Chapter 21

The news about the death of Théodred Prince were common knowledge in Aldburg by next midday. Not once after her arrival in the town had Lothíriel seen such quiet and gloom there, not even at the times Éomer and his éored had been riding patrols and hunting orcs. Even Saethryd's spirits were low and the usually cheerful girl went quietly in her chores, and on Derehild's face fear lived constantly. No songs were to be heard in the Hall and conversations were carried in hushed tones. No one seemed to know what would happen now and what should be done.

But with the Marshal away they could only wait and see. While people knew Lord Éomer had ridden out against the King's orders, very few if any deemed he had done wrong. The common understanding he was merely doing what Théoden King would have commanded anyway, had he been in his right mind. If there was grief, so was there tiniest glimmer of hope as well: Théodred had not been the last of the House of Eorl. The Third Marshal, the son of Théodwyn Princess and sister-son to the King, still lived and fought.

As frustrating as it was, Lothíriel could do nothing but carry on with the household chores and wait. Would that she had been one of those fierce shieldmaidens of song, and that she might have ridden with her beloved to face the peril by his side! Instead, she was stuck here, waiting and dreading for what was to come. At times, it was like she could still feel their last kiss burning her lips. But her arms were empty and her bed was cold without him.

The day after Éomer had left went by as though in some sort of a haze. In the light of day, last night seemed almost unreal; she half expected to see her Marshal appear from behind some corner, smiling when he saw her and reaching his arms towards her. And then she would look around herself, wondering if these were the last days of the Mark – if the war was truly going to start very soon, like Éomer believed. All these people, their songs and stories, their fair maidens and brave young riders, their griefs and joys, and the green plains that framed it all... somehow, it had to exist. And with that thought, she felt like she understood a bit of how Éomer felt about his home and his people.

With the news of Théodred Prince's death and Éomer riding against the King's orders, the atmosphere was an expecting one. Not even the children of the town did run about laughing in their games, and those appointed to defend Aldburg spoke quietly and gravely among themselves. The day after Éomer's departure, as she was on her way back from the markets, Lothíriel saw Brithwen talking with her head close to Athilda's, and she saw the Shieldmaiden carried a sword; she wondered if the auburn-haired woman had orders to stay here, or if Brithwen would ride with others upon mustering of éoreds. She knew her Marshal had made the town ready should war come, and all who had Rider's training would be summoned to serve under his command. As she went about in her chores, she often saw the vigilance and readiness on the faces of the people of Aldburg. They were bracing for whatever was ahead, and she knew they would defend their home and land to the last. Yet many things would have to go ill before the enemy would come knocking at the gates of Aldburg.

One such thing, perhaps even worst that could now happen, was the King punishing his only remaining Marshal for disobedience. For Théoden's orders to Éomer had been not to pursue the orcs sighted by his scout, and yet the King's nephew had disregarded that command. For now, his folk could only guess what would be the consequences of this action – even if the general understanding was Éomer was doing the right thing. But Lothíriel thought of her father and wondered what would he have said about all this, and wished that there could have been some way to send news to him. For now, more than ever, she thought Gondor should know of how bad things were getting in Rohan... and maybe, though it terrified her to think so, prepare for the worst.

And she also thought of Éomer and whether her lover was now racing towards the greatest peril he had yet known. How would his uncle receive the news he had disobeyed? And how would Gríma Wormtongue, Éomer's sworn enemy, use it to his advantage? A horrific thought occurred to her: she might not see her Marshal again. That desperate kiss exchanged in pouring rain could be the last they would have in the world of the living. With this thought, heaviness grew on her heart. If this was to be the end of their road together, then she would grieve his loss bitterly, and life without him would be a dull and grey thing.

These thoughts were close to her mind on the second day of his absence as she was doing a quick cleaning in his rooms. As she moved about in this place where she had felt so much happiness, it seemed almost like every corner held some shade of his. Here and there were his personal belongings, some of which she grabbed anxiously, as though the inanimate object might still carry the warmth of his touch. When she moved by the bed, Lothíriel could not help but sit down on his side of it for a minute, unable to resist the place he had lain. Slowly she ran her fingers over his pillow, feeling the outline his head had left there, and quietly she remembered the sight of him sleeping by her side, and how safe and loved it made her feel. The memory came to her with an aching sensation in her chest, and she had to close her eyes to fight against what almost felt like the dull throbbing pain of a wound. Elbereth, how she missed him!

