Once again – my thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review this story. It is much, much appreciated. On we go...

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They'd searched all morning. With each passing hour, Elfhelm's spirits had fallen.

Fram refused to be down-hearted, though. His optimistic monologue a drone in Elfhelm's ear. "Perhaps the king intended to return to us, but somehow mistakenly passed us by in the forest. He may, even now, be waiting in Edoras."

Elfhelm knew the younger man meant well. But he also knew the likelihood that Eomer would fail to find them was minimal. The king could not match Elessar for tracking skills, but he was more than capable of finding a band of hunting Rohirrim in woodland. He glanced up between the branches of the trees and saw that the sun had long passed midday. They would keep searching until dusk, but then what? Would they do so again tomorrow? And the day after that? How long could he stay here trying to deny the dark thoughts that chilled his bones?

"My Lord!" A rider shouted from his right.

Elfhelm twisted in his saddle. The distressed look on the rider's face sent a bolt of sheer terror through him and he froze. No! Please, don't let it be.

"My Lord Elfhelm? Will you not go to him?" Fram shot him a concerned look.

Around Elfhelm, the other men were waiting for some order – some action. He had to move. Had to see whatever it was that the rider was beckoning him towards. Reluctantly he urged his horse forward. By the time he covered the distance, the rider had dismounted and had turned his back to Elfhelm's approach.

"What is it?" Elfhelm demanded. "What did you see?" He glanced round. Saw nothing but fallen branches and leaf mold.

The rider turned slowly. Draped across his arms was a filthy rag, but then Elfhelm suddenly saw a patch of green. Rohan green. He dismounted in an instant and strode to the rider, snatching the material from him. It was a cloak. Or at least it had been once. Now it was tattered and torn beyond use. And it was damp. Elfhelm pulled off his riding gloves and pressed a finger against the wetness. It came away red. Blood.

The other rider's face was anguished as he lifted an edge that might once have been a collar. "Gold thread," he said quietly. He exchanged a pained look with Elfhelm. They both knew what that meant. The cloak belonged to the king.

"Search the undergrowth," Elfhelm commanded brusquely, not wanting to think about what they might find. Other riders had gathered now. One by one they dismounted and began to move through the trees and then into the thick covering of ferns to their right and left. Still Elfhelm tried to cling to hope. A ruined cloak – even a bloodied one – did not make for a dead king. There was any number of reasons for the cloak to be in such a state. Perhaps Eomer had given it to some unfortunate person who had fallen foul of robbers. Perhaps...

No! His gaze fell on a bulky shape to his right, three-quarters hidden in a patch of dense undergrowth. He tried to deny it. Could not. Half stumbling, he lurched through the undergrowth and then froze at what lay before him amongst the ferns. It was a body of a man judging from the height and bulk. He stumbled closer, feeling nausea rise at the sight of the injuries. Three dark arrows protruded from the dead man's chest. The body was also crisscrossed with sword slashes; some so deep they revealed bone. But worse – much, much worse – an animal had clearly feasted upon it in the night. Elfhelm swallowed hard to stop the nausea turning to sickness as he looked at the torn flesh that had once been a face, but was now totally unrecognisable as being human.

Still he tried to deny the truth. Tried not to see the tattered remains of the richly embroidered tunic. Tried not to recognise the intricate pattern on the leather of the belt at the man's waist. Tried not to look at the strands of blond hair. Tried to tell himself this body was too short or too tall. Too thin. Too fat.

"My Lord?" Fram blundered through the undergrowth towards him. Staggering to a halt, the colour drained from his face. He stared in horror at the body. "Is that...? No!"

"Yes." Elfhelm collapsed to his knees as he finally allowed himself to acknowledge who he was looking at. He felt the agony of grief building inside him, hot and dark, and then suddenly it exploded out of him in a primal scream that tore from his lungs and echoed through the trees. His throat raw, his lungs empty, he could not bring himself to say the words that rank demanded of him.

