A/N: Wow! Thank you for all the reviews on the previous chapter. It was fantastic to hear from you all. Here's a few quick replies:

Eokat – I wondered where you'd got too. Glad to hear you're back online.

Blue Eyes At Night – Good observation. Will try to rein in Eomer's enthusiasm for description. g

Marauder4eva – Glad to have enticed you. Lots more action coming up.

ObsessedWithHarrypotter – thank you. More angst will be delivered with the action.

Lindahoyland – Faramir and Aragorn will arrive eventually. Eowyn is waiting impatiently for one of them ;-)

Haldir's Heart and Soul – Love your straight to the point reviews. Soon, my precioussss, soon. 

Athelas63 – Kissing? Hmmm… yes, there may be some kissing coming up for the romantics amongst you.

Ladyscribe of avandell – Sorry about Ceorl, but hopefully some of the future chapters will make up for his evilness.

Lackwit – I did have a logical answer for your question, but now I've forgotten what it was. I think I'm as confused and stressed as Eothain now. This was meant to be a short story, not an epic ;-)

If I've missed anyone – apologies. Do appreciate you all. xx

Yay - now at last I can update, having been caught out by all the upgrade thingys that have gone on over recent days. So, with no further waffling, on with story…

Chapter 20 – More haste, less speed

The second time Eomer woke, consciousness returned more easily. Lothiriel was sitting beside him again, a smile lighting up her face as his gaze locked on her. He smiled back - grateful to be free of the nightmares, grateful to find her there.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, pressing her fingers against his forehead to check his temperature.

He considered a moment. The agonising pain in his belly was now just a dull ache. His head no longer seemed to contain a dozen orc drummers, and the dizziness and nausea were thankfully absent. "Thirsty," he said, as his brain registered the parched nature of his throat and mouth. The word came out as little more than a dry whisper, verifying the truth of the statement. Once again she slipped an arm beneath his shoulders and helped him lift his head from the pillow. He took a gulp of the liquid in the cup she held to his lips, then pulled away, concerned that the sweet cloying liquid would not quench his raging thirst. "Water," he said, by way of request.

"Drink this first," she replied, lifting it to his lips again. "It will strengthen you." Reluctantly he took another mouthful. "All of it," she urged. Biting back his frustration he emptied the cup. When he spoke again his voice no longer sounded as though it had been rasped with sand. "Now may I have water?" he asked petulantly.

"Elfhelm said you would be a difficult patient," she chided, bringing a second cup to his lips.

He ignored the comment, every sense taken up with his need to replenish the fluids in his body. The water was cool and deliciously bland after the sweet-then-bitter tang of the medicine, and he swiftly drained the cup. "More."

"Soon. Give your stomach chance to deal with that first."

Her words made sense, but her refusal sparked his annoyance. He opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it as she frowned at him. He wanted to be the cause of her smiles, not her ill-temper. The realisation of that was alarming, but even more so was the potential reason for such a desire and he quickly shut down that line of thinking as he leaned back into the pillow. Instead he concentrated on the details of his surroundings. The room was small and sparsely furnished, and judging from the lumpy surface beneath his back he was lying on well-worn horsehair mattress. From the waist down he was covered by a thin linen sheet. His chest was bare, but there seemed little point in requesting a shirt for modesty's sake since Lothiriel had clearly been nursing him for some time. The splint on his left arm was still there, reminding him of the broken bone that lay beneath and the fall that had caused it. Memory of recent events returned, and he gazed round one more time as it slowly dawned on him that the room was totally unfamiliar. "Where am I?"

"In a holding just beyond the edge of the woods that lie to the north. You are a guest of Breda, Daughter of…"

"We were riding to Edoras," he said sharply. Eowyn was in trouble. His kingdom was under threat. What the hell was he doing waking up in a bed in some distant holding? "How long have I been asleep? And where is Elfhelm?"

"Eomer…"

"Fetch him. Now." He began to push himself from the bed. He had to get to Edoras. Had to prove that he was neither dead nor a captive. Had to aid his sister in her fight against Galwyn's son.

"Eomer, no! You are far too weak to get up." Lothiriel was on her feet in an instant, her hand cool against his bare chest as she tried to push him back against the pillow. He swatted her arm away. How dare she try to treat him like a child? He recalled how the three of them had earlier formed an impenetrable triangle to impede his will. It seemed there was no limit to how far they were willing to go in ignoring his wishes. Did they not understand the dangers that lurked between the walls of the Golden Hall? Dangers that only he could fight?

