A dark shadow fell upon her and it seemed to her that the sun had sickened and turned black.
- Of Beren and Lúthien
Chapter 10
She had screamed and fought. She had tried to attack the two loathsome men, tried to make her way past them... she had even bitten Galdegir in his hand.
Yet in the end, what could she do about dozen armed men, all of whom were physically stronger than her? Eventually, they had thrown her back on the stone floor and left her locked in the small cellar chamber where she had come around.
When they were gone, she stalked the cellar room like a caged animal. There wasn't much there, except for a pile of hay in one corner and something that pitifully resembled a blanket.
Finally, when it was quiet and she was alone, the tears came. She was angry and tired and hungry and she could see no way out of this. How should she make an escape? On the other hand, did it really even matter now? Here in the cellar, wherever it was located, it was difficult to say what was taking place outside, and the two disgusting lords had not shared any tidings with her. But she had seen the preparations for war and she knew the battle would begin sooner or later. Lord Ocharnil could say what he wanted about winning the war, but in truth there was no guarantee of that. Chances were they all were going to die and there would not be a world left for the twisted lord to play his games.
But then, as she stood on the brink of abyss that was dark and full of despair, her mind went back to the last year. Her memory summoned back a night in the courtyard of her father's house... and strong armour-clad arms around her, making her feel safe and loved.
"Please. Promise me that you will endure. No matter what happens."
It was like she could hear his voice talking to her, telling her to be brave and strong. She couldn't give up, not even now. She had promised him and she had to keep it.
Perhaps Éomer was coming. Perhaps he was riding for Gondor this very moment and if she could get out, there might even be a hope of reunion. She had to endure, just like she had said she would.
"No matter what happens", Lothíriel murmured and pulled her knees close to her chest to stay warm in this cool, damp cellar. Closing her eyes, she took long deep breaths.
No matter what happens.
Being confined all alone into a small, dark space does confuse one's sense of time. So, when the door opened again at last Lothíriel felt like it had been an entire week already, even if she rationally knew it was just her mind playing tricks on her. She had never felt so alone in her life, without any word of the outside world.
When Galdegir stepped in, accompanied by two of his father's men, Lothíriel shot up on her feet.
"Had a pleasant night, my lady?" he asked and gave her what he probably thought of as a charming smile.
"You wouldn't even believe", she snapped, glancing from him to the two men with him, and wondered what was about to happen now. Evidently he saw her uneasiness, for his smile widened and he lifted his hand.
"Calm down, Princess. We've just come to escort you into more comfortable lodgings. This is not such a good place for a lady of your status, don't you think?" he asked.
"I'd rather stay here. Should remind you of what filth you are, imprisoning me and thinking I will just comply to your repulsive plans!" Lothíriel told him icily. Galdegir sighed.
"We can force you to come along, my lady. But perhaps you'd prefer using your own two feet? I wouldn't want to gag you either", he said. Somehow he was able to make it sound like he was doing a great favour for her. Then she realised the possibilities that posed: she only needed one good opening, and she might make a run for it...
However, the two men with Galdegir took a firm hold of both her arms before she could entertain further the idea of escape.
"Sorry about that. Father insists on this. We can't let you run, after all", said the young lord, trying for apologetic but resulting in smug.
"Perhaps it'd be for the better if you did. Because I swear to you most solemnly that I will never stop fighting, and one day you just might wake up to me strangling you", Lothíriel told him acidly. Her words didn't have much of an effect, though. He just smiled.
"That's what they all say", he answered nonchalantly. "Now, let us get going."
She half expected they'd take her somewhere away from this place, but in the end they just moved her from the cellar to the very top floor of the house. The hallways and rooms she saw were richly furnished and decorated by wooden floors and panels on the walls, but no other soul came across them on their way up. Nothing she saw told her what part of the city this was and if there were even a chance of her breaking out.
"My father owns several places like these in the city. He calls them 'nests'. This one is mine... you see, there are some things you can't bring up to the sixth citadel. Up there you need to keep up certain standards. But here? No one cares what you do", Galdegir said, grinning to himself as if to some private joke. "Don't worry. You ought to have a very good view from your room. You should take a good breath, though. It's quite overwhelming out there. Even I'm starting to wonder if we can win this war, like Father says."
Lothíriel didn't even bother saying anything to that. She walked ahead quietly, trying hard to come up with some way out of this – after all, once they got her to whatever prison they had planned for her, it was unlikely she'd get another chance of escape any time soon. The grips of men escorting her were tight, however... and the chamber they brought her into had but one door, and she immediately took notice of the heavy lock on it. Why hadn't she learnt to pick locks when she had the chance?
