During his years as a Rider and a Marshal, Éomer had never taken a serious injury. There had been cuts and wounds every now and then, but it had been nothing to hold him back more than a couple of days – the most inconvenience he got from those injuries had been Éowyn's exasperation for not being more careful. At times, his prowess had made him arrogant. Now, however... now he could not risk such an attitude anymore.

Riders and Marshals were replaceable. Fathers and husbands were not. He ought to know that, yet it had taken Lothíriel and the children to really drive the point through his thick skull.

Due to his previously easy record of injuries, he was not well prepared for the most frustrating part of surviving: the recovery. It meant a thousand things he loathed. People were fluttering about him, asking at all times if he needed this or that. A lot of times he did need something, because it was not like he could do much when he wasn't even able to stand up on his own. That could get tiresome, because in his mind beds were good for two things, and lying down for an entire day was not on that very short list. Then there was the feeling like people thought him glass, and he might burst into pieces from a single careless touch. His mood was briefly eased when he was able to make peace with Éothain, and to promise he would not let this happen again. The former captain had accepted his apologies and said he wouldn't resign after all, but for a while their usually warm friendship was not as close or easy as before.

But no matter how frustrated he felt about recovery, Éomer knew he had no other option than to just wait and heal. It made him quite grumpy though - "Means he's getting better", Elfhelm said cheerfully – and it did not take long for Éothain to bring him reports and appeals to read. At least there was something he could do.

Lothíriel was most supportive, and she was the only person whose care did not come as burdensome. Then again, she had been taking care of him for quite a while now – and she was the only person allowed to – so he did not exactly find fault in her manner.

Truth be told, it was mostly people which had Éomer trying to get up by himself for the first time five days after he had woken up. He had told everyone he wanted to rest, which was the easiest way of driving away folks fussing about him. However, he had no such intentions as to sleep. Instead, he was going to get up.

He hated feeling so weak. It meant he couldn't fight, couldn't lead, couldn't be the man he knew he was meant to be. Fortunately, this was just physical weakness, and it was kind to heal – after the demons he had battled, it would be easy to overcome.

Slowly, with some effort, he was able to move himself to the edge of the bed. He took support of his good arm, while the broken one he slightly pressed against his chest in its sling. At least it was his left arm he had broken, not his right one, which was also his sword hand.

Éomer threw his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling the fur carpets under his bare feet. He sat there for a moment, just breathing deeply. How could something so essential, so simple as getting up be so hard? He wasn't meant to be like this, he should be out there riding the plains of the Mark...

The curse escaped his lips as though on its own. You can only blame yourself, you should have known there would be more orcs, should have...

Gritting his teeth, Éomer laid his weight on his good hand and pushed, lifted himself with what felt like a mere effort of will. For a moment, his head swam and he was sure his legs would buckle under him, but something kept him standing.

For a while, all he did was breathe deeply. Eventually, he felt sure his feet would indeed carry him, no matter what injuries he had taken lately. He didn't exactly smile as he took careful steps from the bed, but he did feel satisfied. He wasn't going to lay in that bed any longer, if he could help it.

His line of thought was interrupted by the arrival of Lothíriel in the royal chambers. As soon as she saw him up and about, her eyes widened.

"What are you doing up!" she exclaimed and made a move as to hurry over to him, but Éomer was faster than that.

"Stop! I can do this", he said sharply, and she halted half-way to him. His wife regarded him with a doubtful expression. Still, she was willing to give him the benefit of doubt. That was something he rather appreciated, especially now.

"I can do this", he repeated as he slowly walked over to a chair close to the fireplace. When he sat down, he felt already drained. Even so, he had walked on his own.

At last Lothíriel hurried to his side.

"Are you all right?" she asked worriedly, searching his eyes.

"I'm fine. I'm just sick and tired of that bed", he told her sourly.

"Well, my back is rather sad to hear that", she replied cheekily, which made him chuckle under his breath. Béma, there was yet another thing he was sadly denied!

She shook her head and a more serious expression came to her face.

"I do get it, though. I'm just surprised you endured being bed-ridden this long", she said and gave him a thoughtful look as she sat down on the arm of the chair. "Maybe it's good for you to start move about a little. Just don't strain yourself."

