Chapter 23

There was a solace and satisfaction in hitting things. As a young lad, Éomer had quickly learned that battle training was a decent outlet for all his anxious, pent up energy. It was better than acting out and getting into fights, and he was sure both his uncle and cousin had taken a deep breath of relief when he had stopped brawling and started to train. Sometimes working himself into exhaustion was the only way he could sleep quietly. After a lifetime of active military service, he didn't really know how to be completely without drills. He didn't get to train as much as in times before when he served as the Third Marshal, but it was still essential for venting the many frustrations of kingship. And Béma, was there a lot to vent recently.

So it was he found himself at the training grounds once again, armed with a practice shield and sword, and fighting against two Riders of his guard. It was a hot day and they were sweating profusely under bright sunlight, but Éomer welcomed the physical strain: the heat on his back, the reassuring weight of his weapons, and the challenge of keeping two opponents at bay.

Well, that last part was the other way around, really. He was advancing hard and forcing them back, and it wasn't long that one of the two Riders dropped his own sword and held up his shield with both hands, needing all his strength and focus just to parry Éomer's frenzied attacks. He might have gone and hacked the shield into pieces if Éothain had not interrupted.

"My lord! We have enough kindling at Meduseld, you don't need to dismantle that shield for it!"

The young king finally snapped out of it, and paid close heed to the two Riders before him. Both looked a little startled, and the second one still held on tightly to his shield, like he wasn't sure if it was safe to drop yet. Not that it would do him any good for much longer: a few well-aimed attacks would probably split the already damaged shield in half.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to come so hard at you two. I don't know what got into me", Éomer apologised to the two Riders, who muttered it was nothing, but their eyes were still wary.

He then made his way to where Éothain was standing and watching the drills (and shouting the occasional encouragement, advice, or insult - depending on what was needed at the moment). The Captain watched his king with a critical eye as he tossed him a full waterskin.

"You know, when you said you wanted to train today, I didn't think you meant 'beating your Riders into bloody pulp', Sire", Éothain commented wryly.

Éomer grunted and splashed some cool water over his head, washing away the sweat that was streaming down his neck.

"They should be challenged, lest they forget what real battle is like", he told his friend. "And I need to stretch my legs – get out of this city for a while."

Éothain gave him a critical look, even half opened his mouth to say something. Éomer could guess what his friend was going to say, and glared silently. Éothain seemed to get the point; he sighed and shook his head.

Éomer knew very well this mad training spree wasn't going to solve his troubles, but at least it might make him feel better for a while.

"It's almost Midsummer's Day. You can't be travelling now, especially when you were away last year", Éothain finally pointed out.

"I know", said Éomer, hid his grimace, and drank some water. Then he picked up the practice shield and sword again, rolled his shoulders, and turned to face a fresh pair of opponents. They both looked a little bit concerned.

There was plenty of frustration for him to vent still.

Afternoon was growing late and the sun was westering when even Éomer had to admit he couldn't go on any longer. His body was sore and his arms ached from many fierce bouts and hard exercise. Éothain had also landed a couple of cunning blows on him that would probably bruise. His clothes were damp with sweat. But even he couldn't keep on going, no matter how little his mood had improved.

The preparations for the great feast were still in full swing when the young king and his beat-up guards lumbered inside. The twin doors of the Hall were open and people rushed in and out, carrying seemingly endless amounts of water for the washing, various objects he didn't really know what they would be used for, and occasionally somebody dragged mattresses, carpets and hangings so that they could be aired. Éomer hadn't thought the Golden Hall would need this level of cleaning so soon after the wedding, but the Queen seemed to have other ideas. Now that he thought of it, she was probably cleaning for the same reason he had been training. Éomer refrained from sighing out loud.

He saw her at the other side of the hall, talking to a group of cleaners. She was wearing a midnight blue gown adorned with Amrothian pearls, her hair was neatly braided, and her face was cool and collected. Yet even though she was the very image of queenliness and propriety, Éomer thought she looked a little ill. Something unpleasant shifted in his stomach. He knew he couldn't go and ask her if she was all right – she would just dodge him with some vague words that weren't really an answer – but maybe Alfwen could tell him if all was well with the Lady of the Hall.

His heart ached. Only a couple of months of marriage and already he couldn't talk to his wife.

"My lord?"

It was Leofrun's voice that startled him back to the present moment, and interrupted his unhappy line of thought. She had approached without him noticing, and stood there, her sleeves rolled back as though she too had been participating in the washing. He glanced at the elderly woman and somehow, only with sheer strength of will, was able to smile at her.

"Tell somebody to bring me some hot water. I'd like to take a bath", he told her.

She nodded, and even smiled a bit, although he saw the concern in her eyes.

"Excellent idea. You look like there was a real fight and not just training", she commented.

"I have no idea of why everybody keeps telling me that", he said dryly. He gave her an appraising look, and then asked carefully, "Leofrun, do you know if the Queen is quite all right?"

She gave him a keen look.

"I believe she has had some trouble sleeping, and her appetite is not quite what it should be. But she hasn't asked to see a healer", she replied quietly.

"Thank you, Leofrun", Éomer said curtly and made his way to the royal apartments before she could say anything more.

Half an hour later the bath was ready and he sat down in the massive tub. He let out a sigh as heat enveloped him and his sore muscles began to relax. He leant back his head and tried to think of nothing, but it was difficult to keep his mind empty of unpleasant things when he wasn't focusing on swinging his sword. Almost at once, his mind returned to his wife... these past few days, things had been so strained between them, he didn't know how to try and make it better. She barely looked at him, and spoke only when necessary, and it infuriated him in a way that made thinking of reconciling and attempts to fix things very difficult. And yet at the same time he missed her and wanted her back by his side, in his arms... and with this thought, he recalled the last time they had shared this bath together, just before his trip to Aldburg. The memory of her nude, wet body pressed against his own, so close and trusting, sent a shiver down his spine and made his mouth dry. Desire stirred in the pit of his stomach, but it was quickly mixed with frustration. Lothíriel was not likely to welcome any of his advances at the moment.

He sank down in the bath until his head was under the water.

His mood was not much improved by the time he had finished his bath. Éomer climbed out, combed back his still damp hair, and picked up his robe. He was still in the process of fastening it when he heard quiet sobbing from the Queen's rooms.

