nodded. A distracted sort of movement as if he was not sure if he should continue and toyed with aimless fascination over a penknife, twisting it idly between his fingers.

Get on with it man, he told himself, she's no fool.

"We'll continue south, to the River Poros, and meet with twenty five hundred of my men. From there we will go to camp on the River Haren."

He was laying it all out now. She would figure it out soon, if she didn't know already.

"We've been asked by Gondor to act as peacekeepers along the borders to keep your people from retaking Harondor, South Gondor," he explained, rubbing a hand over the raspiness of his variegated blonde beard and using both names more out of dislike than clarification.

"Peacekeepers?" Loti piped up, "Is that what you're calling occupation? One man's peacekeeper is another man's occupier!"

Not appreciating the pseudo lecture and interruption, he tossed back, "One man's freedom fighter is another man's assassin, isn't she?"

"Harondor belongs to my people," she quickly put in.

"South Gondor is disputed territory that rightfully belongs to Gondor, and it's our job to see it stays that way," Eomer said forcibly, not caring if she was offended, "Eru only knows why you people fight over such a hellish, forsaken piece of ground."

"You go because you have to," she taunted, alluding to his oath of loyalty to Gondor.

His voice rose at what she implied, losing some of its neutrality, "I go to protect my people from men who care nothing for their freedom or their rights as individuals. I go to protect my people from men who would enslave them and force them into lives that they do not want."

He watched as Loti flushed to a rosy pink at his own implication.

"I know what you say."

"Do you?"

"You pity me!" she chirped hotly.

"Shouldn't I?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

She shifted her weight again and swallowed convulsively, feeling a bit nervous as she lied with an exhalation, "I can quit this life anytime I want."

"Then prove it."

Her mouth was dry with nervousness, and Loti knew as well as he did, she was cornered her like a fox chased by a pack of relentless dogs.

She flipped a lock of loose hair over her shoulder. "What do you want from me?"

Eomer chose his next words carefully. "You have a very specific set of skills. Skills that you have that I need. Eothain has been helping with some of my work, but when we reach the Poros he will be assigned other duties. My men are brave and good soldiers but very few can read, and even fewer can write. So, that is why you are here…"

"Me?" She stammered curiously.

"Mmhmm, yes. You can read and write, take direction, you can work unsupervised, you have discipline. You have far more loyalty and honor than some men. You are a very smart girl, Loti."

Her gaze cast to her feet in utter embarrassment.

"Has no one ever told you that?" he wondered aloud, but somehow thought her reaction answered the question.

Meekly, Loti shook her head, and bit her lip confirming his assumption. No longer pink with heat, she was turning a very unbecoming shade of green.

"This is my offer," he began quickly, articulating his bargain with seasoned professionalism, "You will swear allegiance to Rohan and to me. You will act as my assistant. I'll assign you the duties of the King's secretary, and you'll help me with my duties and act as an interpreter for as long as your services are necessary. In exchange, when your help is no longer needed, I'll give you a place of importance in my household in Aldburg, and provide for you for the rest of your life. I give you my word that you'll not want for anything, and you'll be cared for. And if you should marry I will provide your dowry. Do we have a deal?"

"Deal?" she repeated, shocked by a suggestion that seemed so well practiced, "Do you know what you ask of me?"

"I do."

"You killed my brother!"

His voice was tightly controlled but the anger still seeped through his words, "Well, your people's allies killed my entire family, so I'd say we're even."

"And what if I refuse?" She questioned defiantly.

He laughed a short quick snort through his nose, "You can't go back and you know it. You're a failed spy. You've been burned. You'll be out in the cold at the very least, if not running for your life every time you look around once they find out you're still alive. I've never known the Haradrim to be men of mercy and forgiveness. Especially to women."

Then he stopped and held her eyes, willing her to trust him. He would not turn her out into an unknown fate, to end up dead in a street somewhere, destitute and alone because she thought him untrustworthy. But she must come to him, and to Rohan of her own accord. She must be allowed to make her own decisions, to choose her own path if she is to be truly free.

"They may not be, but I am," he concluded.

The girl still looked hesitant, timid, and unsure. She had been through so much in the last weeks; that she still had the courage to battle him was quite admirable.