"I said, fetch Elfhelm." He growled the words, his temper flaring.

"I am already here, your Majesty." Elfhelm ducked beneath the lintel of the doorway.

Eomer glared at him. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "Did I not order us to ride for Edoras?" He snatched at the sheet in order to maintain his dignity as he slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His limbs were trembling with the exertion of sitting up, but he refused to acknowledge the fact. He saw Elfhelm flinch and a sick feeling of disbelief washed over him. "You disobeyed me?"

Lothiriel spoke before Elfhelm had chance. "You were feverish. We thought you were going to die. We had no choice."

"Stay out of this," Eomer snarled. His gaze burned into Elfhelm. "Answer me. Did you disobey a direct order from your king?"

Elfhelm dropped to one knee, his head bowed. "Forgive me, Sire, I didn't know what else to do."

Eomer swore. "There was only one thing to do, Elfhelm. Pray tell me, when did my orders become the subject of debate? When did my authority cease to mean anything?"

Erika's voice cut through the air. "When you became incapable of sitting astride a horse and your words became feverish babble."

Eomer tore his gaze from the kneeling form of his marshall as she stepped into the room. He met her angry gaze with fire of his own. "How dare you…"

"How dare we save your life?" Erika snapped. She threw a pile of clean clothes onto the bed next to him. "These belong to Breda's husband, but they should fit you. Get dressed and we will continue this conversation outside your sick room."

"I will decide when and where we will converse," Eomer shouted, his temper in full flow now.

Erika didn't even flinch. "Prove to me you are well enough to be up and I will gladly bow to your authority, your Majesty. But if you cannot, then king or not, you will do as you are told until such a time as you are fit enough to resume your duties. We have not risked our lives saving you to now stand by and watch you undo all we have done." She turned away from him. "Lothiriel. Elfhelm. Come."

Stunned, Eomer watched as Erika stalked from the room. He looked at Lothiriel and saw disappointment on her face. Clearly he'd revealed a side of his character that she did not much care for. He swore silently as she lowered her gaze and, without a word, followed Erika from the room. Once again his emotions caught him off guard. While it mattered little to him that Erika had shown her disapproval, Lothiriel's disappointment was like a knife in his gut. Before he had chance to analyse that, though, Elfhelm rose swiftly to his feet. He bowed formally to Eomer, his back stiff and his shoulders rigid. Then he too turned towards the door.

"I am not finished with you," Eomer snapped, unable to believe the marshall was going to compound his sin by walking out on him.

Elfhelm stopped, turned slowly and then met Eomer's gaze, his expression pained. "Tell me, Eomer, what good is an oath of loyalty if it leads to the death of the person to whom it is given?"

"There is more at stake here than my well-being."

"No, you're wrong. I do not regret what I did for it was what I believed was best – both for you and Rohan."

"For me perhaps," Eomer admitted tersely. "But not for Rohan."

Elfhelm shook his head. "You are Rohan, Eomer. Like it or not, without you we are nothing."

"There is Eowyn…"

"Long has your sister been a shield maiden of Rohan, and had you fallen in battle she would have made a fine queen. But her heart belongs to Ithilien now, and that cannot be undone. Nor would any wish it to be. She deserves to be happy. You of all people know that." He paused, and then added wearily, "Punish me as you see fit. My fate is of little concern. Rohan still has her king, and that is all that matters." With that he ducked through the doorway.

For a moment, Eomer was too shocked to respond. Mixed emotions tumbled through him. He was furious at being so far from Edoras. But he could not deny that Elfhelm had a point. That there were times when one's conscience made it impossible to blindly follow an order no matter what oaths one had spoken. He remembered his own act of 'treachery' before the war. As Third Marshall, he had deliberately ridden out to fight a party of orcs against Theoden-King's express wishes. Being punished on his return for doing what he believed was right - for what had later been proven to be right - had been like salt in a wound, harsh and painful. Was he really going to treat Elfhelm the same way?

"We are waiting, your Majesty." Erika's voice taunted him from beyond the bedroom door.

His temper flared anew. Elfhelm might have good reason to behave as he had, but this chit of a girl needed putting in her place. The authority of a healer did not rank higher than that of a king. Strengthened afresh by his annoyance, he snatched the woollen pants from the pile of clothing and shoved his right leg into them. A wave of dizziness hit him, forcing him to close his eyes and breathe deeply. He swore softly to himself until it passed, and then quickly thrust his other leg into the pants and hitched them up and over his hips. The brief surge of energy had drained from him now. He pulled in another deep breath, pressed both hands against the mattress, wincing as his left arm protested, and pushed himself from the bed.