Something strange happened to him at that moment. First there was the fierce instinct to go to her, make sure she was safe and unharmed, and then do terrible things to whatever had made her cry. But then doubt raised its ugly head. Did she even want him... need him? If she was crying because of him... maybe Lothíriel wanted him to stay away.

However, he couldn't bear listening to her sobbing, and so he entered her bedchamber without even knocking.

His wife was on her knees down on the floor and her cat was circling around her, occasionally pushing against her with the head. Her hands felt the carpets and floorboards, and he realised she was looking for something.

"Is something the matter?" Éomer asked, loud and direct, still unsure if there was a reason for him to go and get his sword.

"The bracelet", she said in a weak, strangled voice. "It came off. The pearls... I can't find all of them..."

Then he could see the leather bracelet in one of her hands, and he could tell it had indeed come off of her hand – by wearing down, or because something had cut it, he wasn't able to ascertain. But he knew she wouldn't take it off, and seeing her so upset over it made him feel momentary hope. If she still prized the first thing he had given her, then there was also a chance of making things right.

He squatted down as well, feeling the soft fur carpet for the glistening pearls he had first purchased at the markets of Dol Amroth. He had to mind his hands, though, because Cúran had sat down close by and the thing followed his fingers like planning to pounce at them. Éomer did not particularly want to have his hands cut to ribbons by the little beast.

He had not had time to tie his robe properly to begin with, and now as he shuffled on the floor in the search of the pearls, the knot came undone and the piece of clothing fell open. Lothíriel froze immediately, hands still pressed against the floorboards. She glanced very quickly at him, and then colour spread across her cheeks and neck. She turned her face away.

"You should go get dressed. My maids will be here soon", she muttered. Her voice was so strained, it didn't sound her own.

For a brief moment he stared at her, but she refused to meet his eyes. He could see she was breathing rapidly, but whether it was because she too had ideas about her nearly naked spouse, or because she was still upset, or because she expected him to simply lose all restraints and take her forcibly, he didn't know.

"Fine", he grunted, got up and pulled the robe tightly around himself again. Éomer turned around and strode swiftly back to his own rooms, and whether or not it was a stupid thing to do, he still overturned the table in a bout of fury and frustration.


The morning of Midsummer's Day was beautiful as could be. Rain had come and gone the previous day, washing the dusty streets of Edoras and leaving the land bright and fresh. All the preparations had been made, bonfires for the coming night were now only waiting to be lit, and wherever you looked, you saw multitudes of flowers. One had to wonder if there was a single flower left in the green fields that surrounded the capital of Rohan.

There was but one shadow upon this merry celebration of high summer, and Éomer could see he wasn't the only one who noticed it. For generally, the people seemed to have happy, laughing looks on their faces, but anywhere near himself and his Queen he saw only sober expressions. He didn't want to damp anyone's festive mood and felt rather guilty for his own part.

He didn't think Lothíriel missed it, either, but she had chosen to act as if she did. She smiled and spoke pleasantly to the people around them, wore flowers in her hair like any other woman in the city, and even joked with Alfwen and the rest of her ladies. Éomer was not fooled, though. Her grey eyes had a glint that bared the truth.

It was a tradition for many Eorlingas to gather in Edoras for Midsummer's Day. Herders in particular would take the chance of bringing their horses to the rich fields of the capital – both for the games that would ensue, and for the benefit of those who were interested in buying new horses. Of course, many spontaneous purchases took place. You went for the feast and came back with a horse was a common saying with many variations.

Outside the capital games took place again, just like during the wedding celebrations, but this time, the much more were somehow about horses. There was racing, jumping, sword fights and of course archery contests at full gallop. Once the night came, many of those horses would be ridden between bonfires and even jumping over them – an ancient tradition to invoke good fortune. There was irony to it, Éomer thought; Eorlingas could be wary and even scared of sorcery, but what was their riding through the fire if not some kind of magic? He himself had taken part in these traditions, often more than just a bit drunk, and he could still recall the chanting in the night, and how the light of fire would dance on the strong, swift bodies of great Northern horses; how they flashed in the light and then vanished into the night again. One unforgettable time, Théodred had even jumped over a fire on the back of a mearh, rather sending everyone into some kind of a ecstacy. Those were moments when one could easily believe that magic existed in the world.

Be that as it may, the tradition also asked the King and Queen to observe the games, which would happen outside the city – and which required them to ride out for the occasion. Their horses were prepared in the courtyard of Meduseld, and there, just for a test, Éomer halted next to Lothíriel's mare. He intertwined his fingers into a cup next to her horse, and to his genuine surprise she came and used the step he had made, flinging herself into the saddle. She said only a cool, soft thanks to him, but did not meet his eyes.

So they rode down through the city, both dressed in the royal green and gold of the House of Eorl, and Éomer chewed his tongue while thinking of how surprisingly well these colours became his wife. He wore his coronet, but she had chosen to wear flowers in her hair, just like most other women in the capital. His heart ached, for Lothíriel looked very beautiful.

The crowds outside the capital were no less than during the wedding celebrations. The King's Company had to ride first to make way, and so the road was lined with many Rohirim. Éomer studied their faces keenly, especially when they looked at Lothíriel. Did they think they were staring at a witch? Were they angry or distrustful? But Éomer saw nothing so alarming on their features. Lothíriel smiled brightly and made contact with the onlookers; anyone who didn't know her wouldn't guess what her true mood was. Many of these people were herders and dwellers of small villages, and gossip from the court was the furthest thing from their minds. That they saw their new queen wearing the colours of the House of Eorl, with flowers in her hair like was the custom, and even riding in the manner of Eorlingas, was enough for them. When cheering rose in the crowd, he felt a little lighter, and hoped that whoever had made those runestaffs was watching this.

Even so, he knew he would have to stay vigilant. Today was Midsummer's Day and Rohirrim were in a happy mood, so they would be agreeable to most things.

Some way from the capital – and at a respectful distance from the tombs of past kings – was the site of the games, much like a couple of months before. There was a platform ready for the King and Queen, and also seats for them, from where they could watch the events unfold. Lothíriel allowed him to escort her there and once they had taken seats, her ladies came and stood by, ready to wait on the Queen. Alfwen was there of course, and Scýne, and other women of the noble houses of Rohan. At times Éomer wondered what these ladies made of their new queen. He had watched them on an occasion, but had never discerned any hostility from them towards Lothíriel. And when one looked at Alfwen, and how the tall Shieldmaiden scanned her surroundings with sharp, stern eyes while resting one hand on the hilt of her sword, Éomer couldn't easily imagine anyone insulting Lothíriel to her face. He tried not to interfere anyway, because he wanted his wife to have something of her own in Edoras, and right now she would probably take it in the wrong way, thinking he was trying to corner her. As he glanced quickly at the ladies in waiting and saw them talking softly between themselves, he also noted, why would they dislike their queen? At her best, she was friendly and sweet and charming.

