A/N. You guys are spoiling me with all your lovely reviews. Thank you, all of you. Just one quick reply to Katzilla:
I'm very much looking forward to reading Twilight. I read the first couple of chapters, but then life got a bit hectic and so I've been waiting for a chance to sit down and give the story the time that it deserves. You weave such a lot of wonderful detail into your stories, it isn't one I want to just skim through.
To everyone else – hope this chapter lives up to expectations!
Chapter 29 – Battle for the throne
So at last it had come to this. A battle. Nay, a duel. Eomer welcomed it, even as he weighed the risk and accepted that his life could be forfeit if he but made the slightest mistake. Silent now, the crowd cleared a space for the fight. He undid the clasp that held his borrowed cloak around his shoulders. Shrugging it off he turned and handed it to Aragorn.
"You do not have to do this," Aragorn whispered. "The throne is rightfully yours. None will support this traitor against you now."
Eomer glanced around the hall, taking in the faces of the many Rohirrim gathered there as well as the dignitaries from Rohan's neighbouring countries. "You are wrong, my friend. Too many lies have been spoken. Too much deceit spread. There must be no doubt that I have not only returned but laid claim to the throne in the time-honoured way so that no enemy of mine, present or future, will dare to question my authority."
"Theoden named you as heir, Eomer."
"And now I will prove that he was right to do so." Eomer grasped Aragorn's arm, drew him closer so that his lips were all but brushing the king's ear. "If things do not go well for me, see to it that Faramir takes Eowyn away from here. Promise me that, Aragorn. Promise me that she will still have a chance at happiness."
"Eomer…"
He shook his head in frustration, knowing that Aragorn still wished to persuade him from the path he had chosen. "Promise me!"
With a sigh, Aragorn conceded. "You have my word. Your sister will be safe."
Satisfied, Eomer turned away. Facing Ceorl, he once again held Guthwine before him, the blade catching the sunlight from the window. "For the House of Eorl," he said, offering the blade in salute to his opponent. "And for Rohan."
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No. Damn him. No. This was not what they had discussed. Lothiriel pressed her shoulder against one of the wooden pillars, grateful for its support as she looked down into the Golden Hall. Eomer's blade clashed against Ceorl's. Sparks showered around them. Both men grunted as they battled for dominance and then suddenly they spun away from each other - Ceorl with an easy grace, Eomer with somewhat less agility. This was foolishness. Complete foolishness.
Her hand folded around the bow that she was carrying. It had not been her intention to use it. Rather it had simply been a prop to help her blend in with the eored as they replaced Ceorl's guards one by one in a silent, but very effective assault of the Golden Hall. Now, though, she wished that her eyesight was such that she could trust herself to fire an arrow and hit Ceorl neatly between the eyes. That, however, was not a skill she possessed.
"Elfhelm." She pushed herself away from the pillar and, thanks to the trembling of her legs, all but staggered to his side. "You can end this. Why do you not act? Shoot Ceorl now."
His gaze remained on the fight below as he replied tersely. "Eomer needs to do this. You know that as well as I." He flinched, making her turn and look at the fight. No, dear gods, no. Ceorl was forcing Eomer back. Their blades met. Once. Twice. Eomer grunted and twisted away to the right, narrowly avoiding Ceorl's blade slicing across his back as the younger man followed the movement with his sword.
"Elfhelm!" Lothiriel did not care that there were tears on her cheeks. Did not care that she was begging. It was too much to simply stand and watch Eomer die after all they had been so. Suddenly Elfhelm's hands were on her shoulders, gripping her tight. His eyes were dark, angry.
"If you are to be his wife, you must learn not to show your feelings so openly. Stand strong for him now. And if you can, pray silently that the gods show him favour."
His words were like a slap to her face. Silently she nodded. He was right, of course. Eomer had to do this. He had to show his strength, his resolve. He had to not just be king, but had to become king in front of those he would lead. Elfhelm was right too in saying that she needed to show that she had the character required to be his queen, not just his mate. "Forgive me," she murmured, dashing away the tears. She turned from Elfhelm and clasped the edge of the balcony. White knuckled she made herself watch the deadly battle below.