Gritting her teeth, Lothíriel wiped her hand across her eyes, as though to get rid of tears that were not there. Moping around was not going to help anything, or make the situation turn better or worse.

So she picked up her things and headed for the main door of her lover's chambers, wondering when they might be together in this place once more – and if such a sweet thing would ever happen again.

Lothíriel's thoughts came to an abrupt stop when she came out and saw Athilda standing in the corridor, her arms crossed on her chest. The woman stared at her with those sharp eyes which had never held any particular warmth whenever the chatelaine saw her. The princess halted; she did not recall how long it had even been since the last time Athilda had actually shown to acknowledge her presence.

"What is it, girl? Were you hiding in the Marshal's rooms?" Athilda said suddenly, making her blink. Lothíriel bit her lip in order to prevent herself from blurting something impertinent. Though she had long since decided nothing she could do or say would change the stubborn woman's mind, there was no sense in deliberately stirring up more discord between them.

"I was just cleaning up", she answered calmly and made a move to walk past the chatelaine. However, Athilda prevented her passing by stepping to stand before her.

"I hope you did it well, girl, for it's the last you see of that room", the older woman said, her voice as cold as winter.

"I beg your pardon, mistress, but that is hardly your decision to make", Lothíriel said steadily. Once more she tried to walk past the tall woman, but it availed her little. Frowning slightly, she spoke again, "Let me pass. I have work to do."

The smile on Athilda's face was not kind. In fact, Lothíriel thought the woman could not have looked more hateful even if she had been sneering, and once a dreadful feeling descended on the princess. She glanced the other way, and she called in a loud voice: "Brithwen!"

In surprise Lothíriel spun around, only to see the Shieldmaiden appearing from behind the corner. The auburn-haired woman wore a fierce look of determination and her eyes were dark with some terrible emotion. Now hair at the back of Lothíriel's neck stood up and she knew something was indeed wrong.

"Can I help you two somehow?" she asked anyway, refusing to show her uncertainty to them.

But neither answered. The two women exchanged a silent look between themselves, and then, before Lothíriel had time to even wonder about what was happening, Brithwen's iron-hard fingers gripped her around her arm.

"Let's get going", said the Shieldmaiden in a cold, steely voice as she yanked Lothíriel after herself.

"Í am not going anywhere!" she snapped, trying to free her arm from the other woman's grip, but Brithwen was stronger than her. She was already considering throwing herself on the floor and turning absolutely limp, though such a feat would surely seem very childish, but then Brithwen shifted her grip to wring her arm painfully behind her back, and she felt something sharp pressing against her back. Lothíriel knew it was the blade of some small dagger or a knife.

"Move, Dunlending scum", Brithwen hissed, and the pressure of the knife forced Lothíriel to walk. The Shieldmaiden was twisting her arm to the point of torment, but the dark-haired woman refused to cry out. She gritted her teeth against pain and let herself be pushed forward. Even then, panic was rising in her mind: what was happening? Where was Brithwen taking her?

They passed through the Hall quickly, for Brithwen was pushing her fast, and Lothíriel had no choice but to walk the pace the woman holding her had chosen. On their way, she saw many surprised and shocked faces, but none objected to what they saw – perhaps because they did not understand any better what was happening.

Brithwen then pushed her outside, and briefly the light of late afternoon blinded her. She stumbled forward, her mind a whirlwind of fear and desperate wish that Éomer might return any moment now to put an end to this scene. As her eyes adjusted again she saw there was indeed a company of riders in the middle of the courtyard, some fifteen strong. But they were not Éomer's Riders.

"So this is the Dunlending spy?" spoke one man who looked like he was probably their leader.

"Aye, she's the one I spoke of in the message", Brithwen answered loudly, releasing Lothíriel and giving her a hard push so suddenly that the princess went stumbling to the ground. She nearly fell face first in a pile of fresh horse manure, which would just have been the perfect addition to this scene, but she was able to steady herself in time.

"I am no spy!" she loudly stated, lifting her eyes to regard the company of unfamiliar Riders.

"Silence, lass. The King will decide what you are", came the curt, stern answer from the man who had first spoken. He glanced at a couple of his men, "Tie her hands and put her on a horse. We return to Edoras at once."

Lothíriel was back on her feet in seconds, the rising panic urging her into action. This could not be happening!

She turned quickly and stepped closer to Brithwen, who stood watching the scene unfold with a grimly satisfied expression on her face. So this was the reason she and Athilda had been so friendly between each other as of late!

