Chapter 31
Rohan, January the 23rd, 3019
The Dunlendings' camp had been abandoned in great haste. Or at least that was what Éomer thought when shortly before dawn, they stumbled upon it. Scattered gear, the remains of a small bonfire, a tent inside which lay the body of a dead Dunlending. Judging by his amulets, he must have been someone important – most likely the chieftain Zarn. At a short distance from the camp, they found the bodies of five hounds. Some showed cut marks, others had been pierced by enough arrows to take down a wild boar. Another Dunlending lay dead among them, his face partially ripped off, his neck brutally mangled.
The dogs had attacked Lothíriel's captors – that much was clear. But who had killed the man in the tent?
The tracks of at least a dozen men led them deeper into the forest for about a mile, until a boulder behind which they had obviously split in several smaller groups, each headed in a different direction.
Just like with the discovery of Trewyn's body, it was hard to make sense of what had happened. They had found the woman some hours earlier, partially buried in snow, with no visible injuries aside from a nasty bruise on her neck. She lay on the banks of a creek which Éomer suspected was the one Beyrith had trailed along after parting from Lothíriel. Had his wife killed Trewyn? He knew that while in the Westfold, Elfda had taught her some basic self-defence tricks. But would she have been able to put them into practice so effectively, after having been through so much already? And what had happened at the camp? Whose hounds were those? Who had killed the Dunlending in the tent? Why had his face been so badly scratched? Why had his pants been halfway down?
Above all: where was Lothíriel?
Examining one of the many sets of hoofprints left in the snow, Gram shook his head ruefully: "My best guess is that the Dunlendings were following Lothíriel's tracks. They might have lost them somewhere around here and decided to split in the hope of finding her".
Éomer rubbed his face and weighed carefully his next move. "If she was recaptured, the Dunlendings are surely hastening her North, in which case Éothain will intercept them. If she wasn't, then we need to find her before they do. We should split and search the eastern slopes of the valley".
"You don't want to send anyone on the western ones?".
"No", decided Éomer, "the snow is too thick there, the risk of avalanches too great. Whoever helped Lothíriel escaping, seems to know this area and wouldn't have risked venturing there. Gram, Háca, Wulf and Balláf, you ride with me. Everybody else: if you find Lothíriel, take her to safety. If the Dunlendings have her, do not let them spot you before we have regrouped. If they do and engage you, then sound the horn and we'll rush to your aid".
With that, he beckoned to the four men to follow him and spurred Firefoot up the hill. Seeing how the horse struggled in the deep snow, Éomer could not say whether Trewyn and Albeam's plan had been a stroke of genius or rather utter insanity. On the one hand, had Éaddan not overheard their conversation, he'd have never searched for Lothíriel in those forsaken valleys. On the other, there was a damn good reason for it: winter in Rohan could be unforgiving, especially on the mountains. Large pack of wolves populated the area, avalanches were frequent, storms could batter the slopes for days – weeks at times, without ever giving you a break. To get lost in those woods was a death sentence and Beyrith had been lucky to made it out alive. Lothíriel's intuition that the creek would have led her back towards the plains had been correct, but even so it was nothing short of a wonder that the girl had survived walking for hours in the freezing waters. And now it was his wife the one wandering through those woods. Scared, wounded perhaps, accompanied by someone who might have helped her fleeing the Dunlendings, but who wasn't necessarily a friend. After all, who would walk those woods at such time of the year?
Not a Rohirrim, that much was sure.
Lothíriel awoke to an unexpected feeling: warmth. After days of cold and pain, it felt almost too good to be true. Yet when she opened her eyes, she realized it was not a dream: she was in a small cozy room, lying on a soft bed, buried under a pile of furs.
Whose room was that? Where was she?
She sat up and at the sight of the cuts around her wrists, the memories of the past couple of days hit like a river in flood. Being drugged by Albeam. Waking up on the mountains. Beyrith vanishing in the forest. Trewyn lying dead at her feet. The horrifying chase. Pain. Zarn's arrival. Thinking it was over. The white-haired man, the hounds and the grey stallion.
Lothíriel pushed the blankets aside and stifled a sob when she found she was still wearing her own clothes and half-torn undergarments. There was a dagger on the bedside. She took it and though exhausted – both physically and emotionally, she found nonetheless the strength to stand and walk to the door. Leaning against the wall, she risked a glance into the next room: it was dimly lit, a fire burned in the hearth with a steaming pot hanging over it. Sitting on a chair, was the white-haired man who had killed Zarn. There was a pair of breeches in his lap and a needle in his hand. When the wooden planks under her feet cracked, his head jerked up and for a long moment, they stared at each other - him still holding the needle in one hand, her panting and wielding the dagger at him. He looked… strange. It was difficult to say how old he was – thirty, surely no more than forty years old. Yet not only his hair was completely white, but his eyebrows and eyelashes too. His skin was unusually pale and in the light of the fire, his eyes glistened almost red. "W-who are you?".
He stood and bowed so low, Lothíriel thought he'd topple. "I am Théocanstan, Lady", he said and just stayed there, perfectly still, eyes fixed on the ground.
When she did not speak, he offered her the breeches he had been mending. "I used to wear them as a lad. I shortened the legs and tightened the waist; they should fit you now. I also have a tunic for the Lady, if she wants".
"You saved me. Why?", she demanded to know.
Though still bent forward, Lothíriel could see him frowning. "They were hurting you, Lady Lothíriel".
"How do you know my name?", she shrieked and waved the dagger at him.
"You are the Marshall's wife. Last autumn, I saw you in Caerdydd".
"You lie, you were not there! I'd remember someone like you!".
Even if only for a moment, his body tensed. "I was in Caerdydd to sell pelts. You entered the city as I was leaving. Lord Éomer was with you, together with twelve of his riders and a group of Swan Knights led by your bother, the Prince Erchirion. The trader whom I sold the pelts to, told me Elffa had announced your arrival a couple of days earlier and that his wife and all the women in town were excited about meeting a Gondorian Prince".
Lothíriel tried keeping the blade pointed against him, but it seemed that whatever shred of energy she had managed to collect, was now failing her. She slipped to the floor, the weapon fell from her hands and all of a sudden, it was all too much. She was tired, she wanted to go home, she wanted Éomer to take her in his arms and hold her tight, she wanted to awake in their bed feeling safe and loved, and not scared and terrified. Her body shuddered, shook by the spasms of a desperate cry, the kind of which leaves you gasping and chocking. Théocanstan looked at her, but still would not move: "May I help you, please?", he asked.
She should have said no, but in the awkward kindness of this strange man, Lothíriel found the solace she so desperately needed after days of darkness and pain. She nodded and with a gentleness that felt almost unconceivable for someone with such a rugged and imposing appearance, Théocanstan picked her up and carried her to bed. There, he probed her right ankle: "You were limping. Is your leg injured?".
Lothíriel opened her mouth, but barely a whimper escaped her lips.
Determined to get to the bottom of it, Théocanstan stretched her leg so he could inspect it in the candlelight. He faltered when he saw the scars. "Old wound?".
"T-trap", she managed to say.
"It was not the first time the Dunlendings tried to abduct you?".
Through the tears, Lothíriel found herself offering her saviour a watery smile: "No. That time, I was trying to abduct myself". Théocanstan did not seem to understand and likely thought she was speaking gibberish. "Last year, I tried to run away. While I was in the woods, I stepped into a leghold trap probably intended for some wild animal".
The information seemed to anger him. He gently released her leg, his eyes growing dark. "Only cowards hunt with traps". He walked out of the room and returned moments later with the clothes he had been fixing for her. "You should put these on, Lady. Meanwhile, I will make you something to eat". Before leaving again, he placed the dagger back on the bedside, as if he was trying to tell her she had nothing to fear from him.
