25. Éothain

Éomer woke late to an empty bed. His muscles protested as he raised himself up and the effort was nearly too much for him. Giving in, he collapsed on the bed again and closed his eyes. It was unsettling to realize that his body no longer bounced back quite as quickly as it had when he was younger. He did not feel that old, but he had noticed in the months since the war that he was no longer in his youth, but a grown man who was worn around the edges. Strong but no longer infallible.

The sound of the door opening and closing startled him from his stupor. He blinked as the blurry form that entered took shape and came into focus.

"You're awake," said Lothíriel breezily, setting down a tray of food at the foot of the bed. "And before midday! I have won my wager with your sister."

"My head aches," grumbled Éomer as he sat up again, barely processing the meaning of her words. His voice was ragged. "Béma!"

"Here, drink," said Lothíriel, pressing a cup of water to his parched lips. He found that her cool fingertips against his brow soothed him even more than the cup of water.

"Thank you," he told her, eyes closing in relief.

"There is food, and afterwards a bath," she said abruptly, "Are you hungry?"

Éomer shrugged. He did not feel ready to eat, but he picked up a hunk of bread and bit into it half-heartedly. "Have you been up long?" he asked his wife. He was amazed that she seemed so chipper, after all that she had done for him and the men the night before, and before that, making beds for the villagers taking refuge in their home. He had sensed her exhaustion was almost equal to his own, and yet here she was.

"I have been checking on the wounded," Lothíriel said, smoothing her hair with her hand. "They are all doing well. Éothain looks fine, though he will be weak for a time having lost so much blood. And Brithwyn has not left his side," she added with a sudden conspiratorial smile, "When I found them, she was fast asleep on the ground next to him. "

"She is probably trying to atone for her guilt," muttered Éomer darkly. When he looked up from his food, Lothíriel was frowning at him.

"What ails you, husband?"

"Nothing," snapped Éomer, "Well, everything. The damned wildlings. The weather. My aching head."

Lothíriel stood and went to look out the window, her hands on her hips. Her tongue made a clicking sound. "I think there are many things to rejoice in, Éomer King."

"Such as?" Éomer asked, strangely annoyed at her all-knowing attitude.

"Your safe return, for one," she said, turning to look at him incredulously. "The well-being of your men, after all the odds against you. A wife who brings you breakfast in bed!" She turned back around to face the window. "Honestly, Éomer King!"

Éomer lowered his head in acceptance, chastened. "I am sorry, Lothíriel," he said. "I spoke in thinking only of myself and my troubles, not of the many blessings there are to be thankful for." He chuckled a little at himself. "Especially the wife who brings me breakfast in bed."

Lothíriel turned to look at him and this time she was smiling. She met his eyes and held the gaze. "So tell me, Éomer, what is it that ails you?"

"Come here," he said with a sigh, extending an arm. "And I will."

When she sat down beside him, he slid his hand around her waist and pulled her down to lie against him, her head on his chest.

"I feel old," he said into her hair, still damp from bathing. He had forgotten how good it smelled when she was fresh from the bath, like lavender and thyme. A tremor of release ran through him at the comfort it was to hold her.

"Is that all?" Lothíriel said with a smile in her voice.

Éomer shrugged and pulled her closer, covering the graceful hand that rested lightly on his chest with his own. "Is that not enough?"

"I will not let you feel sorry for yourself," said Lothíriel firmly, raising herself up on her knees to look at him. "You are alive and well - and here."

"Yes," he said with a smile, amused. in spite of himself. "I am here."

"And filthy. You need a bath," she said suddenly, breaking away from the moment with a businesslike flourish.

Éomer groaned. The thought of cleanliness was a pleasant one, but the thought of protesting muscles was enough to deter him. "Oh, no…later."

"Oh yes, Éomer king. You will take a bath. I heated the water myself," said Lothíriel, her hands on her hips. He looked at her skeptically. "Yes! By myself. And it will be cold before long."

