Happy summer everyone!

Get vaccinated, leave a review if you like, and (for any readers on the east coast like me) watch out for cicadas. I'm living in the heart of Brood X territory and it is Not Fun.

Chapter 24: Repeat Offender

"Poor dear, what horrors she must have been through!"

"Never seen a refugee arrive alone before. And with such odd clothes, too—imagine, wandering across the Mark in a pair of trousers!"

Despite the guards' caution, my arrival in the middle of the night had woken several of the maidservants, who now bustled around gathering spare clothes for me and gossiping in a jumbled mixture of Rohirric and Westron.

I sank deeper into the chilly bathwater, scrubbing self-consciously at my skin. Despite myself, I couldn't help but stare at the maidservants over the lip of the metal tub. I hadn't seen a human woman since July, and for a moment they seemed as alien to me as the elves had when I first arrived in Rivendell. Most of them were blonde, their hair as bright and gold as Eomer's, and they wore nightgowns of plain, undyed wool. I couldn't help but wonder what they might have looked like if they were from my world, dressed in t-shirts and leggings, their hair in messy buns rather than braids and nightcaps. God, I missed home.

"I hope you'll forgive the cold water, miss—Beatrice, was it?" One of the younger maids addressed me, her voice groggy with interrupted sleep. "Tis nearly midnight, far too late to start the fires and heat some bathwater, not without waking the whole household."

"Just B-b-bee is fine," I replied, trying to keep my teeth from chattering as she combed a sweet-smelling oil through my hair, then poured a pan of water over my head to rinse it out—the bathtub was too small for me to wash my own hair properly. This was certainly a far cry from the luxuries of Rivendell or the otherworldly comfort of Lothlorien, but I was just happy to get clean again. "And it's no problem. I'm really sorry for waking y'all up," I added lamely.

"Pah!" The white-haired housekeeper, Wulfrun, huffed and put her hands on her hips. "Do not speak of it; goodness knows you need all the help you can get." She turned to the maid combing my hair. "Griyr, you lazy girl, where's that medicine? The poor thing looks as though she's been thrown from a horse." Griyr dropped the comb in fright and dashed off to obey.

When I was finally clean, Wulfrun slathered some foul-smelling ointment onto the cuts on my back and legs from the Uruk-hai's whips. Her hands were calloused and none too gentle, but she sighed pityingly as she wrapped a nightcap around my damp hair. "There now—can't have you catching a cold."

"Thank you," I told her. "And look, about me being here—"

"Yes, yes," the housekeeper said, waving off my words with an impatient hand. "The guards made clear to me that your staying here should be kept quiet. My girls may be gossips, but they're below Wormtongue's notice, thank goodness." She spoke his name in a whisper, as though worried he might hear her through the wooden walls. I shuddered. "Now then, get to bed—you will share with Griyr tonight."

I obeyed, climbing into bed alongside the young maidservant, who waved sleepily at me before rolling over and drifting off again. Uneasily, I curled up under the thin covers and squeezed my eyes shut.

I was separated from every single member of the Fellowship for the first time in over two months. I'd gotten so used to their companionship that their absence gnawed at me in the dark, and I was reminded forcibly of those first nights I'd spent in Middle Earth, trapped in that cell in Isengard, as the knowledge that I'd been separated from everyone I'd ever known pressed down on me.

Exhausted as I was, it took me a long time to fall asleep.

It was after noon when I finally woke up. The other maids had gotten up and begun their duties hours ago, leaving me for dead under the covers as I slept off the most grueling two days of my life.

I sat up, my head spinning and my tongue thick in my mouth. Wulfrun was the only person left in the servants' quarters: glancing up from an enormous pile of trade receipts, she raised a stern eyebrow in greeting, looking as though she thoroughly disapproved of my sleeping habits.