The room itself was light and airy and delicately furnished. It looked like it was meant for a high-born lady, but the princess did not for one moment think it had been made with her in mind. As such, she felt slightly nauseated thinking to what purposes this room had been put before.
"Well, do you like it?" asked Galdegir. Oh, if only he'd cease with that disgusting smile!
"I preferred the cellar", she blurted and glared at him. He sighed.
"I will leave you to it then, my lady", he said and turned for the door. "There are clean gowns in the cabinet. Someone will bring you food in a moment."
Lothíriel didn't bother answering. She merely wondered if she could make a run for the door... but then, it was unlikely she'd make it past Galdegir and his two cronies. Even then, she'd still have to make it for the front door of the house – the location of which she didn't know – and the house could very well be in some part of the city she didn't know. Her chances of getting as far as the gates were non-existent.
So, for the moment she decided to wait... her chance would come if she were patient.
When Galdegir was gone she made way to the tall window at the other side of the chamber. The first look out confirmed it was too high up to consider jumping out as an option, and the closest building was too far away. That did not engage her attention long, though, for her eyes were drawn towards the fields of Pelennor, and by the distance between herself and the fields she judged the house was located on the second level of the city.
The Pelennor she knew was fair and fertile, and with homesteads here and there. Now, however, all she could see of the land was vast dark masses slowly spreading there... seeing the army of the Enemy, she trembled. She had never seen or even dreamt a force so great, and she wondered: how should the walls of any city stand against it?
As dread filled her heart she thought of her loved ones, of her father and brothers Erchirion and Amrothos who had come to the city to fight beside him... of Éomer, who might not be on his way at all. Was this the end, then? Was she to sit in this cage while her family died, and wait for the inevitable when her own life would end too?
Food came and some water for bath too, but Lothíriel made no move to use any of those things. Instead, she remained by the window and looked out, regretting all the goodbyes she had not said, and all the things she could not do now.
Yet even as she stood there at the end of her hope, she thought again of what she had promised to the man she loved. Carefully, she pulled back her sleeve... and there it was, the bracelet of wood and leather. Like many times before, when she had felt hopeless and the way ahead had seemed bleak, looking at it brought her strength. The sight of it took her what seemed like an eternity and a dream away... how focused had been the look on his face when he had fastened it around her wrist. She thought of that afternoon up in that secret chamber, and though it now brought tears in her eyes it also somehow made her feel stronger.
We are fighters, him and I...
And so she sat down and ate, and washed herself the best she could. To the mentioned gowns she paid no heed, because that wasn't something her pride quite allowed... instead, she sat by the window and fingered in her hands the hairpin she had completely forgotten about during her little rampage back in the cellar. Now Lothíriel was glad she hadn't made use of it there, because against several armed men it was a pathetic weapon, and sweeping around in this chamber had confirmed there was really nothing here she could use to hurt her captors. But the needle in her hair against just one unsuspecting foe... she thought of what she had once told Éomer: "He'll find a hairpin in a place where it hurts the most."
The thought brought her some dark satisfaction, and for the moment Lothíriel allowed herself to relax, insane as it was when outside the fate of their world was in the course of being decided.
For now, she had to gather her strength and wait for the right time.
Lothíriel had been dozing off when the key rattling in the lock alarmed her, and she nearly fell from the couch she had sat on. Her body instantly tensed and her heart picked up speed, as if expecting violence.
Well, violence was what she wanted to do when she saw that sickly sweet smile on Galdegir's face when he entered. Briefly she wondered if he had any idea of just how disgusting he was to her.
Somewhere in the middle of all this insanity and darkness he had actually found flowers, which he was carrying now.
She said nothing. She just stared at him, hoping that her eyes would convey all the loathing and anger she had for him.
"Hello there. Have you got any rest? Did you eat? Oh, I see you've emptied the whole tray. That is good. I was already fearing you might try some silly hunger strike or something like that", he prattled away.
"If you have something to say to me then say it. I've no interest in any empty talk", Lothíriel answered coldly. That made him frown, but only very briefly. He put aside the flowers and sat beside her.
"Do we really have to fight like this, my lady? I know all this has been quite unpleasant, and Father was not perhaps all too gentle with you, but why should our union be a bad thing? Think of all the things we could achieve together!" he said, giving her a hopeful smile.
