A/n: Hello again, and thanks for reading. I appreciate all of the comments that reviewers have left. It is a help especially when I am feeling insecure ( as all writers probably feel from time to time ). Please feel free to click the review button at the bottom of the page. Even if you think your input is not important, believe me, it is.

Just as a side note... I think eventually I will go back and rewrite chapters 2,3, and maybe 4. I would like to submit this story to the MEFA awards and I think those are the weakest chapters, wereas to stand apart from other romances, they need to be the strongest to capture people's attention. Let me know what you think of this...

Some insight into Eomer's background and thoughts and beliefs at the end of this chapter, and advancement of the subplot. A bit of foreshadowing too, just to make you want to read further chapters. LOL

Hopefully my attempt to make these people and places seem real is working.

Hope you are entertained, DD.

Breakfast was always the most interesting part of the day.

Most days, Loti woke before dawn, ordered the tangles of her hair and washed her face with water collected daily from the river and stored in large oak barrels. After making herself as presentable as water, a hairbrush and a cake of soap could manage; she would amble her way towards the smell of frying food. The cook, a grizzled, old, dark haired man with a patch over one eye, would give her a plate with a single hardboiled egg, an oatcake, and a slice of ham accompanied daily by an innocently vulgar remark and a familiar pat on her bottom with his wooden spoon.

Today was no exception.

"Such a fine small ass you have," he observed in heavily accented Rohirric as she scooted with a jump out of the reach of his groping spoon, "But you need fattening up!" And he generously handed her a brown wooden bowl full of very dull gray oatmeal.

Like a sow, she thought doubtfully. She would have preferred another egg instead, but then thought of the livestock boy who was obliged to hunt up the eggs laid willy nilly by the chickens throughout the camp. No point in making him work any harder than needed.

Cheerfully accepting the bowl, and barely dodging a squawking chicken making a heroic, yet thwarted attempt at flight, Loti took a seat on the bench, sliding in next to one of Rohan's finest young men. There were eight in total, comical, good natured chaps, all of about eighteen or twenty, recently returned from their overnight duties. She slid the oatmeal bowl between her and the young man beside her with whom she had developed a real friendship—the red headed boy. The red headed boy had a given name, Glullyn, but, in the uncreative and unimaginative way of men, they simply called him Red. They had become quite fond of one another, and Loti found he was becoming quite handsome with his fair skin burnt golden by the sun and his hair in strands like fire about his shoulders. He didn't yet have the ruggedness or sheer size of a man like Eomer or Eothian, but nonetheless everyday he seemed to be losing his childish looks in favor of more masculine ones.

His blue eyes widened at the sight of more food, and he smiled gratefully and not with a bit of flirtation.

"How do you rate?" One of the boys at the end of the table complained light heartedly.

"Quit your gripping," Red tossed back in his odd accent and colloquial way of speaking, "The old bugger would give you an extra bowl, too, if you grew a pair of tits as nice as hers!"

This they found exceedingly funny.

"Oh! So you've seen them, have you then? What would you say then? A handful or a mouthful?"

"Well, if I have seen them, I wouldn't tell you, now, would I?" Red replied, neither confirming nor denying. The truth was, he had seen them, or more accurately, one of them, but so had Eothian and Eomer, and they weren't saying anything either.

They ate by torch light as the sun was only now promising to come up, sharing the contents of the hot, sticky bowl companionably. Loti didn't speak. She never did. She preferred to listen and absorb as much entertainment as possible before she began her duties for the day, which for the most part were boring, tedious and lonely.

"I should go." Loti nudged him when the bowl was empty. The early summer sky in the east was beginning to glow with pinks and lavenders and golds as the sun's yellow disk was just crowning the horizon. Eomer would be awake by now and ready to dictate his orders for the day.

"You want I should come find you later?" He turned to her, speaking in a low voice.

She nodded, biting off a smile, "Mmhmm."

Red did smile, his eyes lit with kindness as he squeezed her knee in farewell.

XXX

Eomer's tent was of a good size, larger than most of the other tents his men shared, crammed in cheek by jowl as they attempted to escape the unrelenting sun of the day or the oppressive blanket of heat at night. There was considerably more open space around his tent, too, and a well used fire pit where some of the Horse Lords would sit, entertaining themselves at night.

She never thought of herself as one who scampered, but she did so now, expecting to find Eomer coming back half naked from the privy, he didn't like emptying a chamber pot and neither did she, or sitting on a log by the fire after another sleepless night, discommoded by her late arrival. He was perhaps the most predictable, regimented man she had ever known. Most mornings she would find some of his guard, Bram, maybe, or his identical twin brother, Gram, milling about the fire that burned both day and night, smoking a pipe or doing some other kind of busy work. Today, though, it was unusually quiet and she halted abruptly, feeling a bit queer. There was no one about on this morning.

His boots were gone. When she finished polishing them late in the evening, she had found Eomer asleep, face down in his pillow, arm hanging off the bed and snoring softly. So she had left them outside the tent entrance, not wanting to disturb his much needed slumbering. He rarely slept well, and when he did it was fitful and restless.

Well, she thought dismissing any peculiarities, he could have gotten up in the middle of the night to visit the privy or take a walk or simply sit by the fire muddling with his thoughts.

Taking a step over an anchoring tent rope, she tucked her bangs behind on ear and stepped purposefully towards his quarters. A sudden sing song, "Hey! No! Nah-ah-ah!" brought her attention fully around again. Eothain was trying to sneak up behind her, hastily running in an exaggerated, slow motion, tip toe fashion, looking like a top heavy, drunken whooping crane with elbows out and knees lifting to his chest. "Come away from there!" He coaxed, traipsing through the fire pit area to catch her up, "No great need to wake anybody up so early is there?"

Loti looked up at the lightening sky. So early? A good half hour of day light had already been wasted and, ignoring Eothain and his curse, threw open the flap of Eomer's tent, barging in.

She immediately barged back out.

She let out a high pitched noise of shock as she stared wide eyed at Eothain's feet, her belly clenched tight and lurching over like an agonized dying man. For a moment, she thought the entirety of her breakfast might come up. Eothain was staring at her, serious and hard, watching her reaction, but then lifted an eye brow inquisitively. "Is…everything alright?" He asked slowly.

"If it is now, it won't be for long," she gritted through her teeth, then turned the full force of her five feet two inches on giant like Eothain. "You're as much to blame for this as he is!" She gestured at the canvas tent with a finger, speaking in a viciously loud whisper.

"Me?" He breathed equally as loud. Loti suppressed a gag. Drunken whooping crane was right! His breath smelled like a brew house.

"Who else? You encourage him, and then do nothing to stop him! I already warned you all about doing," she shook an open hand at the tent again, "that!"

"Ah, girl, you're going soft in the head." He waved her concern away with a hand as if he were swatting flies. "It was just a little trip into town, that's all. No harm done."

"No harm done!" If there was harm to be done, it was going to be done to Eothain very quickly. "Go back to bed, Eothain," she chided with condescension, "You've done enough for one day."

He did go then, muttering a disgusted, "Ah, what do you know? I'm only his best friend, eh? Don't say I didn't warn you."

She gradually eased open the tent flap letting the sun's hazy rays spill into the still dark tent, not knowing what to think or to feel. Anger, frustration, betrayal? Jealousy. She was feeling that one for certain; the loops and whorls of its fear and resentment constricting heart and belly and a rise of scorching heat from toes to fingertips as all her blood ran to the surface.

Her skin was the color of rich, dark coffee and her hair, tightly curled and incredibly thick, resembled burnt caramel. She lay asleep on his chest, her face pressed into the crook of neck and shoulder, her arm draped over his broad chest, his arm around her waist, hand flat against the small of her back, only the lower half of their bodies covered by the linens. The contrast of his lightly tanned chest and her polished ebony skin was startling.

Eomer was a man who loved women for their own sake, not for the color of their skin.

Loti was under no illusion that he had been remaining celibate. She had seen him on several occasions returning from somewhere looking relaxed, rumpled and hedonically disembodied, a glint of guilty pleasure in his eye. But before now, he had never brought them back to his own bed.

She stood there for a minute, stewing, watching them sleep with the even rise and fall of Eomer's chest, confused about many things. There was a bottle on the ground, knocked over in the strewn pile of discarded clothing and she picked it up, sniffed. Ale. Not that it was any consolation. This was Rohirric ale and wickedly strong stuff it was, too.

"Little trip into town, my ass," Loti muttered to herself.

Bending down again, she snatched up the other woman's dress. This was no homespun frock, but finely made kirtle of linen and a cotton shift. She was no whore, then; more likely, some wealthy man's mistress or wife. The woman would have to go now, before she was missed, questions asked and her man's men come a-knocking to find their master's property coveted by the King of Rohan!

Heaving a sign, Loti nudged her awake, murmuring, "Time to go, honey." Eomer, who had also been nudged into a half wakeful stupor, rolled over with a moan when she left the confines of their love nest, groping for his missing bedmate.

The woman's face wasn't exactly pretty, far below what she thought the standards of a king might be, but her body was altogether a different story. She was unusually tall for a Haradrim woman, most of who were stunted by poor nutrition, and older. Perhaps a little older than Eomer himself? The wide breadth of her hips and curved swells of her buttocks wiggled when she walked. She had a slight paunch to her stomach and her breasts were large and firm. Affecting an air of detached indifference watching the woman dress, the thickness of her thighs and the abundance of her breasts made Loti's own body feel woefully inadequate.

She hustled his erstwhile lover into the day light while she was still pinning her scarf into her hair and Loti pressed several of Eomer's coins into her hand, bidding her farewell, and good riddance. Now, to deal with him…

Intending to make racket of all kinds to wake him, Loti stormed back inside the tent to find Eomer already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the ground.

"Couldn't you see we were asleep?" He snapped as she stomped right over his discarded clothes.

"Oh! I can see sleeping is exactly what happened here last night. A good time was had by all I hope!" The contempt in her voice dripped from her lips and she waved a hand at his things on the ground.

"Don't use that tone with me, girl."

His words were harsh and that make the blood pulse inside her skull. "Don't speak to me like you're my father. Gods, Eomer, you are a thoughtless, selfish, inconsiderate idiot! What were you thinking bringing that woman here?" She demanded hotly, beginning to snatch things off the ground.

