Chapter 21

Surrender

Two weeks had passed since the library incident and all was well in Aldburg. Almost. The children came every alternate day and Éomer could not deny the change their presence brought to the usual stiff atmosphere of the capital of the Eastmark. This did not mean that he deliberately avoided the library still, not having mustered enough courage to face the ghosts of his past, although he was always curious as to what Ithílwyn was doing with the children.

It was a lovely spring that all enjoyed and Éomer found himself travelling more under the fair weather, although that was not the sole reason. He busied himself in seeing to the welfare of the people in Aldburg, pleased in seeing the newly tilled farms and the literal fruits of their hard labour. Other plans to visit the surrounding villages had crossed his mind often, and it would benefit the people to know that the Marshal took a genuine interest in their well being. His time was occupied in reading reports, sparring and training with his men as well as overlooking the general affairs of the Eastmark. He was not gifted in the area of governance, and he was not a stranger in seeking the advice of his cousin and his sister, who had inherited the political prowess their family was known for.

He on the other hand, would find himself more comfortable in the saddle than on a seat of honour. He had a very nice seat placed for him in the hall, of which the number of times he had placed his bottom on the seat could be counted with one hand. It was thus fortunate that he had several trusted advisors among his men whose judgment he could depend on while he focused on the military aspect of his charge. The number of Orcs that had been spotted recently were beginning to lessen and Éomer wondered if he had finally made some progress in the extermination of those foul beasts from the green lands under his uncle's rule.

Éowyn's letters were not vague about the condition of the king. He feared for his uncle, whose health was declining. He feared for his sister even more, who had to face such a disaster as watching one whom you love slip away into darkness. With such burdens on his mind, he found himself retreating to the comfort of the stables and mounting Firefoot to a solitary place to be left alone with his thoughts and cares. He did not venture into any more taverns, even the more respectable ones, but drank his liquor in the privacy of his chambers.

He did not see Aldric often, only during official meetings or the occasional war discussions. He caught Ithílwyn and his friend talking sometimes, jesting and teasing each other, and he could not help but wonder if Aldric had lied about his disinterest in her. It was obvious that they were close friends, and she always wore a smile when she was having a conversation with him. It was a different matter with him, however. There were a few times when they would leave their rooms at the same time, and would meet face to face. Nothing would take place save an awkward exchange of polite greetings, followed by a casual declaration of the responsibilities that each person had to tackle that day before they bid each other goodbye and left on their separate paths. Somehow, they managed to avoid each other after the accidental meetings, and Éomer had no doubt their reputations were well secured. He had stumbled upon her in the infirmary once when he was looking for a comrade. She and Stanhelm had been in a deep discussion about herbs and medicines and the kind healer had heaped praise upon the younger woman, whose knowledge and skill were advanced for a person her age.

He loathed the moments their eyes would meet and one of them, when unable to bear anymore, would break the gaze and turn away. It was often him. The situation was completely miserable, even more than before. Ithílwyn on the other hand, was seemingly content. She had the library and its restorative works to occupy her, and Ainsware managed to keep her busy on the days she was not entertaining the children. He noticed that she was on friendly terms with several servants, and when the children were around, they surrounded her like stars circling the moon. The infirmary was also a place she frequented, offering assistance to Stanhelm as well as to learn from him. Even Darlan was impervious to her charms, and he knew she was not a stranger to the kitchens of Aldburg. He was surprised the surly cook did not object to her company when it was he who had demanded that her actions be accounted for.

He walked past the library quietly and heard the commotion from within. He supposed he was glad that she was successful in occupying herself without including him in any of her plans, but he could not help feeling somewhat dissatisfied that she was busy, and that the children brought her much joy when he had failed.

True to his word, he had apologised to the children for startling them, explaining that they were welcome in Aldburg. Little Aetheline was given a special kiss on the hand, and to his relief, she did not cry. They stared at him, not out of curiosity, more of a wary stance, in case he decided to do something foolish again. It was a most uncomfortable situation and he had retreated like a coward. It was difficult to avoid seeing the children, much less hear them, and he tried to be courteous, he liked to think that he was always courteous, but he could not deny that seeing them made him feel uncomfortable.