"Please, Brithwen! Don't do this! If you truly love Éomer, you won't let this happen!" she pleaded, but her words simply made the Shieldmaiden scoff in contempt.

"Trust me, filth, I'm doing him a favour!" she growled and stood back.

The two Riders dismounted, their heavy feet hitting the ground with a thud. Now more and more people were pouring out of the Hall and outbuildings to see what was happening, and Lothíriel could hear the confusion in their voices: What has she done? What is her crime? She is innocent, the Lord Marshal will not stand for this...

"Silence! This woman is suspected of being a Dunlending spy, and she is here without the leave of Théoden Lord of the Mark. She will be interrogated in Edoras and, if she is found innocent, she will be sent among her own people. These are the orders of the King", were the unforgiving words of the company's leader.

Lothíriel stood still. Terror washed over her, immobilising her limbs and silencing her tongue. She could not even cry out for help, or fight back as the two Riders took a hold of her by her elbows.

It's not happening, it's just a nightmare – I'm going to snap out of it any moment now, and Éomer will be by my side...

Suddenly, there was a voice: "Let her go! She hasn't done anything!"

Saethryd came, half running and half charging, tailed by Aengifu. Both girls looked as fearless as any Shieldmaiden of song as they jumped to the defence of their friend.

"She's not a spy!" Aengifu added for her part as she threw her arms around Lothíriel, as though she could simply hold her and thus prevent them taking her away.

"Whatever that witch told you is not true! Everybody knows she's bitter about the Marshal leaving her!" Saethryd yelled at the Riders from Edoras.

"And we have shared a room with Daerien for many months now! Don't you think we would have noticed if she were spying?" Aengifu demanded angrily, looking like she might just fasten all four of her limbs around Lothíriel to prevent them from taking her away.

"Is that so? Who is to say she has not persuaded you two to betray your own folk?" Brithwen inquired coolly, and Saethryd hissed in anger at her words. She looked like she would have jumped to claw off the Shieldmaiden's eyes right then, but Folcred was there and he pulled her away, speaking quickly under his breath as he took her away.

But now Lothíriel had regained the control of her tongue, and she knew she had to speak before the men from Edoras thought to arrest her friends as well.

"I will come – I won't make any trouble. Just leave my friends out of it", she said, trying to step from Aengifu's arms, but the other woman prevented her.

"Daerien, no! You have done nothing wrong!" she objected, holding the princess' shoulders tight.

Somehow Lothíriel was able to smile.

"Then surely the King will not long wish to interrogate me, don't you agree? I must do as he commands", she said to her friend. That she was able to speak so steadily was possible only due to her high upbringing; women of Belfalas, the women of the Sea, had long since learned to take the most terrible news with their heads held up high. And she was a warrior's daughter – she would not face this with any less bravery than her father and brothers did meet their foes on battlefield.

She hugged Aengifu tight, knowing this was likely the last she would see this woman whose world had been so strange to her in the beginning, and yet their friendship had flourished against all her expectations.

"What about the Lord Marshal?" Aengifu asked in a small, sad voice.

"Just... tell him I'm sorry. Tell him I will love him until the end of days", she whispered into Aengifu's ear, and then she was pulled from the arms of her friend.

Aldburg had long since fallen behind when Lothíriel finally mastered her mind, which had been running wildly with terrified thoughts from the moment they had tied her hands. She had scarcely seen the landscape around them as they travelled, as her eyes were blurred with tears that kept running down her cheeks. None of the Riders from Edoras met her gaze, and she guessed they felt uncomfortable when they saw her fear and pain. The man leading her horse by reins never spoke to her, except when his captain ordered him to give her his cloak. Lothíriel was loath to accept it, but there had not been a chance to get her own back in Aldburg, and she was sure to freeze to death without some shelter.

Brithwen did not pay attention to her, either. The leader of the company had ordered her to come along as a witness; the Shieldmaiden did not seem pleased about this, but she obeyed nonetheless, and she rode at the head of the company. How long had she and Athilda been planning this? At least, they had known their ploy would never succeed while Éomer was at home. So they had chosen this time, which was perhaps the worst possible moment for Lothíriel's capture. Elbereth, if she only had told Athilda the truth! If she only had guessed just how deeply those two women resented her!