"You mean, what your father could achieve by forcing mine to do his bidding?" she asked sharply. "He was quite clear what should happen if he gets his way. He thinks he can and should run the place, as if he somehow had the right! I will not have any part in that, and if I ever get a chance I will kill you both! Not to mention I truly don't understand what has convinced you that my entire family, and Éomer too, will just sit idly by and let this happen!"
"Now, please calm down. Think of all the possibilities! Think of all the things you could have... your position would be high as a queen's!" he said very patiently.
"Oh, your dear father was very clear about my position! In his perfect world I have only one position, and that is on my back popping out your children", she snarled. The mere idea was outrageous and nearly sent her flying to Galdegir with the sole intention of clawing off his face.
"There's no need to be crude about it, Princess", Galdegir uttered. Now the frown became deeper and stayed longer on his face.
"The whole plan is crude, so how can my response be anything else?" she snorted.
"Please, Lothíriel. May I call you so? This will happen whether you want it or not, and you can rest assured it is much easier if you don't make us force you", he said. Then, to her intense revulsion he placed a hand on her thigh and gave her a look someone in some other situation might have called smouldering. "It could be nice, you know..."
She wasted no time in pulling out the hairpin in her hair. Blind rage turned her blood into fire, and she wanted to hurt him and make him suffer so that he'd beg for mercy. In her fury, she thrust the blade of her hairpin into the back of his hand, and fueled by wrath she drove it in with enough force for the head of it to come through and scratch her own thigh.
Galdegir let out what could only be called a shriek. He jumped up and with his good hand he slapped her so hard that she fell from the couch.
"You little demon!" he yelled in furious shock. "You will bend and break, and then you'll pray that you had agreed to do this the easy way!"
He turned and left and the door was thrown closed behind him. All things considered – even if she had lost her only weapon – Lothíriel couldn't help but feel a bit self-satisfied when she had calmed down.
The thundering noise of war machines at work began the next day. There were at least catapults, which quickly brought Lothíriel great discomfort, for she was locked up in a top floor of a house in the second level... and judging by the sounds she was on the range of catapults. All it took was one well-aimed shot and she'd be buried here alive. One thing she knew for sure: she didn't want to die in this horrible place. If death was her fate, she'd rather meet it on her own terms, and preferably surrounded by her family members rather than twisted lords who thought of her as nothing but a means to an end.
Sometimes, she'd hear a loud crashing noise from outside, and she'd know the catapults were hammering the city, and she couldn't but wonder how her father and brothers were doing in the middle of all that horror and chaos. As she sat huddled on the corner, her forehead against her arms, she kept asking herself why she had so stupidly refused to leave the city. Father had known it would be like this, and he had wanted to shelter her from it... yet stubbornly she had lingered. And now she was here as a prisoner, and even if the city should somehow prevail Lord Ocharnil was bent on making her a pawn in his game of power.
It was by afternoon of that dark day that the door was again opened. A guard had on the morrow brought some food but she had felt little appetite. When Lothíriel heard the key turning she thought it would be Galdegir, and she assumed a hard and unrepentant look... but instead, Lord Ocharnil himself stepped in.
He was wearing an armour – a rich thing even on Gondorian standards – which surprised her. She'd have thought men like him always had an excuse ready as to avoid being sent into battle. But she did not allow surprise enter her face, and rather met his gaze with unfaltering loathing.
"Princess Lothíriel", he spoke. She could see some dark mood was on him now, and she wondered what it was about.
"What is it?" she asked. "Have you come to release me?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Princess", he scoffed and halted to stand in the centre of the room. He rested his hand on the hilt of a sword and briefly she even wondered if he meant to kill her. Ocharnil apparently guessed her thoughts for he let out a dry little laugh, "Don't look so worried, lady. I'm not here to take your life... even if you'd deserve it for what you did to my son."
"He got only what was due. I didn't give him permission to touch me", she said stiffly and lifted her chin.
For a man who couldn't precisely be called young anymore Ocharnil moved fast and sharp. Before she could react he was on the front of her, and the slap of his hand against her face left her skin stinging with pain.
"You, Princess", he hissed, "are in no position to give permissions to anyone."
She stumbled back and covered her cheek with a hand, feeling it burn under her palm. Though the pain was acute it fed more her anger than her fear.
"You may have put in me in a cage but my will you shall not have!" she snapped back.
He hit her again, only it was harder this time, and pain stunned her as her feet gave in under her. Gracelessly she fell on the floor, fighting back tears of pain. Even in the middle of distress, she couldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her crying.