"I was thinking about fucking her, wasn't I?"

"That's all you're ever worried about, isn't it?" She blurted accusingly. "Finding some—some—" her free hand waved in the air, "Some cunt to stick your cock into! Don't you ever think before acting? I told you not to bring women into camp. How did you know she wasn't one of the others? How did you know she wouldn't knife in the back you while you were—were—fucking fucking her?"

She had informed him of the other girls she had known from her years spent in that hellish stone walled prison. Those girls who were more capable and less afraid to finish the job she couldn't. Those girls whose single living ambition was to kill and whose loyalties, unlike hers, were unquestionable and resolute.

"Don't bring any of the women you pick up back to the camp," she had told a small gathering of his officers one afternoon some weeks before, "Any one of them could be a spy or a killer and you'd never know it. I could get into places men couldn't and no one ever suspected. They'll do whatever they can to get at Eomer so it's better not to risk it. That includes you," she said firmly, poking him in his bare ribs as he leaned shirtless and sweating against his desk.

"Me?" His eyebrows drew together unhappily, forming a single dark blonde line, as though he thought the rules shouldn't apply to him. He mumbled noises and grunts and nodded complacently. Loti thought he had capitulated and agreed, if seemingly unwilling, thinking this was the best way to keep him and his men safe.

Obviously, he didn't think the rules applied to him and he clearly was unwilling, the horny old boar.

"Sounds like you're jealous," he answered coldly.

Loti popped up straight, arm laden with his personal belongings. They must have been to a tavern. His clothes smelled smoky and hoppy, sweet like female and musky like a rutting Rohirric male. "Jealous!" The word came out in one long breathy stream. "Jealous! You think I'm jealous of her? She's the next thing to a whore! I made sure I paid her like one!"

"Paid her?" he exclaimed, "If she's the whore, what about you?"

"What about me?" She shot back, her ire on the rise and hot on the trail for more of his discarded stuff. Already she had collected his shirt, pants, a tunic, his boots, and chain mail shirt and stood only at the foot of the bed. He was crossing into dangerous territory, scratching at a wound he knew she would be upset by.

His toes curled, digging into the sandy ground, sparsely covered with grass. "I know you've been sleeping in that Glullyn's bed. Admit it. You think I don't know these things? Did you even think before you started fucking him?"

"Who sounds jealous now?" She threw back arrogantly. It was true; she had been sleeping in Red's bed, alone, and at night, when he was out of the camp fulfilling his assigned duties. Surely, Eomer should know that, since it seemed he was all knowing! Perhaps he really was jealous that her attention and affection should be directed towards another man. "I don't have much of a choice do I? You've never given me a place to sleep, never told me where to go. At least he was kind enough to offer. That's more than you've done!"

"What I've done for you isn't enough?" He bit the question out bitterly, and pointed at the tent's entrance. "Fine, then. There's the door, you're free to go back to whatever hellhole you came from."

"I'm not going anywhere until I'm finished!" She slapped his shirt against her leg in frustration. "How could you do that, E? You put us all at risk! And for what? To get yourself off in some other man's woman? You've got a hand and a damn big one. Start using it!"

"Ungrateful, fucking whore," she heard him say under his breath, roughly scratching the back of his head in irritation.

Loti made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. She was glad it was still slightly dark in the tent so he couldn't see her turning a dangerous shade of crimson or the hurt he caused by saying such a terrible thing. She went off like a firecracker. "Arrogant, fucking hypocrite!"

That did it. "Get out of here," he snarled nastily before ripping the linen sheet off his bare hips, bolting up out of bed, walking away a few steps and lowering down at her sidelong. He was as naked and barbarous as any man she had ever seen. Not a man, not in this moment, but a warrior, powerful in presence, unyielding in spirit, magnificent in body, and completely unashamed, or unaware, of his stark nudity.

And Loti looked. How could she not? He was all on display before her eyes, exotic and primitive. There wasn't anything soft about those bulging horse master's thighs or taught buttocks, both showing the shallow depressions of lean muscle. Her eyes followed the line of hair down his stomach to the wiry, curled hairs at his crotch, finding him half aroused, in the way of a man in the morning. For a man who was as yellow haired as the sun, he certainly had a very dark patch of hair down there, she mused, almost forgetting what they were arguing about. Eomer was not a small man, not anywhere, and she no more than six feet away from any of him.

"Act like a man, Eomer!"

A muscle twitched in his jaw and he was in front of her in two steps, so fast she didn't have time to step back, grasping her by the arms with one firm shake. "I have been a man since I was eleven years old, bitch." He said it with such calm and spitefulness, biting down with unnecessary hate on the work 'bitch.'

"Call me a bitch?" She hissed, her sapphire eyes turning black as onyx, "Asshole!"

"Slut."

"Cocksucker!"

He reached for the clothes in her hands. "Give me these. My mother is dead. I don't need another."

Loti twisted lithely out of his grip, pulling back toward the tent flap. Teeth gnashed, with fire in the dark depths of her eyes, she turned, gave him a good hard, metal melting stare, cocked her arms and hurled all of his things out the door, watching as they landing in undignified heaps like garbage in the streets. Then she marched swiftly back and slapped him hard across the face. He kept his cheek, imprinted with the mark of her hand, turned away; indignantly refusing to acknowledge her as she gave him a well deserved berating. "Bringing your whores here puts your men at risk too, you selfish jackass. If you don't give a damn about yourself, at least think of them." She poked a ridged and condemning finger into his sternum. "I wouldn't have to act like your mother if you would behave like a man instead of a boy."

He seized her arms again, jerking her close to his naked body. "Do you want me to show you what kind of man I am?" Eomer demanded, speaking through gritted teeth as he always did when he was angry. She felt the tip of his half engorged penis brush against her belly. "Will you let me take my ease with you?"

She could smell him. The raw scent of his sweat and seed, and another smell, his own, earthy and natural, that blurred her rational thoughts with her own bodily needs. His hands where hot and damp, even through the fabric of her shirt and his skin flushed as she tried calmly to say, "Let me go, Eomer. You know I won't."

Her heart beat pounded with worry, glancing at his bed. He was naked, aroused and angry, and they were too near the bed. She knew all too well what angry, aroused men were capable of.

His eyes curiously followed hers, lowering to the bed, then flicked up to meet the nervous expression on her face. "Be mindful of my mercy, girl," he said, "I could use you as I want. If I were you, I'd remember what my role was here. Now go."

Loti stumbled over what few of his items were left scattered on the ground when he released her arms, shoving her backwards. When she didn't immediately flee in terror, he pointed at the doorway and roaring, "Leave! Now!" Frightened by the rage emanating from every naked inch of him, she walked to the entrance, yanked open the flap and stopped. Years of reinforced behavior made her shudder at his explosive ferocity, fear the wonder of his nakedness, and cringe at his threats, but what was there really to be afraid of? His words had been hurtful and cut deep, but that was all they had been—words. She was capable of fighting back with her own. Eomer would never hurt her; not now, not ever.

Whipping around, Loti stalked back to stand right in front of him, their icy blue glares cold enough to crack steel. Then she lifted her foot and stomped, bringing the heel of her boot down square across his toes. He let out an almighty howl, unleashing a cacophony of Rohirric indignities upon her as she whirled, flipping a braid over her shoulder with a toss of her head, and strode out into the humid morning with haughty deliberation, chin high, nose in the air. There was a soft, feathery thwump on the ground behind her as his pillow followed her out the door.

XXX

It was another two weeks before Eomer called her to his side. He spoke only the barest of words to Loti in the fortnight since their argument, not making any conversation beyond orders and instructions. Unlike other times when they gone head to head, he seemed unwilling to forgive her for the bitter exchange of words said in the heat of confrontation on this most recent go around. In the normal course of events, she expected Eomer to have forgotten all about the blowup by the next day, giving her a casual, amnesic nod before she began her day's work. But this time he had chosen to hold a grudge. Not that she had gone out of her way to soothe his bloated, cocksure ego. As far as Loti was concerned, he was in the wrong and had behaved recklessly, with the maturity and impulsiveness of a child.

The Rohirrim camp was located on the on the eastern outskirts of the city along the river just inside South Gondor's southern border. Little Rohan as it was so affectionately known, was very large, covering several square miles of land, most of which was used for pasturing and grazing the hundreds of prized Rohirrim horses.

It took nearly a half an hour to walk the tent city's congested main path after Aric had summoned her to join Eomer near the camp's guarded main entrance. The main gate was a hubbub of activity with the comings and goings of horses, men and wagons. The road leading into town was lined with merchants and their makeshift stalls, all waiting for the chance to entice a Rider into spending his hard earned coins on food, or trinkets to take home as souvenirs, so the gate was habitually and unceasingly crowded and noisy. Two locals were attempting, and failing, to gain entrance into the camp, arguing with two spear and sword wielding soldiers, claiming they had business within. All in all, it was a relatively pleasant and exciting place, what with the homey smells of fresh bread, frying pastries and roasting meat from the food vendors beyond, despite all the boisterousness and confusion.

She stopped mid stride as to remain untrampled by twenty mounted men, armed to the teeth and looking generally fearsome, departing on another sortie. Through the churning legs and the obstruction of human and equine bodies, Loti was able to spot Eomer's towering blonde head, wisps of hair blown into his eyes by a salty sea breeze.

He wasn't alone. With him were Bram and Gram, holding a portly, balding man by the arms as he babbled animatedly near a large mule drawn wagon and several other nameless cavalrymen she had yet to meet.

Eomer didn't waste time with pleasantries. "We chased him down trying to cross the river into Harad. Ask him what he's doing trying to sneak a wagon full of weapons past us?" He gestured with a lift of his chin, encompassing both the wagon and the unknown man.

The portly, balding man was simply dressed in drab green pantaloons and a recently washed, similarly dull tan colored shirt. He sported several days outgrowth of scruffy beard on his face, unusual for a Haradrim man who, as a culture generally detested facial hair, and his head, on second look, was balding, but shaved with the same few days of prickly stubble. His brown eyes were big with worry, and he spoke rapidly and somewhat panicked, turning from Bram to Gram in a way that was clearly pleading, no matter what language he spoke.