And they rode, away from the place Lothíriel had been safe and happy and loved, and as she wept silently she knew there was little to no chance of her ever seeing the town again. For once they reached Edoras, she would be at the mercy of Wormtongue, for it was all too clear to her who was the real ruler of Rohan's capital. There Éomer's name would not protect her – rather, it was like to be her demise, now that he had fallen from Théoden's graces. Whether the King's loathsome advisor decided she was significant or not, Lothíriel could not imagine it ending well for her. People said he was cunning, and so there was a fair chance of him guessing who she really was, and even if she were able to keep her secret, who was to say he wouldn't send her to Dunland? Not for a second did she believe she could survive there, nor did she imagine Dunlendings would receive her as a welcome guest.

Either way, she was doomed, and her and Éomer's worst fears were about to become true. Once she was under Wormtongue's thumb, even her Marshal would not be able to help her.

It was the thought of him that eventually helped her to emerge from grief and despair for the certainty of her fate. Yes, this might mean her end, but she could still save him – make sure she would not be dragging him down with her. This was the only thing she had left. And now, more than ever, Rohan needed the Third Marshal. Perhaps her demise would come to cost him and his folk later on, but right now she had to postpone that moment as long as she could.

There was just one problem: the moment Éomer heard she was in Edoras, that Wormtongue had her, he would come to get her. He wouldn't be thinking of the danger it put him in, or the ways his enemy might use her against him. How could she make sure Éomer would not try to save her? What way could she fool Wormtongue into thinking she was not important, and prevent him from realising how deeply she loved the Marshal?

The answer was as simple as it was cruel. The only way Éomer would let her go was if he thought she wanted to get as far away from him and from Rohan as she could... he would not care about her fate if he hated her.

The thought was a crushing one, falling on her shoulders with the weight of a mountain. Though she tried to keep quiet and contain her grief, the barest whimper still escaped her mouth; the man riding by her side glanced at her, and even through the veil of tears she thought he looked pitying. But Lothíriel closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, fighting against the agony that was building up into a scream in the back of her throat.

It's for him. It's all for him – so that he can live and help his king to save this land, she thought desperately, seeking comfort in the knowledge Éomer would be safe if she did this thing. Or, at least his future would not depend on her. Oh, how desperately she would have liked to just give in, be helpless and wait for him to come to her rescue! But if she truly loved him, then she would have to surrender herself to this uncertain fate and walk the bitter path.

If she loved him, she would take his demise on herself.

The silent tears took their time, rolling down her cheeks which were already sticky and red. But eventually a thought occurred to Lothíriel: how was she to manage this thing? How could she convince him it was not some ploy? Éomer had to believe it, lest Wormtongue suspected foul play.

She would need help. Alone she was never going to make Éomer believe she had suddenly had a change of heart, So she rejected the pain and the knowledge of doom that lay ahead, and instead she focused on the one bright thing: the man she loved would survive. It cleared her mind enough for a plan to start to form, and she knew exactly the person she would need for this to work.

She only hoped Brithwen could be persuaded to help.

As it had been late afternoon already when they had left Aldburg, the Riders decided they would not press for the capital tonight but instead camp by the road. One of them lifted Lothíriel from the back of the horse, but then she was left standing, her hands still bound. She had not bothered to tell them it was unnecessary to restrain her – where would she go, anyway, if she had her hands free? It wasn't like she could outride trained Rohirrim, or survive by herself on the plains. She had no desire to renew the wandering which had first brought her to Éomer, as she knew just how unlikely it was she would be so lucky again as to be found by him once more.

The memory of that time, so long ago now it seemed, tore at her heart. Yet she could not help but remember the first glimpse of her Marshal in the waking world, and how he had looked at her then... for a second, she had not been sure if he were real at all. How could someone like him be real? Surely, when this all would end and she would go to her fate, the time she had spent with Éomer would seem like she had lived a while in a dream.

She had never asked what he had thought that day on the plains – if he had been surprised to see her... if he too would think of this, think of them, as nothing more than a dream of a less sorrowful world. Now she would never get to ask him about it. And, as a terrifying sensation fell on her, she recalled she had never told him that she loved him. Yet maybe, the most analytical part of her suggested, it was for the better. Even during that last parting in the pouring rain, she had not said those words to him... grimly she hoped it would help her to convince her lover that she regarded him nothing more than a means to an end.

When the camp was standing and supper had been made, one of the Riders came to push a bowl into her hands. But Lothíriel held up her tied hands, and she gave him a pleading look.

"Could you release me? I promise I won't run", she said, and seeing his doubtful look, she hurried to add, "What would be the point, anyway? I know I'm not a match to any of you horseback."