I rubbed at my eyes—I didn't feel rested at all. My dreams had been a flurry of horrors, one after another: the jeering shouts of Uruk-hai, a sword swinging at me in a burning arc of cold iron, the echoing call of a horn cut short by a hail of arrows, then everything being consumed by a storm of dark wings sweeping around an obsidian tower, as black as Saruman's cold eyes—

Stop it, Bee! I shuddered, trying to shake off a lingering feeling of dread. Forcing myself up, I splashed my face in the washbasin near my bed and struggled into the spare maid's uniform that had been set aside for me. I glanced out one of the little windows surreptitiously—was it just my imagination that a shock of black wings had just flown out of sight?

The afternoon inched by. Wulfrun finally got sick of me sitting around aimlessly and barked at me to help with some chores. Reminded unpleasantly of Mistress Halthel, I obeyed, straightening the beds and gathering some laundry, eager to do anything I could to feel useful. Still, it didn't help take my mind off of the Fellowship, of poor Alfric in the infirmary, of Saruman's gaze falling on me.

As I worked, a lingering feeling of being watched was settling over me like dust, and I paced around the rooms, trying and failing to brush it off. Servants came and went every now and again, receiving orders from Wulfrun or fetching cleaning supplies from the storerooms, and each time the door opened I nearly jumped out of my skin in fright, my nerves worn to the breaking point.

Wulfrun seemed to share my anxiety. When a steady knock sounded at the drawing room door, she let out a little squeak before clearing her throat and going to answer it.

"Good day, Wulfrun." A tall young woman entered the servants' quarters, her deep green dress rustling through the door. "Have you any chamomile to spare?"

"Oh!" The older woman dropped into a deep curtsey. "No, my lady. Did you not ask the kitchens?"

She shook her head, long blonde hair waving about her shoulders. "They have had none for weeks."

"Pah!" Wulfrun snorted under her breath. "Of course not. Used to get regular shipments from Gondor, we did, but with our borders closed…"

"Yes, but have you nothing that might substitute?" the woman prompted stiffly. "Theoden King seemed—especially unwell today."

"Of course, of course. Mint we have, my lady, and lavender. Either might be of some good."

The woman considered her offer—then her eyes turned to me, wary and startlingly blue. "We have taken on no new servants," she said pointedly. "Who is this, Wulfrun?"

Smoothing down my skirts, I approached them and offered the woman my hand. "Hi, I'm Bee—"

"Goodness, girl! Were you raised by wargs?" The housekeeper slapped my proffered hand and glared at me. "Bee, this is the Lady Eowyn, niece of Theoden King. I am sorry, my lady, she does not know our customs."

I dropped my hand like a stone, my face heating up. "Oh, I'm sorry, my lady." I should've known she was someone important, given Wulfrun's sudden show of deference. Amarien had taught me to curtsey back in Rivendell, but it had been a while since I'd practiced, and I wound up stumbling over my shoes a bit as I bobbed my head to Eowyn. Wulfrun pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

"Well met, Bee." I couldn't read Eowyn's expression, but she didn't look angry, at least. "But if you are no servant, what are you doing here, and in a servant's dress?"

"She was brought here last night, my lady," Wulfrun said quickly, clearly not wanting me to stick my foot in my mouth again.

"Brought here? By whom?" A sharpness like ice entered her voice.

"One of the gatekeepers. Some of the house guards and menservants brought her in—all very quietly, you understand."

Eowyn relaxed almost immediately. "Then she is not…?"

"Quite the contrary, as far as I know."

They looked meaningfully at each other, and I raised an eyebrow, feeling more than a bit lost. Before I could interject, Eowyn straightened her shoulders and turned back to the housekeeper. "I thank you for the offer, Wulfrun. I will peruse your storerooms for some herbs."

"Very good, my lady," the housekeeper replied. "Bee, help the Lady Eowyn in her search, and for Bema's sake mind your manners."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, hurrying after Eowyn.

The storerooms consisted of a maze of pantries and cupboards near the washrooms, and I waited in silence as Eowyn rifled through baskets, jars, and hanging bundles of dried leaves.

"Can I do anything to help?"

"No. I thank you." Her voice was impassive.