He was so lost in thought Éothain had to clear his throat, and Éomer recalled he was supposed to open the games. Standing up once again, he saw the many faces of the people who had come to witness the event, and their excitement and expectation was tangible. Their cheering was deafening when he wished them all a glad Midsummer's Day.

Normally, Éomer quite enjoyed the games on Midsummer's Day – many times he had participated, and even won a prize on an occasion. It was exciting to see what his fellow Riders could do on horseback and these games never lacked speed, daring tricks and high spirits. But this time, he found himself enjoying the event less and spending more of his time observing Lothíriel from the corner of his eye. Sometimes he even turned his face her way before he realised it, and only some loud noise from the crowd or from the reckless Riders startled him back to tocus.

His wife sat there, watching the games, applauding this or that contender, talking with her ladies, and never cast her eyes to his direction. After an hour or so, Éomer felt ready to go and shake her if only to make sure he hadn't become invisible to her.

There were three main prizes given in the most important games, which the King and Queen would present. At this point Lothíriel did show she was still aware of him; at his behest, she took a silver cup from a casket Éothain had brought with him from Meduseld, and gave it to a young, fierce-looking woman who had won the racing competition. A fine polished dagger in a beautifully made leather sheath she gave to the winner of the sword fighting on horseback, a grim-faced man with long bushy hair and beard. He looked more bear than a man, but the young queen still smiled at him and even kissed his cheek. Éomer almost smiled when he watched the scene and thought the haggardly brute looked more pleased with the kiss than the dagger, and got so dazed that Alfwen had to escort him the right way. The third prize, a pouch of coin, went to a herder who had shown his unparalleled skill at riding tricks that included standing on the back of his horse while the steed was in full gallop, unseating himself and running a few steps next to the animal, and doing a series of complicated turns. All quite impressive, and Éomer felt a little guilty for not following the event with his full attention.

But when the prizes had been given, Lothíriel finally turned to look at Éomer.

"My lord, do you mind if I take my leave now? I would like to get back to Meduseld and make sure everything is ready for tonight", she said, standing there as the very image of propriety. She didn't look him straight in the eyes, but instead directed her gaze somewhere over his shoulder.

He gave her a pained look, and wanted to ask if this charade really was necessary. But this was not the place or time for such questions, so he just made a weary gesture with his hand.

"Go ahead, my lady", he grumbled and looked away. He didn't watch as Lothíriel and her ladies took their leave, flocking like colourful birds. Behind himself, he could practically feel Éothain wanting to say something, but the Captain held his tongue.

He stayed with his guard for a little over an hour more, but most of that time Éomer spent lost in thought, rather than watching the games. He wondered if he should just go back home, but what business did he have there, while his wife barely took notice of his existence? The thought grew grim and heavy in his mind, and he took a huge sip of his mead. For the rest of the time he observed the games, he nursed the cup steadily, even though Éothain audibly sighed and cleared his throat every now and then.

Éomer was a little tipsy already when he and his guards got back to Meduseld. It was afternoon at that point, and the feast of Midsummer's Day would begin soon. All about himself, he could hear excited voices chattering about the games, the things they had seen performed, and settling debts. He stayed silent and tried not to grimace too much or often; he didn't want to ruin anyone's mood by his own brooding and worrying.

At Meduseld all was ready for the feast to begin. A small bonfire had been built in the middle of the courtyard, and many more would burn outside the city. When the night came and people were drunk on mead and the warmth of summer's night, the dancing would begin. Then many couples would vanish into the night to find a nice dark spot, and nine months later many children would be born. Midsummer's Day was a blessed night for conception, for the world was lush and green, and life that began now would come into the world at the cusp of new spring. Much of that belief tied in with Béma and Laes, and the fertility of the land, and the King and Queen in particular were seen as ensuring it with their union. But those were ancient beliefs, even if he knew that there would be eyes following him and Lothíriel once the evening darkened. The idea didn't excite him half as much as it might have a few weeks ago.

All the same, burning a bonfire in this very spot could be a hazardous tradition, but so far no King of Rohan had managed to burn his capital down at Midsummer's Day - which, maybe, was quite the achievement considering how wild these celebrations could get. The fire was kept small enough, much smaller than those on the plains, and guards would keep an eye until it burned out so hopefully, Meduseld would endure yet another feast. Éomer supposed it was part of the magic and madness of Midsummer's Day: seeing whether the capital would remain intact. And what were capitals for a nomadic people, whose wealth were their horses?

The twin doors of Meduseld were open, and so they would remain through the night, for it was quite warm outside and the hall itself could get doubly so when packed with people. Knowing it was going to get only more and more difficult to maintain any semblance of regal dignity, Éomer visited his rooms quickly, and there returned his coronet to its casket, and also removed the light shirt he wore under his tunic. The mead was already making him warm.

The hall was ready for the guests. Long tables and benches stood in neat lines, candles and torches were lit, and countless flowers and garlands were hanging on the great pillars. People were streaming inside, laughing and talking, and taking sips from flasks hidden under cloaks and tunics when they thought nobody saw. It was going to be a boisterous night.

Lothíriel appeared as if from nowhere and came to join him on the dais. She held the ceremonial cup in her hands and was ready to give it to him once the feast began. Momentarily, Éomer thought of talking to her, but decided against once more. With a sigh, he sat down on his throne and watched as the hall slowly filled with guests. His wife stood silently next to him, cold and beautiful and distant. He had to wonder what kind of a picture they made to the onlookers.

Eventually, all the guests had taken their places, and then Lothíriel turned to face him, offering the cup. Her eyes were demurely downcast, although he knew better than to take it as a sign of submission. Éomer bit his tongue and hoped he didn't look too suffering to his people. He took the cup, raised it before the crowd, and drained it. This was really the only formal part of the night, and so the feast began.

The young king did his best to pay attention to his guests, and even to laugh at a few jests. But despite his attempts, his eyes still strayed at times to Lothíriel - often enough to notice she wasn't eating or drinking much. That was the only unusual thing he noticed, though: she spoke with Alfwen and Scýne as normally as ever. Although to be honest, if she were emptying cups as quickly as some others in the hall, he would surely be worried.