The man grunted something under his breath, and she thought it sounded like an agreement. He looked away and searched for something with his eyes, until his gaze stopped at Brithwen, "You there! Come and keep an eye on the prisoner."

The Shieldmaiden looked less than pleased with this task, but she did not refuse. Meanwhile, the Rider produced a dagger and used it to cut Lothíriel's hands free. which was welcome indeed. Her fingers had become numb for the pressure of ropes and the itchy material had left her wrists raw and red. Then the bowl was thrust in her hands and she sat down somewhat clumsily. The long hours in the saddle had left her stiff and uncomfortable.

It was hours since she had last eaten, but she had no appetite now, and anyway she felt like she would probably throw up anything she tried to swallow. So she put the bowl aside and cast a careful glance at the woman who silently sat nearby, eating and looking like the food had personally offended her.

There's nothing to it, Lothíriel thought to herself and braced for the conversation to come, this could be my only chance of talking to her.

"Brithwen", she spoke the name of the auburn-haired woman. How odd it was, that they should both love Éomer so much, and yet it seemed like there was this abyss between them.

"Don't talk to me", came the curt reply. Brithwen did not even lift her eyes from her meal.

"It is very important that we speak. I know you do not like me, and I don't expect you to, but you must listen to me now", Lothíriel pressed on, moving slightly closer.

Now the Shieldmaiden looked up and glared at her. In any other situation it might have disheartened the princess, but not at this moment – not when she knew what lay ahead. Knowing her fate and having accepted it, nothing scared her anymore.

"I am not interested in anything you have to say", Brithwen said coldly.

"Believe me, I'm not talking to you because I fancy idle chatter", Lothíriel told her, her voice sharp at first. But when she continued, she softened her tone, "It's about Éomer."

Again the Shieldmaiden's eyes flashed, but now the light in them was positively dangerous. For a moment Lothíriel even thought the other woman might go for her throat.

Brithwen did lean closer to her, but did not lay hands on the prisoner.

"Don't you dare speak his name!" she hissed under her breath. Yet if her intention was to frighten Lothíriel, it was not successful.

"Could you please calm down for a minute? This is not some petty fight about who gets to have him, as if that was for us to decide. Brithwen, I need your help to save him", she told Brithwen, her tone holding some ire now, and some of the command she had wielded as the Princess of Dol Amroth. It was strange to use that sense of authority after so many months of hiding herself and concealing the things she had been before Rohan, but it was still there, rising to her use like she had never left it. The Shieldmaiden sensed it too, because now she looked surprised and doubtful.

"Save him? From what?" Brithwen wanted to know, narrowing her eyes.

"From me. What do you think will happen once we reach Edoras and I am delivered into Wormtongue's hands? Do you really believe Éomer is just going to sit by and do nothing? If the worst happens – and I believe it will, unless we do something – I will be used to bring down the last hope of Rohan", Lothíriel answered gravely. The Shieldmaiden stared at her, the bowl of food half-eaten and forgotten in her hands.

"You seem to think yourself very important, foreigner´", the she stated and stared at her hard.

"Brithwen, please. Now is not the time to debate nonsense. I need you to trust me in this. I'm not asking it for myself, but for him. If you truly care about Éomer, you won't let them use me against him", Lothíriel insisted, growing more and more frustrated with the Shieldmaiden's stubborn insistence not to listen to her.

"Tell me, why should I trust you?" Brithwen asked, and her mouth was a thin unfriendly line.

The princess sighed. She could see the other woman wasn't going to believe her. Not unless she was completely honest. At this point, it was her only chance, and if Brithwen truly loved Éomer as much as Lothíriel thought she did, she would not be able to dismiss this.

"If Éomer is not reason enough, then perhaps this is: I am not named Daerien, and I did not come from Dunland. I am Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth. My father is a lord of Gondor and I was sent here because my uncle wanted to marry me off to a pirate lord of Umbar. But our plans went awry and my escort was slaughtered by orcs on the road. I was wandering in the wild alone when Éomer found me – I would probably have died if he had not brought me to Aldburg. At first I thought I would be safer to conceal my identity, even from the Marshal, but eventually I had to tell him everything. He agreed to continue to shelter me, and we decided to pretend to be lovers, so that I might stay in Aldburg and remain hidden under his protection. From the moment he had learned the truth, he knew I could not end up in Wormtongue's hands, as he was sure to use me as a leverage and perhaps do serious damage to both our realms. If a princess of Dol Amroth died in Rohan, then in the worst case my uncle the Steward of Gondor might even declare war on your people. But now the very thing we feared is going to happen, and the moment Éomer hears I'm in Edoras, he will come to get me. And in the process, he will make himself vulnerable to Wormtongue's schemes, and I don't dare to imagine what will happen when the Third Marshal is no more", Lothíriel explained, her voice devoid of any emotion as she made clear the things she had only told one person until this moment. When she spoke, she did not use the easier and more casual structures of Rohirric; rather, she delivered her speech in formal tones of Westron she would have used in her father's court, and she stared straight into Brithwen's eyes as proudly as any high lady of Gondor would.