Loti looked with severe criticism from Eomer to the captive man. EomerKing needed a lesson in tact and building rapport if he thought to get any information out of this man. "My name is Loti," she said, and the man blinked in surprise, imitating an owl. "I'm going to try to help you. No one here will hurt you, but they want you to answer some questions. Will you tell me your name?"

"My name?" The man asked puzzled, "M-my name is Asif. What are they going to do with me?"

"Nothing. For right now, just answer his questions," she soothed, seeing the lines around his eyes deepen, and then placed a hand on Eomer's arm, "This is Eomer. Answer his questions, tell the truth, and whatever you've done, he will show you mercy."

Perking up at the sound of his name, Eomer asked, "What are you telling him?"

She frowned, looking up to him with annoyance. "That you're going to eat his children. I'm getting around to your questions!"

"Get on with it then."

"Don't interrupt again and I will!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!" Loti shook her head flippantly, turning her attentions back to Asif and softening. "Eomer would like to know why you have these weapons in your wagon."

"You are a Southron?" Asif pried.

"I—" Loti hesitated, "I used to be, yes. I was from Umbar—The City of Corsairs."

The man stared up at Eomer with astonishment and she heard him stiffen behind her, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder in an act of protection, not possession. If Eomer was ignorant of the language, he understood the power of the body, especially his own.

Bewildered, Asif said, "You are his prisoner? He has captured you? He has—You are enslaved?"

Only to his arrogance, moodiness, hangovers, unrealistic demands, his pride and his honor, she thought to herself with an internal chuckle.

She shook her head, nearly with a laugh, wishing to calm the man's fears. "Oh goodness, no," and placed her hand on top of Eomer's, linking them in solidarity, his fingers thick and solid, "He has shown me nothing but kindness and rescued me from men who knew none themselves. I've chosen to stay with him. The Rohirrim despise slavery."

"But these men," he protested, using the word loosely, and casting a wary glance at the twins, "surely they cannot be human! They must be half beasts with their great ugliness and hairy faces. I've never seen anything like them!"

Loti stole quick glances from Bram to Gram to Eomer, all blonde and broad and muscular, and all quite handsome in a rugged back woods, agricultural sort of way. "Eomer, do you think you could let him go, show him some sort of kindness? I think he's too frightened about what you're going to do to him to talk."

With a Rohirric noise of understanding, he nodded at the twins who dropped the man's arms, but stayed nearby, leaning back against the man's wagon. Eomer retrieved his canteen from Firefoot's saddle, presenting it to the man in good faith. Asif looked hesitant and not a little dubious, and he gestured again, insistent. "Drink," Eomer said, "The day is hot." Neither man understood the other but generosity and hospitality are universally understood. Asif drank deeply, glugging.

Turning to face her, Eomer demanded, "I want to know where those weapons came from," and he took up his place behind her again, stubbornly thrusting out his jaw.

Squaring her shoulders, Loti began once more. "Eomer asks that you tell him how you came by these weapons?" The wagon held several bundles of the shorter, one handed bastard swords, a few other evil looking weapons and two large sealed casks.

Asif went pale and tight lipped.

Sensing the man's hesitation, Eomer piped up with, "Tell As—As—"

"Asif," Loti pronounced.

Now he looked tight lipped as well, "Tell our guest here," he said instead, "that the only way I can offer him my mercy is if he chooses to help himself. If he chooses otherwise I cannot make him any guarantees."

Loti felt a moment's compassion for the man, who fidgeted with deliberation, caught between the rock and the hard place. "I am a peaceful man. I have no quarrel with him," he flung his head in Eomer's direction, "or his men. But if I tell you and he finds out, he will kill me and my family."

"Who is he?" She demanded shortly, wrinkling an eyebrow.

He was becoming more distraught, his voice tight and strangled. "We are poor. Our land is taken, our crops have been failing, and we have been near to starving since the end of the war. My clan is all but slaves to him. He pays and pays well, but I cannot say no to him either. I cannot tell you anything! He will kill my wife and babies if he finds out!" Suddenly Asif stepped forward and gripped her by the arms. He was a man in his fifties, and physically still strong, but his eyes were sunken, red and despondent. "You must not let him hurt them! Please! They must not find out I've been here!"

Eomer reacted the instant she was touched, shoving the man back against the wagon so hard that it shuddered, startling the mules who he-hawed in distress. Placing himself between Loti and what he thought was her assailant, he again spoke words that needed no interpretation, fisting the man's dingy shirt in his hands. "Don't you touch her again!"

"Eomer, stop it!" She yelled, wiggling to slip between him and Asif. The other man had withstood the assault well, but by his white to the lips expression, still harbored some fear and doubt over Eomer's offer of mercy. The twins stood off to the side, arms folded, looking like fancy decorations that belonged in some rich nobleman's garden. They knew better than to interfere with this hot tempered northern king.

"Eomer," she started again after maneuvering him into a neutral corner, "He's afraid someone will kill his family he tells you anything."

Very quickly his ruffled feathers smoothed. "Kill them? Who?"

"Well I was about to ask that, wasn't I, before you came charging in on your white horse! Now you've got him so scared he'll probably pickle himself!" He continued looking stubborn, so she tried looking more stubborn. "Just do me a favor. Stand here and shut up."

The twins snickered behind beards and backs of hands. Eomer didn't.

Her attention returned to Asif to converse with him once more.

Eomer felt quite useless, standing there as she spoke to the man. He was quite envious of her ability to speak so many languages, curse his thick headed ways. It was an expressive tongue, Haradrim, he decided, watching her wave her hands about, speaking as much with gestures as with her voice; a thing she never did when speaking in his own language. The man, though, was upset. He knew that not from the wild gesturings the man made, but from the contortions on his face and inflections in his voice.

Finally, Loti turned to Eomer and sighed dejectedly. "I don't think we're going to learn anything useful. He's too scared to talk and he's obviously just the middle man. He won't risk getting his family killed."

He inhaled a long, deep breath, squeezed shut his eyes from the blazing summer sun and linked his hands over the top of his head. She could see he was hot, and frustrated. His face was dirty with the dust from riding and beads of sweat made tracks across his skin. He walked in circles, then, pacing to release his tension, deep lines creasing his forehead as he thought.

"What's he told you so far?" Listening as she talked, he unlooped another canteen from his saddle, bent his head and poured its watery contents over the back of his neck, letting it run cool and wet inside his shirt and backplate. Then he stood, took a drink, and soused his head and hair with the rest of it, splattering droplets everywhere like a big honey haired dog. He wore his hair different today, not the half up braided tail she was accustomed to, but parted down the middle and pulled back at the sides into a loose queue.

Loti shrugged. "Only that they're poor, his clan is peaceful, but they've been defeated by another more powerful tribe in the area. He says most of their land was taken by the new chieftain, and there isn't enough good land left to farm. He says they don't have enough to eat, so running the weapons gives him enough money to buy food."

After wiping the water from his eyes with his fingertips, Eomer spoke, his voice carrying a hint of distress and surprise. "So they're starving then?"

Damn, he should have recognized it sooner. It had become far too common, and he had seen it many times before in his own people as their land and crops and livestock were ravaged by the enemy. The man wasn't portly because he was fat, quite the opposite, in fact. It was the bloat symptomatic of malnutrition.

Loti yipped an exclamation as she was dragged unceremoniously back to stand before their unwilling guest.

"Ask him what it's going to take?"

"Take to what?" She asked exasperated. He was at it again, speaking in vague, half finished thoughts.

"To turn him," he made and a hand gesture of impatience, "Will he do it for food? Will he work with us if I offer him food? Will he tell us about the weapons?"

Loti furrowed an eyebrow skeptically. This seemed like an awful lot of worry over a few bundles of swords.

"Ghaw, girl, don't ask questions," Eomer growled, "Just do as I say. Tell him I know doing this will put him in danger, but I need to stop these weapons from being smuggled. If he can't help his tribe at least he can help his family survive."

"You want him to be a spy for us while he's working for them?" The dubiousness was evident in her voice. The idea was preposterous! "A double agent! Seriously, Eomer! And what happens when he double crosses you back?"

He stared at the man, genuinely concerned for his welfare, but spoke with sincerity to Loti. "I can choose to be a king or a man. But I cannot be both. My generosity comes from my need as a man to do good, not on behalf of the kingdom I represent. If he chooses to help us, he will be loyal to me as a man, an individual, not my title or my office." Eomer shook his head, knowing and meditative. "No, he won't double cross me."

Loti understood then. This was something he needed to do. "If you think this is best."

He nodded tersely but said softly, "I do."

She spoke then without reluctance to Asif, who, despite his sad appearance, was courageous and stalwart, readily agreeing to a chance to take back his own pride, independence and manhood. As agreed upon, Eomer offered the man five bags of rice and flour, a twenty pound wheel of their tangy orange cheese and a bag of dried peas. The mules, a pair of ancient beasts, were badly in need of shoeing, so he also sent for the farrier. This simple act sent Asif in to fits of exclamations, in turns both praising and thanking Eomer for his bountiful goodwill and limitless largess. Eomer, being a man who generally hated kowtowing, groveling, bootlicking and being fallen all over, politely told the man to shut up.

"I want the name of the man who threatens him," he told Loti.

After another brief exchange, the corner of her mouth twisted and she lifted her eyes to meet Eomer's. His mouth imitated hers.

"It's someone we know, isn't it."

"It's someone I think we're going to get to know a lot better," she said ruefully, "His boss is Izz al Din."

"Hmmphf," he snorted savagely. "You make sure that he tells Izz al Din that EomerKing took his shipment."

Another wagon was brought, Asif's arsenal of casks, swords and other miscellaneous arms loaded into the back of it, Loti, unexpectedly and inelegantly, loaded into the front of it and they set off down the main path towards the river. Neither she nor Eomer spoke for a few minutes, as he drove the wagon along the busy thoroughfare, twitching the reins over two pairs of enormous brown rumps.

She broke the silence as he made the turn to the river. "That was very good of you," she said diplomatically, placing a hand on his arm. He was relaxed, leaning over, driving the wagon with his elbows on his knees. His head cocked to the side, trying to hide a smile.

"What? With old Asif back there? I did the easy part," he replied, wanting to put the idea from her mind, "He's got to do the hard part."