"Oh. Okay." It felt rude to leave her alone, so I loitered awkwardly nearby, picking at the hem of my sleeves. "Wulfrun said you're the king's niece," I blurted at last. "Are you related to Lord Eomer?"

She looked up from the cupboards at last. "He is my brother. Do you know him?"

"Yes, I met him yesterday. I ran into his ey—eeor—"

"His eored?"

I nodded gratefully. "Yes, that."

"Then he is well? His mission was successful?" Eowyn asked stiffly. I wondered how difficult it must be for her, to have a family member constantly riding off into danger and having to wait days or weeks to receive word about their safety.

"He's fine," I assured her. "He and his soldiers saved my life." Her brow furrowed and she didn't reply, instead grabbing a bundle of mint and bringing it to a table in the corner, where she began to crush the leaves with a mortar and pestle. "He said he'd be coming to back Edoras soon," I added, as my words hadn't seemed to have given her much comfort.

"But what can Eomer hope to expect upon his return?" she said, more to herself than me. "He has disobeyed the king's orders." Her face darkened further, knuckles whitening on the pestle. When she spoke again, her voice was so quiet I almost didn't hear her. "Why does he return to Meduseld at all?"

The question startled me. "What do you mean?"

Eowyn's expression didn't alter, but she brought the pestle down on the mortar so violently that I expected the stone to crack under her hands. She looked so much like her brother, I thought, and yet not like him at all—Eomer had been loud and brash, brimming with impatience and anger and a hundred other emotions, but I struggled to imagine Eowyn voicing any similar feelings. They seemed to bubble under the surface, like a half-frozen river, their movements suppressed by a sheet of ice.

"My brother is free to leave this place," she bit out at last, "to make himself useful, to seek renown, like a great hero of old. Even if he must dare our uncle's disapproval to do it." The mint had already been beaten to a fine powder, but still Eowyn brought the pestle down over the leaves, unrelenting. "And yet he returns, as a bird to its cage."

I twisted my sleeves in my fingers, once again feeling out of my depth. But it seemed I'd been wrong, that it wasn't concern alone she'd felt when I'd mentioned Eomer. "Do you—resent him, then, for being able to leave?" I asked haltingly. She whipped around to face me, and I knew instantly that I'd overstepped. "I'm sorry," I blurted. "I—"

"I may begrudge Eomer many things," she said quietly, "but I know my duty." With cold grace, she gathered the mint into a cloth bag and swept away.

"Wait!" I exclaimed, following her out of the storerooms.

"Bema help me, girl!" As though summoned by my rudeness, Wulfrun reappeared at my side, whacking my hand again. "Forgive her, my lady. She should know better than to make demands of—"

Eowyn waved her words aside bitterly and turned to the door. "It is no matter. I thank you, Wulfrun, for your help."

"Wait," I blurted again, then dodged another slap from Wulfrun. "Can I ask—I mean, my lady, if it's not too much—"

Wulfrun looked as though she might faint, but Eowyn merely raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Well, my friend Alfric—he's part of your brother's ayo—ero—"

"Eored," she corrected me again.

"Yes that—he brought me here last night, and he's been badly injured. I want to make sure he's doing alright. Do you think you could check on him, or send someone to check on him, if you can't yourself?"

"I will do what I can," Eowyn said at last.

"Thank you." I let out a heavy sigh. It was better than nothing, I supposed. Still, I couldn't feel very relieved; the familiar feeling of being watched was growing greater with each passing second; the air was thick with it, prickling at my skin like chips of ice. I glanced instinctively at the window again, half-expecting to see a flurry of black wings—

"Perhaps you might seek the healers' help with your uncle, my lady, if he is as unwell today as you say," Wulfric was saying.

Eowyn frowned and looked away. "My uncle was speaking more just hours ago than I have heard in weeks. More, indeed, than when I gave him the news of—of Theodred."

"The king is speaking with you again, my lady?" Wulfrun said uncomfortably. "That is something to be glad of at least, eh?"