Whether it was her words or the change in her manners that finally convinced Brithwen, she did not know. In any case, she did see the Shieldmaiden's expression turn from doubt into wonder and then at last into horror, as she realised the consequences of her and Athilda's ploy.

"I... I did not mean... I didn't want him to get hurt", Brithwen stammered at last, her hands pressing into fists. Her face had gone white as bone and her voice came out choked, "I thought we were doing him a favour, getting rid of you... Athilda said he is too infatuated, and that he was going to take you to wife... there have been all these Dunlending attacks in the Westfold, and all I could think of was how blind he was being. Things are already getting so bad, even without someone with the blood of Dunland getting close to our very throne! And then Théodred died, and all our fears seemed to be coming true. We thought we had to send you away from him!"

"So, instead you decided to hand me over to Wormtongue and blame me of being a spy, thus giving him a weapon against Éomer? Let him announce far and wide that the King's nephew keeps an enemy in his very own household?" Lothíriel asked with some vitriol, though she knew this blaming would not change anything.

Brithwen's eyes widened and she looked, if possible, even more horrified.

"I didn't realise... I didn't think of it that way! Believe me, I was so blinded by my hurt and anger, and everything Athilda said just seemed to confirm it! But it wasn't to cause him harm. I would never do that!" she insisted, and in her eyes glistened something Lothíriel could only take for tears. Still, Brithwen held them back and she looked away, diminishing where she sat.

Lothíriel's heart softened as she looked at the other woman. What pain it must be, having loved Éomer so much, and knowing he would never answer it... seeing him give all that he had to another. Not that it was the same, but she could sympathise on a certain level: for a while, the princess had been under the impression he would never love her. And even in her anger, Brithwen did not hate him, or couldn't think of harming him.

She sighed and looked away for a moment. Would it have been possible to avoid this if she had properly confronted Brithwen before? If she had just explained everything before it was too late? No wonder the auburn-haired woman had made such conclusions, for her and Éomer's actions had rather encouraged this: the way they hadn't been able to keep their hands off of each other even in public had surely given plenty of ideas to those who happened to witness it. On the other hand, it would still have left Athilda... and the ring of those who knew her tale would have been that much larger. All it would have taken for them was a little slip. But would that have been worse than this situation? There might have been some brief comfort in being angry at Brithwen or Athilda, but it would have grown shallow quickly. For Lothíriel knew in the heated rush of love she had lulled herself into a false sense of security, and she had never considered Athilda or Brithwen could be a real threat to her.

"Well, it doesn't matter now. What has been done can't be changed", she said quietly, rejecting the pain of loss. Now was not the time to wallow in misery.

So she looked briskly at the Shieldmaiden again, and she spoke once more, "But there is still time to prevent it. I do not care what happens to me, but I cannot let Wormtongue use me against Éomer. Will you help me?"

Brithwen lifted her head and though her eyes were not dry yet, her expression was resolved.

"I will."

Neither of the two women slept much the following night. Most of it they spent in a hushed conversation, weaving their plan and discussing how they would be able to fool both Wormtongue and Éomer. Lothíriel had already resigned herself to a likely death, but Brithwen's suggestions to their course of action held the hope she wouldn't have to die. In fact, if all things went after their mind, she might be able to return to Gondor once this was over. Even so, it was clear it was all hanging on a delicate balance, and smallest shifts induced by others might change everything. For example, if Lothíriel could not make her performance convincing enough, then Éomer might not believe she was telling the truth.

Eventually, they were satisfied with the plan they had weaved, and Brithwen suggested they both get a few hours of sleep. Lothíriel agreed, though she didn't think she could fall asleep. Following days would not be easy, even if this scheme did turn out the way they wanted. And she knew it was very small on a grand scale of things... but perhaps, if she could manage this one tiny portion and remove herself from the board of power game, then maybe Wormtongue could assail Éomer in fewer fonts. She had to hope so, at least.