"I'll let you walk out that door right now if you can tell me how you're going to take care of yourself. Homes, farms, businesses, they've been destroyed in the war. Food is as hard to come by as money and employment. You're my prisoner and your welfare is my responsibility. I don't want you throwing your life away over some foolish, asinine pride. So until you can show me how you'll live and not just survive, I think my offer is the best you can do."

Her face was as dour as she sounded, but she said with a gall he was beginning to find endearing, "You are not as ignorant as you look."

A wry smile curved his thin lips, "Neither are you."

"No. I cannot go and help you to kill my people. I will not allow it." Her head was shaking back and forth, inflexibly.

"It isn't my intention to kill or fight unless I have reason. My own men put their lives at risk, and I want them all to return home. Our duty is to keep the peace, to secure the borders and put down any uprisings," Eomer answered in his best attempt to soothe her fears, "Yes, men might die; both yours and mine. But if we don't go, if we don't act now I'm positive there will be another war, and more men will die. If you agree to help me it doesn't have to be that way. No other woman may suffer the way you have."

There were no protestations this time, only what he thought looked like contemplation in the mirrors of her eyes.

"If you're afraid of being the only woman among the men you have nothing to fear from us. No one here will hurt you. That I can promise."

His tone was reassuring, but Loti licked her dry lips anxiously.

Eomer, the King of the Riddermark. She watched him twisting the penknife between his fingers listlessly. He was a man. And she was all nerves and bundles of knots in his presence. But did she have a reason to be afraid? She hadn't ridden with him for days without learning a few things about him and one of those things was he was a man of his word. If he said he was going to do something, if he made a promise no matter large or small he kept his word. Was he as terrible a man as she was told? Would a man who was pure evil care about the freedom of another, even if that other man was his enemy? Even if that enemy stood before him now?

"I'm not sure I can trust you," Loti said weakly.

"I'm not sure I can trust you, either," he confessed, feeling her ever so slightly being swayed, "But I'm willing to try."

She could hear her mother's chastising voice as though the intoxicated woman were standing beside her, "You're so worried about making the wrong decision, you can't see how to make the right one."

What would her mother want her to do? What, she wondered, would her father want her to do? To put her life and trust in the hands of a man who had felt no remorse for the killing of her brother? Or to put her trust in a man who could offer her a life that was real and whole. She held no hope that any man would love her, but maybe she might learn to love herself.

"Can I think about it?"

"Is it really that hard of a decision?" Coaxed Eomer gently, looking up at her from underneath blonde eyebrows.

It didn't matter what her mother or father wanted. They were dead, gone, out of her life, never, ever to return. It really didn't matter what Eomer wanted. He was a King; there would be others to do his bidding if she chose to decline his request. It was a fair deal. In all honesty, it was more than a fair deal. It was an opportunity to learn a real skill. And she enjoyed reading and writing; was proud of her proficiency in the use of language.

Again her mother's words rang in her ears, "This is the only way out for you."

No, it only mattered what she wanted.

Loti took a deep, shaky breath and blinked back the tears searing the corners of her red rimmed eyes. She swallowed her heart back down into its proper place in her chest. The voice was hers; she could hear it, almost as if from distance, almost like she was removed from her own body.

"Alright. Yes, I agree."

As she heaved a sigh of immense relief, she caught Eomer grinning, looking self assured, pleased and rather smug.

"Good. Now swear your loyalty to me."

"Fine, yes, I swear," she answered dryly.

"No," he drawled, "Say it."

"What? Ugh! Fine," she gripped, and then relented, saying with formal ridiculousness, "I swear loyalty and fealty to you my King and to your country. I am but your humble servant, yours to command, my lord. There, is that better?"

The corner of his mouth puckered, lifting into the smile of a gloating winner, "Much."

"I'm glad to have pleased you, my lord," the newest member of the Rohirrim grumbled sarcastically.

He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms.

"No one calls me that. You may call me Eomer," he lowered his eyes in a somewhat bashful move that Loti thought very unusual for EomerKing, "or E."