Ithílwyn shone in a different light when she was around them, a glow he did not recognise. Thus, he arrived at the conclusion that an unaffectionate man would find it almost impossible to form bonds with young children. It made him wonder if he had formed bonds of any kind at all. He had friends, aye that was true, but there were many things that he wished to tell that he could not quite manage to say. Aldric had been occupied, with what he did not know, and he respected Aldric's privacy enough not to demand constant knowledge of his whereabouts. Besides several trusted men, he was not close to most of the men under his command, nor was he the sort of person they would ask for advice outside of military affairs. Being born in the House of Eorl meant that people were over respectful of his lineage, and they seemed to regard him as a little higher than a friend. They paid him respect, but it was friendship that he wanted.

It seemed to him that Ithílwyn had resolved to keep a comfortable distance away from him, and without Aldric, he was left feeling quite lonely. Was he truly as pathetic as this? His own family were leagues away in Edoras. How strange that a stranger's presence would lead him to feel alone in his own home. He ate alone in his chambers that night and went to sleep yearning for another body to lie beside him.

The next two days passed quickly however. He was about to go on another patrol over the borders and he had much to prepare in the wake of his absence. He was leaving at dawn tomorrow with a hundred of his men and there was much to oversee and plan. He had been in a meeting the whole day, and Éothain had been tasked with the charge of replacing him while he was away. It was late in the afternoon when the meeting was adjourned, giving precious time for the men to return and bid their precious farewells before leaving.

He did not know how many men he would lose in this dangerous excursion, but it was best they prepared for the worst. As for him, he thought he might wile away the time by replying Éowyn's letter from three weeks ago. He had been procrastinating about a few obligations, and though he loved his sister, it was often hard to find the words to write on the parchment. He thought about his cousin, who had not yet reply the few letters he had sent. It caused a knot of worry to form in his stomach, as the lack of correspondence could only mean that Théodred was busy, and not with pleasant affairs. The Westmark was a dangerous place to live in, and Éomer had been told that several villagers had to take shelter in Helm's Deep since their homes had been burned and pillaged. The Eastmark was relatively safer, although there were perils here that he would rather not deal with. He withdrew to the solitary comfort of his study and after biting the cap off a filled wineskine, he took several gulps of wine before picking his quill up. He took a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped the tip of the quill in ink.

Dearest Éowyn, it is with an apologetic spirit that I write to you, as I have delayed in replying your letter which I have received many weeks ago. Good health find you, and to our uncle as well. Regarding to your request to visit you in Edoras, I regret that I may not be able to do so until uncle's birthday celebration. Until then, I fear you will have to be strong of will and stubborn as a bull. Avoid the snake at all costs, and pay no attention to his lies. Stay protected from the evil man, and keep the dagger I have given you at your side always. I will deal with him personally for the crimes he has dared to commit against the House of Eorl.

You need not worry about me, I am hale, and able-bodied. How fares our dear cousin? I have not received word from him and it distresses me to think that something ill has befallen him.

He paused and sighed, wondering what else he should pen down.

I thank you for your kind wishes, and I will send your regards to Ainsware. I believe she wishes to pamper you with more gifts. All are well in Aldburg, it is only the breached borders that bother me. I am certain that Théodred will affirm what I mean when I say that-

A knock sounded on his door, causing him to smear the last word with his hand. He cursed and crossed the marred word before putting his quill away. He gulped down more wine, wondering who it was who sought to disturb his solace.

"Enter!" he called, hoping the intruder would demand little of his time.