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Ceorl had some skill with a blade. That Eomer could not deny as another nerve-clashing blow sent vibrations up through Guthwine, jarring his aching muscles and stealing his energy. He side-stepped to the right. Bought his own blade round and down. Welcomed the sound of Ceorl's angry grunt as he was forced back a step.
The advantage was short-lived. With a howl, Ceorl attacked again. Eomer blocked a blow aimed at his inner thigh. Stepped back and met a second that threatened to remove his head from his shoulders. Stepped back again and found himself wrong footed. Ceorl's blade scythed through the air with a malevolent hiss. And suddenly his right shoulder was aflame. His sword slipped from his grasp and skidded across the wooden floor as he fell back, a cry of pain ripping from his throat.
There was no time to think. No time to plan. Ceorl was approaching, death in his eyes. Eomer closed himself off to the hurt and threw himself at his sword. He rolled once, twice, and came up on his feet with Guthwine once more firmly in his grasp.
"How very disappointing," Ceorl mocked. "It seems we must fight on, although since you are now bleeding perhaps you would prefer to cede. I may be gracious enough to spare your life and merely exile you from Rohan as my uncle did before me."
Eomer gave the rapidly spreading bloodstain on his sleeve a cursory glance. The wound stung, but a quick flex of his fingers told him the injury was relatively superficial. Not that it really mattered how hurt he was since he had no intention of putting Ceorl's offer of mercy to the test. "It seems you share your uncle's inability to keep your tongue behind your teeth," he snarled, stepping forward once again.
Ceorl side-stepped, blade at the ready. "And it seems you share your uncle's inability to recognise a battle that cannot be won."
Sparks flew as their swords met again. With a grunt, Eomer threw his weight behind Guthwine. He had a slight advantage over Ceorl in terms of size, and he used it to full effect now as he forced the younger man back, first one step, then a second. Suddenly, though, Ceorl jerked his knee up. With a curse Eomer pulled his left hip back, narrowly avoiding a painful blow to the groin. Ceorl's blade screeched along the length of Guthwine as the younger man spun away. So Ceorl wanted to fight like a tavern brawler, did he? Fine. As a hot-headed angry young man, Eomer had had his fair share of drunken fights. Dirty tactics didn't bother him.
Eomer matched Ceorl's pace. Circling warily. Waiting for the right moment. And then suddenly he was under attack. He parried. Thrust. Blocked. Parried again. Sweat ran down his face, stinging his eyes, plastering his hair and his clothes to his skin. His breath came in hard, fast bursts. A grunt tore from his lungs as he blocked a particularly ferocious blow that would've severed his lower leg if it had made contact. A second thrust was aimed at his stomach, and as he evaded it, Ceorl suddenly slammed into him, bodily knocking him off-balance. He countered with a shove of his own. Cried out as his wounded shoulder impacted with Ceorl's, and then spun away. Damn. Off-balance he stumbled. Bought his sword up just in time to clumsily deflect a third blow. He staggered awkwardly to his right and threw up his left arm to regain his equilibrium. Too late he realised his mistake. Ceorl's sword came down hard against his forearm. Pain slammed up his arm into his shoulder. Horrified he pulled away. The sight of Ceorl's blade embedded in his flesh sent a wave of nausea through him, and then suddenly the sword pulled free. He clutched his arm across his chest, expecting to feel the sticky warmth of fresh blood. Instead… he glanced down, bemused. Ceorl's gaze followed. There was no blood. His tunic was sliced through and yet… his flesh was intact, protected by the sturdy wooden splint, which now bore a deep indent where Ceorl's blade had bitten into it.