"My Lord Elfhelm." Fram called his name, his voice desperate, anguished, torn. "You must..."

"No!" He could not. He would not.

For a moment Fram stared at him. "If you will not..." Elfhelm nodded, silent tears running down his face. Fram turned away, his words barely audible over the mournful whisper of the trees. "The king is dead. Long live... the queen."

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Sleep eluded Erika that night. She had heard many rumours about Galwyn, but until now she had always considered such talk to be mere stories designed to frighten young children into doing their chores without whining. Now she knew the truth. And it was deeply disturbing.

You will tell no one of what you see and hear, Galwyn had said. If you do, it will go badly for you. Erika did not doubt that the threat was genuine now she had seen what Galwyn was capable of. It didn't frighten her though. Nothing that Galwyn could do to her mattered. She had already lost all that she cared about.

She turned her thoughts away from that, and for the hundredth time wondered who it was that Galwyn held locked in her secret cave. A nobleman perhaps? Held for ransom? No, that did not make sense because it was clear Galwyn hated her prisoner enough to enjoy watching him in pain. Revenge, then. There must be some dark story in Galwyn's past that had driven her to this madness. For madness it most definitely was. No sane person would use the dark arts to injure and imprison another human being.

Which bought her back to the question of the prisoner's identity. She suspected he was a warrior - perhaps even a rider in the king's own eored given the genteel way he spoke. She recalled the feel of his muscles beneath her fingers. Yes, he was a man used to bearing the weight of armour, sword and shield. He was skilled in battle too because his body bore few scars. She'd found a thin silver line that ran diagonally across his left shoulder that she'd judged had once been a shallow injury caused by a sharp blade when he was still a youth. There had also been a small circular scar below his right shoulder and beneath which she'd detected a rib that had been splintered. This, she decided, was the obligatory arrow wound that all riders seemed to suffer. All in all, he was relatively unscathed for one who must have fought many battles.

Help me! His silent appeal flashed through her mind again. She'd had no intention of doing anything other than dealing with his immediate needs up to that point of their meeting. Of course, she'd noticed that he was an attractive man, but despite her youthful appearance she was no young girl easily swayed by a handsome face. Her heart had been broken during the war when the man she loved had ridden away to fight for Rohan and failed to return. She had no intention of suffering such pain a second time. Better to be alone. However, she was not entirely made of stone, and there was something about him that had touched her, that had made her want to offer her help.

I will do what I can. Erika laughed bitterly at her own words. What could she do? Everyone knew that Galwyn dabbled in the dark arts. Aiding this man would be foolish. Galwyn would be sure to know. Yet, somehow she now felt that his blood would be on her hands as much as on Galwyn's if she simply stood aside and did nothing. And what did it matter if Galwyn did find out. Erika no longer cared for life. In fact, Galwyn would be doing her a favour by bringing her loneliness to an end. She sighed heavily. Perhaps tomorrow she would go in search of wild herbs to replace those she had used of late. Should her wanderings happen to take her near the caves then so be it.

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Eowyn leapt to her feet as she heard the trumpet blast announcing the return of riders to Edoras. Let it be Eomer. Dear gods, please let it be. She gathered up her skirt and ran from her chamber, Lothiriel hard on her heels. In the Golden Hall, the kitchen staff were setting out food for the evening meal, but they hastily got out of her way as she swept past the tables. Breathless she reached the heavy wooden door, pushed it open assisted by two servants who had immediately stopped what they were doing to aid her, and then stepped out into the chill wind that constantly blew down the valley. Her hair whipped painfully across her face, obscuring her view of the riders below.

"Lothiriel? Do you see him? Is my brother with them?" She squinted down at the horses and riders coming through the gate. Too impatient to wait for a reply, she raced down the steps. And then froze as she saw the raw grief on Elfhelm's face. No! It could not be. Her gaze fell from his face to the body-shaped object that was swathed in several cloaks and draped across the saddle in front of him. Denial formed on her lips even as her legs propelled her forward.