"Good day Lord Éomer," Ithílwyn greeted, poking her head in. She wore a cheerful smile as she turned to face him. "Am I bothering you?" He shook his head and gave a small smile. He had no inkling as to why she was here and her intention of paying him a visit after lukewarm exchanges. She closed the door behind her as he placed the piece of parchment away. "I brought something to cheer you," she announced and placed one of Aldburg's well known pancakes on his table.

"The quarterly market was today, and Ainsware and I brought the children along with us. I thought you might like having one as a treat." He returned her favour with a broad smile, a rare occurrence in the past few days.

"Thank you for the pancake. It is a much appreciated gift."

"Are, uh, you alright? Many are concerned for you," she said and looked at him with genuine care. "You have been grim and mournful for the past fortnight."

"Being the Third Marshal is not an enjoyable duty."

"Of course," she replied meekly. She twisted her fingers. "The men are busy packing outside. Are they going somewhere?"

"We have another patrol to carry out around the eastern borders tomorrow."

"You are leaving so soon?" she asked in surprise. He nodded, unsure of how to reply her.

"I see. Well then, I suppose I should not disturb you any longer. Take care out there, and be safe. Come back safely, alright?"

He gulped. "I will certainly do my best. Thank you for the treat." She smiled wistfully and nodded, leaving him alone once again. He ground his teeth together, angry with himself for not saying more. Truly he was an unsociable man.

He could not sleep that night, and he awoke in the morning feeling exhausted and grumpy. He dressed and had his armour put on. In the kitchen, a light meal was served to the men who were departing and he ate together with his men. At the first light of dawn they set out towards the border. His plan was to circle the border, as well as to check with the outposts on any recent activity before returning. And he dearly hoped that he would not be meeting any Orcs on the way.

They set up camp for the night once Éomer was satisfied with the distance they had travelled. All was quiet and peaceful on the plains as the men began their chores. They dared to light a fire, as the spring weather was especially delightful, and furthermore, there were no threats detected. The night was cool and dinner was quite delicious. Éomer ordered his men to get rest for tomorrow, which promised to be as tiring as the first, but several of the men gathered around the fire and began singing bawdy songs. Éomer shook his head, but was not terribly displeased. He retreated to his bedroll after appointing watches for the night, deciding to get some rest after being deprived of it the night before. He lay on his back as he watched the night sky. He scanned for the moon, but could not see it. He guessed it must be hiding behind the clouds. He turned on his side and tried to settle himself more comfortably, but could not quite ignore the gnawing feeling in him. He should have said something to her before she left. She had taken the initiative to do something nice for him and he had sat there, telling her that he was going to leave like a cold-hearted bastard. He could not even bring himself to hold a proper conversation with her. Would he have peace as long as she continued to live under his roof? No, he did not think so. But that would mean that she would have been married another man, and he did not want to dwell on such a thought when he was trying to fall asleep. He shifted and found himself on his back once more. Turning his face to the sky, he saw the tip of the moon peeking out from under the clouds.

"There you are," he whispered to no one but himself.

It was only about a week later that they managed to travel three quarters of the borders, there was nothing eventful and his inspection of the outposts had taken up less time than he thought possible. Most of the scouts had nothing to report, and he was left feeling that there were strange happenings about. It was during one seemingly peaceful night that the two scouts he had sent out returned bearing ill news. They had seen a horde of Orcs travelling at great speed toward a nearby village. Without hesitation, the Marshal mustered his men and set a quick pace: he meant to slaughter the hideous beasts before they stepped foot in any of the settlements.

However quickly they travelled, the Orcs were quick even on foot, and they did not catch them until the village was aflame. Cries of distress and the smell of burning flesh filled the air and Éomer led his men to combat with the vile murderers. The Orcs were outnumbered and were overcome by the trained horselords. When it was certain that not a single Orc was left alive, Éomer began dispatching orders to the men. Several unfortunate souls were tasked with piling up the carcasses outside the village and burning them. Though there were only fifty or so of those disgusting things, they had wrought great destruction upon the village. They had set several houses on fire and some had burnt down to the ground. Many of the able villagers were busy pouring what little water they could get on the burning houses. He joined in their efforts, recruiting several of his men to join in the fiery fray. Many had been fatally wounded and the few that were dead lay there on the ground, bloodied and battered after dying brutally and mercilessly. It took a while for the fires to be put out and the Riders had to spare their provisions when they prepared large pots of stew for the pitiful villagers. The injured were also seen to, and the dead were laid to rest in a newly raised mound after a simple funeral. He had remained stoic and his features an unreadable mask as the surviving women sang a lament for the fallen. Éomer dearly hoped that the simbelmynë would bloom on their grave after such atrocities.