Taking another look at her, he decided besides looking thoroughly grubby and rash spotted, she was thin as a May pole. Her face bore very little bruising or other marks from their regrettable attack, except for a tiny slice by both the corner of her eye and lip, but her cheeks were drawn and hollow, and her eyes were darkly circled, sunken and red.

She had eaten very little, only accepting what was hand fed to her by Eothain, and refusing half of that most times. Now seemed like the perfect time to introduce her to an entirely Rohirric custom; doing just about anything over food and drink.

He got up and dragged an empty chair to where she stood, pushing her into it.

"You'll be hungry," this was a statement of assumption rather than a question, "Wait here and we'll talk."

Several moments later he returned carrying a wooden plate laden with meat, cheese, biscuits, a few berries and dried apple slices. This he set on the desk, and Loti noticed he also carried a bottle, which he uncorked and took a healthy swig from before offering her the earthenware container. She brought the bottle cautiously to her lips and drank before sputtering, unsuccessfully stifling a cough, turning reddish purple in the face, and fanning her tongue with a hand. The raw, spicy hot liquid stripped the inside of her mouth like turpentine and left a gurgling puddle in her empty stomach.

"Good stuff," she said hoarsely and coughed again.

He smirked, noting her politeness, "It'd strip the bark off a tree."

Loti, ravenously eyeing the plate of food, barely paid attention as he returned to his seat behind the desk. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten a decent meal, let alone decent food. No, she did remember, although she'd like to forget sitting naked on the lap of that pervert Durward as he fed her with his stubby fingers.

"Eat. Please," Eomer insisted, watching her stare pitifully at the plate like a begging dog.

Needing no further prodding, she snatched a fried oatcake and a chuck of meat and began stuffing her mouth, cramming in as many bites as she could, dropping crumbs everywhere, until her cheeks puffed out. He grinned to himself, thinking she resembled a chipmunk gluttonously devouring even the most inedible nuts in preparation for winter.

"Careful," he warned and pushed the whiskey bottle towards her, "If you eat to fast you'll be sick."

The stringy meat was rich and moist and tasted sweetly smoky. Pulling chunks of meat apart and chewing, Loti asked speculatively, "What is this?"

Eomer reached for a piece himself, "Turkey. I think."

Her fingers snapped up another slice of succulent meat and hunks of the orange cheese cut into cubes.

As she ate and chewed industriously, he asked, "Is there anyone I can contact for you? To let them know you're…here, with us. Your father or…a husband, maybe."

She looked up, wide eyed and chubby cheeked. Swallowing hard, she stammered, confused, "Contact? No…no there is no one."

"No one?" He said skeptically.

Having just sampled the swill from the bottle again, Loti confirmed sadly, "No. No one. There's only me," and continued munching, head bent over the desk.

"Whose daughter are you?"

She continued to eat. Either she was ignoring his question or not paying attention.

"Loti, what's your father's name?" This time his tone demanded an answer, but she didn't raise her head.

"I don't know."

Eomer felt a shooting pang of loss for her in his heart. It wasn't just her mother and brother, but her father, also; her whole family. She truly was alone.

"You're a bastard," he commented off handedly, and then regretted his tactlessness when she sniped, "Thank you for noticing."

Wishing to give her some comfort, and to make amends for sounding so damned crass, he said consolingly, "We're your family now. You are one of us."

At that, she looked up, a new brightness in her eyes. Was what flickered in her restored hope? Did his words give her the promise of life, a future undone and rewritten? Had those dusky eyes pledged faithfully 'you have given me my life; I will give you my loyalty.' He felt the stabbing in his heart again, this time for himself and his own personal loss.

We will take care of each other, he decided for them both.

The questioning continued. "How old are you then?"

She shrugged, reaching for the whiskey bottle, which he pushed closer, "Twenty. Almost twenty one."

"Talk then, tell me what you know."

Shaking her head, Loti took another bite of oatcake, sweeping the crumbs from his desk, "I don't know much."

"You know something, though." Eomer knew he sounded irritable.

"You think they tell me anything," she countered harshly, "I get my orders, and the rest is up to me. I'm a girl. They don't trust me with anything?"

"They don't trust you because you're smart," he countered, "So their loss is my gain. Tell me what you do know. What you assume. You've seen too much not to have an idea. Tell me everything."

