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On we go...

Chapter 13 – What price freedom?

"King Elessar, there are riders behind us," said one of the rear guards of the Gondorian train as he drew level with the king. He slowed his horse to match the steady walk of the king's mount. "They carry the banner of the Prince of Ithilien."

"Faramir." Elessar spoke the name with soft affection. Of course, the prince too would be making his way to Rohan to pay his respects at Eomer's funeral. Grief caught at him again. He had expected to make this journey in a few weeks time to celebrate a wedding, not to say farewell to a dear friend. What fate had decreed could not be changed, however. Eomer was gone, and now the Riddermark had a queen. A queen betrothed to one of Gondor's most respected and valued men, which in itself bought fresh complications. How would Faramir combine his duties as Prince of Ithilien with those of a Consort-King of Rohan? Was it even possible to do so? He sighed heavily. Sometimes he longed for the days of his past, when he was free to travel the countryside and had nought to worry about except where his next meal was coming from. Today, however, was definitely not one of those days.

He twisted round in his saddle, caught sight of the dust cloud that indicated the riders, and then reined his horse to the right and trotted briskly towards the rear of the procession. A few moments later, the prince and his entourage caught up with them. Elessar dismounted, waited as Faramir did the same, and then greeted the prince by wrapping him in a tight bear hug.

"I had hoped for relief from days of dark news," he said. "The loss of Eomer is a bitter blow for Rohan and Gondor alike."

"I can scarcely comprehend the truth of it," Faramir replied, pulling off his gloves and wiping the sweat from his face. The two men began to walk behind the train, leading their horses by the reins. Silence hung between them, the mention of Eomer too raw a subject to draw them into conversation. Finally, though, Elessar broke the hush.

"Are you in a hurry to reach Rohan? For you are more than welcome to journey with us if the pace is not to leisurely for you." He was surprised when Faramir gave a bitter snort of laughter in reply.

"No, my king, I am in no hurry. In fact, I only make the journey at the insistence of my advisors."

Elessar frowned. "I don't understand. Did you and Eomer have some unhealed quarrel that I have not heard about?"

"No." Faramir appeared shocked at the notion. "Eomer was a good friend. One I shall miss sorely."

"Then why the reluctance?"

"You have not heard?"

Elessar's spirit fell further. "You have quarrelled with Eowyn?"

"If only I had. Then perhaps I could think kindly of her instead of which..." He trailed off, his jaw tight.

"Faramir?" Elessar probed, unable to comprehend a reason for the prince's obvious distress.

"She was ever fickle. I should have known better than to trust my heart to such a woman."

Elessar was shocked by both the words and the sharp tone. When last he had seen Eowyn and Faramir together, it had been clear to all that they were both deeply smitten. The image was one he had carried with glad relief, happy that the White Lady had finally found real love, and that Faramir, who had suffered tortuous rejection at his father's hand, had also found peace and joy. "Whatever are you talking about, man?"

"Did she not love you before me?" Faramir demanded.

The question caught him off-guard. Eowyn, beautiful, strong, fragile Eowyn. How easy it would've been to take what she had offered him in those dark days when he believed Arwen was lost to him. And how desperately wrong it would also have been. He sighed. Faramir deserved to hear the truth. "No. She did not. Although she believed that she did, it was not me that she was in love with."

"I don't understand."

"She dreamed of escape. Dreamed of a different life where she could be free and happy. When I arrived at Edoras, she thought I was the answer to that desire. In her mind, she reshaped who I really was into all that she longed for. It was never real, Faramir. I'm sure she would tell you that if you asked."

"Well, apparently I am not the answer to her dreams either." He kicked at a stone, sending it flying across the grass. "She has broken faith with me. We are no longer to be wed." His tone turned harder still. "The Queen of Rohan does not wish to taint her bed with a Gondorian consort."

"That is madness," Elessar said, barely able to believe his ears. "Faramir, forgive me for speaking bluntly but I know you have often suffered rejection, that indeed perhaps you have come to expect it, but surely in this you are mistaken."