The next morning, he assigned twenty of his men to escort the injured and those who had lost their homes in the disaster to the nearest village. He gave them as many coins as he had carried, which were not a lot, but he hoped that it would at least help them in their efforts to rebuild their lives again. He left with the rest of his men, determined to exact revenge for his people. He sent forth scouts and travelled west, hoping for news of trampling Orcs. Their supplies were drastically reduced after sympathetic donations were given to the now impoverished villagers. If an Orc would cross his sight, it was considered dead to him. A brutal image of a young woman cradling her dead infant flashed in his mind, the lovely features of the woman twisted into an expression of genuine horror. She had tried to protect her child, but to no avail. He could still see the child's innards spilling out of his skin while the mother had bled to death after being stabbed repeatedly in a violent fashion. He swallowed, closing his eyes and turning his head, trying to push the haunting image out of his memories. After many years of war, evil continued to haunt him with gruesome hate. His fist closed around the hilt of his sword. There will be vengeance for the innocent shedding of blood, and it would be a balm for the hurts he had seen. His men understood the wishes of their lord, and said nothing, knowing well his character and the hatred his father bore towards the Orcs.

So it was that not two days later, the scouts he had sent returned with sightings of a travelling Orc horde not ten leagues from their camp. The men looked knowingly at each other, having endured the Marshal's foul temper before. It was evident they were to hunt some Orc, and it was no surprise that Éomer mustered the men immediately after he had conferred with the scouts. They set out after eliminating all traces of their campsite and found the Orcs before dawn. They slaughtered each one as retribution for the lives they had taken, and the lives they had planned on taking. A fey temper was on Éomer and he was ruthless in battle. He killed many, yet his blood still boiled with rage as he struck the last Orc down to the ground. They stuck several Orc heads on their crudely made spears before piling the corpses and burning them. They left when the sun was high, unable to bear the stench of burnt Orc flesh. Éomer was restless, and his hands were shaking even as he held Firefoot's reins. He had lost a Rider in the fight. A noble man, but a dead man nonetheless. His cousin chose to bear his body back. His loss would be mourned by those who loved him. There was no glory in battle, only pain and evil.

He could sense that his men were weary and heavy-hearted, and he knew that he had to leave Orc hunting for another day. His thoughts were churning with the screams of the women, the heat of the fiery buildings and the drops of blood on the green grass of the Eastmark. Throughout the journey to Aldburg, he ate little and slept little, not possessing any form of anticipation for his home. Perhaps he was not ready to return when he knew such evil abounded over the plains. He looked back at his men, whom he knew would not utter a word of complain should he give the order for them to pursue the enemy. They were brave, and loyal, but they craved the comfort of home and he would be cruel to deny them such pleasure.

A change of scenery would be good. Even if no one welcomed him in his return, Aldburg was definitely a more peaceful place than a burning village. After a five day journey, they reached Aldburg late in the evening. The men stumbled into the hall wearily as Stanhelm and his crew of healers entered and began their assessment on the Riders' various conditions. Ainsware had heard news of their return and as was her custom, she had put out hot broth for the men. He refused to take a bowl from her, and she stubbornly insisted that she would have food brought to his chambers and turned away before he could snarl at her. He looked around the hall, making sure that they were being looked after. He himself sported a few cuts and bruises, but they were hidden under his armour, and he was far too furious to feel any pain. A page helped to remove his armour and he spied Ithílwyn rushing in with more clean cloths for bandaging the men. He watched her, and waited until she passed the cloths to another woman before he stormed up to her and gripped her arm tightly. They were not watched, the injured were of greater priority.