As she curled up on the ground, Lothíriel thought of this past day, and those that were now ahead of her. If her plan worked out perfectly, and if there would be a chance of going home... it was likely she would be leaving Rohan behind forever. What was here for her, if Éomer hated her? And yet, what was in Dol Amroth, when she was no more the girl who had left the city behind? She had become an exile and a servant and a lover, her good name was tarnished, and she could not even imagine living the way she used to before all this. Her future was a path shrouded in shadows.

Hugging her knees close to her chest, she fought against the tears that were threatening to pour out once more. She knew now what awaited her in Edoras was the most difficult thing she had ever done. And then, if they succeeded, she would have to leave the man she loved... already she missed him, aching for the briefest glimpse of his face, and one last sweet moment to recall in times to come. She hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed and heartbroken, but move on and be happy again, even if that was without her. The thought was painful indeed, as it was to think of the life that would never be hers now. She was not losing just him, but an entire future, a world of possibilities. There would be no life in Aldburg, nights spent in his Hall, daily labours and feasts, songs and tales and jokes, or afternoons spent riding on the plains... she wouldn't be welcoming him home after patrols or a visit to Edoras, nor would she ever be making love to him in the light of fire again. And she would not bear any fair-haired children into this world.

It was almost too much to bear. Desperately, Lothíriel tried to think of something comforting. Was it too hopeful to wish that maybe one day, year or two from now, she might see him again and explain what had happened? Would he agree to meet her, to say nothing of listening to her? What was more, would they even be alive a year from now? She had no idea if the plan would make any difference. All the same, she had to try. If there was the tiniest chance...

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It was thankless to rage against the loss of him, or to call it unfair – she had already received so much more happiness and love than she had ever hoped to experience. In the course of two months she had lived more fully than some lived in a decade. And the time she had spent with Éomer, although it was at an end now, she would not have exchanged for anything in the world.

Lothíriel did sleep a couple of hours that night, but it was fitful and she kept flinching awake. In the morning, she felt stiff and groggy and just generally miserable. Her eyes were puffy from all the crying, which she tried to remedy by scrubbing her face with clear, cold water of a small stream nearby the camp. Appearing tearful and morose in Edoras would not help her to fool Wormtongue.

Thankfully, the Riders left her alone for most of the morning, and Brithwen too only briefly nodded at her to reassert their pact. There was nothing hateful about the Shieldmaiden's eyes now, only bitter determination for what they would have to do. The princess couldn't help but wonder what the auburn-haired woman was planning on doing after this if all went according to their mind. Would Brithwen take the opportunity and try to get back with Éomer? Lothíriel decided it didn't really matter. She didn't own him, and if Brithwen could help him get over this... well, how could she begrudge either of them for it? Above all, she wanted her beloved horselord to be happy.

The sun was rising when they started for Edoras again. Once more Lothíriel was riding with her hands bound, though she felt it was more because of some kind of a show than actual need. As the knots in her stomach grew tighter, she went over the plan over and over again, telling herself she could do it. She had fooled people of Aldburg this long, hadn't she? It couldn't be impossible to fool Wormtongue, too... and Éomer as well.

Other thoughts entered her mind only briefly when they at last sighted Edoras around midday. In wonder Lothíriel gazed at the capital of the Riddermark, and the Hall that ruled the plains around the hill where it had been built. Sunlight glimmered and shined on the home of the Kings of Rohan, and she understood why it was called the Golden Hall. It was just as beautiful as she had imagined it, based on Éomer's descriptions. Just like Aldburg, it bore no resemblance to the stone palaces of the south – rather, it seemed to her like something from an entirely different world. As she gazed at the heart of the Riddermark, Lothíriel felt regretful she was not going there with Éomer... he wouldn't be showing her around in the Hall of his uncle, or introduce her to Lady Éowyn his sister. Worrying her lip, she wondered if she would be meeting Éomer's sibling in Edoras, and what she would think of the seemingly deceitful foreigner who had so used her brother the Third Marshal...

The sun was high when they began to approach the city of kings. From afar, Lothíriel had seen the mounds spotted with white, which lined the last stretch of the road to the gates. When the company of Riders bowed their heads during their passing, she realised the mounds were tombs. Éomer had spoken about them as well – there lay the late kings of the Mark, forever guarding the entrance to the capital. The spots of white she had seen were small flowers, which in Sindarin were named alfirin. But her beloved had called them Simbelmynë. In Rohan, it bloomed even through winter.