"Lady, you seem to be under the impression I consider you above disciplinary actions. If you do not learn to conduct yourself and keep your mouth shut, you will suffer for it", he said coldly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "So, Princess, I would suggest you behave from now on. If you as much as cut a head from my son's head, you will face the repercussions."
"And you believe I am actually scared of those repercussions? If you actually want to carry through your little scheme, and have me producing children you so wish for, you can't kill me or harm me. And I swear most solemnly you will never beat me into obedience!" Lothíriel hissed, struggling back up on her feet.
He pushed her against wall then, and pressed his steel-clad arm against her wind-pipe. Gasping for air, the Princess tried to struggle against his grip, but he was too strong... he kept his arm there long enough for her vision to start darken, at which point he finally let her go and she fell on the floor once more.
"You cling to that thought now", Ocharnil answered in cool tones which were now calmer, "but that is only because you have no idea of all the ways one can be made to suffer. If you do insist on fighting back, I promise you will know them. But not quite yet, as first there is this war to be won. Now I must go, for that damned wizard Mithrandir demands all men on duty – including myself and your future husband. However, do not think I will be forgetting about this conversation. You just wait, Princess. You just wait."
"Oh, I'll be waiting", she rasped breathlessly.
He glared at her in frustrated anger, but for now he let the matter wait.
"You may rest assured this is not the last we speak of this. When I return, you will learn obedience, Princess", he said icily. Then he turned and left her there, still catching her breath.
When she looked in the mirror, her face was bruised and her right eye was walling up.
The day had been long as an Age and outside the noises of battle went on. After Lord Ocharnil had gone she had returned her seat on the corner, where she sat waiting... well, she wasn't sure what she waited for. She tried to keep up her spirits by reciting some of her favourite poems and even singing songs about great heroes of old. At some point her voice had died and she had sat quiet, wondering where those heroes had found their calm and their courage... how they had pushed through the darkness. Had they ever felt despair and felt convinced they would not see their loved ones again? And if they had... how had they continued anyway?
But then an urge to slap herself came to her, and she'd have even done that if she had thought her poor battered face could have taken it without tears of pain. No, this was not the place for despair. She couldn't just sit back and mope, when she still had her life and her wits. Her fate was not set to what Lord Ocharnil was planning...
No.
That was it, Lothíriel thought to herself. Those two letters, put together, forming a rejection. That was how the great heroes had made it through: they had stood up, they had gazed at their doom, and uttered no.
I promised I would endure.
She got up from the corner and wiped the remnants of tears from her eyes. First thing she tried was the door, which he rattled for a while until she understood this was not her way out. Then she made for the window and again made the judgement that jumping out was just tempting fates.
But then... then her eyes fell on the wide bed and the sheets there. They were good, rich material, and touching them was kind of disgusting even if she knew they were clean. Obviously there wasn't enough to reach the ground, but that didn't matter: she only had to get so close to the street-level that a jump wouldn't be too much of a risk.
There was a kind of irony there, if she should use these very sheets to escape... so she sat down and began to rip apart the sheets with the intention of making it a rope. She'd take her chances down on the second level rather than sit and brood away here waiting for the men remember about her existence and follow through their little plans. And Lothíriel was more than convinced she had already got quite enough of Lord Ocharnil and his vile son.
However, she had found her resolve far too late, as was evidenced by the collision of stone with the structure of the house... the catapults had found their target, and around her the building shook, the very insides of it moaned, and walls crumbled as did the very roof... Lothíriel leapt for safety, for the side of the room that still stood and seemed not to be about to collapse, but then something hard hit her head and she fell into darkness.
By all standards, Éomer of Rohan was a young man. He had not yet lived three full decades, and already he had seen much more death and war than most did even in these dark days. Since he had turned sixteen he had joined an éored and fought innumerable foes... how many orcs had died by his sword? He had long since lost his count.
But even he, grown into manhood surrounded by war, had not seen the devastation so extensive as these past months. First, all the ruin and darkness that had fallen on Rohan... Théodred's death, the uruk-hai running unchecked on their lands, and the war Saruman had brought to their fields... strife in the Fords of Isen, Helm's Deep, and the great ride of the Rohirrim from the Mark all the way to the fields of Pelennor... and though since Helm's Deep he had known the next battle would be even greater, he was not prepared for what he saw at last at sunrise when the Muster of Rohan came to that scene of war before the walls of the White City.
There was but two things this could mean, he deemed. Either this was the darkest before the dawn, or it was all about to end.