For a moment he thought he was fine, but as he moved to retrieve the shirt from the bed, the room did a sickening roll and suddenly the floor was rushing up to meet him. His right arm flailed wildly as he tried to grab hold of the bed, but failed. Then his legs buckled and he hit the damp earth hard enough for the air to be knocked from his lungs. For several moments, he simply lay in a crumpled heap on the reed-strewn ground and concentrated on staying conscious as his body let him now in no uncertain terms that it was not going to co-operate with his brain.

"Elfhelm." He heard Erika's voice in the doorway. "I believe the king requires your assistance in returning to bed." A pair of small booted feet appeared in his line of vision, the toes of one foot tapping impatiently a few inches from his nose. "Or am I mistaken? Perhaps crawling to Edoras is part of some complex plan of his Majesty's?"

"He is sick enough without you flaying him with your tongue, woman," Elfhelm growled from somewhere above Eomer's head. "Leave him be."

Eomer felt two strong hands beneath his armpits and then he was hoisted from the floor and dumped unceremoniously onto the bed. He had made a complete fool of himself. As he lay there, eyes closed, trying to catch his breath, he desperately wished he could relive the past few minutes. When he opened his eyes and saw the distress on Lothiriel's face, he wished it even more. There was only one thing for him to do.

"It seems I have just proven, more than adequately, that I am in no condition to go anyone's aid, least of all Eowyn's." He swallowed down the gall that rose with that statement, and turned towards Erika. "I apologise for my ill-temper."

"Apology accepted," Erika replied. "Perhaps it will sweeten your mood if I tell you that your strength will soon return."

"How soon?" he demanded.

"Two days. Three at the most." She eyed Eomer critically. "If you do as you're told." He bowed his head, knowing that this was the one time to admit defeat. She gave him a small smile by way of reward. "Believe me, your Majesty, we all wish to see you seated one the throne once again. If my words were harsh before…"

"They were warranted," Eomer said, chagrined that it was true. He glanced towards Elfhelm. "As was your action in deciding to come here. Let there be no more talk of broken oaths or of punishment. You have ever been loyal to Rohan, Elfhelm. And I know as well as any man that the danger of blindly following the bidding of a man not in full charge of his senses." He relaxed into the pillow as he saw the relief on Elfhelm's face. Finally he turned to Lothiriel. "I would ask your forgiveness too."

"There is nothing to forgive," she said swiftly.

"Yes there is. I spoke harshly to you whereas you have shown me nothing but kindness and care, and for that I am sorry." It was his turn to be relieved as she inclined her head in acceptance of his apology.

Erika once more took charge. "If you are to recover your strength, your Majesty, you need rest."

Elfhelm nodded. "We understand your desire to aid your sister. Truly we do. But you will achieve nought if you rush to Edoras while you can barely stand, let alone hold a sword. Be patient, Eomer. A few days more…"

"Two days," Eomer said firmly. "Not a moment longer." He looked at Erika, daring her to contradict him.

She considered him thoughtfully for a long moment. "Two days and not a word of complaint about the taste of the medicines I prepare for you."

"Agreed," Eomer said. "Though I am sure I shall regret the additional part of this bargain."

That bought a smile to Erika's face. "Sleep is the best healer of all now."

Frustrated Eomer leaned back against his pillow as Erika preceded Elfhelm through the doorway. How did she expect him to sleep knowing that Eowyn was in the company of a traitor and that his kingdom was under threat?

Lothiriel's voice broke into his brooding. "Your sister is a strong woman." She was still standing at the foot of his bed, concern on her face. "I am sure she would rather you used your energy to regain your strength than in worrying about her."

"I know you mean well, Lothiriel, but you don't understand. My sister has suffered enough on my account. To know she is once again unprotected through my own folly…"

"I am sure you are being too hard on yourself."

"No. I am not." He remembered the look on Eowyn's face the day he'd been banished from Rohan. Never had he seen such desolation in her eyes. He'd failed her in spectacular fashion, not just earning himself a beating at the hands of Grima's men, but leaving her completely at Wormtongue's mercy.

