A/N: Thanks again for your lovely reviews. You all are super. :) This is fairly short, but the next part will be coming along quite soon. I promise.
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Eomer wasn't aware of having slept until he awoke. Cold. He was so damned cold. An involuntary shudder moved through him, and he realized that he could die from exposure just as easily as he could from being crushed.
How long had he been asleep? There were still shadows above him, but was that because it was night, and he'd already spent the best part of the day trapped, or was it simply that the grey daylight they'd been having couldn't pierce the mud and trees?
He tried to swallow, and grimaced. His mouth was dry, and had a foul taste from the mud. It was ironic that he was parched by thirst when rain had triggered the rock slide.
Wearily, he closed his eyes again, pondered trying to shift the rocks and branches that held him in their grasp. The creaking and groaning he'd heard earlier had subsided, hopefully indicating that the greatest danger of being crushed had passed. Should he perhaps try to shift some of the smaller rocks near him? See if he could possibly claw his way free? Or would that simply cause them to start moving again? What was the greatest danger – to risk triggering movement that would crush him, or death by thirst and exposure if no one came?
That thought brought grief, because if no one came it meant all of his men had perished. If even one man had survived and was capable of the journey, villagers from Halifirien would shortly arrive to hunt for him. Or his body.
If none of his men had survived, how long would it take before someone figured out what had happened? Which direction had the horses gone? Forty riderless horses would alert the villagers, assuming the horses had gone in that direction. But would the villagers figure it out in time?
How long could he survive here, cold and wet? If he didn't survive, how long would it be before word reached Elfhelm and Lothiriel in Edoras? And Eowyn in Ithilien?
Thoughts of their grief renewed his frustration, and he reached up, started to feel above him. Perhaps if he were careful, he could safely shift some of the branches and smaller rocks, and possibly devise an escape.
Then he heard it. Voices. Too indistinct for him to identify, but it didn't really matter. If they were his men, the villagers, or at least friends of Rohan, they'd help him; if they were foes, he'd hardly be in greater danger than he was already in.
"Hello!" he shouted, was frustrated when all that came out was a croak. His mouth was simply too dry. He tried to swallow, to clear his throat, before attempting to shout again. It came out a little louder, but it still wasn't going to be enough for them to hear him.
Grabbing one of the smaller rocks he'd dislodged, he pounded it against the large boulder he was trapped against, in a rhythic pattern. Was rewarded for his efforts by a hail of small stones falling, bouncing off his helmet. That answered the question of whether he could have safely freed himself.
He winced at both the noise and the vibration. His head, like the rest of him, ached abominably, and he wondered again how long he'd been unconscious before he'd first awakened.
But it was enough.
"Eomer? Can you hear me?"
It was Eothain, too upset to bother with formalities, and relief once again made Eomer weak.
"I'm here." His voice was still faint, so he again tapped on the rock, deliberately choosing the one that appeared to be the most stable.
"Thank all the benevolent gods of Middle Earth," he heard the younger man mutter. "Where? Keep talking."
"I'm beneath a large tree, trapped between it and the rocks."
"I think I see it. Keep talking. How are you? Where are you injured?"
"Not seriously," Eomer croaked. "Bruises, mostly."
There was no response this time, until Eomer saw branches above him shift, revealing the shadowed face of his friend. The dimness above him was the shadow from the trees, he realized. It must still be daylight.
There were tears on Eothain's cheeks, but his voice was steady as he gazed down at him. "You know, there are easier ways than this of avoiding being king."
Eomer choked back a laugh, ignored the wetness on his own face. His smile faded as he asked the question he most wanted – and dreaded – an answer to. "How are the rest of the men?"
"All fine."
Eothain disappeared from view, and a moment later, Eomer heard more voices, and realized the younger man must have gone to tell the others where he was.
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It took the better part of the afternoon to free him. Eothain had refused to take any chances on the rocks shifting, insisting on the careful movement of any of them that were small enough or unstable enough to pose a danger.
But finally, Eothain reached down, offered Eomer his hand. Eomer grabbed it, allowed himself to be hauled up, swearing when his muscles cramped and his bruises throbbed.
Wearily, he leaned against the tree, waited for the trembling in his limbs to stop. Eothain shouted at someone, and suddenly Eomer was conscious of a blanket – a dry blanket – being draped around him, of a skin of water being pressed into his hands.
Confused, he looked up, saw men he didn't know – but who'd obviously participated in his rescue – standing in a half circle around him, along with a few members of his guard.
"Some of the riders went to the village for help," Eothain murmured.
He look a long drink of the cool water, felt his throat rejoice, before he looked again at the villagers again, met their eyes. "I'm grateful to you," he said simply.
They nodded, then the oldest of them motioned away from where they were resting. "If you're up to it, we should leave this area, Majesty. More of the mountain could come down."