"My room," he growled. She looked up at him and stared in a mixture of shock and sympathy before assenting to his demand with a slight nod. He dragged her to his chambers, his strides so long that she had to run to match his pace. She knew her arm would bruise tomorrow.

"Éomer?" she called, concerned with his aggressive behaviour. He hushed her and opened the door to her room roughly, pushing her in. Her room was nearer and he was impatient. He entered and kicked the door shut; bolting the door with such force that Ithílwyn's knees began to tremble. She stood a comfortable distance from him, afraid of this man with she did not know. His handsome face was hardened, and his eyes were stormy.

"Come here," he barked, and she complied, if only to appease the rage that was boiling in his heart. What had happened now that he should be so furious? He leered at her heaving breasts, and the small waist that flowed into the curve of her hips. When she was within an arm's length, he grabbed her by the waist and smashed his lips on to her mouth, hastily undoing the laces at the back of her dress. Losing his patience, he pulled the dress down so that it ripped and exposed her fair shoulders down to her cleavage. He bit her earlobe, pulling it down with his teeth as his hand started to squeeze one of her breasts. Ithílwyn moaned in pain in response to his rough actions, and she knew that the night would be tumultuous.

He turned and slammed her back on to the wall, staring into her eyes. For a brief moment, he looked at her with apologetic eyes, and she smiled sympathetically at him. She brushed his dirty hair aside and kissed him tenderly. He groaned and sucked on her lips, teasing her sensitive nipples with his thumb. She could feel his hardened arousal, and although she was still terrified of a war inflamed Éomer, she was pleased that he had sought her for comfort. Holding him close to her, she deepened the kiss, clambering on to his solid frame. With a low growl, he brought her down and pressed her harshly to the wall once more. He bit her at the back of her shoulders, drawing a few drops of her blood. He licked her wound and bunched the skirts of her dress at her waist. In frustration, he tore his breeches and immediately sheathed himself within her. Ithílwyn cried out in pain at his forced entry and he hushed her angrily. His hips bucked quickly as he sought desperately for release. He ignored her whimpers, only hearing the roar of blood in his ears and the furious drumming of his beating heart.

Plunging relentlessly into her depths, he was almost feverish with lust, biting and nipping into her skin. His hold on her was tight that his nails dug into her skin, fearing that she would disappear like all that was good in his life. He shouted when he reached the peak of his pleasure and felt his strength abandon him as he leaned on her, crushing her between his heavy build and the solid wall. Somehow, she found in her the strength to push him off her and on to her bed. The red haze in his vision had disappeared, and it was replaced with shame, grief, sorrow and humiliation. He felt as weak as a sickly infant, merely breathing proved to be an exhaustive labour. From the corner of his eye he saw her cleaning herself between her legs. He closed his eyes and sighed. He heard her sit on the bed beside him and opened his eyes.

"I am beyond sorry for that," he whimpered, tears falling down the sides of his face. She pressed her lips together in a small smile as tears lined her eyes.

"You are hurt," she observed, seeing his stained shirt. He had not treated his wounds, allowing his men to have better access to the medicines. The bulk of their medicines had been given to the unfortunate villagers and the men who had been injured needed help more. He sucked in a deep breath as hot tears of regret rolled down. "Let me see to you," she offered. She was being far too kind to him than he deserved. He shook his head and she kissed his wet cheek.

"Do not cry my brave warrior, you have returned, dwell not on the past. Come, and let me help you before you bleed on my bed," she reasoned tenderly, brushing his hair aside. He relented with a soft sigh and she proceeded to removing his shirt. As she did so, he saw the mark he had made on her back.

"I hurt you," he whispered condemningly as he stroked the wound.

