After they'd received a message from Minas Tirith that ruined Tarisilya's day for good, the plan got changed for the third time.

On the bright side, that also meant that she could accompany her husband and his father at least part of the way while their children would spend a few more days with their favorite uncles in the city, and Thondrar and Camhanar would keep an eye on the settlement.

It wasn't the most ideal solution but Tarisilya rather let herself be locked up in the back of a carriage to watch a patient on a three days journey whose condition was definitely not even remotely good enough for that than leave him alone.

Not least because in spite of all reluctance, she could understand Éomer. No matter how battered he still was, he couldn't wait any longer. The last enemies at the Hornburg had been chased away; his people had returned to Edoras. And that was where his presence was the only thing missing for a funeral to happen that had been waiting for far too long already. Besides, even though it was completely written in the stars right now if Éomer would ever be even remotely able to fight again himself: He had to deploy the soldiers at least and be there for those who would keep on hunting the remaining hostile goblins and orcs now with his decade-long experience.

Regarding the remaining hostile group of men on the other hand, in a few years, there would hopefully be another, maybe this time a successful attempt of approaching them after the final fall of Mordor. Tarisilya did envy neither the King nor Aragorn for this duty.

During most of the drive, her patient was asleep, bedded on the broad leather bench as softly as possible, and as pain-free as Tarisilya could make him be with the limited means on a journey; accordingly, there was little time for conversations.

When she could be certain that the King was lost in his dreams deeply enough and that they weren't too bad either, Tarisilya also allowed herself some rest that she hadn't had much of in the last few weeks.

The few short breaks they took, she used to spend time with her beloved mare for the last time. She was sitting by the wayside with the animal for hours, together with Legolas, sharing the memories of her journeys through Middle-earth with her horse with him and his father and crying on her husband's shoulder when Manyala put her head in her lap and searched in her belt for treats playfully which she hadn't done in years.

At some point, it didn't hurt that badly anymore.

Rested enough for the next weeks of intensive treatment ahead of her, she finally got out of the carriage upon their arrival in Meduseld to give her patient a few minutes alone so that he could get somewhat decent, stopping his approaching soldiers with a pleading gesture.

Driving towards the Golden Hall on the steep, uneven roads, with all these tremors, had tortured the King badly once more thanks to his various fractures. He would need a moment to recollect himself.

In the meantime, Tarisilya briefly hugged her husband for a last time while his father unhitched the horses and saddled them. No more words; they'd exchanged enough of those.

She only stepped up to Thranduil for another moment, when he was already sitting on her mare, moving a lot easier this time than when he'd tried the same at Cair Andros. Now, Tarisilya was comfortable enough, leaving him out of her sight on the last short stretch of the way to Eryn Lasgalen. Only fleetingly did she put her hand on his that was gripping the saddle horn. "Would it be too impertinent, to ask you to say hello to Lady Galadriel for me?"

"The Lady won't give me a minute of silence before she learned everything about what happened to you since her departure in detail anyway. I will see you soon, Ilya." Thranduil patted her hand, with that usual sardonic grin that he was already getting quite good at again, and waved his son close.

Then they were gone, just like that.

"That was unbelievably courageous of you, Ilya." A still quite weak arm was wrapped around her waist. A shoulder that she could lean against until the horses were out of sight, pressed against hers.

Tarisilya had been there one or two times when Éomer had lost one of his animals to sickness, injury, or age. But she didn't think, she'd ever seen him feel so much deeply rooted sadness before, as he did now when he was watching the mare leave that had given him so many strong foals. But it wouldn't even have entered his mind to persuade Tarisilya to change her mind; especially because of that.

"She deserves it. I just wish I could have taken her for a last hunt through the Fold."

She couldn't remember his voice ever trembling like that in her presence. It broke her heart, to see his eyes graze all the animals of his soldiers scattered in the courtyard, seeing his shoulders slump under the men's pitying glances at his completely disfigured arm.

"She has many children in these lands, Your Majesty, who will be just as happy about you showing them their home in a few years. Come on now."

Tarisilya didn't even give him a chance to object. She stepped away from him discreetly before the rumors at his court about an affair between the two of them would possibly start again. Though Legolas could laugh about things like that just as heartily as she did these days: There was no need to be asking for it.