"If you are so keen on the idea of bathing, do so yourself," retorted Éomer, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. "I will go back to sleep."

"You will not dare," she exclaimed, taking the covers and ripping them off of him. "You will bathe, if I have to wash you myself. Out of bed!"

Éomer turned his head to look at her and, at the look on her face, decided that to defy his wife in this would mean he would pay for it for weeks. Grumbling, he sat up with creaking bones and limped to the bathtub in the adjoining room.

The water soothed his muscles immediately but he refused to let Lothíriel see that she had won, and he glowered at her. She smiled serenely and held out a sponge and bar of soap.

He smiled back at her innocently and shook his head. "You said you wished to wash me yourself."

"I said - " Lothíriel let out a sigh of frustration and looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Fine." She pushed up her sleeves and knelt beside the tub. "Lean forward," she ordered, and wetting the sponge began to scrub his back.

Éomer grinned at her impatience and closed his eyes, thoroughly enjoying seeing her with feathers ruffled. She was in a state this morning to match his own. He recalled the morning he had left, when she had all but pranced down the steps of Meduseld clad in a nightgown and little else. The same look had been in her eyes then. The memory, coupled with the feel of Lothíriel's hands and the sight of her bending over him, aroused him slightly. He looked at her sidelong, wondering what she was thinking. She was scrubbing his chest and arms now, her eyes fixed on her task, but Éomer thought he detected a glimmer in her eye that made him wonder what would happen if he pursued the course his mind had set on.

Éomer shifted abruptly, causing soapy water to splash out of the tub and onto Lothíriel's front. She gasped and slapped him on the shoulder, knocking the soap into the tub as she did so. "Forgive me," Éomer said innocently, "My muscles spasmed."

"Hand me the soap," ordered Lothíriel, without a blink. Éomer grinned at her.

"Get it yourself," he retorted innocently. He knew exactly where the soap had ended up and flicked his eyes in that direction. Catching his implication, Lothíriel's cheeks colored with a rosy blush.

"First you splash my gown and then you tell me to fish for the soap," she exclaimed. "I would be shoulder deep in that tub before I found it."

"You are the one who insisted on bathing me," Éomer replied serenely. "I will have no part of it."

"Fine," Lothíriel whispered sweetly in his ear. Éomer watched in amusement as she plunged her hand into the water, groping around for the soap. When her search lead to no avail, Éomer caught her hand in his own and brought it to his chest, then down to his belly and beyond. His eyes half-closed, he watched Lothíriel's lips part and her muscles tense in anticipation even before her hand reached its destination. When her fingers gently tightened around him, he let out a telling moan and opened his eyes to look at her. Her gaze was fixed on his face, her eyes burning and her cheeks high with color. Her lips were inches from his own.

"There," he said gently and reached up to bring her down to kiss him. Their lips met hungrily, and Éomer strained upwards to get closer to her. Frustrated by the tub that separated them, he grabbed his wife around the waist and pulled her into the water, clothes and all. She shrieked and struggled against him, her skirts tangling around them both and making the situation even worse. Half the bathwater ended up on the floor.

When they both recovered, Lothíriel looked rather like a drowned cat as she looked down at him haughtily from her position on his lap. Éomer grinned at her glowering expression and locked her tightly in his arms. "My lady," he said. "I think you are overdressed for this occasion."

"You planned it all," accused Lothíriel, attempting to free herself from the prison of his arms.

"Not all of it," mused Éomer, holding her even tighter to him. Her lips, still red from their kiss, taunted him. "I did not plan for you to knock the soap in the water. It gave me the perfect opportunity."

"The opportunity for what?" scoffed Lothíriel, still struggling.

"To do this," Éomer replied, raking his hands languidly down her spine. Lothíriel sucked in her breath at the touch. Her squirming ceased abruptly. "And this," he slid a hand from her ear down her throat and around the curve of her breast down to her belly through the wet fabric of her gown. Her legs on either side of him tightened around his thighs and she closed her eyes almost involuntarily. Éomer grinned and took his hand away as it reached her waist.