"Eomer…"

"I know. I need to rest." He cut her off, unwilling to give voice to the dark memories that an explanation for his earlier comment would naturally require. He could not change the past, but he could influence the future. Lothiriel turned to go, but he suddenly realised he didn't want to be alone. If he was to rest he needed a distraction from his thoughts and the nightmares that plagued him when he slept. What better way than with the company of a beautiful woman who, for some reason that still mystified him, had risked her own life to save his? "Please, will you stay a while?"

She looked startled at his request. "Erika said…"

"Erika will no doubt make my life as miserable as possible with her potions. I am sure, however, that she would not deny me the simple pleasure of a conversation. Please?" he gestured towards the chair next to his bed. For a moment he thought she was going to refuse him. It would have served him right if she had done so. He had been abominably rude to her moments earlier. To his relief, though, she inclined her head in agreement and stepped towards the chair. "You have me at something of a disadvantage," he said, shifting his shoulders against the pillow in the hope of finding a more comfortable position. "It seems I owe my life to someone about whom I know very little except a name."

She moved to help as he tugged ineffectually at his pillow. "Allow me." She touched his shoulder lightly to indicate he should lean forward. Instead of taking the pillow, however, she gently ran her hand across the bruised skin of his back. "Is it still painful?" she asked.

Her touch sent a rush of heat through him that had nothing to do with the poison-induced fever. "At this exact moment in time?" he asked, holding her gaze. "No."

Her eyes widened in surprise and then she snatched her hand away, grabbed at the pillow and shook it vigorously to redistribute the feather stuffing. She thrust it behind him again as though it had suddenly become too hot to touch. He felt even more of an idiot now. It hadn't been his intention to flirt with her, but the scent of her hair had filled his nostrils, his eyes had been level with the swell of her bosom and what few brain cells he had left from the dual assault on his senses had suddenly become more interested in wondering what it would be like to kiss her than registering the dull ache of his bruises. He had wanted a distraction, but this was far more than he had bargained for, and the words had simply tumbled from his mouth before he'd had chance to consider their impact.

She was sitting on the chair now. Her back was very straight and her hands were folded neatly in her lap. "What would you like to talk about?" she asked as though nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired. The awkward position of the pillow behind his back was proof, however, that he had not just imagined she had been flustered by his comment. He did not dare attempt to move it, though. Instead he fixed what he hoped was a relaxed expression on his face and quickly sought a safe topic of conversation. "Tell me about your family. Or your home. I've heard that Dol Amroth is beautiful."

The tension in her shoulders eased. "It is indeed," she said. For the next few minutes she described her home to him, her eyes lighting up as she told him of the many moods of the sea. He couldn't help but once again wonder what it would be like to kiss her.

"Eomer?"

"What?" His attention suddenly snapped back to the conversation.

She frowned slightly. "I said perhaps one day you will honour us with a visit. Then you can see for yourself."

"I'd like that," he replied hastily, embarrassed by his own behaviour. What was the matter with him? "I met your father during the war. He is a good man." He studied her face for a moment, keeping his gaze well away from her lips. "I can see the resemblance."

"Really? Most people say I take after my mother in appearance." Lothiriel hesitated then added softly. "I'm afraid I find it hard to remember what she looked like. I was only six when she died."

"I'm sorry," Eomer said. He felt a wave of sympathy for her as he remembered the painful days that had followed the loss of his own mother.

"So am I," Lothiriel replied. There was sadness in her tone, but no self-pity. "I would give a great deal to have had but a few more years with her."

"A few years. A few hours. A few moments. I know what it's like to live with that longing."

Lothiriel looked puzzled for a moment, but then understanding registered. "Forgive me. I'd forgotten that you lost both your parents at a young age."

For a moment he wondered how she knew, but then recalled that she had grown close to Eowyn. "I was twelve. It was harder for Eowyn, being so much younger." His gaze drifted to the end of the bed. "I promised her that I would always be there…" He trailed off, realised he'd returned to the one subject he was trying to avoid. Quickly he shifted the focus. "You father hasn't remarried?"

"By the gods no." She laughed softly. "Though many have tried to persuade him to do so. He is forever complaining that he needs an armed guard simply to fend off the many simpering women who believe he is in need of a wife and that they are perfect for the role."

"I know that feeling too," Eomer replied.

"Do you now," Lothiriel answered with amusement.

"Oh yes. It was bad enough when I was Third Marshall. Now that I am king it seems that every mother in Rohan is in competition to wed me to their daughters."

"Such a terrible problem," Lothiriel teased. "But do none of them meet with your approval?"