"There's no in between with you, is there? You're either terribly modest or terribly arrogant," she laughed, and he did too, the corners of his eyes creasing in a spray of lines. "No, I mean it. You could have threatened the man instead. You were very good to him. He's very grateful. "

The wagon began to bounce and lurch down the narrow track, and Eomer sat upright with attentiveness, yelling unrepeatable gutturals to the horses. Loti was jostled and slid down the bench as the wheels hit a rut, bumping against his side. He threw an arm around her shoulder, holding her close until the jolting stopped.

"Ah, well," he replied, taking his hand from her shoulder and placing it on her knee with a squeeze. She made no effort to move away. "It worked out for me once before, eh?"

His mouth widened again into that big crooked smile, and Loti turned away with a giggle, taking his meaning. She made to move back down the bench when Eomer asked, "What, are you too afraid to sit by me?" There was a flirtatious tone in his voice and spark in his eye.

"No!" She protested a bit too quickly.

In a voice as rich and smooth as melted brown sugar, he said, "Come back over then."

For the first time she realized why women came so easily into his bed. He was suave and aloof, boyish and masculine. With that bright white smile, bottomless blue eyes, and rugged angles of cheekbones and jaw, he was very nearly irresistible. She couldn't blame his women. What foolish woman would say no to him?

She obliged him, scooting back to sit close but not quite touching and failing miserably to convince herself it was what he wanted, and not what she wanted.

"What are you going to do with all this…stuff?" Loti waved a generalizing hand at the contents of the wagon bed.

Eomer took a quick backwards glance at it all. "The weapons I'm not so worried about," he began, "Every man has a right to defend himself, or his family, or his property. Especially from someone who has the power to take it, like a chieftain or a king. But I'm sure that's not what these are for. I'm a little bothered by how many are here. This is Gondorian steel. Trust me, I know these things," he said in response to her inquisitively raised eyebrow and she wasn't inclined to doubt him, "It's much higher quality than most steel. They haven't seen battle either, there's no nicks or chips in the blades, so that tells me they've just been made. But still," now he wrinkled his face in annoyance, "there's only twenty five or thirty blades here. Not enough to outfit an army, so why bother to smuggle them past us?"

"So…if it's not the swords they're trying to smuggle—" She was following his train of thought, "But what—" She swiveled on the bench to look in the wagon bed, starting to catch on. "It's not the swords is it, Eomer? It's the casks!"

"Can't you smell it?" he asked curiously.

Leaning over the bench seat, she inhaled loudly. The barrels did have a faintly acrid smell, nothing too overpowering, though, just mildly disagreeable.

She plopped back down next to him, accidentally to close this time, touching all the way from hip to knee. Too proud to move away—he wanted her to sit close, didn't he—Loti took a sudden, overly enthusiastic interest in the sky, effecting extreme casualness in rolling her eyes heavenward, like he wasn't even there.

The sky overhead, she happened to note, was a bright and brilliantly blue as ever; clear without a cloud in sight and the humid early summer haze lying low and opaque along the horizon.

"Doesn't the weather ever change?" Eomer had asked. Obviously, he didn't consider sunny and hot 'weather'. The answer was quite simply, no. Not yet anyway, and when it did, she doubted he would feel any more excited about the prospect of mud and the damp that seemed to seep in everywhere.

The day was hot. She felt the tickle of a line of sweat between her breasts and her linen shirt was starting to stick to her body. Poor Eomer must be roasting alive. His hair had grown since their first meeting, and now fell well past his shoulders in waves of yellow, gold, and brass. Sweat and water soaked the hair at the back of his neck and she had to push aside the strong urge to lift away those wet strands from his sun baked skin.

"Why don't you pull it all back into a tail and braid it. It would be much cooler," she had suggested some weeks ago. He grimaced, an expression that wordlessly said, 'foolish woman, never'.

Gods, that man was stubborn!

Finally, with seemingly no effort, he guided the horses and wagon to the river bank. "Come on," he said, ignoring her outstretched hand and choosing instead to grab her around the waist in helping her to the ground, "I'll introduce you to Hifur."

Hifur was, as Eomer explained, the product of a brief, passionate, and truly scandalous affair between a female elf and a male dwarf. Rejected by both elves and dwarves alike, his mother, desperate to find a home for her son, came to Rohan where a kindly childless couple adopted the atypical baby. Therefore Hifur was short, no taller than Loti herself, wiry, had pointy ears like aspen leaves, was very dark haired, and the ivory, fine boned features of his face were covered in a long, thick, black, glossy beard and mustache that damn near every man in Rohan envied. Hifur also liked fire, and, as a child, much to his parent's dismay had burned down more than one cottage.

The dwarvan elf—or elven dwarf?—spotted them coming, running up and waving a hand in greeting. Hifur was also missing a few fingers.

"Got something you'll want to see," Eomer said rather more loudly than necessary.

"What?" The incongruous half whatever-he-was said, leaning in and making a confused face.

Eomer threw a thumb over his shoulder at the wagon. "There is something you will want to see," he repeated, even more loudly, and enunciating every word.

"I don't see why I should have to leave. I just got here," Hifur responded in an elven voice like liquid silk.

Eomer looked impatient. "No, you're not leaving! Gods, man, where's your," he pretended to jam something at his head, "ear trumpet?"

"Oh, bother," the dwarf elf said equally as loud, and surveyed the immediate vicinity, scowling. "I suppose I've misplaced it again." Then, he stuck a finger in one transparent, pointy ear, twisted, pulled it out and looked meditatively at his findings.

Hifur was also hard of hearing.

The untimely losing of the ear trumpet, it appeared, was a common occurrence, because Eomer regained his normal blasé equanimity, bent over and basically shouted in the elven dwarf's ear. "Give me a hand with these barrels in the wagon."

So Hifur, looking completely out of place dressed as one of the noble Rohirric Horse Lords, trailed behind, his stubby bowl legs lumbering.

The barrels were large and incredibly heavy, taking all the strength both men had to lower them unbroken to the ground. That Hifur was a strong little bugger, she observed, watching him awkwardly struggling against Eomer's towering height and reach to heave down his half of the load. After rolling both some distance from the horses, over the long stalks of the grasses that happen to flank the rivers banks, they tipped one of the barrels upright and Eomer pried off the lid with the blade of his new knife.

Hifur leaned over the contents of the barrel dreamily, eyes glittering. "Ho ho! Look what you've brought me! Black gold!"

Loti squeezed her small frame between the two, peering also into the depths of the barrel, seeing nothing but granules of black, like sand on the beach. Eomer scooped a hand through it letting the fine dark grains sift through his fingers, while Hifur continued looking excited.

"Well, I'll be buggered by a goat! Look at it all! And the other one? It's full too?"

There was something all together unnatural about the way the half elf—dwarf?—was eyeing the black stuff in the cask.

Nibbling on a fingernail, she asked, "Eomer, ah, what is it?"

Eomer wiggled a finger, imitating invisible wisps of scent that wafted faintly from the open barrel. "Smell that? It's kind of a nasty smell. It's sulfur." And very grimly he finished, "This is black powder."

"Yes, I can see that," she snapped testily. If he wasn't being incredibly vague, he was stating the obvious! "What does it do?"

Hifur butted in then in his loud voice seeing Eomer in bemused frustration and Loti's unguarded face wondering, "What the hell?" "Perhaps herself would like a little demonstration? That is if Himself wouldn't mind." The glint in the elven dwarf's eye was bordering on frightening. She could almost make out his blunted little hands rubbing together in a fiendish fervor.

Eomer went to the wagon, rooted around under the seat and returned carrying a large gourd cup and a tinderbox. He scooped out cupful after cupful until he had a decent sized hill of the blackish sand-like material some fifty yards away. Tinderbox in one hand and a fistful full of dried rushes in the other, Hifur crossed the meadow, strands of his black beard blowing behind him, and kneeling, easily lit the rushes. Loti watched as Eomer slowly raised his hands and pressed the palms flat to his ears. Not knowing what in Eru's name was going on, or what the bloody hell was going to happen, she did the same. The elf man—dwarf person?—oh, whatever, the idea was just too absurd—waved the waved the torch, and threw…

The whole black mound went up with an almighty bang! Loti jumped; the concussion of the explosion echoing in her chest, then crashed into Eomer with a shriek as loud as the blast itself and momentarily wondered if her heart would start beating again. Behind them the horses, whinnied and screeched, their tack ringing in agitation. There was column of fire, a whoosh of heat and a thick billowing cloud of eye tearing, brimstone stinking smoke.

"That," Eomer explained, completely unnecessarily, "is what black powder does."

They could hear Hifur whooping as he ran through the smoke to greet them, yellow teeth bared behind a satisfied smile. Now the half whosy-whats-it in front of her made total sense! His penchant for playing with fire, the squirrelly gleam in his eye, his missing fingers, his lack of hearing… Hifur also like to make things go ka-boom.

"So, missy, how was that there for you?" Hifur grinned gleefully.

She gave him a half hearted smile, a hand on her chest to make sure the other half of her heart was still working and was fairly certain it did since her head pounded like a war drum. Then a thought flickered as her mind started working again, and realization dawned.

"Good gods, E!" She blurted, whipping head and braids to see him standing calm but steely eyed beside her. He already knew what she was thinking.

"I've seen that stuff blow up a wall fifteen feet thick."

"What—what the hell are they going to do with it?" It was a breathless question. She had already assumed that the possibilities were quite limited, and quite deadly.

He snorted derisively, "It makes awfully expensive fertilizer."

"If you caught Asif with this trying to get into Harad, then that means it came from the north—from Gondor! But from who? And why? And we don't even know for certain that this was for Izz al Din!" Her mind was beginning to reel with unanswered questions. "How do we know the people who wanted this don't already have some, or they aren't looking to get more?"

"That's what we're going to have to find out, eh?"

She only now realized how dangerous this mission was and how much trouble she, Eomer, and his Rohirrim might find themselves embroiled in.

"Well, what are we going to do with it now?"

Smiling, Eomer clapped the little fellow on the back, who was looking quite perplexed since he couldn't hear anything anyone was saying. "Hifur here will take care of it. He'll add some water to it and then we'll sell it as fertilizer. That is after he's done blowing stuff up with it."

"So you weren't kidding about that? Making it into fertilizer, I mean."