"No. He speaks with none but Wormtongue. Scarcely does he seem to recognize—" She broke off and cleared her throat. "Whatever they were discussing, my uncle was so…animated. Angry, eager, triumphant—I would have been glad to see such spirit in him again, but it left me cold. He was not himself; he did not see me."

"What were they talking about?" I asked nervously, then winced at another glare from Wulfrun. "Uh—if I may, my lady."

Her frown deepened. "I heard little of it. My uncle mentioned red fire, and a witch—of course it made little sense to me, though I thought perhaps he referred to the attacks in the Westfold—"

Her words suddenly seemed to come from far away, and I took a step back. Red fire—my flare? Could it have been visible all the way in Isengard? I could see it all unfolding, horror welling in my chest: the maids and guards letting slip the strange refugee girl hiding away in the servants' rooms, Wormtongue hearing about the flare gun, putting two and two together—

"Bee?" Wulfrun said sharply. "What is it? Are you well?"

Another knock sounded at the door, reverberating dully along the worn wood. All three of us jumped. Dread writhed like black wings in my stomach, and my eyes darted to the windows, looking uselessly for an escape.

The housekeeper glanced meaningfully at Eowyn as she went to the door, though it swung open before she reached it.

"My—my lord! To what do we owe this visit?" Wulfrun asked with a reluctant curtsey. Her frail hands twisted in her skirts.

"Stand aside, woman." Two armed guards swept past her into the drawing room, followed by a pale man, his thin frame swallowed up by a black cloak and furs. Without a word Eowyn moved to stand beside me, shoulder to shoulder. I glanced at her nervously, but her face was impassive, carved from ice.

I looked at the man, trying not to panic. I didn't need an introduction—Eowyn's and Wulfrun's reactions told me enough. Wormtongue. The nickname was so sinister, but it felt redundant given how creepy he looked. Sallow skin, greasy hair, beady eyes—I could practically see him hunched over a church organ playing Bach's 'Toccata in Fugue,' with some thunderclaps in the background for good measure.

"Beatrice Smith." Even the man's voice was unpleasant, slimy and cold and hushed.

I didn't respond—I wasn't sure how. How had he known my name? My full name, which I hadn't given to anyone in the Riddermark? The Fellowship had known my last name, of course, as had Elrond and Amarien and Bilbo—and Saruman.

He studied me silently for a moment longer, before rounding on Wulfrun. "Why was I not told of her arrival at once?" he hissed.

Wulfrun drew herself up to her not very impressive height and took a deep breath. "It is not the duty of the household staff to report our every doing to the crown, my lord. I presumed, when we received her, that you had already been informed of it."

Wormtongue's lip curled. "And you?" Slowly, he turned to Eowyn, a sneer crawling across his face. Despite being taller and broader than him, Eowyn suddenly looked small, diminished, and though she met his gaze evenly, her fists trembled at her sides. "Have you been conspiring with a traitor as well, my lady?" His eyes roved over her greedily, and I felt the sudden urge to slap him.

Eowyn's voice was barely a whisper. "Do not accuse me of such things. My duty is to my uncle, as you well know."

"What do you mean, conspiring with a traitor?" I blurted.

He tore his eyes from Eowyn at last. "I know who you are, girl."

"You don't know a thing about me."

"You are a witch," he said. "Do you deny it?"

I bristled. "Yes, I deny it!"

Wormtongue spun around, his black cloak rustling, and beckoned one of his guards. "Search her things," he ordered. "Wulfrun?"

The housekeeper jumped like a frightened hare. "Under the pillow there, my lord," she said reluctantly, pointing to where I'd stashed the plastic gun and two flares. She sent me an apologetic look as the guard passed them to Wormtongue as though handling live bombs.

"Not only a witch, but insolent and deceitful as well," Wormtongue said, pale eyes glittering triumphantly. "You are harboring magic under the very roof of Meduseld! And worst of all," he continued, stepping closer to me. "You intend harm to Theoden King. Do you deny that as well?"

"What?" I exclaimed. "Yes, completely!"

Eowyn's mouth tightened. "What proof have you of this claim?" she asked quietly.