Left alone in the room, Lothíriel didn't even try unfastening her gown. Instead, she used the blade to cut it open and let its shredded remains pool around her feet. Unable to stand the sight of the bruises on her body, she dressed up and stared blankly at the wooden wall in front of her. When she did not answer Théocanstan's knock, the door cracked slowly open: "May I?", he asked, his eyes respectfully downcast.
Lothíriel nodded. Glancing at the window, she caught a glimpse of tall trees and a darkening blue sky. "You said you wanted to ride until dusk", she remembered.
Théocanstan placed a small table in front of her and offered her a bowl of soup. "I did".
"Why didn't we?".
"You have a concussion, Lady. You lost consciousness and needed rest".
The hair on her neck stood up as she registered the implicit danger. "Does this mean the Dunlendings might be able to track us down?".
"I hope not. It's been over a day already and if they haven't found us until now, they hopefully never will".
"Over a day? H-how long have I been unconscious?".
"A day and a half. It's nasty wound you've got, Lady. I was honestly unsure whether you'd have awoken at all. But you have, which means the worst is now over and as soon you'll have recovered your strength, I'll take you back to Aldburg. Or to Gondor, if you so prefer".
Lothíriel brushed a hand over the wound on her head. She found missing strands of hair and a few stitches. The memory of Zarn twisting his finger into the torn flesh, brought back a stab of pain. "Why would you take me to Gondor?".
"You said you tried running away", Théocanstan said, looking obviously unease, "I know you are Lord Éomer's wife, but if you think you'll be… unsafe in Aldburg, I could take you back to your family".
It was an offer she had not expected to receive, one that seemed to speak in volumes about the stranger in front of her. "When I run away last year, things were… different. I was different. I need to return to Aldburg as soon as possible, Théocanstan. Éomer will be worried for me, my maid might be dead for all I know…".
"Your maid?".
"She was abducted with me. The night before you rescued me, we managed to escape but I could not keep up with her. I instructed her to make for the closest settlement, hoping she could raise the alarm and be safe". Lothíriel exhaled, her chest tightening with anguish: "W-what if I sent her to her death?".
At her words, Théocanstan swoop into action. "It will be dark soon. It would be ill-advised to move now, but I'll go searching for her tomorrow at first light", he offered, but Lothíriel found little comfort in his words. Beyrith had been out there for almost two days now and if she hadn't made it to safety yet, then she was likely dead.
"How far is Aldburg from here?", she inquired.
"In normal conditions, two days. But I only have one horse and with the snow slowing our pace, I reckon it will take us at least three days to get there".
"We're up the mountains, then?".
"Aye, Lady".
"I thought no one lived here. I thought these valleys were uninhabited".
"They are - that's why my father chose them to raise me".
Théocanstan nudged the soup towards her, silently encouraging her to eat something. Though she was not feeling hungry at all, Lothíriel knew she needed to put something in her stomach if she wanted to get better. She tried lifting the bowl, but her arms were weak and she ended up spilling most of its content all over the place. With the same kind of quiet gentleness he had showed her earlier, Théocanstan refilled it and from across the table, one spoon at a time, he patiently fed her all the broth.
"Why did your father choose to raise you here?", Lothíriel asked. It was none of her business – she knew that, yet she felt like she desperately needed to understand who the man who had appeared out of nowhere and saved her was.
"He was afraid people might harm me".
"Because of your appearance?", she dared guessing.
"Yes. My mother died in childbirth and until I was eight, my father and I lived in Edoras. He rode with the King's Eored and entrusted me to the care of my grandmother while he was away. She… never liked me. She blamed me for her daughter's death and thought there was evil in me. She wasn't the only one to think so: I had no friends, people either mocked me or shunned me. One day, some older kids assaulted me and in an attempt to defend myself, I broke the leg of one of them. I didn't mean to, but we wrestled and he fell down a flight of stairs. The boy's parents threatened me, and that was the last straw: when father found out, he quit the Eored, packed our things and took me up here. He built this house himself, taught me how to live off what the forest has to offer". He paused and looked away. "He died eight winters ago. I've been living alone since".
Instinctively, Lothíriel reached for his hand. He seemed surprise, almost flinched. "Your father must have loved you very much. I'm sure he'd be proud to see the kind, brave man you have grown into".
Wishing to hide the tangle of sadness and awkwardness veiling his eyes, Théocanstan snapped up. "Are there people like me in Gondor?", he asked while he collected the shredded remains of her clothes.
"There are albinos in Gondor, yes. But I'm afraid stupidity and superstition have no borders: I've never met one, but I know people rarely treat them with kindness".
"Do I frighten you?".
"No", Lothíriel spoke sincerely, "I was scared earlier because I did not know where I was or who you were. And I was scared when I saw you in Zarn's tent because… because I thought he'd have raped me and then all of a sudden, he was dead and you were there. But you do no frighten me, Théocanstan, and I'll be forever in your debt for what you have done for me". A detail of their escape surfaced through her hazy memories, and Lothíriel felt nauseous: "You were not living here all alone", she remembered, "y-your hounds… has any of them returned?".
He stiffened.
Guessing what that meant, Lothíriel sobbed quietly. "I am sorry", she mumbled, hating how awfully inadequate those words sounded. Théocanstan sat beside her, mindful to keep some distance between them. For someone who had spent the past eight years in complete solitude, she suspected that was the closest thing to comforting someone he could manage. "What now?", she asked.
"We can set out to Aldburg tomorrow already and search for tracks of your maid on the way. But only if the Lady feels better and is able to stand on her own. If not, we wait".
His tone was gruff and mildly commanding. Lothíriel knew he had reasons to speak so - there was no point leaving the hut, if she was to collapse in the saddle and force him to turn back. But she was also aware it was likely going to take her several days to recover, and they could not afford the luxury to wait that long.
… he'll be willing to do anything to rescue you…
Trewyn had accused Meregith to be delusional but in her own twisted way, so was she. Even if her and Albeam's plan had succeeded, Grima would have never given them the East-mark – he was far too cunning for such a stupid move. But on one thing the woman had been right: Éomer could be persuaded into doing something reckless, if he thought her life depended upon it. Trewyn was now dead and her plan had in theory fallen apart the moment Théocanstan had snatched her from her captors, but Lothíriel knew better than considering the danger over. Not because she was not safe yet, but simply because Éomer knew not of it.
What if Albeam and the Dunlendings decided to bluff and pretend she was still in their hands? What if Éomer – willingly or not, walked into a trap in the hope of saving her? What if by the time Théocanstan deemed her fit to ride, he was already dead? "Regardless of how I'll be feeling tomorrow, we must ride", she decided.
"But Lady…", Théocanstan started to say before she raised a hand to silence him.
"I was not the intended target of those Dunlendings, but simply a means to get to my husband. By now, my disappearance has surely been discovered and Éomer will be moving heaven and earth to find me. Perhaps the Dunlendings will give up and retreat, but I fear that will not be the case. They might try to pull some dirty trick and we can't let that happen. We can't let Éomer take unnecessary risks. We can't lose him".
I can't lose him.
Théocanstan regarded her silently. Finally, he stood and motioned for her to lie down. "You should sleep, Lady. We have a long journey ahead".
Cedarn's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his fingers tapping angrily on the cold metal.
He had never liked Albeam's plan, told his brother as much, tried to convince him they could not trust a Rohirrim – even if a half-Dunlending bastard one, to drag them into such risky plot. But the reward in case of success was too high, too tempting. Though their people had rarely crossed path with the Third Marshall, his reputation spanned far across the land and his name was uttered with as much respect among the Rohirrim, as with disdain and fear among his kinsmen. By killing him, they'd have dealt a painful stroke to their enemies and especially to their Prince, who they knew considered his cousin like a brother. On top of that, there would have been the humiliation of holding captive his Gondorian wench.
Cedarn licked his lips at the thought of her.