"And?" she breathed in impatient anticipation.

"And this," he said, straining up to kiss her mouth as his hands found the wet lacings on the back of her bodice and deftly undid them. He wanted to be skin to skin with her in the steaming water, and the way that she rocked her hips over his told him that she felt the same way. When the garment was loosened, he impatiently lifted it over her head and threw the heavy, sodden fabric across the room. Lothíriel remained in her silk under-gown, the fabric nearly transparent in its wetness. It clung appealingly to her body. With a hand on her back, Éomer brought her torso forward to kiss her breasts, running his tongue across her nipples through the fabric. Lothíriel moaned again, clutching his head in her hands. With his free hand, Éomer caressed her spine and the base of her neck before traveling down to her buttocks, urging her closer to him.

"Oh Éomer," she breathed, tilting his head up upwards to meet her mouth. From her position of power above him, she was able to take control of the kiss, her tongue slipping into his mouth to explore it delicately. Éomer let her lead, interested in this new role she had claimed. He ground his hips softly against her own, his hands gripping her waist, but he decided he would wait to take her until she chose to initiate it.

With a sound of impatience, Lothíriel broke the kiss and stripped off her last articles of clothing. At last free of such barriers, she looked down at him with a look of complete power and trailed her fingers down his body to take him in her hands again. He closed his eyes and let out a groan of contentment as she stroked him, her eyes fixated on his face as if to watch the very effect her touch had on him. He looked back at her, tracing his hands lightly over her buttocks and thighs, finally ending up between her legs. She pressed against his hand with a sigh and whispered, "I want you."

"Then you may have me,' he said in her ear, and thrust upwards to slip into her. She let out a soft moan that answered his guttural groan of pleasure, and began to move over him him, watching his face through half-closed eyes. He tangled his hands in her hair and pulled gently, enjoying the way her breath quickened and the way she let her heightening pleasure show.

"I have missed you," she breathed in his ear when they collapsed together against the side of the bathtub after reaching the peak of their pleasure.

He smiled, and kissed her shoulder, turning her to face away from him so that her back leaned against his chest, his body forming a cradle for hers. "And I you."

Lothíriel smiled up at Éomer much later, from where she lay in his arms, her body singing. Most of the water had ended up on the floor earlier and she blushed to think of Isemay, or whoever it was, cleaning up the mess they had made. But neither had cared in the heat of the moment, nor long after, when they had made love again in the comfort of their bed. Éomer had taken the lead this time, his touch not rough yet firm and controlling. His hands had raked her body, holding her where he wanted her as he thrust deep inside of her, filling the ache that he had left behind in his absence, until she lost control of herself, making her pleasure known to him.

Now she wondered if all of Meduseld had heard their passion. It was worse now that one third of Edoras was within their walls. With that terrifying thought, she groaned and buried her face against her husband.

"Why are you hiding your face in my shoulder like that?" Éomer murmured a moment later, a hand coming to rest on her hair.

"I think all of the kingdom knows that we were just …" Lothíriel replied, her voice strangled in sheepish embarrassment. Éomer laughed heartily.

"So much the better for the country's morale on such a miserable winter day."

"How can you say that so lightly?" Lothíriel asked him, her cheeks flushing even redder. He chuckled at her indignation and raised her chin to look in her eyes.

"If it means that they think we are happy together, and - " he grinned at her bristle of horror, and continued, "Working valiantly to produce little Éomers and Lothíriels, then I do not see the problem with their knowing what we get up to."

Lothíriel swallowed furiously and rolled away, sure that her face would reveal her secret. She said nothing. He had ventured too close to the truth of the matter.

Éomer laughed and pulled her close, spooning her with his body. "Did I embarrass you?" he asked gently, lacing his fingers with her own. "I did not mean to, forgive me."

She shrugged and gave a noncommittal reply. "This is all very new to me."

"And to me," he said softly, rolling her over onto her back so she was looking up at him. He was all seriousness now. "But I realized there in the snow that there has been a lot of lost time between us that I would like to make up for."