When he sat there in the saddle of Firefoot and regarded what awaited the Rohirrim, he was convinced it was the latter.
On that moment as the fell voices of Sauron's servants rose and he thought they were about to ride into their deaths, he remembered what had sustained him – what thought had guided him through these dark days and battles, like the very Star of Eärendil eternal and beyond all despair.
A thought of life, of love, of Lothíriel. If he closed his eyes, he could see her walking on the fields of the Mark, unburdened in a day of spring when the war was a thing of past and they were free.
And so Éomer son of Éomund rode, to the hope's end and heart's breaking, to the thickness of battle and the swarming masses of orcs... and Gúthwinë he let sing the cold song of death, and spears and arrows he fired more than he could count, until it was just him and his sword, and all around him men died; but even more died the servants of the Enemy, and the fields were covered by blood and the bodies of fallen. Like in waves it went, back and forth, and one moment he'd think he'd die, and the next he'd find some new stock of strength in himself and he pushed forward, thinking now I will die.
But the Silver Swan of Dol Amroth was borne from the city and men of Gondor came, and briefly and from afar he saw a face he'd not have thought to take part in a battle: Galdegir was there, pale and obviously terrified. Though this young lord was the last man Éomer would have expected to see joining a battle, he had greater concerns than that, for the fight still raged around him.
At some point, he lost Firefoot. His stallion was a warhorse but the horrors of this battlefield were a lot to handle even for a man, and he just hoped perhaps he might find the horse again after this all was done... if it would be done.
And Théoden was dead, and so was Éowyn, and to him they gave the standard, his to bear was now the White Horse... but it didn't look like he'd carry that banner for long, and he rallied his men for one last stand. Éomer King, a Lord of his own only for one red noon before it all fell into darkness... oh, Father, would you ever have thought your son would die the same day he became the king?
But he was wrong.
He had never really understood what a long way it was up to the Citadel. Well, before this he had always made the journey riding, so the observations about its length had been irrelevant. Much of the way up to the Citadel was partly blocked: survivors of the battle were making the slow ascent, and here and there on the road were large pieces of rock and stone – some from the enemy's catapults, some from the collapsed towers and houses. In this situation speedy travel towards the Citadel was not quite so easy, and often Éomer and his riders had to dismount and lead their horses by reins before being able tor ride again.
Perhaps it was strange, to make haste so... for the dead he was hoping to pay his respects to would not go anywhere. And anyway, walking felt good, crazy as that was. One would have thought there was no strength left in him to take even one more step. But some endured yet, and he had no illusions as to why that was.
For one hope remained for him, even now when all of his kin was dead: that he might travel up to the Citadel and find there a woman whose image had given him the resolution to live and fight through this day... that he might take her in his arms and rest his head against her breast, and know at least an inch of peace in the middle of all this darkness.
He'd find her, or at least hear she was away in Dol Amroth, and she'd be safe.
Lothíriel... the only thing that was left. If she were here and he'd have the bliss of seeing her... after that, all else was irrelevant, and he could endure even the agony of losing his uncle and sister. The only thing was for sure and it was that he needed to see her.
As for his company, he couldn't really tell who was the most bewildered about this all, or mostly about the green and white standard that was carried before him. Éomer King. That didn't sound real or even sensible. Of course it had been a common knowledge ever since his uncle had been restored, as one of Théoden's first deeds had been to call Éomer his heir. And yet, even now, he was expecting not only his dear uncle to appear from somewhere and demand what precisely was he doing with the royal standard of Rohan and having men call him King, but also Théodred to jump from some corner and say it was all a make believe.
Théodred...
But it was just in his mind. Just his scared, confused, angry mind. I'm no king. I can't do this.
It was probably because of his exhaustion, both physical and mental, yet it felt like Théoden was close and murmured: "But you must. Sister-son... King."
Why did you leave me here alone?
It was dusk when they reached the second citadel of Mundburg. His men were just as tired as he was, and none of them were talking now. They just wanted to find some warm and soft spot and collapse there, and he couldn't blame them. He too might have shared the notion had his mind not been so full of troubled shadows and grief... and need for the one fair thing he had left in this world.
This part of the road was rather damaged, and they had to again dismount. On their way towards the next level they passed by many men carrying the wounded from the fields. The amount of the injured was indeed overwhelming, and those who had survived now had the heavy duty of finding their comrades who were still alive but incapable of making for the healers. Moans and crying had taken the place of war cries and shouts and the clash of arms. It was not unfamiliar to Éomer but never had he witnessed it in such magnitude.