When they had learned the Marshall would have been willing to do anything to save her, he and Zarn had laughed sneeringly at the notion of such vapid weakness. Yet when he had laid eyes upon her, Cedarn had somewhat understood why the man was so obsessed with her. She was beautiful - sure, but there was more to that. Though she lacked the boldness and brazenness typical of many Rohirrim and fear had been plain in her strange gray eyes, there had been something else too. Defiance, resilience, and a quiet, unwavering strength. Breaking a woman like her would not have been easy, but oh so much fun! Just the idea of her pleading him and calling his name, had sent a thrill down his spine. But ever loyal to his brother, he had not taken her and waited instead for him to arrive and for his turn to come.
Now, Zarn was dead and she was gone.
After more than a day's pursuit in which they had found no track of her and the bastard who had helped her escaping, his men were exhausted and Albeam was slowly becoming paranoid. For someone who had assured them his plan was foolproof and that the Marshall would have never come searching for them in those cursed valleys, his panic was hard to digest - especially considering how bent on revenge he had been after finding his dead wench in the woods.
Cedarn grinned.
He disliked Trewyn and had rejoiced at the news of her passing. Albeam was convinced she had died at the hands of the maid, but he believed otherwise. There was a glint in the Princess' eyes that told him she was capable of everything. And that was the reason why they were still there, why they were not going to leave until he had found her: he wanted her, and he'd have her.
One of his men approached and spoke the words he had been eagerly waiting for: "We know where she is".
An insistent jingling followed by heavy steps awoke Lothíriel. Théocanstan barged into the room and she instantly knew something was wrong. "You need to go", he told her as he dragged her out of bed.
"G-go?".
He gave her a cloak and pair of old boots that were surely too small for him, but also too big for her. "The Dunlendings will be here soon. You need to go", he insisted.
His words caused a wave of panic to surge through her veins. Théocanstan had killed Zarn and if Cedarn and his men managed to capture them, there was no telling the things they would do to them both. The thought caused her to spring into action: "Where are we going?", she asked as she swiftly dressed. Her right leg was wobbly, but the pain was bearable.
"I will put a decoy on my horse and set him loose. Some of the Dunlendings will chase him. I will hold back the rest of them for as long as I can while you flee".
Lothíriel halted. "You are not coming with me?".
Théocanstan slung a leather bag across her shoulder and hauled her into his bedroom. In the midst of her shock, Lothíriel found herself studying attentively the place: it was cozy and well-cared for, with plenty of shelves hanging on the walls, all laden with different types of toys and self-made ornaments. There were even some books neatly aligned above the bed, their worn-out leather covers suggesting they had been read far too many times. A screeching noise had her whirling around and she stared astonished at Théocanstan moving a heavy closet across the floor, revealing a hole in the wall behind. A breath of cold, moist air swept into the room. "When we moved here, father feared someone might come hunting us down. He built the house in front of a cave's entrance so that should we be attacked, I'd have a last retreat of sorts", he explained. "Follow the tunnel, keep the left at every turn and in a mile or so, you'll find an exit. Reach the bottom of the valley and follow it to your left, do not stop until you find help".
He put a torch in her hand and shoved her into the tunnel, but Lothíriel dug in her heels: "You must come with me. If you stay…".
"If I stay, I'll die. But if I come, I'll die anyway and you'll be recaptured", he said with a shrug, like it was that simple. "The nearest settlement is two days on foot. There's food and a dagger in the bag".
"I'll never make it, I…".
"You have no choice!", he snapped, his timid manners momentarily forgotten in the urgency of the situation. His eyes widened, and she could swear she saw a blush spreading on his unshaven cheeks: "I'm sorry, Lady, but this is the only way".
Lothíriel felt her heart sunk. She stretched an arm towards him and felt once again the inadequacy of the words she intended to speak. This strange white-haired man to whom the world had showed little more than contempt and disdain for no particular reason other than being born different, had already risked his life to save her and now, he was willingly choosing to die to give her a chance – no matter how feeble that was, to escape her pursuers. Her hesitation lasted but one instant too long, and Théocanstan briskly nudged her into the cave and dragged the closet back in place, leaving her alone in the eerie quiet of the tunnel. The sound of his steps faded and not long after, hooves beat the ground followed by alarmed screaming, shouting, and more hooves.
The Dunlendings had taken the bait and sent someone after Théocanstan's stallion.
Lothíriel tried to remember. With Trewyn and Zarn dead and assuming at least a couple of men were going after the horse, she reckoned there would be about fifteen Dunlendings coming at Théocanstan. No matter how skilled a warrior he was, she knew he stood no chance. She put the torch down and tried removing the closet that blocked the entrance, but it didn't as much as budge and she cursed herself. What was she doing? What help could she give Théocanstan? If anything, her presence there would be a hindrance and his death for nothing!
"I am sorry", she muttered and stepped deeper into the tunnel.
A shattering silence enveloped her, broken only by the hollow echo of her steps and the occasional trickling of water. It was as if the mountain was trying to swallow her into its bowels and Lothíriel shivered, the fear that she might get lost in those tunnels and die before anyone could find her, making her doubt her steps. She felt like she had been walking for miles, could it be she had taken a wrong turn at some point?
She chuckled bitterly. That would not be the first time such thing happened.
The moment they caught the sound of a horse galloping towards them, Éomer and his men retreated further into the woods and laid low, swords ready at hand. Not sixty feet ahead of them, a grey stallion bolted through the forest. There seemed to be someone slumped on the saddle, unconscious perhaps. Feeling his heart in his throat, Éomer took a step forward and at the exact same time, an arrow hissed through the trees. The horse whinnied and lost its footing, crashed forcefully against a tree. A cloud of soft snow rained down from the laden branches, the raider landed on the ground in a strange fashion, like he weighted nothing at all. Within moments, two Dunlendings were on him, staring incredulous at the pile of clothes and rags at their feet.
They dropped dead before they could even say a word.
Éomer wiped the blood off Gúthwinë and examined closely the decoy. An ingenious, simple but obviously effective trick to force your attackers to split. Behind him, Háca put a swift end to the stallion's suffering. "Should we sound the horn?".
"No", he answered steadfastly, "whoever cut the horse loose, must have been cornered if he felt compelled to resort to such deceit. And I doubt the Dunlendings took long to give chase and catch up with the bait. They are close", he growled, tossing his head back as if he could smell their stench in the air.
Beyrith had said there were eight men in the Dunlendish party. Assuming their leader Zarn had arrived with just as many if not more, they were up against fifteen to twenty foes - too many to take on without first regrouping. But he didn't want to sound the horn and give away their presence before he knew what they were up against. "Let's track where those two came from", he said nodding at the two dead bodies at his feet, "and then I'll decide what to do".
His men appeared relieved. Ever since finding Zarn's half-dishevelled body, he had been on a bloodthirsty frenzy and they probably feared he'd do something bold and reckless. Until few months earlier, their concerns would have been legit. But if anything, the long string of trials he and Lothíriel had to endure in order to be together, had taught him to be less impulsive and more wary of his short temper.
With Gram in the lead, they followed the trail the three horses had left in the pristine snow. A rare moon peeped through the clouds, shining a silver light that made their task easier and swifter. After no more than a couple of miles, the wind carried the sound of shouting and thumps, like someone was trying to force his way through a barred door. They dismounted and covered the remaining distance on foot, climbing some hundred's feet in the deep snow until they were all breathless under the heavy weight of their armours.
Ahead of them, a rock wall soared high towards the night sky, its ice coating glimmering eerily in the moonlight. A small hut was nestled against the stone, surrounded by towering spruces which concealed its existence to anyone who wouldn't stumble directly right in front of it. This was no hunter's hut to be used in the warm season while searching for game, Éomer realized: for once, few dared venturing there – even during the summer; what was more, the house was well kept and there was smoke rising from its chimney and mingling with the night fog. The shock of finding someone actually lived in those woods, quickly faded as Éomer took in the sight of the sixteen men – unmistakably Dunlendings, ramming into the surprisingly sturdy door of the hut.
"Surrender the woman and we'll consider giving you a quick death!", one of them spoke.