In response, Faramir thrust his hand in his tunic and pulled out a piece of folded parchment. "Read it for yourself. The words are written in her own hand. There is no room for doubt."

Reluctant though he was to read another man's private letter, Elessar did as he was bid. When he finally handed the parchment back to Faramir, his face was grim. "I cannot believe she would act with such callousness unless there is some other influence at work. She suffered a great deal during the war, perhaps the loss of Eomer..."

"What? You think her mad?"

Elessar hesitated. "I do not think her behaviour rational." He looked Faramir in the eye, and felt pain at the hurt he saw there. "Do you truly love her?"

For a long moment, Faramir gazed into the distance towards Edoras, then finally he replied, his voice low and tinged with anguish. "With all my heart, Elessar. All my heart."

"Then do not give up on her so easily, my friend. Sometimes we have to fight for what we love, and though I cannot fathom a reason for it now, I suspect we may find there is more to her rejection of you than first meets the eye."

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"How could she have known about the key?" Galwyn ranted as she and Selred rode towards the cave. "Somebody must have told her. It must've have been one of your men."

Selred flinched inwardly at the accusation, and cast a surreptitious look at the four men who were following some distance behind. They were far enough away not to hear his reply, so if that was what Galwyn wanted to think, it was fine by him. Just so long as his part in events remained hidden. His hand wandered to the lump on the back of his head and he winced as his fingers pressed against it. "It would not surprise me. The only thing they are loyal to is money."

Galwyn snorted in disgust. "Yes. And don't think that I don't know the same greed for coin motivates you. I'll curse the lot of them. Make their tongues shrivel up in their mouths. They'll rue the day they ever thought to cheat me."

They were at the cave now. Galwyn gave Selred one last menacing look and then strode inside, cursing loudly when she reached the cell and found the door open and the king gone. Selred stood well back from her, aware that she carried a knife and was capable of venting her anger at anything, or anyone, who happened to be around. She could not, of course, best him in strength and speed, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

"I'll get him back," he said. "Trust me. My men and I will ride out. We'll catch him long before he comes in sight of Edoras."

"Light the fire," she snarled.

Dread washed over Selred. If Galwyn used the flames of farsight to seek the king, would she not also see the others? "Do not weary yourself with magic," he said, fake concern honeying his tone. "He is weak and cannot have travelled far. We can find him without your dark arts."

She glared at him, her face suspicious. "When did you start having a care for my well-being?"

He felt heat burn his cheeks. "Is it so wrong of me to do so?"

"Light the fire," she repeated.

Cursing silently, he knew he had no choice but to do as he was ordered. As soon as the flames were dancing he backed away once again. She didn't seem to notice, her concentration was on the yellow heat and the green dust in her hand. Dark words spilled from her mouth. There was a loud crack. And the fire turned emerald green. Galwyn's face contorted as she stared into flames, bending the magic to her will. Despite himself, Selred inched forward, fascinated by the image of the Rohan countryside.

"Ahhhh," Galwyn murmured. "There he is - with that wench seated before him. And they are not far. Not far at all. But wait, what is this?"

Selred immediately backed away as he saw the image widen out and two more riders came into focus. Moments later, Galwyn turned to him, her eyes narrowed with barely restrained fury.

"I can explain," he said quickly.

"You told me she was dead." Galwyn ground the words out between gritted teeth.

"The man she rides with came out of nowhere," Selred said breathlessly, panic squeezing his lungs. "Took me by surprise." He tilted his jaw, grasping at the first excuse that came to his mind. "It was you that insisted I go alone. Just a girl, you said."

"Do not blame this on me!" She stepped towards him, her face furious. Behind her, the fire spat and hissed, the flames reaching towards Selred like menacing fingers.