"It was not all that painful," she lied and pulled her torn dress higher so that her shoulders were covered from his sight. "Now be quiet and let me see to your wounds." She brought the candle over to his side and hauled a basin half filled with water and a clean cloth out of the wash room. She wiped his face with a damp cloth before cleaning his neck and body in a similar fashion. Much to her relief, he had not sustained many injuries, although there were some that had already been infected.

"Guess what?" she asked cheerfully, trying to lift his spirits.

"What?" he replied in a lifeless and despondent tone.

"You do not require stitches!" she announced and beamed cheerfully at him. His dry and unamused features caused her smile to wither. "Did something unfortunate happen?" she asked, remembering that he was quite distressed when he had last taken her roughly. He turned his head to the window and exhaled loudly. She stood up from the bed and left him there, and he wondered if she had finally lost all patience with such an infuriating man as him. He deserved her anger, after all, he had hurt her many times in the past, not forgetting that he had just forced himself upon her like a rabid beast. He was confused as to why she did not react in self defense. She could fight, but she chose not to do so. It was a miracle that he was allowed to lie in her bed comfortably while she was treating his wounds. He realised that she was not angry with him when she returned with an armload of jars. She laid them on the floor beside her feet as the basin had taken up too much space on the tiny bedside table.

"Whatever it was, it must have been terrible," she continued, pretending that he had not ignored her earlier. He turned to look at her. "I was merely making an assumption, as it is evident that you do not wish to speak about it. But perhaps you have a reason not to. There are things that I too, am reluctant to speak of," she said and smiled at him, her eyes soft and full of understanding. The last tear rolled from his right eye. She sponged off the dried blood from his chest with the cloth and he winced in pain as the closed wounds opened.

"Silly me, I forgot the bandages," she muttered to herself, rising again and disappearing into the dark, un-illuminated parts of the room. He did not know, nor did he understand why his heart leaped when he saw her appearing in the light again, a bundle of white cloth tucked under her arm. She sat back down beside him, bending down to retrieve a jar. She opened the lid and emptied its contents onto his abdomen while he stared at her in surprise. She flashed an impish grin and patted his salve covered abdomen, making a weird squishing sound.

"This is for your sore muscles," she explained, ignoring his facial protests. She worked the oily liquid up and down his upper body, massaging his weary muscles. "Turn on your side," she instructed when she was finished with his front. Obediently he complied to her request, turning on his side so that she could work on his back. The salve seemed to have a heat inducing quality, relaxing the knotted muscles as Ithílwyn continued kneading and rubbing. It felt tremendously calming, feeling Ithílwyn's soft hands on his skin. His body had not been tense since she had spread her palms on him, and he felt as light as a feather, as if his worries and cares had been banished from his thoughts.

'Thank Béma for Ithílwyn,' he thought to himself.

"Someone hit you in the buttocks?" she asked, trying to suppress her laughter. He groaned.

"You should not be laughing at the unfortunate predicament I was in as a healer," he chided, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"Of course," she replied after clearing her throat and he could tell that it was excruciatingly difficult for her to rein in her laughter. "Do you want me to knead them?" she asked mischievously, pinching a generous amount of flesh on his backside with her thumb and forefinger. He hesitated for a moment, tempted to have her touch him intimately. Yet he was embarrassed at the thought of her touching the wounds he had gotten there. Ithílwyn did not wait for his answer and proceeded with massaging the sore flesh of his backside, but only for a short while. She must have sensed his embarrassment and did not speak on the matter further. Somehow she managed to have spare salve to massage his legs, and as she moved lower, he was struck with terror at the thought of her hands there.