Lothíriel!
Éomer gripped his sword. Five against sixteen was going to be a bloodbath, they needed a diversion, a distraction, or they'd have no chances! But then the door gave way with a loud crack, and he knew there was no time for sophisticated plans: "Háca, the horn!", he barked right before jumping out of the bushes and charging ahead.
By the time the sound echoed through the valley, the first Dunlending lay dead at his feet. His comrades turned around, eyes wide at the sight of the Rohirrim advancing towards them. Quickly registering there were only five of them, their expression changed from stupor, to a ferocious snarl.
Háca barely had the time to blew three more loud hoots, before they were surrounded.
As soon as she made it out of the cave, Lothíriel found herself tumbling down, betrayed by the treacherous, uneven ground concealed under the soft snow. At least she didn't break anything and testing the wound on her head, she also found no blood, the stitches unbroken.
She might be wrong, but it seemed to her that the whole forest had suddenly come alive. Aside from the sounds coming from up the slope, where Théocanstan was trying to hold back the Dunlendings, she had the distinct feeling someone else was lurking around. A shiver run down her spine: what if Cedarn had left some of his men to guard the surroundings, what if he had anticipated she might try to escape while he was engaged in battle with her saviour?
Her hand slipped into the bag to retrieve the dagger Théocanstan had given her.
Even after being nearly killed by the wargs, Lothíriel had never understood why people found the prospect of wandering alone in a dark forest appalling. Now, she could relate to that fear: every little noise, every puff of snow, every flap of wings she winced and snapped around, expecting at any moment someone would jump out of the darkness and leap on her. She tried to take a deep breath, told herself that if one of the Dunlendings had spotted her, he'd have already assaulted her. After all, she may have killed Trewyn but she was surely no match for an armed man. On that thought, she worked up the courage and climbed down towards the valley. She had taken but a few steps, when a horn blew wildly, its echo reverberating in the narrow valley.
Lothíriel froze, her heart beating fast. She'd have recognized that sound among thousands of others! It was the one that no matter the hour of the day, would always make her drop whatever she was doing to rush outside of the hall and wait eagerly for Éomer's arrival. There would always be a grin on his face, one that would make her feel a little feverishly while she observed him climbing the steps two at a time. He'd snatch her into his arms then, and kiss her like they hadn't seen each other in months and had too much to make up for, and too little time.
The flicker of hope made her almost dizzy. Could it be that Éomer had already come for her? Perhaps Beyrith had been quicker than she had anticipated and managed to send him her way! Or perhaps this was a trick of the Dunlendings to lure her out and she'd be walking straight into a trap…
Lothíriel glanced nervously up the slope, where she knew Théocanstan would be fighting a battle he had no chance of winning, and then down at the valley where he had instructed her to go.
She hesitated, unsure what to do. When the horn rung again - three more times, she turned back, ducked between the bushes and climbed cautiously up the mountain. She passed the cave's exit and pondered whether that was the safest way to get back, but quickly discarded the idea when she realized she no longer had a torch and would have likely gotten lost in the pitch-black maze of tunnels. Spurred by a furious sound of clashing steel that could have never been attributed to a single man fighting a horde of enemies, she made haste. Ahead of her, shards of light pierced the darkness and it was with a wave of anguished dismay, that she took in the scene in front of her eyes.
Éomer, Wulf, Balláf, Háca and Gram stood in a tight circle in the middle of the hut's front yard, surrounded by nine Dunlendings – among them Cedarn. Wulf was visibly limping, Gram bled profusely from a nasty gash on his face, and Balláf was awkwardly holding his sword in his left hand. There were four dead bodies on the ground around them, all clad in black, none of them sporting the unmistakable green cloak of the riders of Rohan. For a brief moment, Éomer's eyes darted towards her and he frowned, as if he had perceived her presence there. The irrational part of her screamed that she should jump out of the bushes and run to him, but she knew better and crouched even lower on the ground. The sound of smashed furniture coming from inside the hut told her Théocanstan had his hands full and could not help with the fight outside.
With a sudden cry, Cedarn and his men lunged on the Rohirrim, trying to force a way into their tight formation and dispense of the injured riders so they could focus on Éomer and Háca. Lothíriel barely stifled a gasp when Cedarn's blade grazed Éomer's armour right under his neck. A sickening feeling rose in her throat as she realized that unless something happened, she might be about to witness the man she loved, be slain in front of her eyes while he tried to save her. Fighting a sense of crippling helplessness, Lothíriel considered her alternatives.
She could make her presence known, offer herself to Cedarn as a willing captive at the condition he'd let her husband live. But Éomer was his ultimate target and she doubted the Dunlending would pass on the chance of killing the Third Marshall.
She could employ Théocanstan's tactic and act as a bait, let them see her running away. Cedarn would dispatch a couple of men to chase her and perhaps the distraction would give Éomer and his men a chance to prevail. Or perhaps it would send him on a rampage that could get him killed.
A scream of pain dragged her out of her frantic brooding just in time to see Gram staggering back, a knife protruding from his left thigh. There were two more dead bodies at Éomer's feet, his eyes burned with a rage that frightened her. He fought like a lion, teeth bared, his body emanating an ominous, terrifying energy that urged the two Dunlendings in front of him to take a cautious step back. By his side, Háca's countenance was one of cold, composed fury as he tried shielding Gram's bended figure. Seven more Dunlendings were left standing, plus the ones inside the hut. Terrified of the odds those numbers forebode, Lothíriel propped her weight on her forearms, ready to put in motion a most reckless plan, when the sound of another horn shook the night.
Five shadows emerged from the other side of the forest, charging angrily ahead.
Recognizing right away the five riders, Lothíriel smiled. The tide of the battle was quickly shifting: blindsided by the arrival of more enemies and probably expecting more to show up any time, the Dunlendings tried retreating towards the hut, perhaps hoping they could bring the situation to a standoff if they held her as a hostage. The grin on Lothíriel's face faded as she realized what that meant for Théocanstan, but Éomer was not so easily fooled and promptly moved his men so that they were standing between the building and the Dunlendings. Through the window of Théocanstan's bedroom, Lothíriel spotted an imposing shadow and flames rapidly devouring the place. She brought her hands to her face: she didn't know why, but just the idea of seeing the hut Théocanstan's father had built for his young boy reduced to a smoldering pile of rubble, felt like being stabbed on his behalf!
She resisted the urge to move: the fight was soon going to be over, she told herself, and then she could come out, reassure Éomer she was alright and have him and his men put out the fire before it would be too late.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a strange movement and turned just in time to see Cedarn had managed to retreat further from his men and was now slipping into the forest. She held her breath as he unknowingly approached her, nocked an arrow in his bow and drew. Following his gaze, Lothíriel saw Éomer engaged by two Dunlendings. He stood stoically still while they circled around him like sharks ready to pounce on their prey, his attention focused on the foes in front of him, not on the one who had sneaked away and was making ready to release a shot aimed at his unprotected head.
A rage akin the one that had consumed her when Zarn had assaulted her, coursed through Lothíriel's body. Her fingers curled around the hilt of the dagger and she jumped on Cedarn, aimed for his throat as the arrow was abruptly released from his bow. The man tensed and twisted just in time to deflect the blow. The blade sunk into his shoulder and as the both fell, Lothíriel tried frantically to dislodge it to stab him again, but he was quick to grab her wrists. He landed on top of her and she kneed him in the groin. Cedarn grunted but as much as she tried to get him off her, squirming and writhing, he did not budge and used instead his weight to keep her pinned down.
His hands released her wrists to lock around her neck, squeezing it so tight she thought it would snap. Desperate, she tried to reach for the dagger still lodged in his shoulder, to no avail. Her nails dug into his arms, her legs trashed around.
Éomer jumped back, alarmed by the sudden swish that had gone past his right ear. An arrow was embedded in the doorframe behind him and once again, he turned to glance at the same dark spot he had felt compelled to look at some moments earlier. And there, he saw him. The Dunlending leader, crouching into the snow, a slender figure barely wriggling beneath him.