"No. All it's made of is saltpeter, sulfur and charcoal. Mixing water with it will make it harmless," he then leaned down and shouted in his comrade's leaf shaped ear, "We'll leave you to it."

Hifur touched two fingers to his high, domed, elven forehead, as if her were removing an imaginary hat. "It was a pleasure to finally meet you, mum. You take good care of Himself, now, won't you?"

"He's a good soldier," Eomer reassured her as they walked back to the wagon, "Can't hear worth a damn but has eyes like a hawk."

"Don't tell me he's married? I don't think I could even imagine what those babies would look like!" She giggled with a perverse curiosity to know what dwarf-elf-humans would look like. Would the girls have beards?

"No," he said, tight lipped, "But the women love that beard."

She wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he sounded. "I didn't think you were the jealous sort!"

"I'm not," contested Eomer, too quickly and too defensively.

They had stopped next to the wagon, and Loti squared around to face him, tugging on the short hairs of his beard. "Well, I like yours."

He did have a nice beard. All Rohirrim men had beards in one form or another, some long, some scraggily, some bushy, like a big boll of cotton had sprouted on their face. But Eomer kept his clipped short. It wasn't rough, either, as she would have expected, but a course silkiness, and smooth to the touch. And if she looked very, very closely, Loti could see just a few white-ish hairs amongst the variegations of blondes and golds; untimely evidence the stresses and burdens of his office and position, and those of his personal life were taking its toll. It was those flecks of silver, few and far between though they were, that suffused this young man with dignity and virility, and the ability to make any woman's heart flutter, including Loti's.

Eomer pinched her chin, tipping her head to the side, and leaving black powder smudges. "I like yours, too, but it doesn't seem to be coming in properly," he teased.

"I certainly hope not!" She cried, playfully pushing his hand from her chin. "When was the last time you were clean shaven?"

"Oh," he took a second to think, rubbing a hand over his own cheek, "Seventeen or eighteen, I suppose. You got to shave it a few times to make it come in thicker. Well," he sighed, changing the subject, "I'll have to let the women know he's off the market. I think he's found one of his own in you. Aren't you part elf?" And he poked the brown mark above her lip, leaving another black smudge.

Now it was her turn to go on the defensive. "I don't know why everybody thinks that," she rebuffed the idea sharply, a single line deepening between finely arched brows. "My mother wasn't and my father didn't have pointy ears or anything as far as I know. All it means it that I'm blessed—" Her voice faltered and broke off from the irony, sad as it was. She tried again; eyes fixed on her fingers as she twisted them together, "I'm blessed by the Valar with the beauty and grace of the elves. Not that I am an elf."

Blessed, she scoffed, Cursed is more like it. It was the reason she had been chosen…and destroyed. She would have given anything to be inconspicuous, normal, average, to not be ogled by every man she passed, to blend in and disappear. She should hate the Valar for what they had given her, and for what it meant they had taken away.

"It is true, I am beautiful on the outside, but there is no denying it, I am ugly and wicked on the inside," she whispered meekly, still unable to look at him.

Eomer wouldn't abide her lies. She hadn't said it out of self pity, she actually believed it, and he put a finger under her chin, raising her face to his. Her feathery black lashes lifted, revealing an intensely blue, crystalline gaze, both sad and strong, submissive and powerful. Gods and Devils, she made him unbelievably confused and unimaginably aroused in so many different ways.

He picked up a braid that lie over her shoulder and let the length of chestnut and cinnamon fall through his hand, silky and comforting as a lover's touch in the night.

"Oh," he said, hearing the edge of irony in his own voice, "you're so wrong."

He did feel it then; a raw ache in his chest for her and what she wouldn't say. Pity for another was such a strange, sad feeling and he could easily find himself drawn down into its pathetic depths.

"Come on," he said briskly, throwing an arm around her neck and pulling her against his side in an ear squishing headlock. She squealed and squirmed, forgetting all about her melancholy; precisely what he had hoped for. "Eothain's got some work to do."

XXX

Eomer jabbed at the letter with his spoon. "I like how Elfhelm writes notes in the margins," he said, pointing at one note in particular that read 'pompous little prick' with an arrow drawn to the applicable sentence.

It was growing late. The dusky evening sky glowed with the vibrancy of prismatic jewels, pink tourmalines, the dark purples of amethyst and lavenders of jasper, yellow topaz, and the light orange-red of a rubies, as the heat of the day disappeared with the setting sun. He sat across the table from her in his rolled up shirt sleeves, a quirky, entertained smile on his face as they ate.

Eomer had been restless, unable to concentrate to his fullest ability on any task, even after coming back from a hard ride with Firefoot. Consequently, Loti's own work, the writing of requisitions for supplies, official correspondence to despotic, over bearing Gondorian councilors and bureaucrats, in triplicate of course, and the mundane chores of everyday life, had suffered. The log book needed updating, he was behind on his personal correspondence, one boot of a pair was polished, the other lay tipped on its side, scuffed and dusty, oblivious to its filthy, slovenly state, more ink needed to be made, quills sharpened, laundry washed… Finally, after several fits and starts of conversation, and after watching him fidget for half an hour behind his desk, he said, "Ah, to hell with it!", plucked the quill from her hand, and suggested, "Go change into that dress. Let's go find something to eat."

Loti smoothed the fabric over her knees as she sat on the bench at the table and read part of the ghastly uninteresting and mildly condescending letter. The dress had been an issue of disagreement for some days after its purchase. While looking at her in it inside the dressmaker's shop he had grumbled, "I thought I said nothing fancy." The elven dressmaker, like any temperamental artist took offense, clicking his tongue derisively and waving an admonishing finger in one direction while tossing his head in the other. "What do you expect her to wear?" the high nasal voice lisped slightly, "A burlap sack? Good Valar," he broke off snapping long manicured fingers in front of Eomer's eyes as if he were a blind man, "can't you see she's living perfection? Oh! Men!" He started looking a bit like a small yapping dog. "You're not just an uncouth heathen, you're ignorant too!" And with that he stomped off in an overly emotional swirl of blue silk and a jangling of jewelry, whipping aside the curtain to his back room.

"What's up his ass? Don't answer that!" Eomer scowled after the elf's dramatics, answering his own question just as quickly when she opened her mouth to speak.

"Man problems," she declared, smugly.

The dress wasn't all that fancy. The kirtle was made of fine mahogany linen, sleeveless, with a square neckline, gored skirt and laces up the back. The under gown, too, was simple, made of cream colored Haradrim cotton; it had a dainty ruffle along the neckline and elegant bell sleeves that began halfway down her upper arm, spilled ridiculously past her wrists in billows and ruffles.

Eomer made cupping motions with his hands at chest level. "I can see your tits!" He said in a rough, scandalized whisper.

Loti looked down at the barest hint of cleavage the dress revealed. Compared to the fashions of the day in Gondor, which had ladies breasts hoicked up and bubbling out of the tops of all their garments, her dress was quite conservative and bordered on matronly. She pressed her hands flat to her bosom. "I haven't got any to see, Eomer!"

He stepped forward, peering into the depths of the dress. "You're the only woman living in a camp with over two thousand men! Even the married ones will look!"

Maybe he did want her wearing a burlap sack. "They already look!" She argued, but, deciding to use a different tactic, sidled up to Eomer, who was looking unhappy and skeptical; two of his more common expressions. Taking his hand in hers, she pressed against him, wedging his arm between the insignificantly sized breasts being discussed. "E," she said, in the voice she used to get what she wanted and glanced demurely at her décolletage, "I never knew a man who didn't like to look. You could look, too, you know. I wouldn't mind."

Eomer regarded her cynically under lowered blonde brows as she batted dark lashes at him like tiny feathery fans. Then the noise she had been expecting came grumbling to the surface, followed by a derogatory snort. "There isn't that much to look at."

"Good!" She chirped, spinning on her heel, "It's settled then. I'm keeping it!"

At the present, Eomer was doing as she had suggested, looking, absently spooning up a carrot from his bowl of mutton stew. He always did it subtly, nothing ever so blatant as open staring or goggling, and averted his eyes after only a few seconds. For a man who thought there was nothing to see, he certainly saw something he enjoyed to keep looking so frequently. And Loti, who found her body well beneath Rohirric standards of voluptuousness, considered it flattering. At least when Eomer did it…

"And you don't mind that Elfhelm opens your letters?" She asked, noticing his eyes pop guiltily northward from chest to face.

"Nah," he dismissed casually, "He used to do it to my uncle too. He knows I'll end up telling him about it anyway. I guess he figures it saves me a step."

Loti hadn't seen this letter before now. Apparently, he had met the messenger on his ride.

Elfhelm, it turned out, was the scoundrel she thought him to be. According to Eomer, besides being a second in command and fiercely loyal to his old protégé, the Marshal, for as long as he could remember, would intercept official dispatches, read them, make his own notations and quippy, disparaging insults all over the page, draw unflattering pictures when necessary, reseal the letter and replace it to continue merrily along to its destination.

"My uncle was serious," he went on, conversationally, "uptight, very formal, proud… Elfhelm and Uncle Theoden went way back. They were friends for years. At first, my uncle didn't like him doing it, but one thing about Elfhelm, once he finds what irks you, he'll keep doing it no matter what you say about it. He doesn't mean anything by it. It's just him having a good time."

Loti licked sauce off the bowl of her spoon. The mutton was a little on the tough side, but otherwise delicious. "Serious and uptight, huh?" She teased. "Must run in the family?"

The corner of his mouth turned up into a cockeyed grin. "Maybe," he said, still chewing. "Anyway, we both think this little prick is obnoxious." Eomer pointed with his spoon at the indecipherable signature of some Gondorian councilor or another. "Elfhelm went round and round with this dimwit and a couple of those other useless councilors back when we rode off to the Black Gate." He paused, sucking on the tip of the spoon, the smile creeping back into his eyes and lips. "Remind me to tell you about that sometime." The spoon waved dismissively, "But, so, I left him in charge of the Rohirrim when I took off. I think they thought he would be easier to push around with me not there, the bastards."