"My lady!" Elfhelm leapt from the saddle and caught her in his arms, preventing her from approaching his horse and its nightmare burden.

She met his gaze, too afraid to ask the question and yet desperately needing to know. The truth was already in his eyes, but she jerked her head away, back to the body, back to the desperate hope that she was wrong.

"My lady," Elfhelm said again, his voice brittle. "We found..." His voice cracked and he sucked in a sharp breath. Pulling himself more upright he started again. "We found him this morning."

"No." The word was barely a whisper as it escaped her lips.

"I'm sorry."

"No." She said it louder this time. Tried to pull away from him. "It cannot be."

"I'm sorry."

This time he let her go. She stumbled forward. Eomer. Eomer was gone. It could not be. She stared in amazement at the hand reaching towards the robe- swaddled body, and then realised it was her own. She snatched it back. Pressed it to her chest as something inside her froze. The tears that had threatened were suddenly no longer there.

"Eowyn." Elfhelm stepped towards her, but she warded him off with an icy look.

"No!" She turned and began to walk back towards the Great Hall. This wasn't happening. Her mind refused to accept it.

Elfhelm's voice called out to her, anguish in his tone. "Your majesty, please, what would you have us do with his body? Should we take it to the Golden Hall?"

The question, joined as it was to her new title, was like a slap to her face, and suddenly her legs refused to bear her weight. She stumbled forward again, and then fell to her knees. For a long moment she simply gazed up at Meduseld, its tall walls towering over her. Eomer's home. Now his last resting place. She felt something burning in the pit of her stomach, and she opened her mouth as though to retch, but instead a raw, agonised cry suddenly erupted from her lungs and was snatched up by the wind to be carried into the heavens. The truth could no longer be denied. Eomer was dead. Her brother, the last of the family she loved so dearly, had been snatched from her too young, too soon. She buried her face in her hands, and not caring who was watching, gave vent to the raw grief that had just ripped her heart in two.

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Eomer was finding it difficult to keep track of time. Over the past few watches, sleep had claimed him with alarming frequency. He told himself that was a good thing, that it was his body's way of speeding his recovery from the fall. Indeed, each time he awoke the pain in his head and shoulders had lessened. With this awakening even the broken bone in his arm troubled him as no more than a dull ache. Unfortunately, with the physical healing came the unwelcome knowledge that his belly was empty. The small portion of stale bread had done little to satisfy his hunger. Worse, he had drained the jug of water some time ago.

Was that what his captor had planned for him? That he should pass his days in a state of neglect? Thirsty. Hungry. And chilled to the bone. It had not escaped his notice that there was little he could do about it if that were so. No matter how many times he checked his cell, he came to the same conclusion. He was not going to escape without aid.

A sudden movement across the entrance to the cave caught his attention. Moments later Galwyn was standing at the door of his cell. She sneered down at him.

"How far the mighty King of Rohan has fallen. Naked and caged. It is a shame that your subjects cannot see you now."

He tilted his head and met her gaze, pouring as much defiance into his words as he could. "Make the most of the sight. My men will be looking for me. It won't be long before they track me here."

She laughed. "Pray tell me, why would your men search for a dead king?"

"What foolish riddle would you taunt me with now, woman?"

"No riddle, Son of Eomund. Just trickery. By now your men will have found a body in the woods that they will assume to be you."

"No." Eomer breathed out the word in horror, suddenly understanding why his clothes had been taken from him. "You killed someone to make it look like I am dead?" He felt sick at the thought that not only were his friends being duped, but a life had been taken to achieve such a subterfuge.

"I am sure your sister will see to it that the poor soul is buried with pomp and ceremony far beyond that which he might otherwise have received."

The mention of Eowyn sparked his anger, giving him fresh strength. He shot to his feet, clutching the blanket around him with a white-knuckled fist. "You would let her think me dead? What kind of woman are you, that you would let another suffer grief needlessly?"