Even years later, Éomer would never recover the memory of the following moments, save for few, scattered flashes. Him bolting ahead, careless of the two foes standing in his way. Háca frightened cry as he tried to meet the strokes aimed at him. Lothíriel whimpering helplessly. The two hands clamped around her neck.
Then, it all went black.
The next thing he remembered, was the snow turned red. The blood on his gauntlets. A dagger that was not his. The horribly disfigured man beneath him. Háca and Balláf appalled faces, their mouth opening and closing as they spoke to him. "He's dead, he's dead", he heard them saying after a stretched silence, like his ears had shut out everything else around him and had only now started functioning again. Éomer was panting, didn't even know where he was nor what the dead man had done to make him unleash such blind rage.
It was Éothain's voice and a feeble, strangled gasp, that had him snap out of his befuddled state.
Éomer dropped the blade and clambered to his feet, covered the distance between him and the small group of riders that had gathered in a circle in long strides. They all moved out of his way as they saw him approaching. All expect for Éothain, who remained where he was and glanced over his shoulder with a thoughtful frown, obviously assessing whether he was himself and whether it was a good idea to let him anywhere near his wife. Any other time, Éomer would have cursed him and shoved him away. But then he thought of Cedarn's face, noticed the fragments of flesh and bones stuck in his gauntlets, and understood. He tossed them away and gave Éothain a quiet nod. His friend stepped aside and the instant Éomer laid eyes upon Lothíriel, he collapsed on his knees, gathered her in his arms and cried, cried like he hadn't done in years. Aware she was likely injured and in pain, he fought the urge to crush her in his arms and held her gently. By contrast, her arms were looped so tight around his neck that he almost gasped for air. It got a smile out of him and he reluctantly loosened her grip so he could look down at her. At the sight of her chapped lips, of the bruises on her cheeks and the angry red marks around her neck, a dark rage threatened to surge again through his veins. But it was quickly appeased by the gentle touch of the hand stroking his cheek: "I'm alright", Lothíriel reassured him, managing to sound firm in spite of her hoarse, strained voice.
Éomer didn't know whether crying or laughing. "I thought I lost you", he whispered and for the life of him, he couldn't get another word out of his mouth. He felt relieved, rabid and terrified all at once. The weight of the emotions he had struggled so hard to keep in check for the past four days washed over him, leaving him shuddering and holding desperately to the woman in his arms for strength, when it really should have been the other way around. His hand moved to the nape of her neck and tangled in her hair, but Lothíriel's content sigh was almost immediately swallowed by a wince. Éomer let out a low hissing breath when he saw the wound on her head. He searched anxiously her eyes, found them tired and puffy, but also sharp and vigilant.
"I had a concussion, but I feel better now", she answered before he could even ask, "Theoc….", she started to say, but suddenly froze and slipped out of his embrace. Taken unaware, it took Éomer a moment to leap on his feet and rush after her before she could bolt into the burning hut. "No!", she shrieked when his arms locked around her to hold her back, "You have to help him, Éomer! You have to…". The words died in her mouth as the roof collapsed, releasing a shower of sparks that almost reached their feet. For a moment she just stood perfectly still, her mouth ajar, tears rolling down her cheeks. Then again, she tensed and wriggled free.
Under his and his men's astonished gaze, she swiftly run into the forest, shockingly fast for someone who had just escaped being strangled and whose skull had almost been cracked open.
Éomer cursed and went after her, followed by Éothain and the rest of his riders, all of them looking understandably baffled. "Lothíriel, stop!", he bellowed, and could not believe he was struggling to gain on her while, seemingly effortlessly, she let herself slide down the snowy slopes. Twice he almost managed to catch her, and twice she evaded him and just kept climbing down at a reckless speed. Stubborn woman! "You'll break your neck!", he yelled, and almost crushed into her when she suddenly halted and veered left, stepping resolutely into the entrance of a narrow cave. Sensing a presence lurking in the dark, both he and Éothain lunged after her, swords unsheathed. Éomer pushed her behind him, heard her tumbling in the snow with an indignant huff. A large shadow emerged from the cave and at first, Éomer thought it was an Uruk-hai and regretted not shoving Lothíriel further away. As he came into the dim moonlight however, the stranger revealed himself to be not Orc, but man, and a most strange looking one at that. He remained silent at the sight of the swords pointed at his direction, and Éomer's mind reeled at the memory of a summer he had spent in Edoras as a child.
Lost in thought, he spotted too late the movement behind him.
"Lower your swords", Lothíriel hissed, placing herself between them and the stranger, her arms outstretched. "Now!", she snapped when they failed to comply.
Éothain cast him a panicked look, but Éomer paid him no heed: "Théocanstan?", he called, slowly recognizing in the white-haired giant the lonely boy other children relentlessly mocked.
Lothíriel's eyes widened. "You know each other?".
"Yes – I mean, no", he corrected himself, slowly sheathing is sword and beckoning for his men to do the same. Seeing Éothain wavering, he pressed his palm on his sword and forced him to lower it. "I remember seeing him in Edoras when I was a child, before his father decided to move out of the city. Did he rescue you from the Dunlendings?".
Lothíriel grasped Théocanstan's arm. "Yes! He saved me from Zarn before… before…", her eyes darted around in sheer panic before settling for an easier explanation that left him anxiously mulling over what she had meant to say. "Théocanstan saved me. He carried me here, tended to my wounds and was now willing to sacrifice himself to give me a chance to avoid being recaptured".
Behind her, the man shrugged his shoulders like she was unnecessarily overstating what he had done. At the booming sound of further sections of the hut yielding to the flames, Lothíriel gasped and stared helplessly at the faint glow of the fire in the distance: "Your house… I'm so sorry, I…".
"I set it on fire", he flatly announced.
"W-what? Why?".
"That was always the plan. If someone was to come after me and we found ourselves trapped, I was to escape through the tunnel while my father kept them busy and ensured the house would be destroyed. This way, they'd have either assumed me dead, or waited for the fire to go out only to realize too late that they had been tricked".
His words were met with a tense, uncomfortable silence. Éomer stepped forward and stretched his hand out. It felt like a ridiculously scant gesture to offer the man who had saved his wife but for the time being, it would have to make do. He could swear Théocanstan seemed embarrassed, moved almost. "You should come to Aldburg with us", he offered.
"That won't be neces…".
"He's right", Lothíriel stepped in, "with the hut destroyed, you have no place to stay and you can hardly rebuild it now in the middle of the winter. Come with us, stay in Aldburg at least until spring. If then you want to return here, we'll support you and help you rebuilding".
Théocanstan stood perfectly still, his brow twisted, and Éomer could not say whether he was considering their offer, or rather trying to come up with a plausible excuse to decline. But he could see that he was injured and there was no way they were leaving him behind. He pulled Lothíriel to him and planted a soft kiss on her forehead: "Give us a moment, will you?", he whispered, and gently nudged her towards Éothain.
Though she insisted she could walk, his friend ignored her and picked her up. He muttered something about Runhild being a bad influence and the reason for her recent display of recklessness, which earned him a vexed rebuttal and a playful slap on the nape of his head.
Éomer grinned, the realization that the ordeal was over and Lothíriel safe only truly dawning on him in that moment. "We will ride North. I know it's a slightly longer route, but this way we will be in a proper village by dusk, one where a healer will be able to visit Lothíriel. I have three injured riders who'll need treatment and you", he said looking pointedly at him, "need someone to tend to the wound on your back".
Realizing his pretense that he had made it unscathed through a fight with several Dunlendings had not been half as convincing as he thought, Théocanstan stiffened. "It's nothing, Lord, I can stitch it on my own".