"Rest a little. Let them give you a first report if you must, but please go to bed early. We'll immediately start the next session in the morning. In a few weeks, things will already look a lot different." Another of these reaffirmations that she'd already been pestering him with it for days, unsuccessfully.

So shortly after such an experience as traumatic as this kidnapping, she couldn't even expect a man as steadfast as him to have an open ear for rationality. "You mean well, Ilya, but we both know, that arm has already been a ruin before this. I will never sit on a horse again."

"I told you, I heard the deafening noise of concentrated self-pity enter the courtyard," a voice behind them remarked.

When Tarisilya turned her head, annoyed about these disrespectful words, she had to smile. So that was why Éomer's son hadn't shown up yet so far. He was leading a mare by her headcollar that was almost a copy of Tarisilya's. Only the strength in her legs and the slightly short neck was something her grandfather Brego had passed on to her. A foal was walking next to her that couldn't be older than a few days.

"May I introduce you? Our new arrival. The other foal is still a little weak, but it will soon be standing on its feet as well. When the time for the attack drew closer, we had to leave the two pregnant mares in the wilderness. I actually thought we'd never see them again. But when we came back from Helm's Deep, they were already waiting here for us."

Elfwine's expression darkened quickly; the mention of the battle in which his closest caregiver had been one of the few persons to lose her life, had the façade of composure collapse.

Only his father's clumsy embrace helped him stop hiding his face in the mare's thick fur, to take a deep breath and point at the newborn again, with a weak smile. "She doesn't have a name yet." In the despair of loss, accepting a new challenge that the Valar put before you was sometimes the only comfort.

For the still so young King's son, the enhanced duties waiting for him now were this challenge, and apparently, he wanted to make sure likewise, just minutes after their reunion already, that he wouldn't belatedly lose his father to this crisis after all.

With Tarisilya's help, Éomer knelt down next to the young animal, his eyes now glistening conspicuously, too. When he made it to use his right arm for a brief caress over the foal's neck, in spite of the pain, out of habit already, the fingers of this hand that he'd already written off as completely unusable, were twitching. Just the tiniest bit, but it had happened.

"Once she's ready to carry you, you will be as well. Some injuries just take time." This time, Tarisilya had the feeling, Éomer could believe her. And especially that he would know, she hadn't just been talking about his arm.

She discreetly retired to the inside of the palace when the King embraced his son again, harder this time not giving a damn about the audience, supporting Elfwine for the first time when his son started to cry his pain and his despair about losing his mother away.

When Tarisilya washed up in Rohan once more a few months later, it also happened without much planning, and this time, she wouldn't be alone on her trip.

The first few weeks after Legolas' return from Mithlond, they had spent exclusivity in each other's arms or together with their children, in the woods outside the settlement. That had been when her husband had quickly realized that the restlessness concerning the King didn't let go of Tarisilya. It had been him, in fact, who had gently but firmly persuaded her to go look after Éomer once more. After all this time, he sometimes just knew her better than she did herself.

The idea was convenient. After all, there had been someone in Minas Tirith for some time now, who had more or less openly implied that she hadn't been in the neighboring realm for far too long at each of the dinners that their small circle was regularly having together …

This time, Tarisilya was riding a horse because she had once more not been in the saddle for far too long anyway. Tercelborne could use the exercise. She didn't take it for granted at all that Éomer had given the Mearh-stallion that she had already grown so fond of after the war to her for good after she had let Manyala go. The horse was another reason for taking on this journey only too gladly because she was realizing more by the day that the animal was missing its home in spite of all his affection for her. He would in any case not make the journey across the sea with her when it would be time.

Thondrar was her only escort this time. And even that was actually completely exaggerated now that more and more of the last hostile black creatures – not least thanks to the help of Faramir's Rangers and Aragorn's Dúnedain – were being wiped out in Gondor's neighboring realm as well.

Legolas had faced his worst fear not too long ago, by leaving Tarisilya to the protection of his closest friends basically in the middle of Mordor. That had given him a kind of inner peace in this regard that Tarisilya hadn't dared to hope for. He knew now that she would always come back to him.

But her bodyguard could use a change of scenery. A few exhausting training duels with the soldiers of Rohan who were less squeamish than the ones in Minas Tirith by nature would help chase away his occasional melancholy from the events at the Marshes.

