A/N: Again, thanks to those who've reviewed this. I hope you continue to enjoy it. :)

Lothiriel pushed back from Eomer's desk, wearily rubbed her eyes. It seemed desperately important to his advisors that she read their reports, but for the life of her she couldn't understand why. Dry and dreary, they very seldom told her anything of actual interest about the Riddermark and its people. Indeed, she'd started to suspect that the reports were important primarily as a source of pride for the men who'd written them, since reading and writing were not common skills in Rohan. Beyond that, perhaps they had no purpose at all. Maybe Eomer didn't even read them. She would ask him when he returned.

During the first few weeks of his absence, she'd taken some comfort in the task. Being in his study, doing what she could to fill his role, had pushed away some of the loneliness. Had helped fill the days.

It was no longer helping.

If she had misjudged the homesickness she'd feel, she'd also misjudged how difficult it would be to form new friends. It had never occurred to her before that the friends she'd left behind in Dol Amroth had known her all her life, had simply accepted that she was royal. Such things didn't matter much when you were seven.

But it did when you were an adult. There were a few delightful and kind women she was gradually becoming acquainted with, but they were hesitant around her, and it had slowly dawned on her that they were reluctant to be seen as trying to curry the new queen's favor. And at the other end of the spectrum were women who made it plain they wished to be considered a friend of the queen – regardless of what they thought of Lothiriel personally.

She was too much of an optimist by nature to believe that things would always be so difficult. Sooner or later, she'd figure out how to truly establish relationships with the women she admired.

But at the moment, it was difficult and lonely, particularly when she was starting to feel abandoned by her husband.

It was no doubt an unfair thought, but was an honest one.

Frustrated, she shoved the parchments off the desk, felt some satisfaction in watching them scatter. Why had he done this to her? She knew how to supervise a royal household, had participated in a very limited fashion in the ruling of Dol Amroth, particularly when the men had all gone off to war. But what did she know of ruling Rohan? The people were respectful toward her, but if she had to make a hard decision, one that could not be put off "until after the king returns" – her favorite phrase these days – what then? Would they follow her? Why should they, when she was still so unknown to them?

They'd been married for just over three months when he'd been called to Gondor; he'd now been gone over two. Not a good balance.

For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder if there was more to this trip than just a crisis in the south. Despite his response to her before he left, perhaps he had asked her to stay here because he didn't want her with him? Perhaps he didn't return because he didn't want to, didn't want to be with her?

No. She scrubbed her face again. That was a foolish thought. Thus far, nearly the only thing that had felt like a complete success in her life in Rohan was her relationship with Eomer. It was qualified, in that she didn't precisely know how he felt about her, nor, for that matter, how she felt about him, but she would still dare call their relationship itself successful. She knew he liked her, enjoyed her company. He desired her, that was certain. And had always approached her in such a way as to guarantee she desired him in return.

Maybe it wasn't love he felt for her, only responsibility. But their relationship was solid enough, strong enough, to be termed a success. She was sure of it.

She shook her head, tried to clear the doubts away. He'd done nothing to deserve such distrust from her.

And regardless of his feelings for her, he would never have used their relationship as an excuse to delay a return to Edoras. His love for his people and sense of duty was too strong.

She was still being affected by her birthday, she realized. It had been harder than she'd expected it to be, even in her most depressed moments. She'd spent the entire day wanting someone to know, to remember, and then feeling in turns crushed that no one did and angry at herself for allowing it to matter.

Even Beril had forgotten, and that had hurt more than anything else, though Lothiriel had known it wasn't deliberate. The woman was aging, and with no calendars to remind her, it wasn't surprising that she'd forgotten. But it had still stung.

Annoyed with herself all over again, Lothiriel stood, began to collect the papers. She would indulge in no more self-pity. She was the queen of Rohan, of the house of Dol Amroth. She would continue to do all she could to learn as much as possible about the Mark, would strive to be the best queen she could be, the best wife she could be.

If her husband ever came home.

There was a knock on the door, and she suppressed a sigh. Another of Eomer's advisors wanting to know how much wool Eomer would be expecting to sell to Gondor next spring, or some such thing. As if she would know. Another question to be added to the list of things to ask him when he returned. Her mouth curved with bitter humor at the thought of greeting him with it.

"Come," she said, pasting a smile on her face. Eomer had to return soon – before she went mad and murdered most of his council.

To her relief, it was Elfhelm who stepped through the door. He was easily her favorite of the men who advised and worked closely with Eomer. He was so very down to earth, wise in the ways and needs of Rohan. And he didn't expect her to know all there was to know. When she didn't know something, he would explain it to her without making her feel like a fool.

A good friend of Eomer's, he'd been her staunchest ally while the King had been gone.

His face was tired, lined with worry. He bowed, then gave her a sharp look. "How are you?"

"I'm fine." Relatively.

He didn't believe her; that was plain. But he didn't press the issue. Instead he looked down, noted the rest of the parchments on the floor. "Breeze blow through?" he asked as he started to help her collect them.

He wasn't precisely smiling when he said it, but there was humor in his tone, and she smiled in response, even as a blush crept her face. She suspected he knew perfectly well why they were on the floor.

But when he stood up again, all traces of humor were gone from his face. He walked over to stand, staring, at a large map on the wall next to the desk. Lothiriel joined him, a little unnerved by his silence.

Slowly, she reached up, traced her finger down the map between Edoras and Minas Tirith.

"He should be back by now," the Marshal's voice was heavy, discouraged.