"I doubt it". Sensing he was slowly unravelling the man, Éomer drew a deep breath and sat on a boulder emerging from the snow. "I don't know what I'd have done, had something happened to my wife", he confessed. "I'd gladly offer you everything I possess to thank you for what you have done, but I am aware that's not what you are after nor the reason why you risked your life to save her, and I do not mean to offend you with unwanted rewards. Lothíriel, she… she is the most precious thing in my life, and I beg you to allow us to show you our gratitude – mine, hers, everyone's, for what you have done".
Théocanstan stared at is toes in a way that reminded him of a shy kid trying to deal with an uncomfortable situation. But he seemed to be considering his offer, and Éomer seized his chance: "If you don't, Lothíriel will fret and force me to send riders every week to check on you. I'm quite sure that will disrupt your peaceful life up the mountains". Seeing the very confused expression on Théocanstan's face, Éomer reminded himself to smile – the man obviously did not excel in detecting humour.
"I will come, Lord", he said with unexpected conviction and assuming the conversation was over, he turned around and walked briskly towards his burning hut.
"Wait", Éomer called him. There would be a time and a place to discuss in detail about had happened, but there was one question he needed to ask: "Did you kill Zarn?".
Théocanstan's face briefly twisted, before returning to his customary deadpan expression. "Yes", he said and stared at him, before anticipating his next question, "he wanted to abuse of your wife, but ended up choking on his own blood instead".
Lothíriel slept through most of the morning, happily nestled against his chest and totally unperturbed by the difficult ride through the snow-clad valleys. What between the rugged ground and the four injured riders, their pace was predictably slow: Wulf had remedied a badly twisted ankle and a puncture wound on his foot, Balláf's right arm had been deeply cut when a Dunlending's blade had managed to sneak past the pauldron of his armour, and the wound on Théocanstan back had needed some temporary stitches to hold it close until a healer could inspect it. Gram was the one who fared worst, with a bad concussion and a deep gash in his left thigh, only inches away from his femoral artery.
All in all, it wasn't such a terrible outcome. The four men would need time to recover, but he hadn't lost a single rider which really, was almost a wonder.
The Dunlendings were all dead, which was unfortunate: he'd have liked to have a little chat with Albeam and possibly uncover something useful about Grima before cutting his head for having dared taking Lothíriel from him but alas, the fool had been among those who had assaulted Théocanstan inside the hut, and had not survived to tell the tale.
Feeling Lothíriel shifting in front of him, he looked down and smiled upon finding her awake. Despite stubbornly insisting that she was alright, he knew she wasn't. Once the adrenaline of the violence-fuelled rescue had dissipated, she could hardly stand on her own. The bruises on her neck were already turning purple and he could actually see the imprint left by Cedarn's fingers when he had tried to strangle her. Worst of all, in her eyes was an anguish that told him the worst wounds, were those one could not see. "Rise and shine, sleepyhead", he teased her.
She flashed him a forced smile and cast a worried glanced at Théocanstan's direction. "He'll be fine, don't worry", he reassured her.
"The men are staring at him", she hissed, and Éomer could hardly deny her accusation.
Théocanstan had dwarfed him as a kid and had grown into the tallest, most imposing man he had ever seen. Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if he saw him popping the head of an orc with his bare hands. That alone was sure to make him stand out in a crowd and coupled with his unusual appearance, it was a sure recipe for continuous, blunt stares. The fact that he was awfully quiet, didn't help either. At some point during the morning, Éothain had tried to lift the general mood by engaging him in a light banter, only to be met by a perfectly motionless face which had quickly induced his friend to raise white flag and retreat towards the rear of the group.
"Give them time to get used to his presence", he offered tentatively.
"He almost died to save me, they should not need time to get used to him", she rebuted him. "It's because of people like them that Théocanstan's father chose to raise him in exile and felt compelled to build a house with a hidden way out!".
Though there was truth to her words, Lothíriel was being unfair with his riders. True, many of them were showing a lack of manners – or sensitivity at the very least, but they were also not the type of men who would threaten a child – which, as far as he remembered, was the reason why Théocanstan's father had left Edoras.
"I suppose once in Aldburg, I will be assigned more guards", Lothíriel said grimly.
"Yes. I trusted the hall to be a safe place and as a result, I almost lost you. I can't risk that to happen again, I…".
"I know", she simply said, and laced their fingers together.
"You'll need to have guards with you – at all times, even when you are working in the study or spending time with your friends in the solar. They'll be stationed in front of our door at night, inspect our bedroom every evening before we retire – especially when I'm away. I know the idea is less than appealing, but you are to go nowhere without them".
"They'll have to work in shifts".
It wasn't a question, but rather a statement. Nevertheless, he acknowledged her remark: "Yes. You have Balláf and Eofor already. I will think of six more…".
"Théocanstan".
Éomer almost pulled Firefoot to a halt. Knowing the man was right behind them, he lowered his voice and wished Lothíriel had chosen a different time to raise the subject. "Look", he started, "I'd be more than happy if Théocanstan decides to stay with us beyond spring. In fact, I'd gladly count him in my Eored – Bema knows we need men like him. But…".
"It wasn't a suggestion".
Taken aback by the unusual sourness in her voice, Éomer was left temporarily speechless. He could understand that Théocanstan had rushed to her aid right in the moment of need and as such, she felt inclined to trust him. He did too, which was why he was keen on having in Aldburg. But at the same time, he couldn't entrust her safety to someone he barely knew. "No, Lothíriel", he said sternly, sensing that he needed a firm approach on the matter, "perhaps in the future but as of now, we don't nearly know enough about him to…".
"Right", she snapped scornfully, "because your long-time acquaintances and trustful servants of pure Rohirric stock have done such a great job in our household instead". Her words left him stunned and before he could do or say anything, Lothíriel slid down the saddle and wobbled past Théocanstan and towards the back of the group. When she stretched her hand towards Éothain, the man promptly lifted her in the saddle while looking at the same time like he'd have rather been singlehandedly fighting an entire horde of Uruk-hai, than being there.
Shouting.
A door slammed shut.
Rushed steps
Unhurriedly, Amrothos stood and braced himself for a difficult conversation. "Father".
Prince Imrahil barged into the room, looking unusually tousled. To be already there, he must have taken the Tarnost Pass and ridden like a devil. "What happened?", he demanded to know, paling visibly at the sight of Erchirion lying unconscious in his bed.
Bloody sea rats appeared out of nowhere and almost killed my brother. "Corsairs".
"How bad is it?".
Bad. I jumped in the water convinced I was to retrieve a dead body. I thought the arrow had pierced him right through his heart – or a lung at the very least. "The bolt missed all vital organs".
Imrahil glared at him. "Then why hasn't he regained consciousness yet?".
The current swept us away from the boat. After defeating the Corsairs, it took the crew hours to find us. We drifted off in the dark, freezing sea. Erchirion was out cold, almost bled to death while I struggled to keep us both afloat, not knowing whether we'd ever be found and fearing I'd be forced to see my brother swallowed by the depths. "We fell overboard, and he's lost a lot of blood".
"Damn it, Amrothos! Do I need pliers to get the words out of your mouth? What does the healer say?".
That he did all he could. That is now up to Erchirion to wake up so that he may resume telling me that I'm a moron and a snooper. If he doesn't, I'm sure to forget. "We have to wait".
Imrahil's nostrils flared in frustration. "You may go. I'll stay with him".
With a polite nod, Amrothos made for the door. Before leaving, he glanced quickly at his brother. Don't you dare dying, Erchirion.
Once in his chamber, he collapsed on the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling, the events of the past couple of days playing over and over in his head.
They had been careful, there had been men constantly watching for approaching enemies. Yet the Corsairs had managed to catch them unaware and almost rammed into their boat. Had Erchirion been sleeping in his cabin, he wouldn't have taken that arrow and he wouldn't be fighting between life and death. But ironically, had his nightmare not dragged him out of bed, they'd probably all be dead by now. Alarmed by his brother's distress, he had summoned the whole crew so they could steer the boat around and sail as fast as they could to Dol Amroth. It was only because of that that their men had managed to react so quickly to the attack. It had been a bloody fight and they had suffered heavy losses, but at least the Corsairs were all dead and their ship sunk.