Besides, Tarisilya hoped that Thondrar would be able to help the King a little with the tedious reactivation of nerve pathways and muscles that did no longer react as they'd used to. He did have enough experience with that after all. And as absurd as it was: Since the battle at the Gate, Thondrar could use his own paralyzed arm a bit better again by the month. It was almost as if the healing solution that had finally put an end to this terrible place had drawn out the last poison of Ithilien from his body as well.

Tarisilya couldn't remember a time when she had heard him laugh as often as he did recently.

Therefore, she didn't have a bad conscience, leaving him and her other travel companion alone to take care of the horses upon their arrival. She herself walked straight into the low building with the golden roof that was still so splendid, in spite of all the damage from the wars.

A certain King's son was leading the way who was visibly being in a hurry as he had actually just meant to go for a ride with his Éored. Tarisilya had a vague but unmistakable suspicion, the men would have royal female company on today's patrol ride through the Fold, given how badly the boy wanted to get back to this job that was actually rather dull in times of peace.

"Please don't be too disappointed, Your Highness. I'll be back in the evening at the latest. Then I'll show you our newcomers and our progress. The yearlings missed you. They're already getting far too cocky again." The Prince bowed politely as he was saying goodbye and stared at the half-open door to Éomer's chambers for a moment as if he wanted nothing more but to tear it from its hinges before he hurried back to the entrance.

Tarisilya only understood what he'd been talking about when she entered the living chambers, approached the connecting door to another bedroom, and saw the King standing in front of an open cabinet. "Your Majesty."

"I'm sorry, Ilya. You were faster than I expected."

Éomer looked as if he had to wake himself up from a bad dream first before he turned to her. Tarisilya was shocked to see that the clothes on his back were almost baggy from how thin he had become. His hair could have done with a proper cut again too and had completely greyed now at last. No, his mental condition had definitely not improved at all. "I would have welcomed you myself of course …"

"Your son is already being just as good at that as you are. And he wants to spend time with the Crown Princess of Gondor first anyway," she added with a conspiratorial wink. "We'd only be in the way there. Am I being in your way?"

"You're the last person in these realms who ever could."

After bowing his head towards her, a gesture that looked very absent today, Éomer turned to the cabinet again. "I could never bring myself to even start doing this, but Prince Imrahil asked me to. It's about high time that her old things find their way to her family in her old home."

"Do you need any help?" Tarisilya had seen immediately that the King was using his arm that was still so badly damaged more than he had not too long ago, but the big drops of sweat on his forehead and how he was startling again and again clearly revealed how much it was hurting him.

"No. This is something I have to do myself." With clenched teeth, Éomer reached for the next piece of clothing, a plain tight corset dress with a slightly flared skirt. "But I don't mind company if it is yours."

"You still know exactly what a she-elf wants to hear."

Tarisilya dropped onto a dusty chair by the window, folding her hands in her lap, and discreetly let her eyes wander over this big wardrobe that would never be used again. Most of what she could see were heavy colors, simple fabrics, and practical cuts, all of which she knew Éowyn to prefer in her spare time as well. "She wore almost only the fashion of your people, didn't she?" Which was a stark contrast especially to the King's sister who had never really adapted to the customs of Gondor and was accepting it, too, that many of her new folk resented her for that.

"Except for her hair, yes. She rarely wore it down. She always said she didn't want it to get caught on some hook in the stable and break her neck. People didn't mind. They loved her from the start. She was always a much better leader than I am."

"Éomer." With Elfwine's discouraged remark still at the back of her mind, she didn't even say anything more, for now, just this endlessly gentle, patient murmur of his name.

It helped to make him drop the at least extremely busy façade, and lower his arm which was already twitching with cramps. But he didn't manage to look at her. "You've always seen so much more in me than there was there, Ilya. Even if you'd been a free elf when we first met, asking you for your affection would never even have entered my mind. I couldn't be more unworthy of you if I tried."

"The only one who ever deemed you unworthy is you," Tarisilya replied mercilessly. "Your whole life, you've always only judged yourself by your mistakes because that was what you saw your uncle do. And your sister has been lost in her own pain about her unfulfilled yearning too much to support you. It's time you finally learn how to let go."

"How can I do that when I'm standing in here without shedding a tear even now?" he asked bitterly.

