A/N: Sorry for the slight delay. The weekend was a bit manic. Many thanks as always to my faithful reviewers. You guys are great. Now on with the action...

Chapter 18 - Trusting to hope

"Did you find it?" Lothiriel asked the moment she saw Elfhelm striding towards her.

"Aye. Erika is preparing some for him now." He stopped at the trough and stared down at the king. "How does he fare?"

"He is delirious still," Lothiriel said, disappointed that she could not report better news. "I'm afraid most of the time I do not know what he says because he speaks in his own tongue. All I recognise is Eowyn's name repeated over and over."

A pained look crossed Elfhelm's face, but he said nothing. "Erika said to bring him inside." He glanced at Lothiriel as he began to untie the material that was holding the king upright. "You look tired."

She couldn't deny it. Tipping bucket after bucket of icy water over Eomer had drained her both physically and emotionally. Her body craved rest, but she knew she would not sleep until they had given Eomer the first dose of Goldenseal. "I am fine," she lied.

His look told her he wasn't convinced, but she pretended not to notice. Pressing her hand to Eomer's forehead she reassured herself once again that he felt cooler, that all her effort had not been in vain. What she didn't know, however, was how long it would last. If the fire still burned deep within he would soon be hot to her touch again. She stood to one side as Elfhelm bent his knees, got a firm grip of the king and then hoisted him like a sack of flour over one shoulder.

"It is but a short distance," he grunted as much to himself as to her as he straightened up and plodded determinedly towards the house. "He would forgive me the indignity." Unable to help ease his burden she followed wearily. Would this nightmare ever end?

Erika was standing at the kitchen table, grating a thin yellow plant stem. As Elfhelm headed towards the bedroom with Lothiriel on his heels, she hurried after them. "Wait," she said, just as Elfhelm was about to put the king down. "You'll ruin the mattress, and we have need of it." Without a moment's hesitation she reached out and yanked Eomer's wet breeches from his body. Lothiriel gave a shocked gasp as she suddenly found herself seeing far more of the king than she'd ever dared to even imagine. She spun away, heat burning her cheeks.

"For the love of the gods, have you never seen a naked man before?" Erika snapped impatiently.

"Actually no," Lothiriel said, staring out of the bedroom door and trying not to think of the image that was now burned indelibly in her mind. "And I very much doubt that the king would appreciate you revealing him in such a fashion."

"And I very much doubt the king would appreciate lying in wet clothes on a damp mattress," Erika retorted. She pushed past Lothiriel. "See to him. I still have work to do with the Goldenseal, and I need Elfhelm's strength to press the sap from it."

Elfhelm squeezed her shoulder as he stepped past her, but when she looked at him, she was dismayed to see amusement in his eyes. She glowered at his back. How could he think this was funny? Was he not supposed to protect the king's dignity as well as his person? Desperately she tried to think of a reason not to do what Erika had ordered.

"Where's Breda?" she asked. "She's married and so..."

"Breda has a farm to run and a family to care for," Erika replied, glancing up from her work. "Lothiriel, the king needs you. Now."

She treated Erika to the same glower she'd just used on Elfhelm, then she took a deep breath and turned round. Her gaze immediately fell on the piece of cloth draped across the king's hips. For one ridiculous moment she wasn't sure if she was pleased or disappointed that Elfhelm had thought to cover the king after all. Wretched man. He could've told her he had done so instead of taking amusement at her discomfort. Calming her confused emotions she moved to the bedside and once again felt Eomer's temperature. As she had feared his skin was already overly warm. Quickly she fetched a bowl of cold water and a cloth, and once again set about cooling him down, keeping her eyes and her hands well above his waist and her mind firmly focused on the mundane task of damping the cloth and wringing it out.

It was almost dark before Erika finally stepped into the bedroom with a small bowl in her hand. Breda had put her children to bed and was preparing a meal for the adults. Elfhelm had taken Lothiriel's place at the king's bedside and was wiping the sweat from Eomer's body with the same firm strokes that he used to groom his horse.

"It is normal to take this as a tea," Erika said. "Instead I have mixed the sap with some honey in the hope that a large dose will start to work more swiftly." She scooped a spoonful of yellowish-brown runny liquid from the bowl. "Elfhelm, can you hold his mouth open?"

Clearly not liking the task, Elfhelm did as he was bid. Capturing Eomer's jaw with one hand, he pressed his thumb and forefinger hard into the sockets of his cheeks. A soft groan escaped Eomer's throat at the painful interference. "Be quick," Elfhelm growled.

Erika stepped forward and held the spoon against Eomer's bottom lip so the liquid could run into his mouth. Elfhelm swore as Eomer instinctively tried to twist free. Releasing the pressure that was forcing Eomer's jaws open, he now clamped a hand over his mouth, forcing him to swallow. "Is that it?"

"Two more spoonfuls," Erika replied.