Amrothos was exhausted, but found he could not sleep - not with the image of Erchirion's stunned face, of his unblinking eyes as he fell off the boat, branded in his memory. He stood and cursed loudly.
Though they spent most of their time insulting each other and had almost come to blows in a few occasions, he loved his brother to bits and he wasn't sure what he'd do, were he to die. Since Lothíriel had left Dol Amroth, things had been rapidly falling apart: Corsairs raiding the coast, outlaws taking advantage of their stretched forces to terrorize the people living in the outback, orcs moving closer to Minas Tirith and on the top of that, the tense situation in the palace. He wondered whether his sister knew how dramatically her departure had affected their family, how estranged from their father Erchirion had grown. He could hardly remember the last time they had had dinner together as a family and while the situation had somewhat eased after his brother had returned from Rohan, things were far from settled.
He remembered quite well the day Erchirion had sailed to Dol Amroth and found their sister had been married off to some Marshall. He had never seen him that angry - rightfully so. Despite he and Lothíriel had never been close, even he had been appalled by the circumstances of her marriage. He understood why their father had acted the way he did, he knew he meant well and was ultimately trying to protect her. But to put it plainly, he had been arrogant and overconfident, and left Lothíriel and her husband to suffer the consequences of his actions.
Amrothos splashed some cold water on his face.
Upon arriving in Dol Amroth two days earlier, he had immediately dispatched a messenger to Aldburg. He had given him a letter – the very first one he had ever written to his sister, a sorry mess of half-incoherent sentences to ask her how she was faring in Rohan while trying at the same time to avoid mentioning Erchirion. Perhaps he should have told her about what had happened, but it would have made her sick with worry and forced her to weeks of anxious wait for more news to come. No, he pondered, it was better that way: once their brother awoke, he'd write her himself and all will be good.
If he was ever going to awake.
If Lothíriel was alive.
By the time they reached the village of Hadleigh, the sun had long set behind the mountains. Éomer had chosen the place because he knew they'd find a healer there, but had failed to recall the settlement's only inn, also happened to be a brothel. He was unbearably uncomfortable with the idea of his wife sleeping in such place but at the same time, he knew it was either that or a tent in the snow, which was possibly an even worse option. He had sent a rider ahead to inform the madam they had to temporarily close for business and scrub clean their best room. He'd compensate them once they left and hopefully, he was not going to run into any familiar face.
Though not in the habit of paying for intimacy, there had been few occasions – rare enough that he could count them on one hand, when he had been so out of sorts to resort to it. One of them had been exactly in that brothel, not three years earlier, after they had spent a week chasing a party of orcs and eventually found them butchering a farmer and his family. He couldn't even remember the girl's face, only that he had drunk his fill and desperately needed to forget the blood and death, even if just for a short instant.
Éomer dismounted in front of the brothel and found little comfort in noticing the building appeared to have been recently reconstructed. Behind him, Éothain halted his horse and cast him a look that said I did not ask for any of this while he helped his wife down.
Since snapping at him earlier that day, Lothíriel had stubbornly ignored him, refused to speak a word to anyone and spent the entire ride staring at her own hands. Sometimes she seemed angry. Others on the verge of tears. And others just utterly exhausted. More than once he had been tempted to snatch her back in his saddle and hold her until the torment in her eyes had melted away, but he had feared what her reaction might have been and decided to give her some time instead. Feeling unusually edgy, Éomer offered her his arm and walked her to the room that had been prepared for them. It was tidy, there were fresh linens on the bed and a large wooden tub filled with steaming water.
For one night, it would do.
Lothíriel sat on the mattress. She remained silent, barely looked at him at all.
"I love you - always will. You know that, right?", Éomer told her and kissed her hand. She offered no answer and guessing she wished to have a moment alone, he stood and made for leaving.
"Stay".
Éomer halted, unsure whether she had really spoken.
"Don't leave, please", she told him and in no time, he was kneeling in front of her, holding his breath as she leaned forward to kiss him softly. "Will you help me getting into that tub?", she asked shakily.
"Marshall Éomer to the rescue". He removed her boots, helped her out of her breeches and tunic. As inch after inch of skin was uncovered, he found himself gritting his teeth and wishing he could bring those Dunlendings back to life, just so he could kill them again. There were gashes on her wrists and ankles, an ugly looking bruise on her stomach – the unmistakable result of a brutal punch, and another one was starting to form on her back.
He tossed her clothes away and made a mental note to burn them.
"Too hot?", he asked as he lowered her in the tub. Lothíriel shook her head and let out a content sigh as the warm water enveloped her. His movements hindered by his armour, Éomer sat on the floor and watched her resting with her eyes closed, her brow furrowed.
"Have you ever heard of the legend of Azure?".
He arched an eyebrow. "Azure?".
"Yes. Her real name was Nauthriel, she was born in the year 2370 and was the daughter of a rich nobleman. Just like Théocanstan, her hair was white, her skin pale. Her parents loved her deeply and knowing how superstitious people were, they never allowed her to leave the palace. Her mother tried colouring her hair black, hoping that might give her the chance to live a more normal life. But the dye kept fading away and as a result, her hair gained an unusual bluish colour to match that of her eyes. Her parents started affectionally calling her Azure and wary of their neighbours, they made sure she always had two guards watching over her. In the year 2375, on summer solstice, during a terrible storm, the young girl was playing with a ball of rugs when the wind tumbled it down the stairs to the palace's underground cold cellar. Azure run to pick it up but fell to her death. The guards heard a cry and went looking for her, but found no trace of the child nor the ball. The storm ceased with her disappearance and according to the legend, her spirit remains trapped inside the palace and every five years, on summer solstice, you can hear her voice and the sound of the ball bouncing on the cold stone floor of the cellars".
Sitting up, Lothíriel tried resting her chin on her knees. Finding the position uncomfortable, she huffed and lied back in the tub.
"Théocanstan has spent most of is life as a hermit, just because of people's superstitions and the indifference of those who should have stepped in and put an end to the way he was being bullied and threatened. His father should have never been put in the position of having to choose between remaining in Edoras on the one side, and the safety and well-being of his son on the other. Théocanstan would have had all the reasons to grow into a spiteful, bitter man. Instead, he remained a gentle soul and even after his father's death, he chose to live in solitude – only him, his cozy hut, his horse and his hounds. He has lost everything because the day he spotted a group of Dunlendings holding a woman captive, he did not turn the other way and chose instead to risk everything he had to save her. His hounds are dead, his horse is dead, his hut is no more". Lothíriel's voice was unsettlingly flat, as if she was speaking of someone else and the woman in question wasn't in fact her. "I won't let Théocanstan turn into Azure, I won't let him live and die all alone, I won't let the people turn him into some stupid, dumb legend. The big white-haired man whose ghost walks the woods during the nights of the full moon, or some similar crap".
She writhed under the water and looked away. "When Zarn arrived at the camp, I pretended to be unconscious. But he saw right through it and forced a finger into the wound on my head to get a reaction out of me".
Éomer tasted bile in his mouth. Chocking on his own blood was too good an end for scum like him! His hand moved towards Lothíriel but suddenly stopped, unsure whether she'd have welcomed his touch. It was a terrible feeling – to wish more than anything to take her in his arms and console her, but fearing at the same time she might recoil. He gripped the edge of the bathtub with enough strength to hear the wood screech.
"When he assaulted me, I tried to fight him back. He hit me, bent me over his cot and started ripping my clothes off", she recounted, her voice painfully cracking, her arms wrapped protectively around herself "I heard him unbuckling his belt and I was terrified, paralyzed. I couldn't even move a muscle, I couldn't think of anything but what he was about to do, I-I…".