Ceorl frowned, clearly confused. And Eomer suddenly realised he had the advantage. With a howl of outrage he launched himself forward, blade slicing through the air. From the left. From the right. Ceorl staggered backwards, unprepared for the ferocity of the attack. Apparently still unable to believe that Eomer's left arm was still attached to his body. Eomer let the physical pain of his abused body morph into anger and then turned the anger into energy as he struck again. And again. Desperately Ceorl tried to block the blows. One. Two. Three. The fourth rocked him backwards. The fifth knocked his sword from his hand. Eomer didn't hesitate now. Stepping forward he bought his right elbow sharply up, catching Ceorl beneath the chin. The rider fell backwards, and hit the ground hard, dazed and bleeding.
Breathing hard, Eomer leaned over him, Guthwine's tip resting lightly in the hollow of Ceorl's throat. "You're the one bleeding now," he said, taking in the blood that was running freely from Ceorl's split bottom lip. "Do you cede?"
Ceorl stared up at him as though unable to believe his ears. "Cede?"
Eomer pressed the tip of his sword down, watching almost with detachment as the skin beneath it indented. He could kill Ceorl now. Slit his throat and watch him bleed to death without feeling a pang of guilt. After all, there were worse ways to die. He knew that only too well thanks to Ceorl and Galwyn. Could, even now, still feel the residual effects of the poison on his body. He stared down at the traitor who had so nearly taken every thing from him. "Were I just a man, I would kill you without hesitation. Kill you gladly for all that you have done to me, and to those I care about." He glanced up at Eowyn. Saw the pained tension on her face. How much had she suffered while he'd been held prisoner? What had this cur put her through? The tip of his sword broke through skin, and he forced himself to draw back, to take a deep breath and rein in his emotions as he once again looked down at Ceorl. "All have now witnessed that I, Eomer, Son of Eomund, Sister-Son of Theoden, am King of Rohan, and as such I will see you given a trial so that you may answer for your crimes and be punished in a fair and just manner. So what say you? Do you cede to me?"
Ceorl's nod was barely susceptible. "Aye. I cede."
Eomer eased Guthwine an inch away from Ceorl's throat. "Say it louder, so that all may hear."
Ceorl coughed, clearing his throat before speaking. "I cede to you, Eomer, King of Rohan."
A weariness crashed over Eomer and he all but fell as he stepped away from Ceorl. It was over. Finally, it was over.
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Eowyn heard Ceorl's words but before tears of relief could spill, she watched in dismay as Eomer swayed badly, almost losing his balance. He was hurt. Perhaps more seriously than he seemed. Her gaze moved to the blood-dampened sleeve of his tunic, and her fear for him notched higher. "Eomer…" She started forward, but then saw Aragorn reach out to him, and reassured herself that there was no better healer than the King of Gondor. Eomer would be in safe hands there. Ceorl, on the other hand, would find that no one in Rohan would wish for any outcome from his trial other than complete and utter condemnation for all he had done.
She glanced at the man who had caused her such pain, frowning as she saw him slowly climbing to his feet. Eomer should've saved them all a lot of trouble and run him through. Her frown deepened as she watched him bend forward. For a moment she thought she'd imagine it, but then suddenly her throat constricted as she saw a sudden glint of sunlight on metal. He'd pulled a blade from the top of his boot. Small, but deadly. And from the dark expression on his face he clearly had every intention of plunging it into Eomer's unprotected back.
"No!" She was already moving as Ceorl lurched forward. Eomer began to look over his shoulder.
Too late. He would see too late. "Eomer," she screamed.
Desperately she stepped forward and saw a sheathed dagger positioned snugly in the belt of the man standing next to her. Reaching for it, her fingers curled around the jewelled hilt. She pulled it free. Glanced up. Unbelievably Ceorl was still moving unimpeded towards Eomer. Aragorn was only just turning to look. Faramir was striding forward. But they were all too far. Too far.
She pulled her arm back. And threw the dagger.
Ceorl arched his back as the blade imbedded itself in his body. Moments later he jerked like a string puppet as an arrow struck him in the chest. First one. Then a second. Then a whole volley came raining down from above, each one finding its mark. The knife fell from his hand and spun across the floor, coming to a halt at Eomer's feet.
Slowly Ceorl toppled sideways, hitting the ground with open, dead eyes.