Now he took a gulp from the bottle, hoping the liquor was doing for her what it was for him. He didn't want her drunk, didn't want her to think he was taking advantage of her in any way. But he did want her relaxed enough to speak without inhibition.

"I…I was given two months to kill you," she began guardedly, "I didn't matter how it got done as long as you were dead and it looked like Gondor did it."

"Gondor?" Eomer interrupted, "Is that why you had the flag?"

Loti flushed, a bit of pink filling her cheeks in the wavering firelight.

"I…I liked to look at it. I was reading Durward's letters when he caught me and attacked me. We fought. I did it with his knife. I was just defending myself!" She rushed, and suddenly, she looked very ashamed, not meeting his gaze, "That's when I knew how to make it look like Gondor killed you. I let his men have me, and then killed them too. I stole Durward's money and paid a man from the tap room downstairs to help me load them into a wagon and bury them. We stripped off their uniforms and weapons. Then the man said what I paid him wasn't enough."

She stopped eating and sat frozen, hunched in the shoulders, "He took the rest of the money from me and then said if I didn't…didn't…"

She broke off and lifted her head to meet Eomer's eye, and in some way he thought she asked for his forgiveness, for his pardon, although whether it was for murdering four men in his country or the shame of her promiscuity he didn't know. He nodded calmly, unjudging, making a silent vow if he ever met this man to do worse on that very spot.

"So I did. and took their things, and hid them in the woods. After you were dead I was going to leave their things out to look like they did it. It would look like they killed Durward, too. I was supposed to meet my handler in Minas Tirith but by now they probably know you're still alive, and they probably think I am dead."

"What are they planning?" He asked with gruff urgency.

She shook her head, pulling apart another piece of turkey and choosing to eat the golden brown, salted skin instead, "I don't know. Something big."

"Don't you want to know why?"

Her voice was indifferent, "I gave up asking why along time ago."

"You know why. Take a guess," Eomer prompted.

Lifting her shoulders again she ventured, "Start a war I suppose, or revenge, but why you and not-"

"Aragorn?" He interjected, using the King of Gondor's given name.

Loti was beginning to feel confused amid the realm of tenuous international relationships and politics.

"Isn't Gondor more of a threat than Rohan?"

Eomer's mouth twisted derisively, "You would think."

His new secretary smoothed her frizzy bangs behind an ear with greasy fingers, an arched eyebrow furrowed in puzzlement, "I don't understand."

"Gondor is weak. Their army is not much better. Their councilors bicker amongst themselves, vie for power and favor with Aragorn… Some that had influence with the Stewards no longer find favor with the King and question his place and rights to the throne. Their lands, farms, business, and crops are devastated. Gondor exists very near the edge of political, military and social collapse. The transition of power in Gondor has been peaceful, but I wouldn't necessarily call it smooth or easy."

Eomer snorted resentfully, but there was no arrogance in his voice. "Gondor is a kingdom of politicians and bureaucracy. Fiefdoms, princes, councilors… They all have their own agendas and they're all trying to get their piece of the whole."

He took another sip from their shared bottle, and continued on, meditatively. "My people have no doubt about whom their leader is. The Rohirrim has lost nearly a quarter of its men, families and lands have been destroyed, villages burned, our horses stolen, but they never have cause to question Rohan's leadership; there's no bitching or struggling for power. Unlike Gondor, we're one country, one people united by who we are. But what happens if Rohan loses that strength of leadership? What happens if Gondor is weakened by war and politics? If Gondor and Rohan turn on each other, if we are distracted from the job at hand, how easy would it be for Harad and our other enemies to invade and overpower us both? If I'm dead there would be a void of power in Rohan, and there are many who would make claims to our land, both friends and enemies.

"Who will defend Gondor if I'm gone? Rohan is a superpower now whether we like it or not. We can no longer find safety in isolation. My enemies find me dangerous because I'm powerful. And I'm powerful because of my policies, my allies and the loyalty of my people. That's why the Haradrim want me dead, although, I'm sure they're not the only ones. I think some of it is revenge for what happened, but that's only just part of it.

Do you understand?"