Before he knew it, Éomer was standing with one knee into the tub and holding her tight against his chest while she sobbed. "You are safe now. Zarn's dead and I swear no one's ever going to harm a hair on you", he spoke fervently and Bema, if in order to keep that promise he had to assign his whole Eored to her guard, then he would! He tried to meet her eyes, but Lothíriel snuggled closer.
"Just hold me, please", she begged, her hands clutching at his armour like her life depended upon it. It was only after a long while that she spoke again, her voice feeble: "I'm sorry for what I said earlier, Éomer".
"Hush, déor min, there's noth…".
"There is", she rebutted him, and offered him a shaky smile, "I shouldn't have said what I said. I was… angry. Angry that we let this happen, angry that we did not see it coming, angry that everything came this close to falling apart. I still am. Théocanstan, he… he saved me from those Dunlendings, he saved me from Zarn before he could…", she trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence. "I realize that appointing him to my guard may be imprudent. But I just know that it is the right thing to do, that he'd protect me with his life, that he's the type of man who'd never ask for anything in return but the honour to serve his country like his father did before him. He's a Rohirrim through and through, Éomer, just like you. And I believe staying in Aldburg with us, he'll finally get to live the life that was stolen from him".
Éomer pressed a kiss on her forehead. Another on the tip of her nose. "Fine", he conceded, wholeheartedly hoping he was not going to regret his decision, "once we are home, I'll speak to him". He nudged her back into the tub and dipped a cloth into the water, brushed it gently on her shapely legs and slender arms. He removed all traces of dirt from under the nails, washed her hair and combed them thoroughly, gently massaging her scalp before wrapping her in a clean towel.
Through all of it, Lothíriel observed him quietly, but never said a word.
In spite of her exhaustion, Lothíriel awoke some time during the night and was unable to fall back asleep. Moving one inch at a time so not to awake Éomer, she crawled out of bed and tiptoed outside of the room. With three riders in tow, she descended to the ground floor.
The tavern where they had found accommodation was folksy and unadorned, nothing like the Green Gate in Aldburg or the Hammer in Edoras. A woman sat alone at the counter, writing scrupulously on a yellowed parchment in the faint light of a half-burnt candle. She looked stern, but in a beautiful sort of way.
Filled with the angst of not knowing how she felt, Lothíriel chose a small table in the corner of the room to sit.
When the Dunlendings had been defeated and Éomer had held her in his embrace, she had thought it was finally over: she was safe, he was safe, they'd go back to Aldburg and all would be good. Now, she felt like their happy ending was nothing short of a lie.
They were fighting a game no one had prepared them for. Against an enemy that wielded treachery and deception better than Éomer could brandish a sword. They were back to square one, had gained nothing on Grima that might help them getting rid of him. She was angry. Disappointed. Hurt. Scared. And for the first time, Éomer's closeness proved unable to quell the black tide of emotions surging within her. The fact that he loved her and she loved him, seemed hardly enough to make her feel better.
"May I offer you something to drink, Lady?".
Lothíriel looked up to see the woman who had been sitting at the counter had quietly approached her. "What's the strongest liquor you have?".
She walked away and returned moments later with a half-filled mug of ale and a pitcher of water. "I am Saehild", she introduced herself while she watered down her drink.
Lothíriel did not complain. Getting drunk wouldn't have been wise anyway.
"We don't have glasses, I hope you don't mind dinking from a mug".
"I'd drink from an old bucket tonight".
Saehild chuckled and sat with her. "Will you ride to Aldburg tomorrow?".
I hope not. I hope we can stay here for a couple of days before we return home and the struggle continues. "We haven't decided yet".
Saehild's glare seemed to pierce right through her. "I see".
One sniff at the drink in front of her, and Lothíriel decided she'd rather stay thirsty. "Why is the tavern closed?".
"It's a brothel, Lady".
The words hovered above them. "Éomer forced you to shut down because of me?", Lothíriel asked, mirth bubbling within her
Saehild nodded and they both burst into a peal of laughter. "A Gondorian Princess staying at a brothel. I can already imagine the scandal!".
"The first scandal is that aforementioned Princess actually knows what a brothel is. That she stayed at one, inconceivable!", Lothíriel laughed hysterically.
"Your innocence might have been tarnished, Lady!".
"I was held captive for three days, was brutally beaten and narrowly escaped rape, but oh the horror of staying at a brothel!", she exclaimed, and realized she was sobbing and no longer laughing.
Saehild moved closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "That he'd ask us to close… I think it was a very considerate, sweet, loving thing to do".
"It was", she sniffled, "he… he is my everything, truly. I don't even know why I'm here and not upstairs with him, I-I just…".
"There's nothing wrong with feeling restless and confused, Lady. Wounds take time to heal".
Author's notes: here's a new chapter! Length-wise, I realize I should have probably split it into two instalments, but it just felt better this way. Though Lothíriel's captivity was relatively short, it was surely traumatic, and I could not see her sliding effortlessly back into Éomer's arms and her old life as if nothing had happened. She's hurt, conflicted, realizes that being head over heels in love with Éomer is just not enough to secure them and their people a bright future and that they have committed terrible mistakes in eradicating the snitches out of their home. After the initial relief of being reunited with Éomer, she's been on a rollercoaster of emotions, which I think is understandable. Both she and Éomer are right about Théocanstan, and we'll see how that plays out.
Erchirion is still fighting for his life, and I truly enjoyed writing from Amrothos' perspective.
As per Azure, I based her on a very well-known Italian folktale, that of Guendalina, daughter of Ugoccione di Montebello, also known as Azzurrina. Her story is pretty much what I explained in this chapter, except that she was born in 1370 in Italy.
SwanKnightoftheNorth: I think I know which story you mean, but don't worry: I never meant to go down that road. At first, I meant to cut the chapter differently so that there would have been a cliff-hanger on that scene, but that also felt uncomfortable. You now know who her saviour is and by the look of it, he'll be part of Lothíriel's life… Thank you for your amazing review!
xXMizz Alec VolturiXx: I admit it was satisfying to write the scene of Trewyn's death after all she has done! Amrothos did exactly that and managed to save his brother from drowning, but unfortunately he's not out of the woods yet…
Rho67: to my defence, I had initially intended to end the chapter on Zarn assaulting Lothíriel, which would have been a way meaner cliff-hanger! And yes, absolutely well done and so happy you noticed the reference to Théocanstan back in chapter 16! Unfortunately, in rescuing Lothíriel he has lost everything, but she is determined to give him a deserved fresh start. At some point I believe I briefly considered the idea of Lothíriel and Éomer being separated until after the war, but decided otherwise. In spite of how out of his mind Éomer has been since Lothíriel's disappearance, he managed to remain calm through the all ordeal and never made bold, hasty moves. Until he saw Cedarn strangling his wife but well, I guess it's understandable he'd react that way and serve him a fitting end. Poor Erchirion is still in danger and while Amrothos acted coolly with his father, he's worried sick and not really the callous fool people think… Again, thank you for your lovely reviews!
Fabi Washu: Lothíriel wouldn't really stand a chance in a fight, but like Elfda taught her, she tricked Trewyn into thinking she posed no danger and sized her chance to get rid of her. She surely wouldn't have been able to deliver a fatal blow to a man, but a woman was within her reach and while it's true she had been drugged and tied, people can be surprisingly resourceful when caught in desperate, hopeless circumstances. The saviour happens to be an outcast and I am actually quite fond of his character. Be well and thank you for your review!
Wondereye: Beyrith has been through enough, I really didn't want anything worse to happen to her. In spite of being out of sorts in the previous chapter, Éomer has managed to remain calm in this one. During the pursuit, he never gave in to his temper and weighed his moves carefully. Ultimately, he snapped upon seeing Cedarn trying to kill Lothíriel, but well: enough is enough and the man deserved it.
Katia0203: took a bit longer for this update because it turned out to be an insanely long one, but I hope you liked it! Definitely more action and drama, some happy reunions and as for Erchirion, we shall see… :)