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A cacophony of noise exploded in the Golden Hall as everyone began talking at once. Eomer disappeared from Lothiriel's view as people crowded around him. Turning from the balcony she ran to the stairway, conscious that Elfhelm was in front of her. The Marshall was taking the stairs two at a time, but when he reached the bottom he didn't turn towards the hall, but instead sprinted in the opposite direction.
Lothiriel barely gave his action a second though. She plunged through the doorway and began to battle her way through the crowd towards Eomer. At last, and not without some rather unladylike use of her elbows, she forced herself to the front of the group that was pressed tightly around him. He was sitting on a wooden chest, looking pale and more than a bit dazed. It was quite clear that he wasn't taking in a word anyone was saying to him. Could they not see that he needed peace and quiet, not a hundred questions about his miraculous return from the dead? Aragorn was doing his best to answer on Eomer's behalf, but even he looked somewhat overwhelmed by the barrage of sound.
She moved past the King of Gondor now, her voice low. "We need to get him out of here."
"Give them a few more minutes," Aragorn replied. "They need to see…"
She didn't hear what else he said because at that moment Eomer looked up at her. The utter weariness on his face almost undid her, but then he smiled weakly and suddenly she found herself laughing with relief. He held his hand out to her and she did not hesitate. Nor did she care that they had an audience. As she crossed the distance between them there was no one in the world except Eomer. She sat next to him, wrapped her arms around his neck as he leaned forward, and then pressed her face against his chest, not caring that he smelt of sweat and battle. He rested his forehead against the top of her hair, and a tremor ripped through his body as he sucked in a deep breath. Was he crying? It would not surprise her after all he had been through. Cautiously she drew away, and saw that she had been close to guessing correctly. His eyes were glittering with unspilled tears. Tears that he would no doubt prefer not to shed right now. She didn't know what to say. For a moment, didn't know what to do. But then she simply gave in to instinct. Leaning forward she kissed him. It was a tentative kiss, uncertain as she was that he was in a fit state to respond to her. Suddenly, though, he reached up with his left arm, tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her towards him. The kiss he delivered in return sent a fire racing through her body.
"Lothiriel!" A very familiar voice cut through the silence that had descended on the Golden Hall.
Shocked, she pulled away from Eomer and jumped to her feet. Turning with as much dignity as she could muster, she all but flinched as she saw the stern look on her father's face. Prince Imrihil had pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Now he strode towards her, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. She swallowed hard. Knew that she had breached just about every rule of court etiquette that could be imagined. As Eomer gave a weary groan, she took a small step to her right, placing herself firmly between him and her father. If anyone was going to be publicly berated, she would see to it that it was herself.
"Father," she began. "I can explain…"
She suddenly found herself wrapped in his arms. "By the gods, child, I have been beside myself with worry." He pushed her away again, holding her at arms length, his grey eyes studying her face. "It is good to see you well." With a suddenness that almost made her lose her balance, he pulled her to his chest again, hugging her fiercely. "You are well, are you not?"
"I am quite well," she murmured.
Imrihil released her with a relieved sigh, and turned his attention on Eomer. "As for you…"
"Father…"
"Silence, Lothiriel." Imrihil thrust out a hand towards Eomer. "As for you, young man, it is high time you let someone see to your wounds. You look terrible."
Relief washed across Eomer's face as he took the proffered hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. However, his expression turned serious as soon as he was upright. "Your Highness, about my behaviour with…"
Imrihil leaned forward, his whisper loud enough for Lothiriel to hear. "Hush now. There will be time enough on the morrow to discuss your impudence with my daughter." He turned away, but not before Lothiriel saw the mischievous smile on his lips. The rogue. He was clearly pleased for her. Tomorrow she would ensure she was present at any discussion as he was sure to milk the situation for all it was worth, and though Eomer was no doubt acquainted with her father's sense of humour having fought beside him, in this instance, she had no desire to allow him to suffer unduly.