"Of course not", he said smoothly, but received a pointed look from his beloved. He lifted eyebrows, "What?"

"You aren't exactly the best judge of when you need to stop", Lothíriel said wryly.

"... aye. You may be right about that", he agreed grudgingly.

She let out a small sigh and wrapped arms about him, though her hold was gentle and careful.

"Maybe I worry too much. You must tell me if I'm being overbearing", she said and placed an absent-minded kiss on his temple. It was on the left side rather than on the right, where a small wound was still healing. There was a flash of memory, of blood in his right eye, half blinding him in the already dark night... no wonder he had fallen. The recollection made him feel slightly sick, but he was able to mask his reaction. The last thing he wanted was her thinking her touch was not welcome.

"You are perfectly fine. Without you, I would already have lost it completely", he muttered and closed his eyes as he rested his head against her. She hemmed softly and ran her fingers idly through his hair.

"I love you, Éomer. I don't know how I would manage without you", she spoke after a moment of gentle silence.

"As I love you, my Lioness", he answered and looked up at her, searching her eyes. "You are still shaken by what happened?"

"... I suppose so, yes. I'm sorry – I know I shouldn't let it bother me like this. It's just... we got too good an idea of how it would be like if you..." she spoke slowly until her voice trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. He felt her shiver and to console her, he wrapped his good arm tightly about her midsection. The movement did not feel too good with his still healing ribs, but he felt it was necessary with her present mood.

She went on then, slightly stronger now, "I want to be a good queen, and with you I am just that. But I can't lead the way you do. And I can't teach Elfwine to be a king – I can't be the example he will need when he grows up."

"I promise it won't happen again. I will be more careful", he told her gently, running his fingers gently on her arm. "You seem to miss the obvious, though."

"What is that?" she asked with a slight lift of her eyebrows. He gave her a faint smile. To be a part of a single whole... it had been the medicine to heal his heart, and it had made him stronger than he had ever imagined.

"I can be a decent king because I know you have my back. Because no matter what happens, when all else fails, I can still count on you. And perhaps there are things only I can teach to our son. However, that doesn't change the truth: I can't teach him the spirit and the light which you possess."


"Calm down, Lothíriel. It's going to be fine."

It was the third time Éomer reassured his wife, but she still did not look convinced. The small crease on her brow did not disappear with his promise, and he knew she was trying to come up with something to change his mind.

However, he thought Elfhelm was right: people should see that their king was on the mend. His strength was growing daily and walking was not such a strain as it had been in the start. But Lothíriel worried, as was her wont. And he did not blame her for it.

"But what if -" she started to speak, but he reached for her hand with his good one and gave her a reassuring smile.

"I feel good enough, love. And Elfhelm will be there the entire time", he reminded her. She bit her lip and looked like she'd have liked to argue. She didn't, though, and nodded at last.

"Well, if you are certain", Lothíriel said slowly and tried to smile.

Getting dressed into something proper was not the easiest task with just one good hand, but his wife helped him with the more difficult garments. It would have been embarrassing and frustrating with anyone else, but Lothíriel had seen him in some far more exposed and vulnerable states, and in comparison this was nothing. Somehow, she could make a fuss without turning her help and care into bothersome. He supposed it had to do with all they had gone through during and after the events of the south: being helpless before her eyes, and vice versa, had only deepened their bond and forged them into being a part of each other in ways that could not be explained.

Dressing in a coat was not an option with the broken arm which was still in a cast, but Lothíriel wrapped a cloak about his shoulders and tied back his hair.

"There! You are ready. What do you think?" she asked as she gently pulled Éomer on the front of her mirror.

Though the time of being bed-ridden and recovering from his injuries had left him paler and thinner than usual, he decided he did look fairly well. It should convince his people too, that they could stop worrying.

"Could be worse", he said to his wife and leant closer to kiss her brow. She met his gaze with a slight frown.

"Just... don't strain yourself too much", she told him softly and wrapped arms about his waist. She was still being very careful with her hugs.

"Of course. Don't worry, dear heart", he answered firmly. "The worst is already over."

Elfhelm awaited outside the royal chambers, wearing a look more serious than he usually would. While he had not been angry like Éothain, it was obvious he had not taken the affair with orcs as a light matter. After his first merriment, he had grumbled to Éomer he had lost ten years of his life because of his king's antics.