Fear prickled, and Eomer nodded, resisted looking up at the mountain. It would be a while – a long while – before he felt entirely comfortable too near a mountain.
But movement was slow. He was still stiff, his bruised muscles complaining at having been in such a cramped position for so long.
He gritted his teeth, moved through the rocks, accepted Eothain's help when it was necessary. As he'd expected, his left arm was in the worst condition. He suspected that some of the wetness he was feeling was probably blood, though he didn't seem to be bleeding profusely from any particular wound.
Trying to take his mind off his discomfort, he turned to Eothain. "Where are the rest of the men?"
"The men from the village said it would be safer not to have all of us trying to help free you – there was too great a chance of the rocks shifting. And since the villagers have more experience with rock slides than we do…"
Eomer nodded in comprehension. "The men are all fine? No injuries?"
"They're fine," Eothain repeated, apparently unsurprised by Eomer's need for reassurance on that point. "Minor scrapes and bruises. None as bad as yours – you got the worst of it, because you were closest to the mountain when it came down. Everyone else escaped."
His tone was full of chagrin, and when Eomer looked at him more closely, he saw both that and guilt.
"This was not your fault, Eothain. There was nothing you could do."
The other man gave a sharp jerk of his head. "It just rankles, that's all."
"Not even you can be expected to protect me from a mountain," Eomer said dryly, then let his own tone sharpen. "And if I ever again see you putting your life in danger to try and rescue me from something you have no hope of success in, I'll banish you to Mordor."
Eothain obviously wanted to protest, but settled for giving an abrupt nod. "Yes, sire."
Eomer changed the subject. "What of the horses?"
"All fine as well, if a bit skittish. They bolted almost before the slide started – instinct perhaps. If we'd been on them, we would be been completely out of danger. They've all been rounded up – none of them went far."
They reached an open area, free of the rocks and mud, and Eomer found most of the rest of his guard and the horses. They wore looks of relief, and not a few had tears on their faces. Understanding that it was out of genuine, personal affection for him, not just because he was their king, humbled him, and he took the time to greet them all individually.
The rest of the men had ridden closer to Halifirien, and when they arrived, he understood why. They'd set up his tent. He hadn't bothered having them do so over the past few nights. It had seemed pointless in light of the soggy ground and the rain -- the tent would get soaked and muddy, and thus be harder to put up and take down. He'd also felt a little guilty at the thought of sleeping in a tent while his men suffered in the rain, rain he was determined to keep dragging them through.
But he had no such qualms now. He was wet, cold, and sore, and wanted only to strip and get some sleep.
And by late tomorrow, if the rain held off and they made good time, he would be sleeping in a warm, dry, bed. His bed. It was a pleasant thought.
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Rain. Eomer wearily wiped the water from his face, glanced around at his men. There was no conversation, no idle jokes about the scenery to pass the time. They weren't even bothering to curse the weather, and the fact that they were only hours from Edoras didn't seem to be making much difference.
He should say something, find some way to encourage them, but such leadership was beyond him at the moment. How much longer could it rain?
They'd had a respite for part of the night, but it had started again before dawn, and as they moved further north, the accompanying chill grew worse.
Exhausted, cold, miserable, and aching with bruises and scrapes all over his body, there had no doubt been times in his life when he'd been in greater physical discomfort. But at the moment, he couldn't rmember any of them.
Even crossing the Mering Stream, knowing that they were at least back in the Mark, hadn't helped. He'd been worried that it, too, would be too flooded for them to cross, but they'd had an advantage there in that the water flowed through a wide plain. Currently, the border between Rohan and Gondor was more like a very large pond than a stream, but at least they'd managed to cross it.
It began to rain even harder, and shivering with cold, he hunched down in the saddle, thought of his chambers in Meduseld, of being warm and dry, with a hot meal in front of him.
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Lothiriel took another sip of tea, looked around the great hall. Perhaps she should go back to her chambers until it was time for the evening meal. She'd been spending a great deal of time sitting at one of the long tables in the hall, convinced that it was good for her to be as visible as possible to anyone who wandered in, in part so that that people knew she was available, and in part out of hopes that she might begin deepening her relationships with some of the women of the court.
But currently the hall was empty, and sitting by herself felt foolish. The rain had finally forced even the most social to stay snug in their own homes, close to their fires, and she couldn't blame them.
As she stood to leave, the door of the hall burst open, and she turned, alarmed to see Elfhelm coming toward her, hurry in his stride. For a moment, she could only think that his speed was due to some crisis, and she stiffened with fear for Eomer.
And then she took a closer look at the Marshal's face, full of relief, and knew what he was going to say before he said it.
"Eomer's standard has been spotted on the road – they should be here within the hour. I'm riding out to meet them, but you'll probably want to warn the kitchen."
Unable to speak, she nodded, then watched as he abandoned all protocol to turn and bolt from the hall. Weak with relief, she leaned against the table.
He was home.