Not all of the feast was completely miserable for him. It appeared Éothain had decided not to let him brood too much, and so the Captain told him jokes and amusing stories, engaged him in a conversation, and asked others to join them. Soon enough Éomer realised his friend was also making sure he didn't get as much mead or ale as he himself might have wanted. His cup was filled with cool springwater at least half the time, and if he tried to glare at Éothain, the man decidedly ignored it. Maybe Éothain thought he was protecting his king from getting so drunk he'd challenge one of the guests into a fight in his own hall. Brawling in taverns was one thing, but Meduseld at least ought to have more dignity than that.

As the day turned to evening, so grew heat and noise in the Golden Hall, and the atmosphere of mirth heightened. More and more people made their way outside, some to get some air, others to watch the lighting of the bonfire, or to join the small parties that had their own revelries all over the capital. There was something rare and special about Midsummer's Day; here and there couples were openly pressing against one another, although the dancing hadn't even started yet. Wryly Éomer thought of the last Midsummer's Day, which he had spent in Mundburg, and how proper the feast had been there. But then he recalled how things had been at the time, how full of love and anticipation he had been... and how his wife barely talked to him now. His mood threatened to grow grim once more.

Éothain noticed, of course, and so suggested they go outside to get some fresh air. Éomer grunted in agreement and allowed his friend to lead him towards the doors of the hall, and then into the open air. The sun was close to setting, which meant the bonfire would be lit very soon. Already around it, guards of Meduseld were busy with carrying kindling and making sure it was as secure as could be. Though the wellspring carved into likeness of a horse head was close by, several buckets of water were also being filled and the ground around the bonfire was meticulously watered.

When the last rays of the sun graced the land and first stars twinkled in the eastern sky, so did the first flames go up. With them rose a mighty shout among the Rohirrim who were gathered nearby, and further down in the city, it was answered by other voices. Something warm spread in Éomer's chest and he stood a bit straighter. No matter what his personal troubles were, this moment was as special and significant as it ever had been. Eorlingas might have misgivings about sorcery, but there was undeniable magic in the night of Midsummer's Day, and it had power over them all.

The bonfire in the very centre of the courtyard caught fire, and soon it gleamed like a small sun in the growing shadow. More and more of its like sprang on the wide fields beyond the city gates. Voices rose in the courtyard, talking excitedly, and on the steps of Meduseld a makeshift band of musicians was starting their first tune.

These were not the fierce war songs of battlefield or long, keening laments that told the sorrows of the people of Eorl. This was more like that first wedding dance Éomer had shared with his bride, quick and lively and often exclipitly sensual. It was a sound that invoked something in his blood, for he was young, and he was king – the counterpart of Læs the Mistress of Renewal.

Unfortunately, his Læs was not likely to share the sentiment.

But there were clearly others who did. After Éomer had dipped his cup in the wellspring to drink some water – which he did voluntarily this time, much to Éothain's approval – he turned to see that not a few of the women present were throwing looks in his way. He was not so innocent as to miss the meaning of those looks, and he guessed that his and Lothíriel's distance encouraged it. He knew people had noticed their troubles, and tonight, it apparently had lead some of the local women to think he might be available for Midsummer's Day's romp. He had participated in such things before, and smitten as he had been with his new wife, this was a gauging of how loyal to her he really was.

Éomer hid his grimace and drank some more.

Night had now fallen. The dancing under the stars had grown a little more heated, and people streamed in and out of Meduseld. Noise was deafening. Éomer had not drunk water in a while; instead, his cup was filled more often with mead and ale. Even Éothain was lapsing in watching him, for he had gone to dance with his wife. He was growing more drunk again and at times he felt like his head was starting to spin.

He spotted Guthild near the bonfire and she was dancing. Her long, golden hair gleamed in firelight and the movements of her curvaceous body were almost heartbreaking to watch. Once he caught a glimpse of her face; her eyes picked up a heady glint thanks to fire and her mouth was parted as she breathed rapidly in the middle of her dance.

He couldn't deny it: in that moment, he was painfully tempted. His wife had not come to his bed for a while now and it would be a lie to say he wasn't a little bit frustrated. It would be so easy. So easy to make the mistake that would ruin his life...

You're married, she'll be devastated, she'll leave you and never speak to you again... and she won't have to, because her brothers will annihilate you... if there even is something left of you when she's gone…

But then, as he was still going through this very obvious train of thought, he could hear a sudden buzz in the crowd. Many people were speaking in lowered tones, and he quickly saw their eyes were directed towards the Hall – namely, the stone steps that lead there.

He could see why. A woman dressed in palest yellow was descending the step, there were flowers upon her head, and her long black hair fell freely down her back. Her gown exposed her delicate shoulders and the sleeves were split almost to the pit of her arms. It was like she was wrapped in sunlight. She did not wear any jewellery, and yet, in this moment, Éomer was sure that everyone in this crowd thought that the Queen of Rohan walked tonight as though she had given mortal shape to Lady Læs herself.

She halted by the bonfire. There she stood, not meeting the eyes of anyone watching her, but rather staring into the fire. Her face was inscrutable. Whispering grew in the crowd and Éomer stared at his wife, all other women completely forgotten.

A new song began and Lothíriel started to dance. And what a sight it was! She wasn't dancing like a Gondorian, or even like a Rohir. She danced like some wild thing from the woods, listening to music only she could hear. The light of fire did wondrous things against her skin and the pale gown she wore, and in her movement there was both grace and sensuality. Her black hair, long and lustrous, was like a veil of shadow.

Blood beat in Éomer's ears as he stared at her. The cup fell from his hand, fire coursed through his veins, and desire mounted unlike any moment before tonight. What was she doing? Why had she come here to dance in such a way? What did she want?

Approaching his wife, Éomer could see he was not the only man gazing at her. So he moved faster, although he wasn't quite sure of what he was going to say once he got to her. Surely she had not come here, tonight, to dance like so for nothing?

Another male guest got to her before Éomer did, perhaps considering similar notions as not a few of the women had entertained about their king tonight. He knew the man's look and was sure his own resembled it. He saw the man's hand reaching for her, and a confusing mix of emotions burst across his brain: anger and jealousy that somebody dared to approach her in this way, but also guilt and shame. What right did he have to get jealous when only moments ago he had looked at another woman?