In a quick and sudden movement, he covered his privates with the bed sheets, to Ithílwyn's mirth. It was to his amazement that she had made him experience many different emotions in just one night, and without him noticing. When he had returned, he was a raging monster. Then he was sad and guilt ridden. After she began rubbing the salve on his skin, he became calm, and light of heart. The mention of his injured buttocks caused him to scowl, and now he was blushing as she giggled at the sight of him with her sheets bunched up between his legs. The woman was bewitching him! She continued her work in silence, choosing not to remark on his behaviour. The buzzing warmth on his skin made his eyelids flutter sleepily. He closed his eyes, feeling very drowsy after having little sleep in view of recent catastrophic events, and heard her singing. The melody sounded like a lullaby, and she sang in a soft voice that carried him to rest.

Blue sky, clouds are drifting,

Bright sun warmth abounding,

Green grass birds are chirping,

Soaring high, song singing.

Brown earth, leaves are rustling,

Strong roots, boles are bearing,

Silver streams, tide bringing,

Swift and free, song singing.

Orange sky, sun sinking,

Bade goodbye, night is coming.

Day has passed, shadows waning,

Blowing breeze, song singing.

Dark night, stars are twinkling,

Moon bright, light radiating.

Candlelight, flame flickering,

Crickets croon, song singing.

Stars shine, mind dreaming,

Silver moon, soul yearning.

Red heart, ever hoping,

Brighter hopes, song singing.

Red cloak, sword wielding,

White horsetail, helmbearing.

Green meadow, horse riding,

Golden head, mind wandering.

Smile fading, frown appearing,

Creased brow lines are forming,

Weary not light is coming,

Grim thoughts, song singing.

Under covers, skin a tingling,

Words unspoken, silent whispering.

Soft touches, hand caressing,

Noble man, dark thoughts fading.

Fall asleep, arms are waiting,

Heart is full, love avowing.

Soul at peace, smile forming,

Forest woman, song singing.

The song died on her lips as she finished putting the bandages on the wounded body of the Third Marshal. He still smelled like an unwashed horse after many rolls in mud, but he was here, he was home. She removed the crumpled bed sheets he had used to cover his nakedness from her prying hands earlier. The thought brought a smile on her lips. Covering him with a blanket instead, she pressed a kiss to his brow. From her dresser she took a fine comb and combed his unruly and dirty blond locks. She could not deny that he needed a long soak in a tub full of aromatic oils, but the peaceful expression on his face, so very different from a while ago, occurred so rarely that she was reluctant to wake him. She brushed the side of his face with the back of her hand, letting his beard prick her skin pleasantly. His even breathing satisfied her, and she observed the rising and falling of his chest. Then she kissed the tip of his nose and smiled at him.

"Good night, my returned warrior," she whispered into the flickering candlelight. "Sleep in peace, and may bright dreams find you." Pressing another kiss on his lips, she pried herself away to stow the various jars she had placed on the floor. Also, she had to empty the dirty water in the basin and rinse the bloodstained cloth. She was loth to remove herself from his side. He had been away for more than a fortnight, and he had left so suddenly she had thought it was another effort to avoid her. She washed the cloth as best as she could in her tired state and wrung the water out before letting it dry by the fireplace. The basin was cleaned and filled with fresh water for her to wash her face and neck tomorrow and was placed back in its rightful spot. She arranged the jars back in their respective positions in a cabinet and closed the door to the washroom behind her, yawning with exhaustion as she did so. She crept back into bed once the room was tidy again and placed a sprig of dried lavender under each arm of the Third Marshal to ward off the stench. She could not help but laugh silently as the king's nephew, the Third Marshal of the Riddermark and descendant of the House of Eorl lay bandaged In her bed, a sprig of lavender sticking out of each armpit. He stirred at the sound of her muffled laughter and stared at her groggily. She kept a straight face, hoping he would not notice.

"Ithíl?"

"I am here, go back to sleep." He winced and blinked four times, not fully awake.

"I am truly sorry for hurting you earlier," he mumbled, trying to move his hand.

"I was not hurt," she replied gently, holding his hand in her own. She gave it a light squeeze. "And there is nothing to forgive."

Hey yah. Thanks to a guest's review plus the super nice IvyontheWall, my enthusiasm has roared and here is another chapter just for you people.