Elfhelm had requested to rally as many Gondorian soldiers as possible to ride with the Rohirrim that remained in Minas Tirith in order to drive out all lingering enemy resistance in Anorien, a populous region to the north of the White City, while Eomer and Aragorn had taken the Host of the West to the Black Gate. A handful of the councilors had refused, and vehemently, stating that the men were needed for the city's continued fortification and defense. So Elfhelm, a man of decisive action, told them to get stuffed and had ridden out with his own men, routing orcs and Easterlings, retaking the Sun Land.

"But why would they refuse to help him?" Loti wondered.

"Ah, who knows," Eomer replied irritated. "It's alright for our men to fight and die for Gondor, but not for their own, I guess. That's just weak and spineless, if you ask me. And I guess nobody cared to at the time." He picked up a hunk of crusty bread, dunked it in the stew, soaked up the juices with it and bit down, dropping crumbs everywhere. The corner of his mouth twitched and he added fairly, "Not like there was a lot of leadership there at the time."

Eomer wore only his boots, brown wool britches, and white cotton shirt, untied at the neck and open, exposing part of his lightly sweaty chest and coarse blonde hairs. Seeming to have lost complete respect for proper table manners, his forearm and elbow rested rudely on the table, he had no reservations at all about speaking with his mouth full and burped once, although he had the grace to cover his mouth when he did so. He was all together, very common.

Loti picked the letter or letters rather, off the scarred wooden tabletop. It was nearly five full pages long, written in a fine precise hand with a well sharpened quill. Running her gaze down the page, she paused to read:

Is it not advisable, sir, that you find some other way of peaceable negotiations with these people, heathens and animals though they may be, we would not want to put ourselves in a standing so poor that it would inhibit our ability to mediate an appropriate and desirable outcome to this unfortunate necessity of post war realities in the form of unilateral treaties with the Haradrim and her many kingdoms.

Shuffling the papers to another page, she continued reading:

We would be assured that you and your Riders would likewise show restraint in the handling of any confiscated contraband or prisoners you may find yourself in possession of in your travails as these may be of important future use to ensure the cooperations of such tribal leaders as may be entreated to find themselves disposed or inclined to make this process of peace possible for all parties involved. Any uninhibited actions by yourself or your designated men of arms would be taken as a sign of ill faith and disrespect to petitioners on both sides of this conflict, most certainly endeavoring to offend any and all chieftains most egregiously. We would also likewise advise you use cautionary or pre cautionary measures when judiciously handling…

"Eomer, what does any of this mean!" Her head was starting to hurt from just reading the archaic sentence structure, and she hadn't even tried to determine what any of it meant. She hadn't understood a bloody thing since reading 'Greetings and Felicitations to His Royal Majesty, Eomer, Son of Eomund, Eighteenth Ruler of the Kingdom of Rohan' which was apparently his official title and name. No wonder he signed his name only as 'E'.

"Hell if I know," he laughed, and took a swig of ale. "Never trust a politician is what I think it says." Resting his arm back on the table, he went on, clearly annoyed with the writer of the letter. "How am I supposed to negotiate with people who want our complete and total destruction? I'm not going to sit at the treaty table with a man who wants to blow us up the minute we turn our backs. Why did they even ask me do come down here if they were going try to tie my hands? Not that I had much choice in the matter!"

He was ranting full bore suddenly, the timbre of his usual deep, raspy baritone raising an octave in disgust and the thickness of his accent becoming more pronounced with excitement. "Basically that's what their trying to tell me in this letter, that I should use restraint when the Haradrim attack my men. Supposedly, it makes Gondor and Rohan appear unfavorable in the eyes of the chieftains when I bring the hammer down in retaliation. Like I care what those chieftain bastards think! It becomes difficult to make peace if we go after them in retaliation, that's what they say! Well, I say that's easy to say when you sit your ass behind a desk three hundred miles away! It's not his men who might get blown up in the streets. It's not his women who're left without husbands or his children left without fathers to beggary and the charity of others!"

Eomer had become quite agitated, tossing his spoon on the tabletop with a clang and sitting away from the table, running a hand roughly over his mouth.

"Isn't Aragorn a friend of yours? Can't you talk to him about this? Can't he do something for you?" Loti asked, hoping to find a way to help.

"Yes, he is and I have. But he can do very little right now without the approval of the council. Those councilors are powerful men and they hold a lot of sway. They've tasted power and they're not about to relinquish what they think they're entitled too, even if the King has returned. They are men and men are weak, so I suppose I can't really blame them for it. Death would've been the only way I'd have given up my position as Marshal. But Aragorn can't very well tell them all to shove it up their ass holes! Finally, after hundreds of years of being ruled by the Stewarts, Gondor's in transition. He needs allies among the nobility and the council. You make enemies with the bureaucrats and the nobles and then it's nearly impossible to get anything done. Politics, that's all this is! They've all got their own agenda instead of worrying about what's best for Gondor."

With another long sigh through his nose, Eomer rested his elbows on the wooden table and fisted his hands in front of his mouth, one covering the other.

After a long moment of gathering thoughts and self control, Eomer spoke, almost confidentially.

"If it were up to me, I'd say to hell with what the enemy thinks! They might sign treaties with you, they might act peaceful, seem like they want peace, but that doesn't mean they're your friend or your ally. All resistance must be crushed hard and fast. If that doesn't happen right away, then the killing and the fighting goes on for years and years and nothing gets resolved. Pretty soon, you're right back in the same boat you were before! On the defensive, fighting for your life. Even your own people will turn against you. Any good military leader will tell you the enemy should always worry about what could happen if they rise up against you again." Eomer pushed his hands through his hair, unknotting some of the tangles in the process, an effort to ease the passion and tension in his voice. "That's not to say you can't show them kindness or mercy," he added quickly as an afterthought. "But you need to be strong enough to show them where they stand with you and you with them. Not fear, either, I don't mean. Fear is useful, but it's better they have…reverence—respect!"

Loti waited patiently, sensing in the tension of his posture he would continue venting his frustration.

"Sometimes, I think they're afraid of my power," and he raised his shoulders in a self deprecating shrug. "Not that I'm so great, but I'm not pulled at by councils and politicians and bureaucracy, either. I could pack up my men tomorrow, ride for home, seal ourselves off from Gondor and the rest of the world and not give a second thought about it. And those bureaucratic bastards know it," Eomer finished, emphatically.

He stopped talking, looking and sounding like he wanted to do just that. His eyes weren't fixed on her, she noticed, but off to one side, just beyond her, glazed and distant in the many colored light of the setting sun. There was likely nothing he wanted more than to be home in the rolling prairies of the Riddermark surrounded and comforted by the things he loved most of all. Instead, he was stuck here in this stinking, sweating, sandy cesspool, hundreds of miles from his home and people, taking orders from clueless politicians and whom he considered a few rungs below cockroaches.

"So why don't you?"

He blinked, shaking himself back to reality, and asked, "Hmm?" before picking up his spoon, and resuming his arm-on-the-table stance.

"Why don't you? Pack up and go home, I mean."

The spoon dug lazily though the bowl of stew, and he took a deep breath, blowing it out between his lips in a long stream.

"Oh, a bunch of reasons. I'm a man of honor, for one. I've given my word as a man to my friend for as long as he needs me. I can't go back on that. The Kings of the Mark might be bound to Gondor by their position, but my personal loyalty is to Aragorn. He's a close friend and I value his friendship, not to mention all that he's done for Rohan. But, I owe no loyalty to Gondor or anyone else beyond that. Are you going to eat that?"

Having restored his composure and appetite, Eomer was peering into her bowl of stew. Without waiting for so much as a yea or nay, his spoon plunged into the depths of her bowl, resurfacing with her one remaining potato.

"You know I am!" Loti scolded stern faced, walloping him on the wrist with the bowl of her own spoon.

He cried out an ignominious, "Ow!" dropping the potato with a splat.

"And what's another reason?"

"I don't believe in doing that—shutting ourselves off from everyone, I mean." Eomer licked the juice from the spoon smacking off his wrist, smiling and waggling his own spoon in her direction. "Sometimes I wonder if those councilors try to control me because they think I'll turn out like great grandfather Fengel. Not that they shouldn't worry about that," he corrected, returning his utensil to his bowl, "He was a dirty, greedy son of a bitch. He started this whole business of isolating Rohan from the rest of the world; limiting trade, raising taxes on his own people, all those sorts of things that go along with withdrawal. Nobody like him, even his own son, can you believe that? So, my grandfather—that's Thengel—he took off. Didn't come back 'til the old man was dead. People liked him, from what I understand, but the trouble had already started. Villages were being attacked, horses stolen… Now we know the enemy was around us the all along, but he didn't know the extent of it, so he cut us off even further thinking if we turned inward and away the enemy might leave us alone. Now Uncle Theoden," Eomer paused in the lecture of his family's petty squabbles, political beliefs and debilitating policies to nod politely to the young man who was lighting torches along the path. "Uncle Theoden, he was an isolationist, plain and simple. He was just doing what he thought was right, what he thought would protect his people from our enemies. I never agreed with it, and told him so, or I tried to, but I always did as he asked. I never questioned or countermanded him. Ever. I was always loyal to him. Always."

The spoon tapped the wooden table in certainty, evidently bothered that his loyalty and allegiance to family and country were ever questioned, but he attempted a good natured one shoulder shrug. "There's a lot more to it, but that's the long and short of it. Did you already know this or are you just letting me run on at the mouth?"

One corner of his lips curved upward as Loti shook her head and uttered an unlady like, "Uh-huh."

"Oh, good. Then I don't feel an ass for doing all the talking." Eomer took another bite of bread, speaking and chewing through it at the same time. "I only asked because people don't always see the reasons for an action. They don't see the politics, or the discussions, or the arguments, or the petty backstabbing behind closed doors. But, anyway, I'm getting off track. What I was getting around to is this: we live in a different world today. Pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist won't work anymore."

The passion was back in his voice and he pushed the bowl of food away, spoon and all. He leaned over the table on folded arms, speaking to her hushedly but intensely, as though he were taking her into his confidence. "Do you know that maybe only one in a hundred of these men can write their own name? Maybe! Most of them probably couldn't even recognize their name if it was written down! At least I know my letters and my numbers."

Loti snorted at that behind her hand, in lighthearted disagreement of his self aggrandizing opinions. "You've the worst handwriting I've ever seen!"

"Well," Eomer sat back, feigning semi-offense, "I may not be the best speller, but I'm damn good with the numbers. Admit it!"