Loti processed all that he had said. If she had succeeded in killing Eomer and implicating Gondor's involvement, the Rohirrim, the proud, fierce and stubborn people they are, would have gone to war with Gondor, distracting both countries and leaving them open to attack by enemies both foreign and domestic.

"I had no idea it was so complicated. They underestimate you," she said, recalling that she had also.

"Those that do will learn to regret it," he replied coldly, picking up several berries but smiled slyly, "You would have been the girl that brought down the world."

She flushed again, and dropped her head to hide her discomfort. So brazen at times, like a wolf caught in a chicken coop, and yet so shy at others she seemed almost paralyzed by the fear that accompanied it. Eomer hoped one day she would be able to leave her past and anything that may have happened and find some sort of happiness. He stifled an urge to touch her hand in reassurance.

Instead he changed the subject, "So tell me about Harad's people. What should we expect?"

"It's not like here."

"So I guessed," he concurred dryly, watching her pick through the plate of meat, finding another piece of greasy, crispy turkey skin and crunch on it appreciatively.

But she did go on, her appetite not diminished by the serious discussions.

"Only men have rights. Women have none. They are only property and can be bought and sold if their man permits it." She spoke distantly, as if she was not a woman, as if she had never been a Southron.

"That's slavery," his disgust for such practices more than evident.

"That's the culture of Harad," she disagreed, "It's been that way forever. Do you want to argue or do you want me to answer your question?"

Her feistiness was returning unmitigated. Sucking on a strawberry, Eomer waved a hand for her to continue the lesson.

"Most of Harad is made up of clans. People that hold a common family ancestry or background belong to the clan and the clans all have chieftains and their own hierarchy within the clan. Every member of the clan must swear loyalty to the tribe and its chieftain. Each clan has their own lands and territories, kind of like a small kingdom. Some families are allies and some are enemies and some," she paused to quench her thirst with the whiskey, "are whatever they want to be on any given day. Some Haradrim clans are peaceful but most are not. All the clans or tribes or whatever you want to call them have their own specific colors and dress to give them their own identity, but they all share a common heritage and traditions. That's what keeps them unified even when one family hates another."

She went on talking, uninterrupted, her animated ramblings building a foundation for their newly discovered rapport. If she wasn't becoming more accustomed to him then the drink had done the trick in loosening her up.

"Each tribe has its own, sort of mini army, and contributes men to a larger force if the chieftains agree to go to war."

"Wait. Stop," Eomer broke in without warning, "What clan do you belong to?"

Loti wiped her glossy face on the linen sleeve of her shirt.

"I don't belong to any clan," she said as though he should have known this all along, "I'm from Umbar. It's different," and made little sucking noises as she licked her salted fingertips.

"Why?"

"It's really a lot different from the rest of Harad. It's more cosmopolitan, more culturally diverse. No one family controls Umbar. The Corsairs do, but piracy is only a small part of what happens in port. Most of what goes on is legitimate shipping and trade. There're lots of warehouses on the docks. Lots of merchants and lots of trade mean lots of money. Piracy is only a means to an end. It's just part of the culture."

Finally, Loti sat back, a dainty little burp escaping her lips, feeling fuller than she had been in years and wrapped her arms around her bloated belly.

With out warning, Eomer stood, and came around the desk to stand next to her chair. He extended a hand, palm up, "You're tired. You should sleep. We can talk more later."

She felt a bit wary, if only from the drink, but accepted his offer of assistant, placing her slender hand in his, big as a leopards paw. Eomer drew Loti to her feet with gentlemanly grace, but did not let go. Instead, his eyes focused on their linked hands. His head was bent in humility; a few strands of wavy, sun bleached hair came untucked from behind his ear as he stroked his thumb lightly over the back of her hand, tracing the delicate ridges of the metacarpals.

"I hope… I hope I haven't hurt you badly," he began apologetically, "If I have, I'm sorry. I should've shown more restraint. It will never happen again. I would ask for your forgiveness. Please."

It occurred to her that he didn't just want her forgiveness. He needed it. Did he think what he had done so terrible that he couldn't forgive himself, when in fact, it was she who had provoked him; disregarded his rules and warnings which were only for her own protection. She had known worse cruelty. She was a piece of property in her own country, to be owned, ordered about. It had never mattered what she thought or felt. He was a King, he should be blaming her, but he didn't. He asked to be forgiven.