She smiled at his words, forgetting her chagrin and that she had a secret to hide. "Then I am glad of it."

He kissed her mouth softly and then lay down again. Lothíriel laid her head on his chest and wrapped a leg over him, reveling in the happiness she felt. They had not only begun where they had left off, but seemed to have deepened in their closeness. He was almost an open book before her. Now if only she could tell him the news which lingered ever present on her mind.

"Whose idea was it to light the candles?" Éomer asked after a time musingly. "To guide us home, I mean."

Lothíriel smiled softly, and took her time in answering. "My own."

The hand stroking her hair stopped short. "Yours?"

"Yes," she said, looking up at him. "I thought you might need every last thread of hope."

"You saved us all, Lothíriel," he replied in tender awe, meeting her gaze. He let out a heavy breath. "I owe you my life."

She shook her head gently and raised herself up to kiss his mouth. "None of that. I only did what any woman would do to help her husband."

"You did what a queen of Rohan would do," he countered. "You have proved your worth not only to me but to my country."

"Ours," she whispered with fervor, stopping his words with her fingertips. "Our country."

"Éothain, how are you feeling?" Éomer asked his friend that afternoon, laying a hand on his uninjured shoulder. He had gone to visit with all the wounded men, those who were bad enough to warrant staying in beds in the Golden Hall.

Éothain blinked up at him, and shrugged with one shoulder. Though he was pale and wan, shadows rimming his eyes, he looked more disgruntled than in pain. "Fine, but they will not let me move."

"You lost so much blood that you are too weak to be moved. You must rest," said a voice behind Éomer. He looked back and saw Brithwyn, a pitcher of something in her hand. She curtsied low to him.

"Your majesty," she said, lowering her eyes, which were rimmed in dark circles.

"So you are caring for our wounded, Brithwyn," said Éomer in greeting to the woman. "It is kind of you."

"I do what is needed of me," she said politely, but a softness in her voice betrayed an earnestness behind her detached manner. "Does the King require anything of me?"

As she spoke, she poured water from the pitcher in her hand into a cup and held it to Éothain's lips, helping him to sit up enough to drink the water.

"Only your continued good care of my second-in-command," said Éomer with a smile. "But let me sit and talk with my friend a while, my lady Brithwyn. You look as if you need a rest."

She curtsied and said with dignity, "I am no lady, your majesty, only a seamstress and serving woman."

"You are my friend's salvation and therefore worthy of highest honor," said Éomer kindly. He smiled at her and took the water from her. "Please, go and rest. Sleep. He will be cared for."

When she had gone, Éomer grinned at his friend and pulled up a chair to sit next to the cot. "You look like you have been fighting a balrog."

"That bad?" laughed Éothain weakly. "I feel like it."

"You have a captivating woman nursing you."

Éothain sighed and turned his head in the direction Brithwyn had gone. "She has not left my side since last night. It is almost as if we are friends again, yet she…" He stopped and shook his head, the motion jarring his shoulder and causing him to hiss in pain.

"She what?" asked Éomer, curious. "Stay still, Éothain."

Éothain laughed softly, trying to hide the pain he so obviously felt. When he explained, he spoke haltingly. "She refuses to talk about anything other than my needing to rest and heal. I want to talk to her, to ask her why she helps me. Does she want to reconcile? Yet it seems, in a way, that she helps me out of guilt or duty, not because she wants to be friends or… that she has entirely forgiven me."

Éomer paused and considered his words carefully. He did not want to admit that he had expressed the same cynical conclusions to Lothíriel that very morning. After seeing Brithwyn's manner around him, though, he wondered if he had been too hasty to condemn her. "I think perhaps - it is she who needs your forgiveness, not the other way around. Perhaps she helps you in order to earn it. But you must wait and see."

"She sewed up my wounds," said Éothain dejectedly with a sigh, "But she rips a hole in my heart with every step. I do not know how to fill it. I cannot let her back in."