Elfhelm's response to that was even more colourful. "Let's get it over with then," he said harshly.

Unable to watch them repeat the distressing procedure, Lothiriel turned away. Breda caught her eye and smiled sympathetically.

"I could use a hand here," she said.

Grateful for the distraction Lothiriel took the vegetable knife from her and began to remove the skins from a pile of potatoes.

"You care a great deal for him," Breda commented conversationally.

Lothiriel glanced at her, embarrassed to be the object of the woman's astute observation. "I barely know him," she replied.

"There are two kinds of knowing," Breda said. "Sometimes knowing a man means you can sew a tunic for him that will fit, serve his favourite foods, and give an answer as to whether he was born in winter or summer. But there is also the knowing of a man that comes the first time you set eyes on him."

"What do you mean?"

"We see with much more than our eyes. Sometimes when we meet a man there is an immediate understanding of who he is, of his character – his strengths and his weaknesses. A bonding of spirits if you will. I think you know this man very well, Lothiriel. That you did from the moment you met him."

"That's ridiculous," she protested.

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"So he did not make your heart beat faster when he first looked at you?"

Lothiriel stared at Breda, remembering that moment on the hillside when Eomer's gaze had seemed to penetrate her very being.

Breda gave a small smile. "And you did not feel giddy? Like a child who had been spun in a circle."

Still Lothiriel did not reply. This wasn't something she wanted to think about, let alone give voice to. What she thought, what she felt, it was all too strange.

Breda leaned closer and lowered her voice. "And can you deny that a heat began to burn between your legs that only he can cool?"

"No!" Lothiriel said, horrified at the crudity. The memory of Eomer's nakedness flashed back into her mind, and she speared a potato with her knife as she felt her cheeks flame. "Absolutely not."

Breda laughed softly. "It is naught to be ashamed of. There is nothing more pleasurable than the joining of a man and a woman." She patted her swollen belly. "Trust me, I should know."

"That is as maybe," Lothiriel said, intrigued by the woman's openness and yet painfully aware that such things were not considered a suitable topic of conversation in Dol Amroth. "But it matters not what I feel or desire. His heart belongs to Erika."

"Erika?" Breda looked surprised. "Then that is a shame because she does not care for him as you do."

"What?" Lothiriel's hands were suddenly shaking. "Did she tell you that?"

"I do not need to be told something that is plain to see. What makes you think that she does?"

"Well..." Lothiriel began. To her surprise she realised she couldn't offer up any evidence. Now that she really considered it, all her thoughts were based on the assumption she'd made on seeing the way Eomer had greeted Erika on his release.

Breda was watching her. Waiting. When Lothiriel didn't reply she smiled again, clearly taking her silence as proof that she was right. "Erika's heart has long belonged to another, but sadly the war took him. Unless I am very much mistaken, though, she has warmed towards Master Elfhelm - and he to her."

Lothiriel's mouth fell open. "Erika and Elfhelm?"

"It is but early days, but mark my words, there might not be the fire that I see in your eyes, but there is a spark that may yet catch flame."

Her mind was already spinning both with the shock that Breda should think it so obvious that she had feelings for Eomer. The thought that she had been wrong about a romantic relationship existing between Erika and Eomer was almost too much to take in, and besides, even if Erika did not return the king's love, it did not mean that love did not exist. However, she could not help but acknowledge the sense of hope that had suddenly awoken within her. Nor the idea that perhaps Breda was right - it was possible to feel a strong attraction to a man about whom she knew so few facts.

Her thoughts came to an abrupt end as Elfhelm stepped out of the bedroom, his face grim. "It's done," he said, slamming the empty bowl down on the table. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, clearly composing himself. Finally he looked at her, his eyes still haunted. "Erika says we will need to take turns watching over him through the night, but that she will sit with him first. You should get some sleep."

"Eat first, then sleep," Breda said. "The meal will soon be ready."

Lothiriel nodded. "You need to sleep too, Elfhelm. You cannot watch over us all the time. We must trust fate to be kind and grant us protection."

He blew out a frustrated breath, his gaze flicking to the outer door. "Perhaps I will just check on the horses."

"The dog will warn us if anyone enters the yard," Breda said. "I sleep lightly. We will not be taken by surprise."

Elfhelm nodded. "Even so, I think I will just... check on the horses."

Lothiriel watched him go. He was right to be concerned, of course. Selred and his men would not stop looking for them. Galwyn, too, would not rest until Eomer was dead, and who knew what dark powers she could call up to seek him out. The night ahead was going to be a long one. There was still hope. There had to be hope.

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Eothain sat in silence as the men of the eored feasted around him. Red meat was still in short supply in Rohan, but somehow Ceorl had managed to find a generous supply of chicken and other fowl, as well as fish. The tables were also well-laden with fragrant bread, vegetables and fruit pies. More importantly, though, the ale flowed freely. Eothain knew that few of the men would care about the quantity or quality of the food so long as they could drink their fill. His own tankard, however, stood untouched.