"He didn't know exactly how long it would take," Lothiriel reminded him. "Maybe something unexpected happened." An argument she didn't really believe, but felt compelled to make.

"In which case he would have sent word. He expected to be back at the absolute latest a full two weeks ago."

"Then perhaps he's in no hurry to return." As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. She had no business sharing her private doubts in such a fashion.

Elfhelm turned to stare at her, but embarrassed, Lothiriel refused to look away from the map.

"If you truly believe he's capable of putting his own preferences ahead of the needs of the Mark, then you've learned nothing of him during your time here, your majesty."

It was the sharpest he'd ever spoken to her, and shame at the deserved rebuke washed over her. Desperately wishing she'd kept her thoughts to herself, she tried to think of a response. Finally realized there was only one way to undo the damage.

She forced herself to look the other man in the eye. His were chilly.

"You're right," she said quietly. "I should not have spoken such a thing. Forgive me."

The coolness left his eyes, was replaced by compassion. "You should not have been thinking such a thing," he corrected gently. "Eomer didn't want to go at all – he didn't want to be away from either the Mark or you, and only his commitment to King Elessar made him do so."

Uncertain how to respond, Lothiriel nodded, then looked back toward the map.

"I've seen him smile more in the months since your nuptials than in all the years I've known him. Whatever is keeping him away, it is not his choice." Frowning, Elfhelm reached up to touch a point on the map, as if measuring. "Something is not right," he finally said quietly. "And it's time we learn what it is."

At this, she looked over at him, a questioning look on her face.

"With your permission, I'd like to send a party to Minas Tirith, to find out what's happened." Anticipating her question, he added, "I have not recommended it before because if Eomer is fine, just delayed, he's likely to be angry at having been followed." Another silence. "But I do not believe he would have stayed away this long unless something unexpected has occurred."

She stared at the map for a long moment, thought of all the leagues between Edoras and Minas Tirith, all the possibilities of what could have gone wrong. None of them were good.

While pleased by the Marshal's insistence that Eomer hadn't wanted to be away from her, it made thinking about the King's delayed return harder. It was easier to feel abandoned and angry than to yield to fear.

"Send the riders."

It was dark and cold. And wet, Eomer amended. But where was he? An attempt to feel in front of him with his hand revealed that he was also trapped.

Fighting panic, he tried to move, inhaled sharply when a multitude of aches made themselves known – then choked when mud tried to come in with the air. He spit it out, forced himself to take another shallow breath, his mouth barely open. He could breathe. He could breathe, he repeated to himself, trying to stave off the fear that would cause him to thrash around and worsen his situation.

Rocks. Mud. A memory came back, of the side of a mountain coming down on them, and he closed his eyes. He was alive. At the realization of what he'd survived, at least initially, some of the panic subsided. He could have already been enroute to the halls of his fathers; the fact that he wasn't was a decided improvement. He wasn't ready to die. He still had to celebrate Lothiriel's birthday with her. Late, but they would celebrate.

He was mostly on his back – how had that happened? And turned slightly to his left side. Cautiously, he tested his limbs. He could move his toes, and despite a feeling of weight on his legs and their being twisted into an uncomfortable – but not unnatural – position, there was no agonizingly sharp bite to indicate a broken bone. Bruises, oh, yes. But no broken bones, no paralysis. Next came his arms. His left arm was well and truly trapped. There was a lot of pain there, what felt like even more scrapes and bruises than on his legs, but again, no broken bones and he could both feel and move his fingers. Barely, in terms of space.

His right arm was trapped above his head, against his helmet – had he thrown it up at the last moment in an attempt to protect his head? Perhaps. The position felt right.

Afraid of dislodging more mud and rocks, he began carefully to test that arm's movement and range, was grateful to discover that it was much less trapped than his other limbs, if just as bruised. Shifting, he felt around, and began to understand that he was trapped between the rocks and a mammoth tree. The tree's branches were providing an air pocket of sorts as well as some protection from the rocks; the rocks, which must have crashed down around him before he fell, were preventing the tree from crushing him.

He'd been very, very fortunate.

Feeling above his face, he discovered he could shove back some of the smaller branches of the tree, and did so, curious as to how deeply he was buried. If he was under ten feet of rock and mud, all that his good fortune meant was that he would be awake for a while before dying, as they'd never find him him in time. He grimaced at the thought.

As he shoved back the branches, he discovered a different danger as a new torrent of small rocks and mud fell on his face.

Choking and gasping, desperate, he yanked his right arm completely free, ignoring the pain that shuddered through him, and frantically wiped the debris away.

Lesson learned – moving around too much could kill him if the next time he did something that caused the larger rocks to shift.

Closing his eyes, he rested for a moment, waited for his heart to settle.

Gradually, it occurred to him that he was breathing fresher air, and he looked up, saw a lighter darkness than he'd expected above where he was lying. Shadows. Relief rushed through him. He could see the shape of larger boulders above him, twisted tree trunks. Some light must be getting through, then. He wasn't hopelessly buried.

But with that thought came another. What of his men? Had they survived? Any of them?

Closing his eyes again, he concentrated on listening. Was that shouts in the distance? Or just the results of desperate longing?

Mostly what he could hear was an odd groaning, creaking noise, and when he identified the sound, anxiety moved through him again. The rocks and trees were still shifting on their own without any help from him, which meant they could move at any time and finish crushing him.

He banished the thought. For the moment, he was alive and relatively uninjured. It was enough.