There were more giggles from behind the hand, but Loti did the best she could to rearrange her face into an expression of austerity befitting the conversation. "I'm sorry," she apologized, slightly muffled, "I didn't mean to interrupt. Do go on."

"Mmmhmm," he replied, dubiously squinting one eye at her. "Well…what I meant to say was that nearly all of the Rohirrim can't read or write. We've been an oral culture mostly—singing and storytelling, that kind of thing—since the beginning of time. I want us to stay true to our history and our traditions, but I also want our people to prosper and to have better opportunities…more opportunities! I don't want generations of our people thinking they're bound to the land as farmers and peasants when they don't have to be. If they want more, I want them to feel they could have more. We can't cut ourselves off and expect to prosper and live better lives." He spoke rapidly and with increased eagerness whenever a topic close to his heart was being discussed.

With some uncertainty, his voice changed again, becoming calmer and more restrained, but with no less devotion. "I was thinking, maybe if our children could read and write a whole new world would be open to them. It's probably not important that they read books like Mediations on a Life by Elendil or learn trigonometry or Numenorian history like I did, but I don't think it's asking too much for them to learn the Rohirric alphabet and some simple mathematics, do you?"

"Who taught you to read?" Loti asked curiously, sucking stew gravy off the hem of her belled sleeve. Damn, now it would have to be washed.

Eomer answered proudly after taking a long sip of ale. "Oh! My mother did. She was sent to university in Gondor for just a little while before she married my father. My father could read and write, not very well, though. But he insisted that me and my sister learn how. Both my folks wanted me to go to university, too and Uncle Theoden even had a private tutor for us." He stopped, shyly shaking his head with quick motions, his mouth contorted in a regretful sneer. "Ah, well." Those two words encompassing a decade's worth of soldiering and fighting and the loss of a youth he would never have back. A bit resentfully he added, "They'd have thought I was backwards, anyway. How many languages do you speak?" He wondered, quickly changing the subject.

Pouting her lips, Loti contemplated that, counting each off on her fingers. "Five I think. Quenya, Sindarin, Rohirric, of course, Westron, and some of the different dialects of the Haradrim. A couple of words of some of the Easterlings, too, but not enough to say I speak them, just what I've picked up here and there."

"So…tell me how a poor girl from Harad learned so many languages?"

She smiled brightly, remembering the many hours of instruction she had received and enjoyed as a child, reading, writing, and transcribing. "My mother taught me, too. She'd teach me between clients. She said if I was educated and had some refinement a wealthy man might want to marry me and I would be taken care of then. She said I had a knack for language, like my father, I guess."

It was a skill of which Loti was fiercely proud, but also very unusual. Few girls anywhere were taught to read or write, so it had been an accomplishment she secretly coveted. But, no longer…

A mildly embarrassed flush covered her cheeks as she toyed with her food, confessing, "I liked to read, too. I read all the time, and anything I could get my hands on, but my favorite things were always romances. I liked adventure, chivalry, love. A nice man would come to see my mother; I think he was a ship's captain. Men of the sea are always a romantic lot, if you didn't know. He'd always have a book to lend me. I was like every other girl, probably. I wanted to be a princess and dance at balls in pretty gowns and marry a prince. I suppose I never got over wanting that." Loti raised her head from stirring the contents of the bowl. Books were a commodity more precious than gold or gems and she knew she had been incredibly lucky to have read so many.

Eomer was watching her with interest, his mouth turned up into an easy, thoughtless smile that without asking urged her to continue. "Mother thought I was a bit too fanciful, but that was partly her fault because she'd tell me stories about elves and fairies and little people who made homes underground in little hills. What did you read?" She asked sharply when his smile broadened and his shoulders quivered slightly with a laugh.

"Oh, just what every boy who hasn't gotten laid yet might read. Wickedly depraved stories about the lustfulness of licentious she elves, or that's what my tutor said they were, anyway. She was from Gondor in case you couldn't tell, the bitchy old prude."

Sinking her teeth into her lip, Loti said in a sort of half giggling snort, "The truth comes out now… You're a pervert!"

The curve of Eomer's bedeviling smile curled up and he winked suggestively, eyes crinkling in the corners. "Of course I am. I'm a man, aren't I?"

"Oh, yes?"

"Oh. Yes," his voice had taken on a hint of amusing suggestiveness, as he crossed his arms over the table. "That's why you like us. Because we're filthy, perverted pigs."

"Is it?"

"Isn't it?"

"And why do you like us?" Loti inquired, shooting an eyebrow up almost to her hairline.

"You're women. Do we need another reason?"

"So…tell me about these books?" She asked, resting her chin on the heel of her palm.

He replied quite happily, "Oh, they were very educational."

"Oh, of course…"

"I enjoyed the pictures the most."

"Did you?"

"Most helpful, I assure you."

"I'm sure they were. You learned well, I see."

Leaning in, Eomer licked his lips subconsciously, taunting her with, "I could teach you a thing or two."

"Mmm," Loti hummed a regrettable apology while forcing a tight smile. "I don't think so."

"Never know, you might enjoy it."

Her body was beginning to feel warm and fluid from his flirtation but she still answered with a firm, "I'm sure I would not!", even though she thought she might.

Eomer smiled hugely at her refusal, sparking even the dark depths of his eyes, and his voice turned cajoling. "Didn't you wonder why I wanted to know if you were an elf? I finally thought I'd find out if she elves were as lusty and wicked as the stories say."

"You mean to say you've never….? With all your experience?" She had repeatedly heard the stories of his escapades and was astonished by his lack of expertise in this one area.

"Na-ah. Never had the chance," he stated, and then lifted his eyebrows in optimism, "But there's a first time for everything. It wouldn't be as much fun if I knew everything."

"So, you were—" Loti prompted.

"Hoping you would teach me a thing or two."

"Oh, too bad," she pouted mockingly, pushing her lips out exaggeratedly. "Looks like you'll have to settle for an ordinary woman…or two." The last was said in very dry tones.

He huffed all the air out through his nose; part laugh, part rueful amusement, part acknowledgement of her disapproval of his drunken tryst a few months past. "Mmmm, that I didn't find out about until I was older."

The retort came crisp to cover her ignorance. "Well, I do not see how that is done. You only have one prick. I've seen it! It is not capable of being in two places at once."

Eyes wide in disbelief, Eomer blurted a shocked, "You mean you don't know? You've never—had anybody …do that?"

"No. What, do you take turns or something?"

At that Eomer laughed uncontrollably, more from the cockamamie look on her face than anything else, his shoulders shaking and eyes squinshed shut in his mirth.

"Oh, gods, girl," he sighed finally, brining himself under control, "you are naïve!"

The stubborn square set of her jaw told him she wasn't too pleased with his observation, so he leaned forward again, heavy lidded and long lashed, suggesting, "Would you like to learn how that's done, just you and me?" He cocked his head in the far off direction of his bed. "We don't need a third. I'll teach you myself. I promise you'll like it."

Through much of the banter he had kept his remarks light and flirtatious as he always did with women, be they friend or lover. But now, with the ache of need already present, his balls grew more taught with the desire of tasting and knowing her in such a carnal and erotically intimate way. He imagined her fingers twined in his long hair, forcing his mouth and lips and tongue against the honey slicked wetness between her spread thighs, tasting, exploring. Would she be sweet? Salty? Tangy? Would she allow him to teach her new pleasures and how to trust him as her lover not just her lord? Even if she didn't like it, and what woman didn't, he certainly would.

It was so wrong to want her in such a way! And so difficult to deny his want of her body, a thing he had never had to do until now. If she refused to lie with him, and for her sake, Eomer hoped she did, he would need to find relief elsewhere. He had gone too long without the comfort and elation a woman's body could give him.

Loti stretched a hand across the table, patting him relievedly on the arm. "And I promise you, that is never going to happen," she said with sweetness rimmed in condescension.

Unwilling to be out done, he couldn't resist adding with a twist of his lips and a flirtatious huskiness in his voice, "If you ever change your mind, I'd be happy to show you." He raised the pewter mug of ale halfway to his lips and paused, a thought suddenly occurring. "Didn't you ever think that was strange?"

Loti laid both of her hands flat on the rough, wooden table top with a confused shake of the head. "What was strange?"

"About your mother?"

"What about my mother?" Echoed Loti.

"That she was a whore and she was educated. She'd have to be to teach you to read and write in five languages! It's hard enough to find educated women, and when you do they're usually high born. That's not odd to you?"

She didn't answer right away, but, when she did eventually, she blushed and said, "I guess I took it for granted. We lived by the docks near the sea. There were not a lot of children around, especially girls. I…didn't really have any friends to know how they lived. All I had were books. And my imagination."

Eomer felt like he'd been hit with a bag full of bricks. That darn book she read over and over…it wasn't just a book filled with words, confessions of a love long lost. It was her friend, her only connection to a lost father, a dead mother and her own humanity. No wonder it was so precious. It was the only possession that had really ever been hers. He had mixed feelings now about using it against her as leverage. Part of him felt dirty. What an arrogant, insensitive jerk he had been! If anyone should understand it should be him! But the other part felt grateful. Whatever fate had put her into his hands, she had made his life so much easier.

"Come on," he said, pushing away from the table, "Let's go back."

The sun had gone down and the stars had come up, glistening like diamonds underwater, leaving their world in the clear, black crystal of night, the fiery torches the only charm available to ward off the shadows of an unknown dark. Eomer and Loti walked the path to his tent slowly, side by side. In what dim light ringed the horizon the torches along the path lit him in metallic hues illuminating the bronze of his skin and the golds of his wavy hair turned copper.

There was nothing immediately pressing, no urgent emergencies that needed tending, only possibility of rest and the half teasing promise of pleasure to be given and received lingering between them, unspoken.

Eomer hesitated to ask about her life pre-Rohirrim. He knew a few of the details, but had stopped asking about what led her to the life of a spy and killer after leaving her mother's house. Whenever he did try, she would pucker up tighter than his own asshole around a queer elf. But he couldn't bear the silence and her averted gaze any longer. Maybe a different approach was needed.

"What would have happened to you if you had stayed with your mother?"