"Really, old man. I'm not going to die on the spot", Éomer said to him wryly, but his friend did not seem impressed.

"Shut up", Elfhelm merely said and glared at his liege-lord. The younger man suppressed his sigh; though he kept telling people he was all right, no one seemed to believe him. But he did not complain, not even to Lothíriel. After all, he had got himself into this situation by his own actions.

They made way slowly, and Elfhelm remained hovering near his king's good elbow. Wryly Éomer wondered if his friend much looked like he was going to grab him any moment. His own step was not yet that usual firm and unfaltering kind, but he hoped it did not seem unsteady.

He kept his eyes ahead, sparing only a passing glance to those of his household who had stopped by to watch. Béma, how he hated to be like this!

The guards opened the twin doors for the King and his Marshal. Fresh air breathed in and he inhaled it deeply, relishing the feel and the smell of it: this was where he belonged, to the free airs and the wide fields of the Riddermark. He had never felt such a burn to go striding down the steps and into the stables, get Silfren, and then just ride fast and hard as far as eye could see.

Éomer pushed aside that urge, knowing he had no business riding just now. Looking around in the courtyard of his Hall, he could see the faces of people, and if he could read their expressions at all it appeared they were hopeful. Obviously, seeing him standing on his own feet was a welcome thing.

His eyes fixed on the woman at the fountain of Meduseld. Ceolwen stood there and she filled a cup with the cold spring water, which was said to give life to Edoras. Then, carrying the cup in her hands, she began climbing the steps of the Golden Hall. When she came to a halt before her king, a smile spread on her face.

"You look good, my friend", she said, wordlessly offering him to cup. He lifted his eyebrows at her statement as he accepted the drink, and Ceolwen let out a soft little laugh. "Well, better at least. I'm glad you're healing."

"So am I", Éomer said wryly and took a long sip of the cold spring water. He could imagine how it would look like to the people in the courtyard: if the spring was the life vein of Edoras, then him drinking from it would bring him back among the living. To himself, he thought, She's still good at this. Pity that she resigned.

The Sieldmaiden gave him a stern look, "You are dearly loved by your people. I hope you remember that the next time you ride into a battle."

"Aye, I'll keep that in mind."


Lothíriel was brimming with energy as she stepped into the Golden Hall after an archery session in the training grounds. While she was not participating many battles these days, it felt good to keep up her skill and teach others what she knew. At any rate, it would have seemed like a waste to leave her Elven bow without use altogether, even if the times were now more peaceful.

During his stay in Edoras, she had also finally got a chance of showing her archery to her father, who previously had treated the matter in a curious fashion: he had allowed her training, but often it had seemed to her he was pretending he was not even aware of the matter. But after half an hour's session, she had seen the wonder and admiration on his face, and he had told her all of the talent in archery in their family must have gone to her.

The thought of Father brought her a brief bittersweet moment. He had departed a couple of days ago, as he had seen Éomer was on the mend and things were getting back to normal in the Mark. Lothíriel had sent him on his way with letters to family, a promise to visit him as soon as it was possible, and a dozen kisses.

She was heading for the royal chambers to take her bow there – it was one object no one else was allowed to touch – when she came across with one of Éomer's advisers. Leofric was his name, and he had served in the King's Council already in Théoden's time. The man looked permanently concerned, and his characteristic frown had cleaved lines on his face so that he'd seem slightly worried even when he wasn't.

It was nothing but right now as he strode to meet her, and she wondered what was on his mind.

"My lady! He is absolutely unmanageable!" Leofric cried out, throwing his hands in the air in a bout of frustration.

"What did he do now?" Lothíriel asked – she didn't need to be told the name of the culprit, nor the nature of his crime.

"He's on such an ill mood, and I can't get an answer out of him that isn't snappy!" he complained. But as she watched him closely, she could see there was more than just frustration in his reaction. He probably did not mean her to notice, but she could sense his uneasiness.

"It's just he's not healing as fast as he would like to. You know my lord husband – he loathes being so confined, and it reflects on his mood", she said gently and offered a smile to the man.

He huffed and still looked unhappy, and eventually he asked, "My lady, could you talk with the King? You seem to have a way with him like no one else."