It was as if Lothíriel had known he needed her... and maybe that was just why she was here.

Finally Éomer reached her and the overly enthusiastic man, only to hear her speaking: "Do not touch me. Only one man has that right."

Another wave of contradicting thoughts came. He was proud of her, and relieved, but also even more disgusted with himself. I've been drinking too much. Éothain was right.

All the same, the words came out before he could even think, "Might I be that man?"

He had no right, not after he had panted after other women like some kind of a lowly brute, and he should very well fall on his knees and ask for her forgiveness. But his wife turned to face him, and he almost collapsed for a completely different reason: she was even more beautiful up close. She had looked sick for the past few days, but now there was a healthy colour on her face, her eyes were bright, and her breast rose and fell quickly in a way that did unnerving things to his heartbeat. Béma, if she rejected him tonight...!

"You are, Sire", she simply said, put her hands on his waist, and pulled him into a dance.

Well, it was half a dance. After so many days of distance and avoiding, after so many days of not being allowed to even touch her, he was no good for a dancing partner. Her warm, shapely body, the smell of her hair and her skin... it was all too much. She seemed to understand this, and did not try to resist when he suddenly grabbed her by the arm and began to pull her after him towards Meduseld.

They walked swiftly through the crowd that, thankfully, made way for them. The faces around them were completely in blur; Meduseld might have been full of enemies and he wouldn't have noticed. His heart beat in his ears and he could scarcely hear anything else but her quick breathing. One of her hands grasped a handful of his tunic.

They had barely reached the King's rooms when he pushed her roughly against the wall. Then he kissed her in all the ways he had been bereft of since he couldn't remember when. She responded hungrily, winding her arms tightly around his neck, and scarcely allowing him a chance to break the kiss to breathe. And why would he want to break it? For the taste of her mouth – how had he forgotten it – he didn't want to kiss any other woman than Lothíriel.

The movement was more or less towards the bed, although there were several stops on the way – to discard their clothes, or to pin one another against the wall or some piece of furniture – until finally he lifted her in his arms, and her slender legs locked around his hips, and Béma! he groaned loudly when their bodies joined.

He was not gentle, but Lothíriel did not seem to mind. Her own grip was no less rough or demanding, and multiple times her nails drew hard across his back, nearly drawing blood. Her hands grasped so hard at his flesh that briefly he even wondered if he'd bruise. There was a moment when he noticed she was not as emaciated as Leofrun's significant mentions about her not eating enough might have implied – he thought his wife was a little rounder than the last time they had lain together – but these thoughts were forgotten quickly. She wanted to be on the top, and he wouldn't refuse her, allowing her to turn them around. It felt like he couldn't get close enough to her, not even now. Sweat was pouring down his neck, something tense and urgent was building up, and the heat and wonder of the Midsummer's Night was everywhere in the air. He turned his wife on her back again, taking support of the bed-frame, she was shaking and calling his name, and damn -

He came hard and quick, light sparked behind his eyelids like sunbeams, and what words or noises poured from his lips in that moment, he couldn't say. Éomer felt like he might pass out right there. She held him so tight that now he was sure he'd bruise.

Finally, he rolled next to her, panting and sweating. Béma, a man could have interesting experiences on the night of the Midsummer's Day, but this was undeniably the best one!

When Éomer had at last recovered a little bit, he extended his arm towards her – usually she would already have curled up against him at this point – meaning to pull her close. She had come to him most willingly, so maybe tonight they could finally talk like he had wanted to...

But Lothíriel was not there. He found only crumpled bed sheets.

So Éomer opened his eyes and saw his wife sitting on the edge of the bed. At some point, he had knocked off her flower garland. He had knocked off a lot of things.

"Lothíriel?" he asked. His voice came out strangely hoarse.

"We should get dressed. We'll be missed at the feast."

She got up and went to look for her gown.

His heart fell. Then, before any true agony could grow there, his anger rose. Éomer got up on his feet. He grasped her by the shoulder, turned her around, and then took a firm hold of her by her arms.

"Damn it, woman! What do you want from me? First you will not talk to me for weeks, then you dance like that before everyone's eyes, mine included, next you let me have you and nearly make me pass out in the process, and now you're worried about going back to the feast?" he was nearly shouting. Just what did this woman think?

She looked at him with strangely bright eyes.

"It's expected of us and -"

Now his heart did not just fall, it froze. This was about the worst thing she could answer, and he did not let her finish the sentence. When he spoke, his voice came out rough and strange.

"If that is the only reason you let me touch you, then I suggest you get out of that door right now."

Lothíriel flinched visibly. Then she winced and let out a small whimper. In sudden horror, he realised it must be pain, and he startled back as if her skin had burned his hands. And there, just above her elbows where he had held her, he could see bruises, all too much like handprints... had he made those? Certainly, he had gripped her tightly back at the bonfire, and even more so before and during the lovemaking...

"Lothíriel -" he started, but she turned, picked up her gown, and raced out.


The night of Midsummer's Day was growing late. The courtyard of Meduseld was nearly empty, except for the guards that stood by, watching the dying bonfire, keeping an eye on the last wandering drunks, and making sure none passed out in Meduseld's grounds. In the east, the horizon was growing paler.

Éomer stood by the dying embers of the bonfire; another year had passed and Meduseld had survived Midsummer's Day.

Éothain came slowly to stand by the young king's side. His eyes were a bit bloodshot, but his look was keen. It had been a long night for them all.

"I'll be riding out to meet Erkenbrand as soon as possible. I need you to send messengers both to Elfhelm and Eadwig – I want to know what's going on with those robbers by the Great East Road. Aragorn has been writing about trading contracts and he'll send his people before autumn rains. I don't want them roughed up on the road", Éomer said, his voice cool and steady.

"Very well, Sire. Have you other commands?"

"You know about those reports from Snowbourne. I really don't like this talk of Eadhild and her family needing to hire protection to keep things calm", he continued, frowning as he stared at the faintly glowing coals.

"What do you suggest?"

"Send Lord Ormar there. He was present when Eadhild and Ceorl's issue was handled. He knows the law closely. Yet people know he's not just a brainless lackey to the throne, but will oppose me when it's necessary. His visit to Snowbourne could be useful", Éomer said to his captain and raised his eyes to the horizon. Tonight he longed for the road more than usual. Things were simpler out there, and dealing with Rohirrim... it was certainly easier than with his wife.

"Is that all?" Éothain asked softly.