"Her magic is not proof enough for you?"

"You speak of magic and witchcraft, but I have seen no evidence of it."

"Then know this, my lady," he hissed. "This witch has committed treason against the Riddermark and its people." He gestured sharply to his guards, who stepped forward and gripped my shoulders, hard enough to bruise. I cried out, twisting in their grip to send a panicked look Eowyn's way. "Beatrice Smith," Wormtongue announced, jutting out his pale chin in triumph, "you are charged with conspiring to murder Theoden King. You are charged with witchcraft and treason. And you are charged with the murder of Alfric, son of Alsige, warrior of the Riddermark."

His voice was quiet, but he may as well have shouted the words. "What?" I gasped, straining uselessly in the guards' grip, my blood turning to ice. "Murder? No—he can't be—"

"You need not feign surprise, witch. After all, he died by your hand."

"No!" I insisted, unable to stop tears from welling up, blurring my vision. He was dead? He'd been so certain of survival—could his wound really have been that severe? Excessive blood loss, some fast-acting infection? Had he gone into shock or something? I didn't believe it for a moment—whatever had killed him, it hadn't been the gunshot to his leg.

Clearly Eowyn didn't believe it either. "I will speak to the healers at once," she said, straightening her shoulders. "They will confirm how his death came about."

"Ah, but who can say what the healers might glean from a murder inflicted by witchcraft?"

"No!" I demanded again, helplessly. "No—"

Wormtongue's lip curled into a cruel smile. "Alfric would have lived, if not for your influence." He said it with such certainty—and I couldn't bring myself to deny it.

"The Lady Eowyn will speak with her uncle," Wulfrun broke in, swishing her skirts in her hands helplessly. "The king will—"

"You forget your place, housekeeper," Wormtongue spat. "But by all means, my lady," he went on softly, "do bring this matter to the king. What will he say in this girl's defense, I wonder?"

Eowyn didn't reply, though her features—which for a moment had been so spirited, like her brother's—settled back into a deep chill. Her gaze fell to the ground, and I knew there was nothing she could do.

"It is well that you understand, my lady," Wormtongue told her, beckoning for his guards to lead me out the door. "Your uncle would say nothing in her defense, for he has sentenced her to imprisonment himself."

And so I was led from the servants' quarters, out of the Golden Hall, into a low-ceilinged building some distance away. I wasn't sure where—I didn't look up, didn't pay attention. I was numb. I couldn't summon the strength to struggle or argue my case—I couldn't even stop myself from losing my footing as the guards bustled me into a prison cell, locking the heavy iron door behind me.

I blinked listlessly at my new surroundings. Damp, matted straw covering the ground, clammy stone walls, and the only source of light a missing stone near the ceiling, too high for me to see out of. For a long while I stood in the center of the cell, overwhelmed. It was so quiet, so still.

Alfric was dead.

At last the tears came in earnest. I had never felt so helpless, so powerless in my life. I kicked uselessly at the bars of my cell, rage pounding through my skull. I couldn't protect anyone I cared about, not the hobbits, not Boromir, not poor Alfric. I was never going to see any of my friends again, and I was never going to get back home.

I knew I wouldn't be in this cell for long. Wormtongue would have me carted off to Isengard as soon as he could arrange it. It was probably only a matter of days. I kicked at the bars again, the metal jarring painfully through my worn maidservant's shoes. I don't want to go back there. The thought was frightened and childish, but I couldn't help it. Saruman had taken so much from me, and I was more afraid of him than anything in the world—and now he'd found me again. He'd found me, and now Alfric would never see his son grow up to join an eored, or see his daughter start a family with her new husband, or…

My shoulders shook as violent sobs wracked my body, and a horrible thought was worming its way into my mind.

If I had just taken the Ring, none of this would have happened.

My stomach heaved, but I couldn't take the thought back now that it had come. I had thought I'd been free of it, that it had all gone away by the time we'd reached Lothlorien, but it seemed I was powerless against this too. Maybe I was naïve to think I could escape it so easily. Maybe I would never escape from it, not entirely.