And many of these men were doomed to spend rest of their lives in broken bodies.
He saw the burning house before he saw the man. The building was in full flame and his idly wandering mind considered the question of what had caused it. It didn't look like the work of war machines – most such fires he had seen on the way were already extinguished. But then, the battle and its aftermath had caused much chaos and he recalled hearing orcs had actually made it into the city, so an occasional house burning did not seem extraordinary.
So it happened that when Éomer came across that burning house he also came to meet Galdegir son of Ocharnil once more. They were carrying him on a bier upwards for the healers to help him, though the new king could but wonder what was there to be done about the young lord's injuries. At least his leg was crushed, his arm lay limply at his side, and his face was covered with blood. He looked to be in pain... yet even in the agony of his wounds Galdegir did recognise the man who would have killed him.
"You're alive, horselord. I thought you'd make it, if anyone would", he rasped from the bier.
"Why do you care?" asked Éomer bluntly. Even this sight of Galdegir, pitiful as his state was, annoyed him.
"Oh, I don't. I really don't. It's just beautiful irony that I'd see you now, before the end... here, of all places. Here, at her burial pyre", said the Gondorian, even though it must demand much of him to be able to speak. He coughed and grimaced, yet the smile still returned to his face."There's a kind of devastating beauty to it, isn't there? Watching the fire, and knowing something you love is burning there?"
"Spare me your nonsensical prattle", Éomer scoffed. He meant to walk faster and pass by that man, but the young lord wasn't quite done with him yet.
"That house burning there, horselord, happens to be mine. My house. And it's also the same house where Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth was brought by the men of my father. We had such plans for her... how it's on fire I cannot say, but what I do know is the fact she was there behind a locked door, and there's no way she could have made it out", Galdegir said, smiling ever wider.
Now the Rohir had stopped, frozen there by the bier of the man he had so hated.
"You lie", he just about managed.
Galdegir let out a chuckle, but it ended in a painful cough.
"Why should I? What reason do I have to lie now? I'm dying, horselord. What comfort could it possibly bring me to spill out lies to you at this hour, if in truth she is waiting for you up in the Citadel? You'll go up there and try to find her, but the Prince Imrahil will only tell you he sent her to Dol Amroth... it may take few days to get the messages exchanged, but the truth is Lothíriel never even made it as far as Harlond. You may as well spare yourself the pain and the effort of sending messengers and just believe me. Your princess was in that house, and judging by that fire she's long dead", Galdegir said smugly. Though he must be in great agony he still looked immensely happy.
And Éomer stared at him and saw no lie, not that shift in those eyes he had noticed a year ago when the loathsome lord had tricked him. He wasn't a man who believed lies or was easily deceived... and what he saw in the eyes of this hateful man was simple and plain truth.
A weight fell on his heart, and his blood ran ice, and he turned... he turned towards the burning house and he was running, running towards the flames...
"Lothíriel! Lothíriel!"
A/N: And I return with an update. I hope I won't be killed now.
I'm not sure I'm really too happy with this chapter and the next one, because apparently I'm completely hare-brained these days and can barely concentrate long enough on one thing without something else interfering. Well, this is the turn the story took here, and I hope at least it's exciting to read.
You may be wondering how Galdegir and Ocharnil were among those defending the city. Let's just say Gandalf had no time for their nonsense and kicked their butts around a little bit. Also I haven't forgotten about Ocharnil even if it is not stated in this chapter whether he has survived the battle. I promise more explanations will be given in the next chapter, including where that fire came from.
Also I thought that, considering Éomer is supposed to be someone not easily deceived, he'd recognise Galdegir was telling him (what he perceived as) the truth about Lothíriel - especially knowing that Galdegir has assaulted Lothíriel before. He doesn't know how and why it has happened, but for once Galdegir is telling the truth because he thinks he has nothing more to lose. Indeed Galdegir believes he's about to die so in that situation tormenting Éomer with the knowledge that Lothíriel is trapped in a burning house seems like the least comfort he can get.
Thanks for reading!
annafan - He certainly does underestimate Faramir, and anyway at that point he doesn't even seem like a serious player in the game. I mean, for all Ocharnil knows Faramir is going to die because of his injuries, so Ocharnil doesn't think he has to worry whether the Steward's living son could stand a fight.
Talia119 - :D At least someone likes it! And yes, if Éomer gets a chance people and places are definitely going to get hurt.