"Perhaps you must," offered Éomer. "Let her in. I think she wants you to do so. Perhaps she could mend your heart the way she did your shoulder."

"Have you taken your own advice?" Éothain asked his king bluntly after a brief pause, taking in his words. "I cannot take such counsel from one who has long kept his own wounds raw and empty, so if you still keep the queen at an arm's length, then - "

"Enough," Éomer said, holding up a hand. He did not feel he kept his wife at an arm's length - certainly not just now. Who was Éothain to reject his counsel and condemn him? "I am not trying to tell you how to live your life."

"But you are," said Éothain, half-raising himself up before collapsing again. He swore in pain. "You are lecturing me."

"As you do to me!" exclaimed Éomer, irritated. Éothain lectured him constantly, and the minute he threw Éothain's advice back at him, he was met with this treatment. "You have lectured me countless times, when I am older and your commander besides."

Éothain made a scoffing noise and looked at the ceiling.

"I held pressure over your wound, and bandaged it out of my own clothing, and carried you on my horse through a blizzard," said Éomer, standing up. His fury was only growing stronger. "You would be dead if not for me. So go on, reject my counsel. Ungrateful little bastard."

The other man looked like he wanted to insult Éomer in return but was fighting it. Éomer let out a sound of disgust and turned on his heel. "I will continue this talk with you later. I have more pressing matters to address that involve the men that put you here."

However, more pressing matters would have to wait.

"Your majesty, come quickly," cried Brithwyn, bursting in on the council meeting, which due to the amount of people in Meduseld was being held in a smaller room. "Éothain is unwell."

A rustle of unsettled murmurs passed through the members of the council, but whether it was in reaction to this news or Brithwyn's disruption was unclear.

"Did you send for the healer?" asked Lothíriel, standing up too quickly. She swayed with the sudden lightheadedness that came with the movement and sat down again immediately, head in her hands.

"Are you all right, my lady queen?" asked Lord Hereward, who was closest to her. Once so distrusting of her, he had grown accustomed to and even seemed to have come to admire her in the weeks of Éomer's absence. He was really a kindly old man underneath it all.

"I am fine, thank you," she said, standing up again more slowly. Her pregnancy was not the concern here.

Éomer had barely noticed, his eyes fixed on Brithwyn's face, having stood immediately. His jaw was set. "What is it?"

"He is burning hot with fever. He does not seem to recognize anyone, and talks nonsense," said Brithwyn, her breathing rapid. She had plainly been running. "I sent for Freyawyn - she was already on her way to come check on the wounded. She is with him now. He is getting worse."

"Let us go," said Éomer brusquely, "Take me to him. Lothíriel - come with me. Éowyn - adjourn the meeting."

Éowyn nodded and put a hand on Lothíriel's arm at her questioning look. "He needs you with him," she said softly, so that no one could hear, "He is scared."

Lothíriel nodded. "Of course," she said and followed her husband and King, and Brithwyn, to Éothain's bedside.

The grey-haired healer was there already, kneeling beside Éothain's cot and examining the wound. Éothain's eyes were closed as if he was sleeping, but he jerked his head from side to side as if avoiding insects or some other unseen being.

"Infection," Freyawyn said when they arrived, not even looking up to acknowledge them. "It is spreading beyond the wound."

"What can you do?" asked Éomer sharply.

"You know as well as I do, Éomer King, that there is little to be done once infections sets on its course," the woman said, looking up at him directly. "If it was in an arm or a leg, perhaps amputation would suffice, but in the shoulder, so close to the chest, that cannot be done."

Éomer swore furiously. "I will not accept this."

"There must be something you can do," said Lothíriel. Beside her, Brithwyn was shaking visibly. Lothíriel put an arm around her to steady her.

"I will open up the wound and apply a poultice to try to draw out the poison," said Freyawyn. "But nothing is certain." She laid a hand on Éothain's forehead and glanced at the throngs of people who were still in the Golden Hall. Éothain murmured something unintelligible. "He should be moved to a place that is quieter than this hall."

