A/N: Before I continue, I have two things to say. One, I'm not good at writing actions scenes, so y'all have been warned. Second, thank you so much to Efia-an and Sarahbarr17 for their consistent and lovely commenting. It means so much! Enjoy, my pets…
Chapter 15: Darkness
Of all the things he could have said, he warned – no, threatened that she stay safe. Why couldn't he have embraced her? Or told her that he was proud of what she was doing? He hadn't realized the effect Lothíriel had on him. But living in her absence was positively insufferable. He rationalized his attitude, thinking this was the first time in months Edoras had been without a female sovereign. But that's wasn't true. What of the months before Lothíriel? How could it be that he'd managed himself for months without a woman around and now he could barely last a day?
Pacing restlessly in the darkness of the Golden Hall, Éomer upbraided himself for allowing this venture. What possessed him to agree to such nonsense? And to have Elfhelm go along, nay, bolster the idea… ridiculous. As King, he should've gone with them. As her husband, he should've gone with them. Éomer concluded, with wry solemnity, that he was falling into madness as Gamling cleared his throat.
"What?" the King snapped, but regretted the tone. He sighed and sat down, looking at his Captain, who crossed the floor quickly. The faint light of wax-heavy candelabras gave the man an eerie glow as he stopped with a bow.
"There has been a decline in Dunlending activity," the man replied, stepping toward his ruler. "No more burned villages or destroyed barns. If you may allow me to say so, it is strange for them. But it could be the weather. Perhaps it has gotten the best of the brutes."
"Or perhaps they've joined forces with orcs," Éomer muttered. Gamling frowned deeply with the very possibility, his expression hardening.
"You don't think… ?"
"I don't know," the monarch sighed. "I was loath to allow the Queen to journey so far and that, along with your news plagues me. I wish you were right, but the Dunlendings are not ones to let weather bar their way."
"That may be so, but it is its own problem. Loth – the Queen is in no danger," Gamling assured his friend. He came to stand before Éomer, hoping to keep the King from losing his wits. "Dunlendings are not known for traveling so far north, especially in winter. And you and I know the faculty of Elfhelm."
"Yes, of course." Éomer stood, concluding the conversation. "You are right. But no more tonight. We will sojourn this talk until morning's light. We must also discuss the problem of stores and grain. I fear we'll dwindle in stock before the winter ends."
"Yes, my lord," Gamling bowed again and turned to go, but not before he gave Éomer an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Sleep well."
Éomer grunted as he left. Walking blindly to his chambers, the King realized what a precarious pedestal Rohan was on. This winter could be the end of his people. With the War of the Ring over, there was peace between men. But economic concord was far from achieved. While Rohan had not suffered as much structural damage as Gondor, her fields were, for the most part, burned. The main source of trade was agricultural and if Rohan could not replenish her crops, there would be impossible to return to the old ways.
After securing the door shut behind him, Éomer sat down on the bed, gazing at the night sky beyond the window. Somewhere, in the vastness of his land, his wife was sleeping on hard ground and trying to do something worthwhile. Leaning his forearms against his knees, Éomer hid his face with his hands, sighing with a heaviness belonging to a man twice his age. Without bothering to remove his shoes or outer clothing, he lay down, touching the pillow beside him. he was overwhelmed with comfort and calm as the fragrance of sage and earth met his tired senses.
-o-
"We'll stop here," Elfhelm called. The night was dark, the moon hidden by thick grey clouds. Dergh halted beside the other horses, snorting softly. Dismounting, Lothíriel strained to see the vague outlines of their company. The cold bit through her riding dress and her hands were numb. She was deeply impacted with the endurance of the Rohirrim. While she was accustomed to days in the saddle, the painful cold and difficulty of terrain made her glad to have Elfhelm and his men with her.
"How long until we reach the village?" she asked, helping the Marshall set water down for the horses. She was impressed in the amount of time these riders spent with their horses. Certainly it was no lark that they were called the Horse Lords.
"We'll be there by sundown tomorrow, my lady," he answered, slipping the halter onto his horse. Once the horses were settled, they huddled close to a meager fire. They would have prepared a tent for the Queen, Elfhelm explained, but it would take more room than necessary.
"I am no stranger to bedrolls," Lothíriel replied with a smile. It was perhaps indecent to sleep out in the open with a group of men, but she was too tired to take notice. They would rise before the sun and set out in hopes of covering as much land as possible.
Though dark, Lothíriel could make out the large outcroppings of magnificent stones, jutting many feet into the air. It was like a graveyard of fallen mountains, beautiful and majestic. She longed to see it in the light of day.
Settling down onto her 'bed,' Lothíriel stared up at the cloudy night. Despite the biting chill, it was a gorgeous place and she took this time to admire it. Shadows of the rocks slid and fell as the moon's face peeked from behind the clouds. Lothíriel thought back to the days of Sauron. Protected in Dol Amroth, she'd been kept in the dark about the war and its proceedings. But she could never understand why anyone would want to turn such a beautiful land into an industrial wasteland. She'd been told stories of the great Ents who'd destroyed the wizard Saruman's infrastructure at Isengard, but she knew her imagination could not to the scene justice. As glad as she was to have been at home in relative safety, she couldn't help but wonder what it must have felt like to defeat of legions of evil. Never in her twenty-five years of life had she ever been so proud of her race. A crowning moment for Men.
Almost completely asleep, Lothíriel turned to her aside, eyes drifting shut when the sound of something thudding beside her roused her. Opening her eyes, her breath caught as she stared into the glazed eyes of one of the guards, head separated from body. Lothíriel choked on a scream as she floundered away from the dead man, her mind desperately trying to make sense of this. Her limbs, still heavy with sleep, made her slow as she heard the sounds of men grunting and shouting. Where was Elfhelm? What was happening?
You're being attacked, stupid, she reprimanded herself. She couldn't just lie there and wait to be killed, so she forced her body into action. Remembering the sword, Lothíriel staggered to her feet. Bulky shadows were cutting through the night and the sounds of death broke through the formerly quiet air. While she knew there were only seven of them, it sounded as though an army was being slaughtered and it made her weak with nausea. Forcing her horror down, the Queen of Rohan fought to stay within a thread's width of sanity.
Lunging for the horses, Lothíriel searched for Dergh. She could hear the shouts of their assailants behind her as she tried to remain inconspicuous. She feared for her life and the lives of the Rohirrim, but she had to focus on finding that sword if she even had a hope of defending herself. Finally Dergh's halter found her grasp and she attempted to force her cold fingers to work against the leather of his saddle. Swearing under her breath, she hurried to undo the straps that held the sword in place as her horse pranced around. Before she could loosen the final strap, a hand grabbed her shoulder, wrenching her back.
She screamed in frustration and fear, punching blindly. Her fist came in contact with her attacker's body and he growled angrily, lurching toward her. Lothíriel ducked to the side, hoping the terrified movement of the horses would discourage the person from searching for her. From the sounds around her, she could only guess there were about twenty men, all of whom were aggressive trying to kill her and her guards. She could hear the gurgled sounds of a man dying and tried to flee the scene.
The shame of leaving her husband's men hit her hard as she neared a clearing, the sounds of murder behind her. With that shame in her chest, she hesitated, her legs threatening to fail. If she could just get a weapon, she could help or at least wound some of the bastards. But such things were futile as she felt a heavy object hit the back of her head. She fell in a heap on the cold ground, the dimming sight of two boot-clad feet bidding her consciousness farewell as darkness welcomed her.