"No. I want you to leave a couple of lads with hounds in readiness. If even one more of those staffs appears, be it day or night, I want the maker to be hunted down at once. Let them take what men and dogs as they need. I will not return to yet another report of these things appearing when I'm gone, unless the maker is found. I want answers", said Éomer fiercely, half imagining that scene where the hounds of Meduseld miraculously tracked one of these rune staffs to somebody's home. Yet he thought if his luck was that easy, it would be a wonder.

"And if we happen to find the culprit?"

Éomer's voice was hard when he spoke, perhaps almost too hard.

"Put them in chains. Let them know how disappointed I am", he said grimly as he stared into the dying embers of the bonfire.

"Very well, Sire", said Éothain quietly. "You will leave soon, then?"

"As soon as possible."


Most people said it was the best, most memorable Midsummer's Day in a decade. People were finally starting to forget about the grim years of the war, there was prosperity in the realm again, the King was home, and even if there were troubles in the royal marriage, he and the Queen had at least reconciled for the night of Midsummer's Day – long enough to act out the parts of Béma and Laes. After that night, he knew people would watch Lothíriel more than ever. For if the heir and Crown Prince of Rohan was conceived on the night of Midsummer's Day... well, that would be something.

It was memorable for Éomer, too. He had almost thought he could reconcile with his wife; she had come to him for the first time in weeks, and then she had turned him down once again.

Not once since after the war had he felt so frustrated, or so at a loss what to do. At the same time, he could feel that his patience was starting to wear thin and it genuinely scared him to think what might happen if it snapped completely. And yet there was still a small, critical voice, asking if he really had done everything he could to win back her trust. After what had happened on the night of the feast, reconciliation was now probably more difficult than ever. The dreadful look on Lothíriel's face was etched in his memory and the palms of his hands still burned when he remembered the bruises on her arms.

Shame and guilt were a terrible burden to carry, especially when their weight was added to the rest of his unhappiness.

The morning after the feast, the Queen pleaded illness, and made no appearance in the hall for most of the day. Out of duty – and some genuine concern, he couldn't deny it – Éomer asked Leofrun if his lady wife was really quite sick.

"She was well enough to give me orders for the day, so I'd guess she was just exhausted after yesterday's... excitement. Her complexion was off, but I would not yet be too concerned", said Leofrun, clasping her hands before her. In a lower voice, she added, "I hope it's not too bold of me to say so, but I think she could use her husband's shoulder."

He glared at the elderly housekeeper.

"It has been offered and rejected. I know when to keep my distance, Leofrun, and your advice is not needed at this time", he said tightly.

She pursed her lips but did not say anything more.

Lothíriel was up again the next day. Even from afar, Éomer could see there had been some change in her that perplexed him: her face was as cold and smooth as before the feast, but her eyes seemed to lack the ice which had been in them before. He wondered about this, but made no move to speak to her. The memory of that night still stung too much, and so the distance between them continued.

Something unexpected happened the night before he was set to ride out. It was getting late as he was returning from outside making sure all was ready for the travel; he had inspected his saddle and reins and taken Flamefoal out for a quick gallop. The young stallion was in the need of a good hard ride, but it was usually wise to prepare for the journey by allowing the steed to let out some steam beforehand. Éomer could have told his squire to do these things, but there was simple pleasure in ordinary tasks, and it allowed him to forget about everything else for a little while. Summer evenings could be some of the best times for a ride, and if the situation was different... he might have taken a tent, few guards, and his wife. Together they would head out there, spend a few nights under the stars, and not think of the everyday concerns of the throne.

It was a lovely idea, but it didn't cheer him in the slightest: his heart only fell when he thought of how Lothíriel would respond to any such ideas. If things were different, he knew she would love it, and this dampened his mood even further.

He was still thinking of this when he was about to enter the corridor that lead to the royal apartments. But when he heard the voice of his wife talking, he froze.

"... it is as I thought. Somebody else made this one."

Then another familiar voice.

"How can you tell? Is it your sight?" asked Alfwen. She sounded doubtful and surprised.

"No. It's not sight, really... it's more like feelings and impressions. Things that the wood knew, and things that the staff's maker knew."

"Have you always been able to do that?"

"To a lesser degree. It has got stronger lately…"

"Who do you think made them? Are they working together?" Alfwen asked, but Lothíriel did not get to answer. For at this point, Éomer couldn't just listen to them anymore. He stepped roughly ahead, his step heavy and noisy.

"What do you mean somebody else made it?" he barked out the question. Both women startled, and he immediately regretted his harsh attitude. He was being the most horrible brute.

But Lothíriel straightened herself and looked at him with stormy eyes. In her hands, she held what had to be the second rune staff, her fingers clutching it tightly. The first one he had destroyed and burned in his fury, but the second one he had ordered to be kept, in case it yielded some clue previously unseen. He wasn't sure of how Alfwen had got it, but she and Lothíriel could probably achieve together many things that would surprise him.

"My lord, forgive me. I didn't realise you were there", she said and curtsied. It pushed his temper once again; she acted as if they were only distant acquaintances, and not necessarily the kind she enjoyed. It was infuriating and frustrating, not the least because at the same time, he knew he had given her every reason to keep him at an arm's length. Were her bruises still hurting?

He wasted no time in cold small talk.

"You said this staff was not made by the same person as the first one", he stated out loud, staring at her sharply.

"Yes, my lord. I suspected it before and that is the feeling I got when I touched this staff", she replied.

His mind was working at a dizzying speed. Lothíriel had suspected this from the moment the second staff had appeared, but their stupid argument had effectively shut down all communication between them. She had not been able to tell him, because his harsh words had rather suggested she was indeed the mad witch, just as she had feared, not to be taken seriously. On the one hand, he had got nothing but her suspicions and the sense she received from the wood. He couldn't go to his council with this information. On the other hand, he knew she was rarely wrong in these things. The problem was, how could he tell anybody but Éothain that they were not looking for just one individual, but two? Were they working together? The thought was worrisome and it confirmed what he had feared. There really might be a group of people who wanted to replace the Queen.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" he asked anyway, even if deep down, he knew the answer.

"I wasn't sure if this information was worth anything to my lord king", Lothíriel replied coolly.

He bristled. She really couldn't believe that, could she?

"Well, I'm not sure what led you to think so. I would imagine you'd think it imperative to tell me as soon as possible", he said curtly, trying very hard not to say anything that would further escalate this moment.