I had thought denying the Ring, choosing to wait to find a way home, would help my friends. That by staying here longer, I could be of some use, I could protect them from harm. But clearly I was wrong. How foolish I had been, thinking I could protect anyone in Middle Earth. The last week had consisted of nothing more than me being ferried uselessly from one danger to another, from orcs to the Rohirrim to this prison cell, each day dragging me farther and farther from everyone I knew and loved.

If I had just taken it, Alfric would be reunited with his wife and children, Boromir would be unharmed, the hobbits would be safe and heading back to the Shire. And I would be home.

"Stop it," I told myself weakly. I sank down to the ground, resting my back against the cold wall and pressing my face to my knees. You let the Ring go. It's useless thinking of it now.

My thoughts did little to comfort me. I curled up on the filthy ground, stewing in self-loathing and misery, and eventually I slept.

When I awoke, pale gray light was streaming into my cell. It must be morning—I was certainly hungry enough, and pieces of straw were embedded into my hair and dress from a long and restless sleep.

In all that time, no one had come to bring me food or water, and I rubbed at my aching stomach miserably, wondering how it was possible that I'd been better fed in a prison cell in Isengard than here. I supposed I had Einar to thank for that, I thought with a sigh. He'd been the very first person to show me any kindness in Middle Earth. Was he dead too, by Saruman's hand? Einar was so young, so painfully shy—the wizard must have learned that he'd helped me escape. How long could he have lived after that? I had the odd thought that Alfric would have liked him. Perhaps he would have taken the poor stammering boy from Dunland under his wing.

I chuckled at the thought, and then I was crying again, my throat raw and head aching.

"Hello?"

I jumped, wiping at my eyes. "What? Who's there?" I stood and squinted through the iron bars of my cell. I couldn't make out the speaker, who seemed to be in a cell far to my right.

"What the—Beatrice?"

I recognized the incredulous tone at once. "Lord Eomer?"

He sighed. "I had not expected to meet you again under such circumstances, Beatrice, daughter of Karen and Ted."

I laughed humorlessly—or I tried to. My throat was too dry from crying, and all I managed was a cough. "How long have you been in here?" I asked at last.

"An hour, perhaps, not more. I am surprised you did not hear my men bring me in." His voice was bitter.

"But I don't understand," I exclaimed. "Why did they imprison you? Aren't you the king's nephew?"

"I am," Eomer snapped, and I could practically hear his teeth grinding together. I winced—why did I always say the wrong thing to him? "It seems I have disobeyed one order too many. Alfric may have informed you of—"

"Alfric is dead," I said quickly, hardly able to stomach the words. Saying it out loud made it all the more real, and I raised my eyes to the ceiling, not wanting Eomer to hear me cry again. "I'm so sorry—"

"I know. He was poisoned, I believe, while resting in the infirmary. Grima Wormtongue seemed especially eager to inform me of it." He sighed. "When last we spoke, I said you would answer to me if anything happened to Alfric," he added, and I flinched. "I was cruel to put such a weight on your shoulders. I should have seen that such a promise was not in your power to keep."

Helpless fury coursed through me, and I kicked at the bars again. "I wish it was in my power," I said, my shoulders shaking. "I wish I was a sorceress, or a witch, like everyone keeps saying, that I could just—just cast a spell and protect the people I care about. But I'm not, and I can't—and I'm sorry."

"You would be better served without such magic," he said sourly. "As would we all. But you must know you have nothing to apologize for."

"It doesn't feel that way."

"You blame yourself. But the fault is mine. If Theodred and I had seen Wormtongue's intentions earlier, worked harder to heal my uncle—how slowly it all seemed to happen, and yet how quickly."

"Alfric said Wormtongue has been influencing the king for a year at least," I said. "You couldn't have recognized Saruman's influence right away."