The gates were opened for the company, and greetings were exchanged between them and the guards. Some of their eyes she could feel on herself, but Lothíriel gazed ahead and pretended to be unaware of everything around her. Even so, she thought to herself what they must be thinking. Did they consider her an enemy, a stranger who had no place among them? Or maybe just another pawn in the games Wormtongue played... there was a kind of curiosity now, she had to admit. What was this man like, to be so hated and feared? But she shuddered as well, knowing she would need a good deal of luck to make it through this.

They followed the road that climbed up through the city. On their way, they saw some of the people living here, and she thought they seemed even more grim than she felt. Some of them looked at her with open hostility, as though she had personally offended them. But Lothíriel did not wonder. She knew as well as anyone in the Mark just what was happening in Westfold.

Lothíriel closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Time was running short now, and soon she would have to face the greatest peril this exile had presented her with so far. I can't throw up now. I need to focus, she thought to herself, struggling to keep calm.

At last they reached the courtyard of the Golden Hall. It was oddly quiet and empty, and here people seemed even more sullen as they went about in their labours. Stablehands did come to take the horses, but they paid little notice to her. Two of the Riders escorting her took a hold of her by elbows like she was some dangerous villain, and the entire gesture seemed enormously unnecessary. Where would she run, anyway? But she remained silent and tried to keep up with them as they began to stride towards the stone steps of the Hall. Even now, she couldn't help but admire the sight of it – the intricate wood carvings, the great pillars holding the beautiful headboard, layers upon layers of stone that made up the terrace, and the gilded roof that gave a shine like living sunlight... this was indeed a dwelling of kings, different than the cold and unforgiving stone fortresses of the south.

Her admiration nearly had her stumbling on her feet as they climbed, and she would probably have gone flying without the men by her sides. Their unfaltering grips kept her upwards, and they more or less carried her the rest of the way. Up on the platform she saw tall men in full armour, wearing helmets over their heads and cloaked in beautiful green cloaks. These were the King's own knights and they were deadlier in battle than any ordinary warrior one would come across. The the Doorwards of Meduseld opened the twin doors into the Golden Hall, the Riders let her go and two of green-mantled guards took her by arms, and she prayed.

Elbereth, help me now. Let me get through this, let me fool them, let me succeed. I do not ask this for me, but for the one I love...

To be continued.

A/N: And here we go! Things have really taken a turn for the worse as far as Lothíriel is concerned. I would say Athilda and Brithwen's grudge was eventually going to come and bite her in the back, but both she and Éomer had rather lulled themselves to a false sense of security. However, Brithwen's actions - however misguided - are for a good part because she genuinely cares about Éomer and thinks he is/was making a bad choice. But as soon as Lothíriel reveals what is what, she realises it wasn't really such a good idea. And because she understands this could be really bad for Éomer, she's able to put aside her animosity towards Lothíriel. If it seems she accepts the reveal very quickly, it's probably because she's far more shocked to realise her actions may have caused a serious threat on Éomer's life. As for Athilda, I think her traumatic experiences with losing her family has turned this into a matter far, far beyond the reach of reason. Also, Théodred's death and Éomer's becoming the one next in line to the throne is what indeed triggers their scheme.

But how this will turn out, and if Lothíriel will be successful in her attempt, remains to be seen now!

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

EStrunk - Yes, it was going to get worse eventually. We will see what happens now!

Anon - Thank you! I'm glad if I was able to convey that sensation. :) As of now, her next meeting with Éomer might not be the most pleasant one... but at any rate, neither of them know what will happen next and what sort of a war is actually ahead of them.

Rangella - Thank you for your lovely words! I'm very happy to hear my writing has impacted you so strongly. :) As for the war, we are almost there!

pulchritudo in omnia - These events certainly don't promise them good! It might just be the worst Lothíriel has encountered yet. I suppose what she can or will do next depends entirely on how her and Brithwen's plan will work out! And Éomer is surely going to have an interesting time when he meets her father...

Madam X - That they surely are!

mazzmataz - Yes, things are very much heating up even more in this chapter!

Rubandepluie - I'm afraid things may not go that easily now!

meldisil - The events thus far have indeed strengthened her a great deal! We'll see if it's enough for what she has ahead of her now.

sailor68 - Seems like her life is in some peril as of now! And whether she'll meet Éomer before he rides to Gondor... we'll see!

berry-cool - Oh dear! How on earth did you have to patience to read through all 20 chapters in one go? In any case, I'm glad you enjoy this story so much!