"Make way for the king," a voice called out. She turned and found Eothain had cleared a path to the door, the eored now standing in two straight lines, forming an honour guard. With a weary smile, Eomer took her hand, and together they left the hall.
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Erika flinched as the door to her cell opened. It was the two guards. Big, ugly brutes. And both clearly well into their cups. She shrank against the wall as they leered at her. Please no.
"Celebration should be starting soon," the elder of the two said. "You're going to be a busy girl for the next few hours."
His companion sniggered. "Yeah, very busy. But we figure we deserve it a bit fresh, seeing how we've been sat down here in the dark watching over you all night. Don't see why we should wait no longer, do we?"
"No. Think we've waited long enough. Be doing the others a favour too. Break you in for them."
She wanted to spit defiance at them, but her mouth was as dry as a flour sack, and her heart was pounding so fast, it was all she could do to breathe. She looked round wildly, desperately seeking some means to defend herself even though she knew they was nothing in her cell that offered the least bit of protection. There was nowhere to hide. Nothing to use as a weapon. And they were too big for her to have any hope of making a run for it. She clenched her fingers into fists, felt her nails dig into her palms. There was no doubt that they would take her and use her in whatever way they saw fit, but she would not make it easy for them. If nothing else she would take skin from them.
The eldest one gave an evil laugh. "Oh, I think she wants to fight. Nothing I like more than taming a wild cat. Come to me, my pretty. I'm going to split you open with my…"
Erika gasped as the man's eyes suddenly bulged. He gave a shocked exhalation as his head jerked back. An arm snaked around his neck and he jerked again, arching his back. A familiar voice hissed into the dark. "Looks like you're the one who's split open." Shoved from behind, the guard slid to the ground. Behind him was Elfhelm, his bloodied sword in his hand. The second guard blanched, and foolishly tried to make a run for it. The hiss of Elfhelm's blade turned damp as it sliced across flesh. The man dropped to the floor, clutching desperately at his stomach. His agonised scream silenced by a second sweep of the sword. His eyes dark, face grimmer than she ever remembered, Elfhelm turned to Erika. "Are you alright? Tell me these animals had not touched you before I arrived."
She was trembling so badly she could barely stand. How could she possibly speak? Her gaze flicked from the dead men on the floor to Elfhelm and then back to the rapidly spreading pools of blood.
"Erika?" Elfhelm sheathed his sword and crossed the distance between them in two long strides. Gripping her shoulders, he studied her face, swearing at the sight of the bruises that she knew marked her cheek. Distress twisted his face into a forbidding mask. "I was too late. Damn them all to the fires of Mordor."
His pain finally restored her voice. "No, Elfhelm. No. You came in time."
He brushed the palm of his hand against her face, disbelief in his eyes.
"I suffered nought but a couple of slaps. You saved me, Elfhelm." A soft, semi-hysterical laugh escaped her. "Something you seem to make a habit of doing." She was pulled abruptly into his arms and all but crushed against his chest.
"Aye, but hopefully this was the last time you will be in need of rescue."
She relaxed against him, welcoming the feel of his arms around her. The smell of him filled her lungs – leather, horses, sweat. It was scent of safety. Of strength. By the gods, she loved this man. Abruptly, though, she realised the meaning behind his words. If this was the last time she would need rescue, then did that mean… "The king?" She pulled away and looked up at him, hope in her heart.
Elfhelm's eyes glittered with sudden tears. "Aye, lass. Eomer is restored to the throne."
"Thank the gods," she sighed, and attempted to lean back into his embrace. However, instead of welcoming arms, she found only stiffness and formality.
"There is much to do," he said. "Come. I will see that you are in safe hands. Then I must assist Eothain in ensuring that Edoras is secure."
"Of course." She stepped away from him, and took a moment to straighten her dress and regain her composure. It was only natural that mention of the king would turn his thoughts back to his duty. He was, first and foremost, a Marshall of the Mark. Did she not know him well enough by now to expect ought else? And yet the bite of disappointment at his action cut deep.
If he had not declared himself now, what hope was there that he would ever do so?