Loti shrugged, lifting her shoulders in the weakest of ways. "I'm not sure really. She thought I was the one who was unrealistic, but I think she wasn't much different. No decent man would have wanted me, even if I was pretty, not with no father's name. If no one would have me… We were poor. We needed the money a man would pay for me so eventually my brother could be set up with an apprenticeship."

Pay for her? Eomer was appalled and repulsed, not only that she spoke so offhandedly about something so wretched, but also that she accepted it as normal or appropriate for her to be treated so! Pay for her…like she was a goat or a wagon of hay. Was there nothing viler than a man owning another, purchasing another's worth?

Despite himself and a blazing need to denounce these arcane acts, he let her go on. "Someone would have paid for my maidenhead. And I am pretty, so a wealthy man would have wanted me for a mistress."

So she can start the process all over again, he thought caustically, bearing unwanted and unacknowledged, bastard children so they too could be sold into servitude against their wishes.

"Your mother would have done that? Auctioned off your—" And then Eomer checked his rising temper, "Is that how you came to be here? You sold yourself?" He asked in what he thought was a very smooth way.

"No! It wouldn't have made a difference in any case. There was nothing for me there! I—Eomer," she said his name in a long exhalation of breath and ran a hand over her wrinkled brow, attempting to ease the tension there, "can we please not talk about this."

They had not stopped to converse, but kept up their slow pace along the lighted footpath. Loti crossed her arms beneath her breasts in a posture of self protection.

"I'm only trying to help, to understand."

"I know, but—just not right now, please."

They lapsed into another long, unbearable silence made even more uncomfortable by the loud crunching of the dry grass beneath their feet. Eomer knew he should say something, anything to distract them, to make him feel less like an idiotic buffoon.

He groaned with internal resignation, realizing in several unrepeatable cuss words, he was would have to make small talk.

XXX

In the event, he didn't need to. Loti, naturally inquisitive, was able to restart the conversation on her own. Lords, knew he wouldn't be able to do it…

Making small talk with EomerKing was a stumbling, painful, excruciatingly awkward business for everyone involved. And she, having spent countless hours in idleness with him, knew it. When he began again after some time with, "I, ah…Have you, um…seen Nyssa's new foal?", Loti closed her eyes, pleaded with the Valor for strength of patience, and skillfully and dexterously redirected the conversation towards something more suitable to his expertise; namely his patent dislike for Gondor and their uppity, lordly views of the Rohirrim.

He was a quiet man, although amiably social, by no means was he a wall flower, and tended to blabber on loudly and rudely at the mouth when drunk, but his conversational abilities were better put to use on topics he found interesting. It helped that he was also highly intelligent, an observation one would be hard pressed to see sometimes, and once past the first few floundering exchanges, he could be fascinating to listen to.

"In Gondor they see us as heathens. They look down on us like our culture is less, like our beliefs are less, like our people are less, just because our descendants are split from theirs and it's not clear exactly where we come from. That's not to say it's everyone," he amended hastily, holding back the fabric door of his tent so she could enter first. The tent was brightly lit inside despite the shadowy blackness beyond and a new black brazier-like candelabra hung from the tent's roof supports, which Eomer had obligingly banged his head on for most of the last week. It usually smelled of two things inside the tent, either horse or sweat, but now there was the pleasantly sweet hint of burning candles. "Most Gondorians are pleasant welcoming people, a lot like Rohirrim. But there's always a few who see others as inferior. Elitists. They have no humility. You'll see a lot of that when we go to Minas Tirith."

Loti, who had crossed the tent to his desk and was rummaging haphazardly through the stacks of well organized papers, jerked her head abruptly over her shoulder. "We're going to Minas Tirith? Me? When? For how long?"

"Of course you're going," he admonished, "You're my secretary. I'll need you there. It won't be for a while though. Sometime in the fall."

He stooped and yanked the shirt over his head, tossing it with accuracy into one of the open chests behind the desk that held his clothing, complaining in a grumbling, Rohirric way about roasting like a pig on a spit and fingering blonde hairs out of his eyes.

Turning away when he began undoing the laces of his britches, she saw the pants similarly follow the same fate the shirt had, landing with precision inside the chest.

"I've never been to Minas Tirith. I've seen it of course, but never actually been there." She was shuffling some papers through her hands, not actually reading, only attempting to give Eomer a bit of privacy as he disrobed.

She heard him pulling on his badly wrinkled and sleep rumpled linen pants.

He was whisking back the covers of his bed when she asked, "Why are we going?"

Her answer was a bellowing curse. She reacted with a jump, startling over the ink pot and scattering letters and requisitions everywhere. His initial profanity was followed by a damning, "Gods fucking damn it all, that conniving bastard! Eothain!"

Loti was busy moving heaps of papers out of the flood of running, dripping ink while simultaneously trying to keep the obnoxiously long sleeves of her gown unmarred, but cocked her head in time to see Eomer rake his hand viciously through his hair, face and lips white and ashen as the moon.

"Eomer, what is your problem?" She said it more rudely than she intended, but didn't care, abandoning all hope of rescuing any more pages from the deluge. Formal burial of these and a period of mourning for her cramped fingers following their rewriting would have to wait.

His eyes were fixed like arrow points on his bedding.

"What? What is it?" She prodded, coming around to stand beside him.

"Ghaw, woman!" He scolded, thrusting out an arm to stop her from approaching any nearer, "Don't get any closer to it!"

Quickly darting her eyes to the bed, her gaze found the object in question just in time to see it oil beneath his pillow.

"Oh, no!" Giggled Loti, turning pink in the cheeks. "You're not!"

"Oh, yes," Confessed Eomer, sourly, "I am."

Swatting his hand from her waistline, she stepped to the head of his bed, thwacking his pillow authoritatively into his gut. The thingamajig causing Eomer's intense, hair raising, blood draining fear was a mottled, iridescent black color, possibly sixteen inches long and about as round as her middle finger.

"Don't—Oh, gods, no! Don't touch it!" He cried in obvious distress, clutching his scalp, the deep, richness of his voice cracking and strained. "Eothain said the black ones are venomous! Damn it! Keep it away! I hate snakes!" His finger pointed suddenly at the doorway as he hopped back a pace.

"The black ones usually are."

"Aw, woman, get it out of here, then! And be careful with it! Don't let it bite you!"

Loti had seized the serpent by the neck, or what she supposed was his neck, and its thin, black, madly wriggling body had scrunched up and wrapped around her arm like a set of ebony bracelets.

"He won't hurt you. He's just a baby." She assured him, holding the little monstrosity out from behind his invisible ears for Eomer's ophidiophobic approval.

He swallowed hard, keeping a scurrilous, dilated eye on the creature. The snake, finding Eomer's treatment offensive, made his own rude gesture, sticking out his forked tongue.

Loti was riffling through the bed clothes, searching for any other slithery serpents. There were none.

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Let it go," she said, and then amended quickly, "Not close by. Maybe over where the horse's grain is kept. He'll help keep the mice out of it. Here, why don't you pet it first?" She thrust the squirming thing under his nose, more or less to see the big man jump like a girl.

Eomer flinched and jerked his head, taking another step back and bumping into the desk.

Fisting her snake free hand on her hip, she joked lightly, "Did you forget to put your big boy pants on this morning?"

"Ha ha, laugh it up." His tone was extremely dry, suggesting he didn't see the humor in her joke, or in Eothain's.

"I never knew you to be irrational."

He regarded the snake warily and with the same dislike he might show an orc or some other horribly disfigured creature, the demonic little bugger.

"Isn't that what a fear of something is?" He observed astutely, "Next time I see that bastard, Eothain, I'm going to string him up by the balls."

If there was a punishment worse than night soil duty, Eothain would be on it, for a month at least after this stunt. It would be that long before he could sleep without visions of the slimy beasties eeling about under the covers and sinking its sharp fangs into his fleshy ass.

"Well, don't be too hard on him. From the sound of it, his wife would have yours if she ever found out. You said yourself he's a prankster. You're lucky to have such a good friend."

"Yah, well, luck is all a matter of perspective. I guess with a friend like him, I don't need any enemies." He smiled weakly and unconvincingly, tracing the line of the white scar across his belly with abstraction.

She was scratching the top of its diamond shaped head gently with a forefinger and practically nuzzling it. He was feeling green as a frog and suppressed an overwhelming urge to gag when its sliver of a forked tongue darted out, touching her cheek. Sampling her for ripeness, he supposed.

A small shudder ran through his body before he drew himself upright and squared his shoulders, summoning all the courage he could. "Maybe I should take it for you. I wouldn't want to see you get bit."

Surprised, she laid her hand on his arm, ceasing his preoccupied rubbing, and asked, flattered by the offer, "You would do that for me?"

The snake frightened him; that was abundantly clear. It was his egotistical need to be seen as protector and defender that led to putting himself in harm's way in spite of his fear.

No, Loti told herself, that was unfair. It wasn't vainglory that made him offer. It was the honor and bravery of strong man in the face of his greatest fear.

He nodded, lips pushed stubbornly forward. "Yes. It's my job to protect you, isn't it?"

"Well, that is very sweet of you to offer, but there's really no need." She was biting off a smile.

"No need?" He repeated affronted.

"Oh, no! This is a sort of bull snake," she waved away his concern for her safety. "Surely you've seen a bull snake before. They're not deadly."

He made a low, rumbling, unbelieving grunt of assent. "That doesn't mean I have to like them."

"You didn't actually think Eothain would put a poisonous snake in your bed, did you? He wanted to scare you, not kill you!"

"He came pretty close," Eomer assured, settling himself back against the desk.

Loti wrapped the snake carelessly around her neck like an absurd necklace, its flat, nasty, little head pressed flat to her chest, a living black jewel against her skin, dangling just above her breasts. Another wave of panicked nausea gripped him and he searched the ground for the chamber pot just in case. He hoped she was right, that the thing was not venomous, because his mind's eye could see perfectly its needle like teeth biting into those small, rounded, spheres of flesh. The thought gave him a chill up the backbone. What a waste of nice tits, he told the snake, soundlessly, I saw them first, mate.

"Tamed him already?" He gulped, dryly.

"Oh! Yes!" She answered, smoothing fingers over the reptile's sleek body, as though she were showing off a piece of expensive jewelry, and with a wink added, "Maybe I'll do the same to you someday."