Tonight he wished to keep a clear head. He accepted another helping of spiced bread as the platter passed down the table, and chewed thoughtfully, his gaze on the queen. He had heard the rumours, of course. They said the loss of Eomer had broken her heart and her spirit. Now, though, as he looked at her pale face with its bruised cheek, he wondered if it was sorrow that he was seeing or some darker emotion.

He had known Eowyn for a long time. Knew of the bond between brother and sister. But he did not believe that the young woman who had ridden into battle with the men of Rohan and defeated the Witch King would react so badly to this most recent loss. It was without doubt a hard blow for someone who had lost so much before, but Eowyn had found love after the war. She had returned to Edoras a changed woman. Had it been Lord Faramir that had perished, he could've accepted the truth of rumours that she was mad with grief. But for Eomer? No, though she loved him dearly, it made scant sense.

He shoved more bread into his mouth and shifted his gaze to Ceorl. Elfhelm had once voiced his dislike of the rapidity with which Ceorl had been accepted by Eomer and included into his circle of advisors. At the time Eothain had teasingly accused Elfhelm of being jealous. Rohan has so few young men, he'd argued, let us not set ourselves against those we do have. The Marshall had given him a sour look and never raised the subject again. Now, though, he found himself questioning his own jealousy. Ceorl as First Marshall? It sat in his stomach like meat gone bad. How could this young rider have leapt so high up the ranks so quickly? What was it that the queen saw in him that others did not? Or had Elfhelm been right all along? Was there more to Ceorl than a young man eager to please and serve?

He watched as Ceorl worked his way around the room, smiling broadly and bestowing lavish compliments on the men of the eored he now commanded. Did he truly think to win them over with pretty words? If so, he was a fool. The Riders of the Mark judged themselves and others by actions, not words. Ah, now this would be interesting. Ceorl had reached Edric, and it was clear that the lad had no desire to join in the banter. Quickly Eothain picked up his tankard, drained the contents and then headed towards the barrel situated just behind the two riders. Normally he would not condone the deliberate eavesdropping of other people's conversation, but on this occasion he was keen to know what was about to transpire.

"Edric, Edric," Ceorl said mournfully as Eothain walked passed. "I know you would wish another was leading the eored, but I beg of you, let's put all differences aside tonight."

The young lad stared down at the table, clearly uncertain how to react to such a bold approach. "I wish only to serve Rohan," he mumbled sullenly.

"As do I," Ceorl said. He picked up Edric's empty tankard. "Let me show you how willing I am by serving you." Before Edric could protest he'd swung away, heading towards the barrel.

"Master Eothain," Ceorl said politely as Eothain stepped aside to give him access to the tap.

"Marshall," Eothain replied brusquely, the title all but choking him.

"How are you enjoying the feast?"

"It is a most generous gesture," Eothain replied carefully. "And no doubt well meant."

Ceorl's eyes narrowed. "You do not approve."

Eothain's gaze shifted to the queen, who was sitting stony faced at the top table. "It is difficult to find the spirit to celebrate when the loss of a friend not yet been fully honoured."

"You mean the king," Ceorl said.

"Aye," Eothain replied, meeting Ceorl's eye.

"You think I dishonour his memory with this... generous gesture?" Ceorl made a circular motion with his hand, encompassing the room and all who were in it.

"You already speak of him as a memory, even though he is yet to be buried." Eothain couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "What does that say of honour, Ceorl?"

"Merely that while others stand and mourn, I am looking out for the future of Rohan." Ceorl's knuckles were white as he gripped the tap of the barrel. "You would do well to do the same. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Eothain cursed silently as he watched Ceorl slide back into the seat next to Edric. Getting into a verbal sparring match with the man was not what he'd intended. Nor, he suspected, had it been very wise. It was too late not to take the words back, though. And besides, he hadn't said anything he hadn't meant. There was an element of disrespect in holding a celebratory feast before Eomer had been buried. Grief darkened his mood further as he watched the new First Marshall encouraging Edric to drink. The lad grimaced as he swallowed a mouthful of ale. That was no surprise. His drinking companion was enough to sour even the finest of brews.

Words were exchanged and then Ceorl took the tankard and sniffed at the contents, before returning it with a shake of his head. He clinked his own mug against Edric's, proposed some kind of toast, and then downed his drink in one. Edric peered uncertainly into tankard once again, but then followed suit, banging it down on the table when it was empty. With a laugh, Ceorl slapped him on the back and then moved on. Edric, his face pale, reached for slice of spiced bread and chewed rapidly as though dispersing a bad taste from his mouth.

Eothain frowned and sipped at his own ale. Returning to his seat, he once again settled back to watch the revellers – unease his own drinking companion.