In the days to come, Lothíriel and Éomer spent their time together in a congenial, enjoyable manner. The young King was pleased to sleep beside his lovely wife and wake up beside her. They continued eating lunch together, though her pregnancy illness kept her from eating as much as he would've liked. She was his solace through the difficulties that loomed above him.

The Dunlenders were Éomer's most grievous concern, but they remained at large. It frustrated him to no end that his éored was unable to catch the miscreants and hold them accountable for their mischief. And the ever-increasing letters from his brother-in-law and sister illuminated the problem of orcs. If they were spreading away from Mordor, they would not hesitate to use the White Mountains. With the Dead Army disbanded and the Paths of the Dead abandoned, Éomer dared not guess what might now lurk in the shadowy orifices of the mountains.

The King of Gondor also sent his regards with warnings about bands of orcs roaming the lands. He felt convinced the creatures would not travel across the open lands of Rohan, but the evil that leaked from Mordor after the Ring's destruction could not be completely accounted for. Éomer counted himself lucky to not have to contend with the foulness of Mordor so close to home, as well as a damaged city.

When he was not out with his riders or in a council meeting, he was helping his wife with her venture. The vacant building his uncle had erected was not in terrible shape. Éomer and several of his men dedicated an afternoon to fix the roof and secure doors. It was really more like a barn, with a long floor and loft that stretched the length of the structure.

After the men patched the wood and made the building secure, Lothíriel enlisted the help of three young girls from Edoras, along with Falas. Together, the five of them put up dividers. Lothíriel called on her memory of the Houses of Healing and how they were designed. While this edifice was not as large or as accommodating as its predecessor in Gondor, it would function. They erected partitions, albeit flimsy, to divide the stores, kitchen and sick rooms. They furnished the place with cots and bedding from Meduseld's cellar. The whole interior arrangements took all of a day to set up.

Éomer was increasingly impressed with wife's skill and ability. Not only was she a scholar, as her father so proudly mentioned, but she was also an apt leader. She spent the majority of her days with the three girls, teaching them the medicinal properties of herbs, roots and plants. She and Falas had the girls schooled in wound treatment and sanitization. Éomer could see the woman Lothíriel had been in Gondor finally show herself here and it pleased him greatly.

The King of the Golden Hall sat beside his wife in bed one evening as she read over the herbal inventory, making marks every now and again. He was reading a book she'd given him from the Dol Amroth library. While he wasn't entirely fond of reading, he found the book highly enjoyable and was glad she'd brought it with her. Every now and again, he would steal a look at his beautiful wife. Her hair hung loose down her back in silky waves. The white night-dress was illuminated in the firelight, as were her grey eyes when they caught him staring.

"Are you well, my lord?" she asked, putting the parchment down. He kicked himself mentally for gawking at her like a youth and smiled.

"I'm fine, my lady. But it is late. Why don't we retire?" He put the book down as she nodded. Standing, she proceeded to put the book on the study desk. He glanced up when he heard her wince. Lothíriel stood with her hand on the desk, the other touching her abdomen lightly.

"Are you alright?" he asked, alarmed.

"Yes, of course," she answered lightly, gesturing for him to remain in bed, as he already had his feet on the ground. He eyed her and she smiled, returning to the bed. "It was nothing. A cramp."

He didn't answer as she blew the candle out. Lying in the darkness, Éomer listened to his wife as she settled into sleep, her back to him. Allowing himself to be convinced with her answer, he turned on his side and welcomed sleep.

His dreams were bloody. The murder on the Pelennor Fields haunted his psyche, causing him to toss and turn. His allies and enemies alike stood before him, bleeding and broken. Their deaths replayed over in his mind, the shrieks of battle overwhelming him. He longed to wake and find they were but dreams, mere memories and nothing more. But the screams did not die in his ears. They were loud and sorrowful, painful to listen to.

Éomer woke with a start, willing the noise in his head to cease. But it did not. He realized the screams were coming from his room. He looked beside him and Lothíriel was gone. Stumbling out of bed, his eyesight marred from sleep, he tried to follow the sounds of the screams, tripping over his cloak. He landed on his side as his vision created images of his wife on her knees. The screams were hers. Éomer tried to move to her, but the cloak had tangled itself about his feet and he watched in the dim light as his wife cried out painfully.