"So I made a mistake. You still need me, Galwyn. Or are you planning on going after him yourself?" It was bravado, but it seemed to have an effect. The flames died back, fading from green to palest yellow. Galwyn faltered as though suddenly drained of energy. Relieved, Selred recalled that the flames of farsight were not easy to control.

"Fortunately for you there is truth in your words." She pushed past him and sank into the waiting embrace of a chair.

Glad to still be alive, Selred was eager to make amends. "Just say the word and I will ride out with my men and return the king to you."

Galwyn drew in a shuddery breath. "You will indeed ride out with your men, but not to catch the king."

"I don't understand."

"You will ride out and, this time, fulfil your appointed tasks properly. The woman, the healer and this other rider - all must be killed before ever they reach Edoras. Understood?"

He nodded. "But what of the king?"

Her lips twisted into a grotesque smile. "Do you think me a fool, Selred? There was always the possibility that he would escape, and so I planned accordingly. He rides not to freedom and the reclaiming of his throne, but to death. My only regret is that I shall not be there to hear his agonised screams as it claims him."

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He'd drunk his fill of water from Elfhelm's canteen and he had food in his belly. So why didn't he feel any better? Eomer folded his good arm over his stomach and tried to deny the cramps that were twisting his innards. Perhaps it was simply that dried meat was too rich for him after a diet of stale bread. But then that didn't explain the fact that sweat was trickling down his back, yet he felt chilled to the bone. Nor was it reason for the throbbing in his head which seemed to worsen with each passing league.

He sucked in a sharp breath as another jolt of pain shot through him. Sitting in front of him, Princess Lothiriel stiffened and then discretely inched forward. He'd rarely shared his saddle with a woman, let alone one as beautiful as Lothiriel, and under different circumstances he would have made the effort to be entertaining, perhaps even charming. On this journey, though, the effort required to speak seemed too much. Once Elfhelm had told him all that was going on in Edoras, they had fallen into silence. Now all he could do was hope that Lothiriel wasn't thinking that she was the cause of his discomfort, because he didn't have the strength to tell her that was not the case.

A glance in the direction of the Marshall told him that Erika was watching him, concern on her face. Her gaze made him straighten his shoulders and sit more proudly in the saddle, but the movement sent another jagged pain through him that immediately destroyed all pretence that he was fine. He cursed silently to himself, angry at his body's refusal to do what he demanded of it. Discretely he reined the horse back, forcing it to fall in behind Elfhelm's mount so that Erika could no longer look at him. The action gave him no comfort, though. What kind of warrior must he appear? Riding hunched over like an old man. He certainly couldn't ride through the gates of Edoras in such a manner.

Edoras. That thought drove his focus from himself. He needed to make plans. Prepare a strategy for what might await. How much influence did Ceorl wield over Eowyn? Enough to prevent them from gaining access to the Golden Hall or perhaps even the city itself? And if everyone believed him dead? His head throbbed, stealing his ability to think. They knew so little about what was going on and there were too many variables. Perhaps Elfhelm was right and they should first ride to Gondor and ask Aragorn to loan them men in case they needed to take back Edoras by force of arms. But to fight his own people? And to leave Eowyn alone with Ceorl for longer than he had too.

He shivered, and was once again aware of the ache in his limbs and the sharp, twisting pain in his gut. He closed his eyes, seeking relief from the bright rays of the midday sun. Perhaps a few moments sleep would restore him. It wouldn't be the first time he'd slept in the saddle. Years of riding made it almost second nature. Yes, just a few minutes sleep...

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It had been something of a shock to find herself riding in front of the king. Of course it made sense in terms of weight balance. Elfhelm was heavier than Eomer, while Erika was lighter than herself. But were the Rohirrim really so caring of their horses that they would put a slight difference in weights before their personal desires? Surely Eomer would rather have had the woman he loved riding with him. Then again, perhaps he simply didn't want to be up close and personal with Erika in his current state. Lothiriel had quickly discovered that the King of Rohan was in need of a bath. Not that there was any surprise in that. The man had, after all, been held captive for several days. She almost laughed out loud at the thought of her report to Faramir. Yes, my dear cousin, I met the king. He was dressed in rags and smelt worse than any horse.