Alfwen's eyes darted quickly between them. The poor woman's face was pale and her eyes very wide; Éomer did not envy her position in the middle of this exchange.

"I am very sorry if I have made a mistake", Lothíriel said stiffly.

There was a quiet moment when they stared at one another in some kind of a battle of wills. Her eyes were not cold now, but they were defiant. He could only guess what she read in his; his mind was such a whirlwind of conflicting emotions that even he was not certain what to make of it.

At last, he let out a sigh.

"As you know, I'll be riding out tomorrow. If more staffs appear while I'm gone, the maker will be hunted down immediately. I expect you will ask to see the staff, and... do what you do, if you can", he said at length.

"Very well, my lord. Is that all?" asked his wife.

"I guess", he said wearily and rubbed his face. He knew this had been a moment when they could have put aside their issues and try to work together. But once again, pride and stubbornness and hurt feelings had come between them.

She curtsied again, turned around, and swiftly made her way back to the royal apartments. Alfwen hovered still where she stood, unsure if she should follow after her queen or not.

"My lord, I would like to-" she began cautiously, but he was too tired at this point and his patience was beyond thin.

"Some other time, Alfwen. Stay close to the Queen and keep her safe", Éomer said and turned around. Quickly he made his way back to the hall and decided he might as well spend the night in the royal study.


He slept the night poorly and close to dawn, a nightmare startled him awake. It was the same thing as always – the devastation of Battle of Pelennor's fields spread before his eyes, and his sister, his only sister and the last of his family, was dead. He was shouting out loud when he woke up and in a matter of seconds, guards rushed inside, their swords ready in hand.

"My lord? Is something the matter?" asked the man who came up front.

Éomer was hauling himself into a sitting position.

"No, no. Everything's fine. Just a dream", he muttered as he raked his hands through his sweat-damp hair. From the corner of his eye, he could see the guards exchanging a look between themselves. There was sympathy in it. Both of these men had ridden with him to face the armies of Mordor, and doubtless knew their fair share of demons that came at night.

He raised his head and waved at them to go.

"Go back to your posts. And tell somebody to send me breakfast."

The guards quietly made their way outside, but the young king still sat on the edge of his bed, breathing deeply and trying to clear his mind of the images that had just flashed through it in the dream. Recovery was not quite as easy without his wife next to him, he found to his disappointment.

He glanced at her door. Had she heard his shout? He dared not guess, because the idea of her knowing he was in distress, and not reacting to it in any way, was painful.

Éomer rose to his feet with a low groan and went over to the washing basin to clean his face. Cool water washed off the last remnants of his dream, although he still felt on the edge like a skittish warhorse, like he often did after a nightmare.

He had barely washed his face and pulled on his robe when a guard already arrived with a tray of food. The young king was surprised. It was barely dawn and the kitchen would only be starting the day's work – he had expected it would take longer for the breakfast to arrive.

His look must be quizzical, for the guard smiled and put down the tray.

"Your lady wife was already in the kitchens and had prepared some breakfast. She sent some of the food for you, my lord", the guard explained.

Éomer blinked in surprise. He might not have talked properly to Lothíriel in many days, but this was most unusual of her – she never ate breakfast so early. Then there was the fact that she had cared enough to send him some food when she learned he was up... she had probably been in the kitchens already when he had woken up shouting...

The guard was looking at him expectantly, with one raised eyebrow, and Éomer dismissed the man. He was still rather confused, though. And how could he not be? First she avoided him and acted like they barely knew one another, then she came to his bed as if everything was fine, then went back to keeping distance, and now she was sending him breakfast?

Béma, why couldn't the woman pick up one course of action and stick to it, damn it?!

It almost made him too frustrated to eat, but knowing he had a long road before him, Éomer made himself do it anyway. Then he dressed, and since it was still too early to get ready for the journey, he decided to take a short walk in the garden.

The morning was quiet and the world was still. And the garden – well, it was almost shocking to see it so transformed in such a little while. One wouldn't easily recognise the place as the same one where she had first arrived and started her work, although he was sure she'd quickly say it was still very much in progress and far from being even satisfactory. But already there was a sense of peace in this place, unlike most of Meduseld's grounds, which were always so full of noise and bustle. Short, soft grass now grew in the garden, damp from the dew. Neat rows of herbs and flowers lined a path that his wife's feet had made, and her saplings of apple trees looked strong and healthy; they had taken well to their new surroundings, but it would be a few years yet before they would bloom. Éomer sighed as he looked at the young trees. He recalled Lothíriel's visions of how they would sit beneath them one day, years and years from now. Yet in this moment, he had to wonder if those days might come at all.

He shook his head and briskly turned around. Éothain would be coming to see him soon, and the Captain would have things to say if he found his king wandering around and moping in the garden.

Some half an hour later, he was standing in his rooms, his squire Guthlaf was strapping on the final pieces of armour, and Éomer was giving some last moment's orders to Éothain, who stood by listening. There was something comforting about this routine, the familiar weight of his armour and the feel of his sword against his side. No matter what happened, he knew where he stood with these things.

After Guthlaf was done fastening the armour, there was nothing more to do. It was time to move.

Éomer glanced back to his bedchamber, as if Lothíriel might have used her door and come to see him, but of course she wasn't there. He sighed inaudibly.

He didn't expect to see her once he made his way out, but there she was at the doors, immaculate as ever, holding the cup of parting in her hands. But try as she might, she had not been able to hide the shadows beneath her eyes.

He wasn't the only one with troubled sleeping, then.

Doubt crept on him, or was it hope? As painful as the memory of the night of Midsummer's Day still was, he tried to catch her eyes. Maybe she just felt as clueless as he did, hurting over this distance between them, but too proud and uncertain to take that first step? Or maybe her arms still hurt from his rough handling.

She wouldn't meet his eyes, but looked decidedly down as she offered him the cup. That tentative hope, or whatever it was, withered once more. Without a word, he took the cup and drained it. Normally, he would now take her in his arms and kiss her a good while, but the only contact at this time was the brief brush of his fingers against hers. Yet even that felt like a jolt of electricity, nearly making him startle – her hands in his hair, greedily pulling him into a kiss – but her head was bowed and so he couldn't see her reaction.

He shoved the cup back into her hands, muttered a quiet goodbye, and then strode quickly down the steps of Meduseld.

He could feel her eyes on himself, but he did not look back, not until Edoras was far behind.