"Lothíriel," he called to her. The door slammed open as two guards and a maid rushed in, the maid holding a candle. The guards assisted Éomer to his feet as he watched the maid try to discern the cause of Lothíriel's pain. As the light of the candle passed over her dress, he saw blood covering the front, and trailing down her calves. Her moans continued as the maid called for more help. Several other women, Lady Berewen and Lady Ivriel among them, came in with horrified looks painted on their tired faces. In the mess, Éomer was half escorted half pushed out of the chamber. When he tried to reenter, the door was shut in his face.

-o-

She had never experienced such pain. Such absolute pain it threatened to destroy her vision and shorten her breath. Her consciousness was arguable as she felt people touch her and strip her of the nightdress.

The awful ripping sensation in her lower body kept her from thinking rationally. When she was a child and she was injured, her brothers told her to think of something she loved and hold onto that thought and not let it go until the pain was gone. Memories of Dol Amroth danced in front of her eyes as she concentrated on the ocean. She saw her first pony galloping across the sand, her wild mane catching the sea breeze. The mare had been a present from her father and she'd cherished the little thing until the day its leg broke from a fall.

Lothíriel imagined her pony trotting down the hallway in the summer morning. How angry her father had been to see a horse in halls of Dol Amroth with none but the Princess astride!

'This is not Rohan,' he cried upon seeing her. 'We do not simply ride our beasts of burden about the place. Have you gone mad, child?' But the smile overtook his face as his eyes twinkled merrily. Certainly he had allowed her to finish her ride, as long as she promised not to do it again. It upset the nobles and, Valar forbid their feathers get ruffled.

"Ada," she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. She couldn't comprehend the pain she felt or why she felt it. She didn't chance to open her eyes again, for fear of what she would see. She allowed her mind to drift to other things: her brothers playing with wooden swords in the courtyard, Prince Imrahil lifting his daughter above his head so she could see farther than he into the horizon, her feisty stallion in the stables below, Éomer. His dreamlike presence behind her closed eyes was comforting. His deep eyes smiled to her as his lips followed suit, a boyish charm about his countenance. He was her final vision before the darkness took its claim.

-o-

Éomer's heart was beating erratically as he stood in the dark vestibule. Gamling stood to the side, watching his King worriedly. But he didn't want the young monarch any more concerned than he was already,

"Perhaps she is having a painful cycle," he offered. Elfhelm shot him a glare, as the King shook his head.

"I do not think it is so," he answered dejectedly. Gamling was about to suggest a mug of ale when the door to the chamber opened. Éomer almost knocked Elfhelm over as he strode toward the maid, who'd shut the door curtly behind her.

"What is it? What's wrong with my lady? Is she well? Will she live?" Gamling was certain he'd never seen Éomer so nervous. The maid's tired eyes blinked through the barrage of questions and she held a hand up.

"My lord King," she started and pulled in a deep breath. "My lady is alright. But she has suffered a miscarriage."

Éomer turned from the girl, staring blindly at the wall. Behind him, Gamling shifted uncomfortably and Elfhelm placed a hand on Éomer's shoulder.

"Did you know she was pregnant?" he asked quietly. Éomer nodded mutely as the maid glanced between the two men.

"May I see her?" the King asked after a moment. He didn't bother to meet the girl's eyes, but kept them firmly placed on the stone.

"Not at the moment, my lord," she murmured, glancing warily at his clenched fists.

"Thank you," Elfhelm said kindly to her. She ducked her head and darted away. Gamling dismissed the guards as the women filed from the room silently, carrying soiled bedclothes and linens. Lady Berewyn and Lady Ivriel were the last ones to leave. Lady Berewyn stood beside the King, keeping her eyes averted from his.

"She will live, my lord." Her voice was raw from giving orders. Her hands were bloody and her brow was filmy with sweat. "She is young and strong. I would have her moved from you bed but that she is too weak to move. I am sorry to have to displace you tonight."

"Can I see her?" Éomer asked through clenched teeth. Lady Berewyn's brow furrowed in what Gamling thought might be disapproval.

"She is asleep right now, my lord." When Éomer said nothing, she curtsied and left. Elfhelm glanced at the closed door and back to his friend, who hadn't moved an inch since the news had been given.

"Come, my lord," he said gently. "You may take my bed. I'll sleep in the cot." Éomer allowed himself to be led from his chambers, only to cast a final look at the room that held his Queen from him.