"If it would make you feel better."

He said softly, "It would."

"Only if you forgive me for the tooth," she quipped dryly.

She could see him prodding the vacated area with his tongue.

"Forgiven. And you?"

Loti tried looking as indifferent as possible but the consuming warmth of his touch left her feeling as weak and boneless as a starfish, "It is forgotten."

His clear blue eyes met hers, so dark in the firelight they were almost black.

How she ached to be in his arms then, to be secure and protected against his chest in a crushing embrace. To feel the love and respect of a man that had been missing her entire life. She would have given him anything just then, anything at all. But his words were forbidding. I should've shown more restraint. It will never happen again. They were a vow he would not break. They would never be anything more than they were right now.

And what were they now? Only time would yield the answer to that question.

He dropped her hand slowly, letting her fingers slide through his own, and turned, walking to the chest again. There was more rummaging inside the chest as Eomer piled several items into his arms. Only when he faced her did Loti realize the items were hers. He shoved them haphazardly into her waiting arms; her black leather coat, boots and satchel. Turning again he picked her sword out of the wooden chest. Surely, he wasn't going to let her have a weapon?

It was a short sword, but heavy, and she wasn't able to effectively wield it with any great force except with two hands. Eomer must have realized this as he bore it from its sheath because he hefted the steel's weight a few times, squinted censoriously at it, slid it back in its casing, and dropped it with a clank back in the trunk.

"You know how to use a weapon?" he asked dubiously.

Loti nodded soundlessly, feeling dazed.

"You'll need a new one," he decided grumpily, "It's too heavy and unbalanced for you. It's made for power. You're built for speed."

The book of poetry lay on the desk top. She had been too afraid of his wrathful temper to be bold enough to reclaim it, but as he spoke, he picked it up and laid it on top of the other jumbled items in her arms.

"You may begin your duties tomorrow. Remember, you are one of us." Eomer said professionally, and with tight lips, nodded curtly, dismissing her, "You are free to go."

He presented his back to her and began the process of removing his armor. Loti moved to the doorway, but stopped just before exiting.

"Wait," she said, the wheels of her mind beginning to spin again, "What sort of job will I have in your household? In Aldburg?"

He shrugged, his face as noncommittal as always, "I can always use another good maid."

"Maid!"

"Keeping my home clean isn't important enough for you? Or maybe you'd rather the royal bed warmer?" There was the start of a teasing smirk forming on his face. "Good night," he dismissed again, more firmly.

"Good night," she paused for an instant and tossed her head, "My Lord."

Loti snaked out of the doorway into the darkness of the night. There were no night sounds; no crickets or frogs, no rustling of wind in the trees or coyotes barking in the distance. There were, however, men sounds; a hoot of laughter, a snore nearby, a good natured argument far away about one mans wife and the size of another man's cock, coughing, scratching, the shuffling footsteps of someone coming back from taking a piss.

She felt detached, like her mind was half floating away from her body. Perhaps it was delusion, perhaps the whiskey, or shock, or bliss or all of them together.

There was another sound, the clang of armor, and Eothain materialized around the corner.

"What do we have here?" He asked, wiping away beads of sweat trickling down his face.

What did he think she was doing out here? Would he think she was trying to escape again?

"He, ah, he-," Loti sounded uncertain.

One of Eothain's ruddy blonde eyebrows quirked up.

She tried once more, shifting the bundle in her hands, "He let me go."

"Did he give you the 'you are one of us now' speech?"

His voice was almost a whisper as he bent to speak confidentially and she gave him a look of incredulity.

"Yes! He did!"

Brightening, Eothain straightened, grinned, winked knowingly, gave her a bump on the shoulder that nearly tipped her over, and then swaggered off. Apparently, Eomer knew what he was doing the whole time! An overpowering urge to march back into the tent and give Eomer a good tongue lashing swept over her, but even the thought of another go around with him was exhausting. Sleep was an activity that required much less effort.

Loti found the most comfortable patch of hard, dry ground she could by the fire, rolled the leather coat into a ball under her head and drifted away under the cloudless sky dotted with pinpricks of light.