"Of course. Don't worry about it, Lord Leofric", she said calmly and patted his shoulder.

When she had delivered her bow to the royal chambers, she headed for her husband's study. Her knock on the door caused him to more or less bark the command to enter, and she shook her head before opening the door. She did not wonder why Éomer's moods would occasionally unsettle those around him; the shadow of the south often did lurk in his sharp words or the glares he would give. While he had healed, the nightmare of his imprisonment had somehow left his ill moods dark and raw, often unsettling those who did not know him as well as she did. Indeed, it never did affect her. Lothíriel mused it was because she had seen what he hid behind those tempers. She did not dread his darker moods, just as she had never felt pity for him.

He was seated by his desk, staring at some parchment as though it had insulted him somehow and he was trying to set it on fire with his mind.

"What?" he asked, not looking up at her.

"Leofric said you were being cranky", she replied pleasantly. "Not that he called you cranky. My choice of word, but I find it correct."

Her horselord looked up, wearing an expression which was a strange mixture of frustration and amusement. Then he shook his head and got up, looking like he just wanted to get away from the desk as fast and as far as he could.

"Well, the man wasn't wrong", he allowed at last and frowned. "I'm sick of being imprisoned inside these walls. I keep thinking of how much I want to go for a ride, or to spar with my men until my hands are bleeding."

She approached him and wrapped arms about his waist.

"I know. I wish there was something I could do, but your body will heal in its own time. At least you are not confined to bed anymore", she said gently. Éomer made a grumbling sound.

"It's my own damn fault, and it's not right to take it out on anyone. Sorry for being like this", he muttered half-audibly. She pulled back and gave him a smile.

"I can handle an irritable horselord", she said and tiptoed to give him a small kiss.

"Aye, and you're phenomenal at it", he muttered when she moved away again. "Was Leofric very upset?"

"He called you unmanageable."

"He did? I must have really ruffled his feathers."

"Fortunately, I have arrived to manage you", she said in a low voice; it had already occurred to her how she should carry out Leofric's request, though her chosen method was probably not what the man himself would have thought and least of all suggested. Not that she had any intention of telling him.

Before Éomer had time to understand just what she meant, she had already grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pushed him against the wall – gently though, because she didn't want to upset his healing ribs. He let out a soft gasp of surprise, and then her hands were already on the buckle of his belt.

"This", she informed him with a wicked grin, "is your own damn fault, too."


"Éothain tells me your husband was on an outstandingly good mood when the council met after the lunch", Scýne noted as the two women were taking a break from the day's labours beside cups of tea – last year's harvest from the royal garden's herbs and leaves.

Scýne was making up for the absence of Osythe, who had travelled to Eastemnet to meet her newest grandchild. Meanwhile, Scýne's mother Aedre was looking after Elva and Getrúwian. Apparently it was quite the labour these days, because Elva was always finding ways to sneak away in order to go and watch the riders in training.

"Oh, he was?" Lothíriel asked lightly and bit her lip to prevent a smug little smile from entering her face. Her friend need not know about things like the look in her king's eyes, or how she would be in so much trouble once he was fully healed.

"Aye. Apparently it was remarkable, considering how irritable the King has been as of late", said her friend with a faint lift of her eyebrows.

"Hmm. While he is talented in all shows of sour mood, even he can't keep up that endlessly", said the younger woman and sipped her tea nonchalantly. It was very good – Osythe was absolutely unbeatable in her knowledge of preserving and mixing tea ingredients.

"I wonder what stopped him this time", Scýne said and gave her friend a pointed look.

Now Lothíriel could not fight back her grin any longer.

"I received some fairly ludicrous nicknames, but the work of the council continues smoothly once more", she simply stated and sat back in her chair, "and that's all I have to say about that."


A/N: Things are getting back to normal, much to the common satisfaction. Though I would imagine someone as active as Éomer would not quite pleased with how long it takes to heal. He's lucky to have Lothíriel to manage him! ;)


Jo - He is indeed, and he loves his rider, too. :) And yes, Éothain does have a point, though Éomer isn't as guilty as he believes. People make flawed decisions by misinformation all the time. Still, it has not been easy on either of them.

brandibuckeye - He's alive and kicking, yes! :D