Was it just his imagination, or did he glimpse before the doors of Meduseld a woman in green, her black hair flying in the wind?

To be continued.


A/N: Phew, that was a chapter. Again, it was both painful an interesting to write, seeing how very unhappy they both are, and yet how their own pride and stubbornness still stand so strong against reconciliation. I think both of them want to make up, but the desire for it rises in them at times it's most difficult to achieve. Just to make clear (because I'm a ninny and don't want anyone to hate on Lothíriel too much), she probably didn't mean to say she only came to him because it was expected, there were other things she wanted to tell him, but Éomer's temper got in the way once more. He got so angry so quickly that she didn't get a chance to say anything else, which then lead to further misunderstandings and pain. Granted, she really did start with the worst words possible, but she's rather nervous and uncertain in that moment, and her tongue ran ahead before she could truly think of what to tell him. So, yeah. Miscommunication leads to misunderstandings and their pride really is their bane.

Anyway, painful as things are in this chapter, it was fun to imagine Midsummer's Day in this chapter. I was particularly thinking of the Nordic traditions and how that particular time is seen as magical, even if Rohan does not have midnight sun when night is almost as light as daytime. I guess in the real world folklore, the fertility aspect of it should be more related to springtime/spring equinox than summer solstice, but what good is fiction/fanfiction if not playing around with such ideas? My reasoning was, if the night of Midsummer Day is seen as blessed/magical, then it could also be seen as a good time for conception. Also, the children conceived at that time would be born in new spring, which I think makes for an evocative idea among a people like Rohirrim. Some of these ideas relate to a post at my tumblr blog, where I was writing about Gondorian and Rohirric faith and in particular Éomer and Lothíriel's relationship to these. I think Béma (Oromë) and Læs (Vána) act in the mind of Rohirrim as the god and the goddess in many ancient religions: the advocates of life on earth, which is created by their union. For ancient religions the king and queen (or their counterparts depending on the culture) would often be seen as performing that "sacred marriage". I don't talk about this so directly in the story itself, but it's the idea behind the text. Anyway, I decided to write a bit more about Midsummer's Day because I wanted to contrast Rohirrim's way of celebrating it with how it's done in Gondor - as happens all the way back in chapter 11, if you recall that far back.

As for the bit where Éomer feels tempted by Guthild - I wanted to show that he's just a man, too. He's drunk, unhappy and lonely, but he does have still the clarity to realise it would break Lothíriel's heart and destroy their relationship for good. I would imagine Lothíriel knew beforehand that was the moment she ought to appear and remind him what is what, but on the other hand, she probably knew also that he'd never betray her in that way while they're married.

I would think that bit about the rune staffs and them being made - according to Lothíriel - by two different people is something quite interesting...

Thank you all for your reviews, favourites and follows! As always, your comments are most welcome. Stay safe!


xXMizz Alec VolturiXx - Poor Éomer is having hard time, indeed! He tries as he can, but the way Lothírie is opting to show her displeasure (so to speak) is really making it very hard for him.

As for the staffs... not who singular, but who plural!

mystarlight - Thank you!

EStrunk - Well, I do enjoy my angst, don't I? :D Anyway, it is interesting to think of him and how he views kingship. We know from canon he holds the throne for many decades and be so good a king that he'll be called "the Blessed", but at this point he's still at the very beginning of his rule, and seeing he never expected to become the King of Rohan, he has some difficulties in adjusting. At the same time, I think Éomer does subconsciously process it constantly, and seeing he and Aragorn both became kings about the same time, he can't help but look at his older and more experienced friend for some kind of example. After all, Théoden didn't have much time to prepare him for this role, even if Éomer has been close to the throne his whole life.

Katia0203 - I think she does know it on some level, but even if she wanted to reach out, he too is often quite abrasive towards her and it drives her back to her defences. At this point, Éomer is rather relying on actions - trying to help her look for the pearls or attempting to hold her after lovemaking - but she probably expects there to be some kind of a talk first. That is very much their problem, especially because they are not communicating these expectations to one another.

Indeed, it's quite true that people don't need necessarily know about Lothíriel's abilities - it's enough that she seems strange.

Jo - Things definitely aren't getting easier yet!

Owlkin - :D That sounds amazing! You are a lucky gal.

Anyway, you're quite correct about communication. It's what making things so difficult for them. I think their early relationship was so easy and sweet that they didn't really learn each other's flaws and how to go about them in a situation like this, and that makes things all the more difficult for them.

sailor68 - I'm glad you liked it! I think that's exactly what he'd do in a situation like that. He's still a young man, not entirely comfortable in his role, and his temper can cause him to get to these situations when he's not being rational and clear-headed.

Wondereye - It is painful, yes, but also interesting - at least for me!

Very few people know about her sight at this point. At most they think she's unusual, and some may be using that as an excuse for their own purpose. But I don't think even those who might oppose her would in their wildest fantasies consider that their queen is a seer.

Catspector - You are right, neither of those were planned, but I think that is also what makes them so sincere and impactful. Pity that Lothíriel didn't witness either, because it might have had some effect on her he wouldn't expect!

I'm afraid the events of this chapter haven't made those things any easier for them, but we'll see!

Simplegurl4u - You and me both!

I don't think Lothíriel herself realised she was doing something wrong or irresponsible at the time. She was upset and distressed, which certainly affected her judgement, but at the same time she knew Éomer was coming home. She has gone walking alone long before she ever became queen, so she just doesn't see it as dangerous as irresponsible as others might. So I guess her being out there alone was partly because she really did need to get away from everybody, partly because her sight makes her confident of her own safety, partly because she wanted to come and meet him as he returned, and partly because she hoped he would comfort her and cheer her up. But we know how that turned out. She lives in some ways in her own world which makes her look at things differently than others, so it's not necessarily that she's being a child.

I think she would like to lean on him, but at the times she's most likely to do it, he tends to be a bit abrasive, or doesn't really give her a chance to take her time. His temper and both their pride and stubbornness makes it quite difficult.

You would deny me my delightful angst?! Please don't. :')

Boramir - Thank you!

I would agree at that time Éothain is probably more on the pulse on the people than Éomer himself - especially since he was much less drunk at the time and was able to observe people's reactions to the brawl and the aftermath. And you are right that Éomer's actions did remind the folk that he's not somebody you want to meet in a fight.

Anyway, he has certainly made efforts now that he won't be returning to yet another rune staff! We'll see how that goes.