"That can be arranged," said Éomer quickly. "Anything."

"Let me work, then we will see," Freyawyn said. She looked at Brithywn. "You, girl. Come, I need your help."

Brithwyn looked terrified. "I -I can't," she said, trembling under Lothiriel's arm. She looked at Lothíriel pleadingly, suddenly seeming years younger than she was. "I cannot help him; please do not make me."

Lothíriel looked at her with compassion, cupping her cheek. She did not quite understand, but she knew that Brithwyn was exhausted. "No one will make you. Let me help," she said to Freyawyn, "I have worked in the Healing Houses of Minas tirith and have a steady hand and heart. Brithwyn, go and prepare the chamber I stayed in when I first came here."

Brithwyn looked ready to cry but she nodded firmly and went to do as she was told.

Freyawyn looked at her appraisingly. "You did have matters well in hand last night. Come here and hold him steady. King Éomer, you as well."

Lothíriel knelt at Éothain's head and laid her hands on his brow and good shoulder. Éothain's skin was moist and hot. Éomer knelt beside her, placing his hands next to hers. Lothíriel glanced at him. He looked furious and frightened, a muscle clenching in his jaw. She laid one of her hands over his and felt a shudder go through him.

"I am here," she mouthed, catching his eye. He nodded wordlessly, and together they turned towards the task at hand.

A short time later, Éothain had been moved on a makeshift stretcher to the chamber that Brithwyn had prepared. He was sleeping now, his fever still burning high. Freyawyn had gone to tend the others, saying gently that all that could be done now would be to keep Éothain in some measure of comfort and to pray to the Valar to spare him.

Lothíriel and Éomer were there in the room with him, a heavy hopeless silence hanging there between them.

"If he dies - " began Éomer finally, and swallowed, unable to finish. His eyes were rimmed in red, as if he had been crying, or fighting to hold back tears.

Lothíriel looked away from her husband and back at Éothain's fitful sleeping form. She understood what Éomer was feeling, knowing without having asked how deeply he cared for Éothain in spite of his frequent anger with him. And she knew that Éomer was done with losing people; that he would take no more of it. She shuddered inwardly. She too feared for Éothain. He had been a true friend to her since she had come to Rohan, open and a listening ear when no one else seemed to understand. He must not die. He was too dear to them all. And he had fought so hard for his life, before. It was not fair. He must not die.

"I know," was all she said.

Beside her, Éomer's hand found her own and squeezed it tightly as if he would never let go. Lothíriel resolved, though she herself felt rather dizzy, that she would stay with him as long as he required her.

Late that night, Éomer was kneeling by Éothain's side, his head bowed, when the door creaked open. He looked up, expecting to see Lothíriel, or Éowyn, or Brithwyn, or the angel of death, but it was none of these. Lothíriel's maid, who he knew was Brithwyn's sister, stood in the doorway, only recognizable in silhouette because of her distinctive hair. With the light from behind her haloing her curly pale hair, the girl did look a bit like a heavenly being, Éomer thought distractedly. What was her name? Isemay.

"I beg your pardon, your majesty," Isemay exclaimed, dropping a curtsy. "I thought that my sister would be here."

"Your sister is with the queen," explained Éomer, standing up. "My lady was not feeling well and I sent Brithwyn to be with her."

Earlier he had noticed that Lothíriel had seemed unwell. She had brushed it off as pure tiredness but admitted to feeling a little ill. Éomer, slightly concerned by Lothíriel's symptoms, had urged her to go to bed. In truth, though he had been grateful for Lothíriel's presence, and even dependent upon her being there, a part of him wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

"I do not want to leave you," she had said to him seriously when he had bade her to retire. "I am more concerned for you, Éomer, than for myself."

He had kissed her forehead wearily and told her that her making herself unwell was not going to help him or Éothain in any way. With a sigh, she had gone, but she had ordered him to send for her at any change in Éothain's condition.