Another dress. A blouse with the same serrated stitching that a soldier's underclothing sported. A pile of riding breeches. Simple amber jewelry that Tarisilya knew from the few of the couple's wedding anniversaries that she had spent in this house. Neatly folded remains on a bed that hadn't been used in months, of a life that had ended far too quickly and had still left so many traces on the men it had been lived for, even on those who didn't realize that themselves.

"And yet you're paying your wife the respect you owe her even though it's tearing you apart, instead of letting one of her people do that. You're sending out your own son to hunt orcs because that's what he wants, although you would rather lock him up so that nothing happens to him as well."

She saw him startle but didn't pause, not even for a second. She had just been leaving last time already though he had known exactly, it had been too early. This time, she wouldn't give up. "You're still sitting on the throne although everyone would understand it if your condition limited you too much to do so, especially since Elfwine would long be ready to replace you. And you would have given your life for the Prince of a foreign realm without hesitation. Is it not time to realize that you're the one demanding the highest standards from yourself? Standards that you will never be able to fulfill?"

"How is Eldarion doing?"

Éomer wasn't ready yet to deal with her words but he'd at least sunk down onto the bed now, staring at his hands instead of the cabinet, at the right one that was so disfigured, with a hint of hate in his eyes that even after the death of this Dunlending in that cave he had never been able to get rid of. Hate on himself, too, because back then, these usually so capable, strong hands had failed for days to protect the son of someone, he'd once sworn fealty to.

That was a wrong that no one would ever be able to right but Tarisilya could at least try to make sure that these creatures wouldn't cause even more suffering than they already had.

"He will never forget what they did to him but the wound is slowly starting to close. And now he has my husband by his side again who'll stand by him as well as possible. He's training a lot; his arm is about to be ready for it again. But I don't think he'll be riding out with the soldiers much anytime soon. He's spending time with the Dúnedain almost every evening, and with the delegation from Arnor. After the Gathering of Arnor in the last battle, they're making good progress, negotiating the future of the realms with Aragorn. Langhour's daughter is with them almost every time, too. I'm guessing, Eldarion and she will leave Gondor for some time next year at the latest to start their training, together."

There was at least the hint of a smile on Éomer's full, pale lips. "Aragorn and Arwen can really be very proud of him."

"Are you not proud of your son?"

She couldn't stand sitting on that chair any longer. She had even less business being on this bed though, though. So after a brief moment of hesitation, she sat down on the ground in front of her old friend, firmly resting her hand on his knee. It had been quite some time since he'd been listening to her for so long at a stretch. If this burdening situation of finally coming clean about his marriage was maybe the only chance to get through to him, she had to seize it.

He, fortunately, didn't take her proximity, her gesture the wrong way. They had been past that for decades. "More than I could say. I just wish it wouldn't have to be his success as a warrior that I'm proud of. That he wouldn't be searching for serenity in battle like I used to, instead of courting an enchanting lady. I failed him, Ilya, him, and his mother. And although he loves me, I don't think that he'll ever forgive me that. Or that he even should."

It wasn't even that long since Tarisilya had thrown something like that in Éomer's face. She had never been more ashamed of her prejudice back then than right now. Sometimes, she still was really still far too young. As if this man had not already proven to her thousands of times that he was even more honorable, steadfast, and capable of suffering than some Firstborn.

"Your wife made her choice. Just like you did. And she stood by it all her life. And she died for the land that she fell in love with so much that she never looked back. You'd only fail her if you didn't respect that sacrifice."

For the first time, she thought that he could at least remotely understand what she was talking about. When he looked at the half-empty cabinet again, it didn't seem as if he wanted to go back there.

"Come on. Let her father do the rest when he arrives." Ilya got up and pulled Éomer up with him.

"Say, do you have any ale from Dol Amroth here?"

She led him to the grave field outside the city by a road different from the traditional one so they wouldn't be stopped by dozens of his men. Upon arriving at the last of the barrows raised that was still bearing the typical snow-white Simbelmynë-blossoms even at this time of the year, they let themselves sink to the ground.

With a well-practiced movement of his healthy arm, Éomer opened the barrel and filled their cups. After they had raised them in a gesture of respect for the fallen, Tarisilya left the King in peace for some time while they were drinking.

Only after he'd refilled their cups, she asked, and he started to tell.