Eomer snorted, and we sat in silence for a long while. "How much has changed in that year," he muttered at last. "Little do I even recognize the Golden Hall now. There was a time, I can assure you, when you would have received help and comfort in my uncle's halls, rather than a prison cell." He sighed. "Your friends, at least, are hard on your heels."

It took a moment for his words to sink in. "They are? What do you mean?"

"A Ranger, Aragorn, waylaid my eored not half a day after I sent you and Alfric off to Edoras. An elf was with him too—Legolas, I believe his name was."

Joy burst through my chest—then I hesitated. "Wait, it was just the two of them?" I exclaimed. "There wasn't anyone else with them? What did they say, what happened?"

"Your friends explained their search to me, their mad dash from the Anduin in search of you and your hobbits." Eomer sighed again, begrudgingly. "For indeed the hobbits were real. I should not have doubted your words. I saw those strange weapons myself and should have realized more magic was afoot."

I rolled my eyes—I was still pissed, but who cared about that now? "Oh, that doesn't matter anymore, just tell me what happened, please!"

"I offered Aragorn and Legolas two of our horses whose riders were slain by the Uruk-hai. They accepted them, but made a strange request of me: Aragorn explained that two others were following behind them—"

"Really?"

He cleared his throat, obviously annoyed at being interrupted. "He explained that one of their companions, Boromir of Gondor, had been sorely wounded some days earlier. Aragorn had done what little he could for him in the wilderness, but they could not afford to lose the Uruks' trail by remaining with him, so they parted ways. Aragorn and the elf set off on your trail, while Boromir followed at a slower pace, accompanied by a dwarf—ah, I do not recall his name."

"So they're alive!" I exclaimed, my voice breaking. "Boromir and Gimli—they're alright too?"

"As of several days ago, yes, your friends were alive and well. Perhaps not entirely well, in Boromir's case," he amended, "but alive."

"They're alive," I gasped, sliding to the ground in a half-laughing, half-crying heap. "They're alive."

Eomer allowed me a moment or two to gather myself. "In any case, Aragorn made a strange request before departing in pursuit of your hobbits," he told me. "They asked that one of our horses be sent out to retrieve your injured companion."

"Can your horses do that? Find Boromir and Gimli in the wilderness, I mean?"

He snorted. "If any horses can do so, it is those of the Rohirrim. But I did have my doubts; your man and dwarf were at least a day's hard run behind Aragorn, and I did not wish to send one of our steeds blindly into the plains. But your elven friend, Legolas, did something odd: he spoke to the horse, Hasufel, in a strange language—cast a glamour over the beast, or perhaps gave it an instruction in his own tongue, I know not—and then assured us that Hasufel would find Boromir and Gimli as quickly as may be."

Eomer paused, and I could tell he was scowling. "I do not hold with such witchcraft," he assured me, as though not wanting me to get the wrong idea, "but the horses did seem to take kindly to the elf, and it seemed the best course of action to send a mount for your friends. I have met the Captain of Gondor many times, and was loath to leave him wandering injured in the wilds, if we were capable of giving him aid. And so Hasufel was sent away to the northeast in pursuit. Aragorn left a note within the saddlebags instructing your friends to ride for Edoras, where you might all be reunited ere long."

"Then they're coming here? All of them?"

"If all goes to plan, Boromir and Gimli, at least, will ride for Edoras. Aragorn was determined to find your hobbits before coming to Meduseld. I know not if they will succeed, or where their search will take them. However, I bid them come to Edoras as soon as they could, to return their steeds and give whatever aid they could against the White Wizard."

I nodded, too overcome with emotion to speak. I wasn't happy, exactly—I couldn't be—but for the first time in days, I allowed myself to hope.

"Now," Eomer said at last, "it seems we can do nothing but wait."

I'm sorry about Alfric—y'all really seemed to like him! I'll take it as a compliment, since it was a bit of a writing experiment in how much personality I could convey in what was ultimately just a few conversations and scenes. I had meant for him to live at least a little while longer, but then I figured if Wormtongue was really going to go after Bee like that, there was no way he'd leave Alfric alone.

But hey, at least a reunion is coming up!