Éomer had been sitting with Éothain ever since, sponging his fevered forehead with cool cloths and… praying. There was nothing else to do.

Isemay curtsied again, bringing him back into the present. "I will leave you be, my lord."

"No, you may stay, if you wish," Éomer conceded as she made to leave. "If you came to see Éothain, you must do so."

She looked at him somberly. "I did."

Éomer gestured to the bed, and went to light another candle, for one had nearly burnt out. He watched out of the corner of his eye with curiosity as Isemay approached Éothain's side tentatively, with a glance at Éomer, sorrow painting her sweet features. He wondered why she had come. Perhaps - Éothain had spoken often of her with affection, Éomer realized. He would have known her since she was practically a babe, after all. If Éothain's affections for Brithwyn were as a man for a woman, than Isemay was an adopted little sister to him, was she not?

"Hello, Éothain," he heard her whisper, reaching out to touch his brow. Gently, so gently, she lowered her lips to his forehead and pressed a chaste kiss there. "It's Isemay, your little goblin. Please come back and you can tease me all you want, I swear it."

Éomer watched this unfold with a clenching in his heart. "You know him well."

"We always thought he would marry my sister," said Isemay. "I fancied him at one point, when my sister was married to - oh, no. You will not tell him, will you?" she asked Éomer fearfully, a blush painting her cheeks.

Éomer shook his head in amusement, forgetting his worry for a moment. "Not a word, I swear it."

"But I always knew he would never look at me the way he does my sister," said Isemay quickly. "I am just a child to him, and besides I would kill him if he ever married anyone but Brithwyn. But now I think I would forgive him even that if he would just get better."

"He is fond of you, child," Éomer said simply, thinking he too would forgive Éothain every offense he had ever made or had yet to make if he would pull through.

"He is the best man in the world," said Isemay, taking Éothain's hand. She looked at Éomer quickly. "Begging your pardon, your majesty. You are a fine man too."

Éomer found himself chuckling, albeit with difficulty. "It's all right. I think so too."

"He is like a brother to me," Isemay said, her voice breaking.

Éomer swallowed hard. "To me as well."

She looked up at him with wide blue eyes that were filled with tears, a trembling smile on her face. "Then - we are almost related." She giggled suddenly. "If only by connection."

Éomer looked at her, surprised by her audacity, and found a true smile cracked his face despite the darkness within him. "I suppose we are. That makes you a very highborn lady by connection."

She laughed again. "Not me. A lady would never dare speak to the King the way I know I do. I offend propriety every day. I cannot help it."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "I have noticed."

She stood and bowed her head as if expecting admonishment. He smiled and laid a hand on that curly head. "It is refreshing to be addressed as frankly as you have done," he said gently, meaning every word. "You made me laugh when I thought all hope was gone."

She raised her head and looked up at him through long pale lashes. "He will be all right, won't he?" she asked him earnestly, a tremor in her voice that betrayed her optimism.

Éomer sighed and shook his head. "I cannot say," he replied honestly. She looked down, but he tipped up her chin, wanting to give her some hope. "But he has hung on this long, so perhaps he will come through. He is fighting for life, little bird. Something keeps him with us."

"Love?" said Isemay softly. He nodded gravely.

"Yes, perhaps it is love." He chucked her under the chin and said lightly. "Now, will you do something for me? Go and check on my wife. She is perhaps sleeping."

Isemay nodded and curtsied, looking back at him with a sudden smile. "I like little bird more than goblin," she said. "Maybe you can tell Éothain that, your majesty."

He watched her go, amused. His heart felt lighter, as if her presence had lingered in the room even after she was gone. He looked at his friend and sighed, barely daring to hope.

"So, my friend, did you hear that?"

[A/N: Ummm so lots happening here. My pen is running away with me again! New chapter will be up shortly, I promise. I did end up changing the rating up to M because not a single person seemed to have a problem with it! Indeed, most of you voted in favor. I appreciate all the feedback I received on this matter and am overjoyed that so many people are enjoying this story.

xox - GB]