Galwyn smiled triumphantly, and he immediately regretted his outburst. He'd played right into her hands. She wanted to see him hurt, and she didn't seem to care whether that was physically or by tormenting him through the anguish she was inflicting on Eowyn. He spun away, moved to the back of the cell, and then sat with his back against the wall determined not to give her the satisfaction of any further reaction.

She studied him for a long moment and then huffed out a disappointed breath. "You tire of the game already? How disappointing." She removed the bag that was slung over her shoulder and placed on the table near his cell. From it she pulled out a rough wool tunic and a pair of leggings. "Since I intend for you to be my prisoner for some time, I suppose I had better see that you do not freeze to death." She tossed the clothes through the bars.

Eomer didn't move.

"Dress," she commanded.

Still he didn't move.

Her eyes narrowed. "I have food and drink for you also. But you will receive neither until you dress."

Damn her. He was no plaything for her amusement, but he did not doubt she would happily deny him sustenance if he refused to co-operate. Cursing silently, he climbed to his feet and then scooped up the pants. He turned his back on her, leaned forward so the blanket hung curtain-like across his shoulders, and hurriedly pulled the pants on. The harsh wool wasn't exactly pleasant against his skin, but it was comforting to be modestly dressed again. Turning, he picked up the tunic and pulled it over his head.

She eyed him as though trying to decide if the clothes fit well enough. Apparently satisfied, she said, "You see, taking orders is not so painful after all."

He had his own opinion as to the truth of that, but made no comment.

"Now," she said, returning to the bag. "Move to the front of the cell and put your hands through the bars." She produced a length of rope from the bag.

Eomer eyed it warily. "Why?"

"Questions, questions," she complained. "You must learn to simply do as you are told." She gestured for him to step forward.

With an angry huff he did so.

"Your hands," she commanded, stepping towards him with the rope. "One either side of a bar."

He now guessed what she was planning, and reluctantly did as he was bid. Placing his hands through the bars was a simple action, but it made him feel oddly vulnerable, and it was all he could do not to pull away as she bound his wrists together, ensuring he now had limited freedom to move. Wordlessly she pulled the key to the cell from her pocket, and then retrieved a wooden bucket from behind the barrels. Opening the door, she placed the bucket inside the cell and took the empty jug out. As she turned away to fill the jug from one of the barrels, he cautiously tested his bonds. The rope was secured tightly, though, and he was powerless to do anything except watch. She set the filled jug back inside the cell and locked the door again. Moving back to him, she deftly undid the knots that held him secure, backing away hurriedly the moment he was free.

She gestured disdainfully at the bucket. "For when you need to relieve yourself." She gathered up the bag, turned to go, and then stopped. "I nearly forgot - " She thrust her hand back into the bag and drew out another hunk of stale bread, which she tossed through the bars."Enjoy your meal."

He waited until she was gone, and then with a howl of outrage he kicked the bucket across the cell and cursed colourfully. This situation was unbearable. Surely there had to be something that he could do. Yet his mind refused to come up with a solution. He was trapped. And worse, now he could not even trust to the hope of rescue. If she spoke truth, then everyone believed he was dead - even Eowyn, who he knew would never stop searching for him if she had but the faintest hope of finding him alive.

The flash of temper made his head ache a new, and he despondently moved to the rear of the cell, settling himself against the back wall, the blanket offering an extra layer of insulation between his back and the cold rock. He pulled one of the herbal leaves from the pouch Erika had left him, chewed it quickly and washed it down with a mouthful of water. Then, for want of something better to do, he began to gnaw at the hard bread. It offered very little in the way of nutrition, but that was not his main concern right now. Gazing around at the dark rock walls and the bars that held him captive, he knew that if he did not find a way to escape soon, his situation would quickly drive him to madness. Solitary captivity with no hope of rescue - it was the worst kind of torture he could imagine.