The question caught him by surprise, as did the answer. No, he realised, none of them did. While he was not blind to a pretty face or ignorant of the physical comforts offered by marriage, the constant skirmishes on Rohan's borders had caused him to fear he had little to offer a wife except an early widowhood. Then there was both the threat of war and the reality of its arrival. As for those who would have gladly serviced him between the sheets without a wedding band, well, respect for Theoden had kept him celibate on the rare occasions he was at court long enough to be tempted otherwise. The king had made it clear that he did not wish to see the features of his son or his nephew on the faces of any children not conceived in a marriage bed.

Perhaps, though, he'd just been fooling himself. Perhaps the real reason he had rarely been tempted to bed a woman was because none had ever made him experience the feelings he was battling with right now. He stared at Lothiriel, stunned by the implication of his thoughts. Had he been bewitched as well as poisoned? For clearly he was no longer the man he had been but a few days ago. He had often heard it said that facing death changed a man. Having fought in more battles than he cared to remember, he hadn't believed it to be true. But now he was tempted to think that perhaps in battle one did not have time to look death in the face, whereas knowing that poison flowed in your veins… He shivered at the memory. Now that was an experience that definitely made a man face his mortality.

"You're cold," Lothiriel said, fresh concern on her face. "While you were feverish we thought it best to keep the bedclothes to as few as possible. Let me fetch you a blanket."

He watched her leave. She was as graceful as a cat, but there was a strength to her that revealed a childhood growing up with older brothers. He could imagine her chasing after them, wanting to be included in their games and rough and tumble, just as Eowyn had with him. Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. He found himself smiling as he silently sounded out her name, and he shook his head at the complex web of emotions he found himself caught in. Leaning forward, he adjusted the pillow and then settled back to await her return.

A fresh wave of exhaustion suddenly washed over him. Just outside the bedroom, he could hear her voice, soft and feminine. A deeper voice joined in the conversation. Elfhelm, he thought, oddly comforted by the knowledge that the Marshall was there to watch over them. He turned onto his side, and let the gentle rise and fall of Lothiriel's voice wash over him like a lullaby.

----------------------

Lothiriel smiled as she returned with the blanket. Eomer had rolled onto his stomach while she'd been gone. His right arm was wrapped around his pillow in the manner that a child would clutch a comforter. His left, still encased in its bandaged split from elbow to wrist, was flung above his head in a relaxed line. The bruising that had caught her attention was more obvious now, and she once again wondered what it was that made Galwyn hate him with such a passion that she would inflict such hurt on him. Thank the gods he was in her care now. She knew beyond all doubt that she would do anything to keep him safe, that somehow this man had managed to steal into her heart and draw from her the kind of protective instinct hitherto reserved for her brothers. It was more than that, though. As she looked as his face - so calm and peaceful as he slumbered - she could no longer deny the truth. She was attracted to him - quite strongly if the way his words had flustered her earlier was anything to go by.

Faramir had been right all along. There was more to Eomer of Rohan than mere ability to wield a sword and ride a horse. There had been no denying his physical attractiveness even when his face was streaked with grime and the pain was twisting his features into a grimace. She still remembered the way her knees had suddenly seemed incapable of holding her up when he'd turned the full force of those hazel eyes on her back on the hilltop. What was more, thanks to Erika's disregard of decorum, she knew that any future queen of Rohan was not going to be disappointed by her husband's naked physique. What had surprised her, though, was the sadness with which he had spoken of his own parents when she'd mentioned losing her mother. She found herself imagining what must have been like to arrive at Edoras as an orphan. Eowyn frequently complained that her brother was over-protective, but now she understood. Eomer had been wrenched from his childhood with a cruel abruptness, and perhaps deep down feared that everything else he loved would also be snatched from him. As a result there was an intensity to him that was almost frightening. However, she recognised too that there was another side to that trait. Once Eomer gave his heart to someone or something, it was a gift for life. Were he to marry for love rather than political advantage…

She realised she was being foolish again. A brief hour of conversation and her mind was running through hallways full of fantasy. Better not to think such things. Besides it was clear from his comments earlier that Eomer would prefer to be the hunter, rather than the hunted. She would do herself no favours in giving him scope to compare her to those who had already attempted to ensnare him.

For the love of the gods, she was doing it again. Whatever was the matter with her? Better then to not think of him at all. Quickly she unfolded the blanket and draped it over him. Then she forced herself to turn away, leaving him to sleep in peace.