About the mad respect, he'd had for his wife when people had suggested for them to tie the knot as a sign of friendship between their realms and she hadn't hesitated for even a second. About the noble aura of the southern people in her always so straight posture, the storm of the sea people in her eyes. About how she had always known before he had when there would be a foal that night but had still never wanted to give any of them a name.

That she had never been sick except for her homesickness. That he had never heard her complain about any affliction but that she had been unbearable and had lit a fire under the healers when something had happened to him on one of his trips.

About how she had pushed two of his soldiers out of the way in her last few seconds before the explosion.

When he finally started to cry against her chest, she held him tight ever until the sun slowly started to go down behind the hills and Elfwine joined them to take her place.

She left the gravesite without another word. No one knew better than a healer that you didn't touch wounds that had just started to close.

Fo.A. 63

This winter back then had been the first that Tarisilya had spent in Rohan, with her family joining her for many weeks at a stretch. And it should not have been the last.

When she had come back to Cair Andros after spending her second turn of the year in this foreign land that she'd long lost her heart to, Eldarion and Arasheniel had just had returned from Arnor to their hometown as well; the two of them had already been betrothed then.

Half a year later, they had been married; two months later, Ranír's daughter had been pregnant.

Thereafter, every single year that Tarisilya had taken up quarters in Edoras in, Eldarion had also come to the neighboring realm for a few days or weeks, for a trip that had had nothing to do with state visits at all. Every time Éomer, Gimli and he had come back from their silent retreat in the caves of Aglarond, the young man's shattered soul had been a bit more mended. Until at some point, he'd been able to look to his future without the burdens of the past.

Eldarion's son had grown up in peace and quite carefree; being in his fourth decade now, he still had enough time before even his father would ever wear the Crown of Gondor. The little family was much rather spending time in the North, together with all their close friends among the Dúnedain, to grant the faraway land the same deep care and protection that had made Gondor blossom into such a livable realm after the war.

And since Arwen had become pregnant again a few years after the last battle at the Black Gate, completely out of the blue, and had given birth to another perfectly healthy daughter – this time without any tragedy –, this pressure had decreased only further. Thanks to the longevity of their folk, Aragorn and she weren't in a hurry, taking care of the line of succession.

Both Aragorn's Númenór blood and Arwen's elvish blood were flowing in their children's veins, and their lives would inspire songs and myths of their people for many decades to come.

It was only Minuial, in the land of her favorite animals, who was burdened with ruling a lot faster than her brother. The folk of the Horsemasters welcomed the Half-elf on the throne happily and eagerly. All hearts had gone out to her long before she had even said yes to the Crown Prince' proposal.

The two of them had begged her to, so Tarisilya didn't only stay for the funeral but for the coronation, too, though she spent it crying silent, hot tears on Legolas' shoulder the whole time.

After so many years of bliss, she'd almost had forgotten how it felt when her whole world was threatening to collapse in on her.

In the end, it had been fast.

Tarisilya's only comfort was that she had provided the late King with many more happy years on the back of his animals, by returning to Meduseld again and again to heal his body and soul. Éomer and she had been just as close as Legolas and Aragorn were, with Legolas dedicating all his strength and his unshared loyalty to his King.

It had been shortly after the War of the Ring already that Tarisilya had accepted that this pain would almost tear her in half when it someday came. This was simply the price the Firstborn paid for having decided to live amidst Men and all their beauty, all their wonders, their love that was so much more intense because it lasted a lot shorter. And yet Tarisilya had been in no way prepared at all when she had been called to Éomer's deathbed.

When the ceremony was over, she said goodbye as quickly as the etiquette allowed and returned to the new grave barrow that she had been singing by the other morning. She dropped in front of it, just like back then, with a full cup in her hand, and started to grieve. She was laughing, too, remembering all these exciting trips by horse that she had gone on together with the King, and she was talking to him for the last time. She told him how happy and proud his son had looked with the crown of his realm on his head earlier, that he still could hardly take his eyes off of the beautiful woman by his side, and that she was pretty sure that Minuial was pregnant again.

She also remembered Éomer taking her hand when she'd tried in vain once more to chase the quick, aggressive sickness of his limbs that had carried him off. How he had pressed his chapped lips to it gently and asked her to let him go. That had been the moment when it had been over.

And in this very moment, Tarisilya had already known that once she turned her back to this country next, she wouldn't come back. This was the one pain in her soul she couldn't have lived with. And that was how it happened then, too.

She had started to say goodbye.