A soft groan from the object of her thoughts immediately sobered her. It wasn't the first sound of distress to escape him – there had been several sharp intakes of breath and he seemed ill at ease in the saddle. Being but a stranger to him, she hadn't felt at liberty to question him, but now his discomfort had clearly increased and she could no longer pretend not to have noticed. She was about to turn and ask what ailed him when his weight suddenly pressed against her back. Had he fallen asleep against her? She could certainly empathise with that for she longed for sleep herself. That he could not keep his eyes open would not be a surprise either given the trauma of being imprisoned, uncertain of rescue or even survival. Perhaps it was, therefore, not a groan, but a snore and she was fretting over nothing. Reluctant to disturb his rest, even though it was scarcely comfortable and more than a bit embarrassing to have his head resting on her shoulder, she decided to stay silent. However, as the horse plodded on, she suddenly became aware of a second sensation. Heat. She could feel the warmth of his skin seeping through the coarse wool of her riding dress. An unnatural warmth that did not speak of good health.

Alarmed now, she began to twist round. It was entirely the wrong thing to do.

"No. Eomer!" She grabbed for him as he slid sideways. It was too late. His unconscious body fell from the saddle, hitting the grassy plain with a soft thud. Horrified she stared at him, too shocked to act. He was face down - an untidy sprawl of limbs and dirty hair.

Elfhelm, who was riding in front, spun round. "Eomer!" He vaulted from the saddle, leaving a startled Erika to grab the reins. "By the Gods. Eomer. What is wrong?" He rolled the king over and gently tapped his cheek. No response.

"I think he's feverish," Lothiriel said, sliding from the saddle.

Erika reached the king ahead of her, placing one small hand against the king's forehead. Her eyes narrowed. "I fear this is no ordinary fever," she said.

Elfhelm's head jerked towards her. "What do you mean?"

In response, Erika addressed Lothiriel. "Did you notice anything before he passed out? Did he seem in discomfort or pain?"

"Well, I did think..."

A low groan from Eomer cut across her words. She looked down and found he was staring up at them, confusion and pain in his eyes. Then suddenly, what little colour was in his face drained away. He rolled away, drew himself up onto all fours and retched. Erika was by his side in an instant, swiftly drawing his hair out of the way and murmuring soothing words as he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the grassy plain. Lothiriel exchanged an anxious look with Elfhelm, then he turned away and fetched his water skin from his saddle bag.

It seemed like an age before the spasms finally relinquished their grip on Eomer. He pushed himself away from the pool of vomit, and sat hunched on the grass, legs drawn up to his chest, his forehead resting on his knees, one arm curled protectively over his stomach.

"Here." Elfhelm held out the water skin. Eomer glanced up, bleary eyed, and then shook his head. "Drink," Elfhelm said, pulling out the stopper and thrusting the skin at his king.

Obediently, Eomer reached for the skin, but before he could grasp it, he groaned and curled over, swearing to himself.

Lothiriel wrapped her arms around her own stomach in empathy and wished she could do something - anything - to ease his pain.

"Where does it hurt?" Erika demanded, once again dropping to her knees in front of him. She smoothed his sweat-dampened hair back from his face.

"Everywhere," he said through gritted teeth.

"I need you to be more precise," she said, earning herself a blazing look from him.

"Stomach." He groaned again as though the very mention of the offending body part racked him with pain. "Headache. Cramps... everywhere." He sucked in a sharp breath and met her gaze. "What's wrong with me? It isn't just lack of food, is it?" A bead of sweat ran down his face, and she gently reached out to wipe it away.

"I can't be sure," she said softly.

Elfhelm stepped forward. "If you have even half an idea of what ails him you should speak it, girl."

Reluctance shadowed Erika's face as she looked at the Marshall. "I think he's been poisoned."