Morning came too soon, and Loti woke to the early dawning of the sky bathed in streaks of pink and orange, lavender and crimson. She stretched languorously, clasping her hands behind her head. Today would be her first day of freedom with the Rohirrrim, but she knew, surely, it would not be her last. A small flutter of anxiety tickled her belly and chest. But it was a different kind of anxiety, one without fear. It was a more a feeling of energy, of anticipation, of excitement of things to come, a want please her new master. She giggled in the half light of the morning. Eomer, the gigantic brute, likely would lay an egg if he heard her call him that.

Well, that's enough laying around, she thought, remembering her master was an early riser, I should make myself useful.

Reaching a hand into the satchel, she pulled out the hairbrush, looking a little worse for wear as somehow the handle had broken off, and spent a few minutes detangling the unwashed tresses.

She was stinky. But there was no reason to impress similarly smelly, greasy, and grimy barbarians with washed hair and clean clothes so Eomer's complaints over her unattended ablutions would have to wait.

What could she do for him this morning? Something useful and productive… Something that showed initiative. Something that would show she could earn her keep, to show she wouldn't be a burden. Something that would make his day a little bit easier. Across the camp there was an echo of whickering horses greeting the dawn and Loti tugged on her boots, an idea forming.

Firefoot, the great beast, was excited to see her, as he always was, and scraped an antsy hoof on the dusty ground like a bull about to charge while making snotty snorting noises through his flared nostrils.

"Easy, boy," she giggled, plucking a leather bag of oats hanging from a tree.

In his eagerness for grain and attention, Firefoot waggled his head and yanked against his tether. Loti reached for the bridle to steady him, but he paid her no mind and with an erratic toss of his elongated head, the metal bit caught her with a thunk near the temple. She dropped the bag, clutching her head, staggering backwards. He was spoiled and wanted his oats now. The gray velvety nose and mouth rootled into the opening of the bag and quickly snuffled the grain to the bottom.

"Darn you," she muttered, but the bloody beast lazily swished his tail at diving flies, not giving a damn.

Still rubbing her stinging head, she thought maybe Eomer was right. Firefoot could be dangerous, at least where his breakfast was concerned.

Loti gave up and began looking for Eomer's saddle amid the rows of saddles lined nearby. Finding it took less time than she thought. It was well broken in and the brown leather was aged and worn black from years of riding. Getting the saddle over the half ton animal took more time than she thought since Firefoot was tall, the saddle hefty, and she neither of these things. But after some persistence, several cumbersome hoists, a lot of grumbling, a few curses, and absolutely no help from the most mulish beast she had ever known, Loti was able to finish the saddling and led him to Eomer's tent.

Firefoot was nuzzling her affectionately, possibly sniffing for another edible treat, when Eomer emerged from his quarters.

"What the hell is this?" he asked perturbed as she grinned proudly.

"I thought I'd get him ready for you," she beamed.

"Ghaw, girl," he scolded, adroitly snatching the reigns out of her hand, "You're my secretary, not my slave. I thought you knew that. You think I can't saddle my own damn horse?"

Firefoot's head thumped against Eomer's chest and then his large drooling horse lips stretched out for a bit of hair nibbling, perhaps mistaking his blonde strands for straw, Loti thought whimsically.

It was now Firefoot's turn for scolding, "You stay out of this," and he shoved the animal's head away testily. "This isn't one of your duties and I didn't ask you to do it."

"I'm sorry," she pleaded, "I thought-"

"I know what you thought," he snapped.

He watched her face fall. The energy in her eyes disappeared, covered by those feathery black eyelashes. Oh, gods, was she going to cry?

"I'm sorry, my lord. It won't happen again," she said stiffly.

Eomer watched as she took her leave of him. Where were his manners? She was only trying to be kind, helpful. She didn't know any better. He hadn't even told her what her duties would be!

Ah! He mentally threw his hands up with his intolerance.

She stopped when he spoke, but didn't turn around, "But, thank you."

She did look back then, her pink lips curved into a sheepish smile, "You're welcome, my lord."

She saw a fleeting twitch of displeasure cross his forehead at the use of his formal title, and she corrected, "Eomer."