Nevertheless, in this sea of human wretchedness and malice there bloomed at times compassion, as a pale flower blooms in a putrid marsh. - Gannadir of Minas Tirith in "The Account of Kin-strife"

Chapter 16

The camp had fallen into the calm and quiet of the evening. The sun was setting and the people of the tribe had gathered around camp-fires to enjoy some supper as they spoke of the day, made japes, and remembered tales of years past.

Fanara had not joined others tonight. She had something entirely different in mind as she made way towards the edge of the camp, where the cage was located. She knew Sapat would not like what she was planning, but he had refused to listen to her and she didn't see any reason why she couldn't do the same for him.

Two guards had been left watching the caged man, though for the moment it didn't look like he'd be trying to make any escapes. She hadn't been there to see how they had been able to force him in, and Fanara decided that was something she wouldn't even want to witness. Perhaps it was out of cruelty or as a punishment for fighting back that they had left his hands tied... and there he sat huddled, his head bowed so that tangled hair hid his face, and the remnants of his linen shirt clung to the wounds left by the whip.

It was a sight to break her heart and her heart went out to him, wishing she could somehow have delivered him from this nightmare. Would that her husband had still been alive, so that she might have asked him to use his greater numbers to pressure Sapat!

Alerted by her arrival, the guards straightened up where they were seated. They had been in the middle of throwing dice – something Sapat would probably have disapproved of, had he been here. Fanara's brother treated the matter of the horselord in a rather paranoid fashion... but maybe after everything the northman had been through, Sapat was right to suspect every murderous intent.

"Mistress Fanara", greeted the older of two guards, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to attend to the prisoner", she said, lifting up the bundle she had carried with her.

"No one is allowed to speak to him or attend to him in any way", said the guard. She gave the man one of her more formidable glares, the kind she had perfected during her time as a chieftain's wife. Its impact was immediate and the two men before her seemed to diminish.

"I'm sure my brother thought it was a perfectly good idea to give you that order, but if the prisoner dies during the night because of unattended wounds or thirst, I do not believe he will treat kindly those who allowed it", she said in a colourless tone. Her words had the hoped effect: the guards exchanged a nervous glance and they sat back again, gesturing her to come forward. But Fanara was not yet satisfied.

"A little privacy, if you please?" she requested and glanced at the horselord. He had lifted his face now so that he could watch them, his dark unsettling eyes fixed on the three people. She did not know if he knew their language - at least he made a great show that he did - but perhaps it did not matter to him whether he understood their words. A man as discerning as he seemed to be could tell a lot even without knowing the tongue.

"We're not supposed to let him out of our sight", said the younger of the guards reluctantly at her request.

"Does he look like he's about to escape?" Fanara asked. The two men exchanged another uncertain glance, but eventually they gave up and nodded at her as a sign of respect. Then they left the scene, leaving her alone with the imprisoned man.

Carefully she turned to meet his gaze. The piercing eyes were fixed on her now and she felt like she was being assessed and measured... whether he was deciding if he should kill her or not, she could not say. At any rate, she knew she didn't want the fury of this man upon herself. Briefly she wondered if it had been a poor idea to send the guards away, but in the other hand the prisoner was more likely to trust her if she wasn't hiding behind the backs of armed men.

"Horselord", she spoke at last, pronouncing the word carefully in Westron. It had been a while since she had last used that language and she had to seek for the feel of it. She continued, "If you would turn your hands towards me. I can cut those ropes."

He didn't make a move, but there was a frown on his face.

"What makes you think I won't instantly grab you and throttle you right here, woman?" he asked. His voice was low and hoarse and cold; listening to him speak and hearing his anger echo in each word she felt even more unsettled, but Fanara knew she had to try. She had to win the trust of this man if she was to help him.

"Because then I will die, and I don't think there's another soul in this camp willing to help with those wounds", she said evenly and forced herself to meet his gaze again. He stared at her silently for one moment more, until he suddenly turned around so that his back was towards her, as were his tied hands. He moved stiffly so that she could reach through the wooden bars of his prison. She was silently thankful for not having to see those cold piercing eyes while she worked.

The small knife was very sharp and bit into ropes like it was butter, freeing the horselord. Briefly she saw the bruises and sores on his wrists, but then he stretched his arms and rubbed his hands to get his blood flowing properly again. Most likely this was the first moment since he had been captured that his hands were free again.

As the man before her shifted and moved his arms, Fanara's eyes fell on his back and the blood-stained shirt. It had been quality material but now it was dirty and bloody and torn.

"I would clean your wounds, if you'd remove your shirt", she said carefully. Somehow she was able to keep her voice steady. The horselord glanced at her over his shoulder at her and she didn't miss the look of puzzlement on his face.

"Why would you do that?" he demanded to know; even now, there was nothing friendly about his tone. She didn't mind however, as this man had no reason to trust her or like her. He asked again: "Why did you try to interfere before? Why are you doing any of this?"

Fanara answered his quizzical look evenly, hiding her surprise. She had not thought he would have noticed her earlier, considering the terrible torment they had put him through at the time. But then, he was indeed a great warrior, she reminded himself. And it was the way of warriors to take in much even when one would think their focus was solely engaged by something.

"I do this because I don't believe in torment and inhuman treatment of other living things", she said softly and began to open her bundle, where she kept some small healing supplies. She wasn't a healer per say, but she managed the basics and could clean up a wound, and there was nothing she didn't know about herbs that grew on the desert.

"Then let me go", said the horselord. Just a hint of something else than steel appeared in his voice as he spoke those words. Fanara lifted up her eyes to look at him again.

"And what would you do if I did open this cage? Run to the deserts and die there? How would you survive all alone with no supplies, especially when you've been beaten so badly?" she asked pointedly, shaking her head. "If you want my advice, you should do as the sand snakes do. Lay in waiting for now, and live to fight another day."

"But I need to get away from this place. By now they're already thinking I'm dead, and Béma only knows what is happening in my kingdom", he said. He was trying to hide it but Fanara saw his despair anyway; she sighed and hoped she could have just opened that lock and let him go, but the only thing that would result in was his death. And Sapat would know it was her who had set the man free... he was her brother but he would not have mercy if she took his vengeance from him in such a way.

"I am sorry", she said in soft tones. He sighed and said no more then. Instead, he took off his torn shirt – the movement obviously hurt him a great deal, which was no wonder. The horselord's skin was a quilt of blue and purple bruising, bearing witness to the beatings he had taken... and yet she could not recall him crying out even once. Fanara bit back a horrified gasp, as she didn't think he'd appreciate her pity. She concentrated on the whiplash injuries instead. Those were not very deep wounds but long they were, and she had once seen a man die because he had been whipped and his wounds had got infected.

Carefully she placed a flagon beside his hand.

"Here's something to drink. It should also help with the pain", she said. Fanara half expected him to ask if she was meaning to poison him, but perhaps he was starting to trust her or he was just very thirsty, for he picked up the flagon with no questions asked. She decided the reason was the latter, as he instantly opened the flagon and drank at least half of it in one go.

As she began to work on the cuts he let out only a small hiss of pain and she felt a tremble going through him. The fresh linen she had brought quickly turned red as she cleansed the wounds. Dipping the pieces of cloth in a mixture that should both cleanse and help closing the cuts, she wished she could have brought a real healer with her. Perhaps then she could even have prevented these wounds from turning into scars. However, that would just have attracted Sapat's attention and that was the last thing she and the northman needed right now.

"What does your chieftain think he is achieving by doing this?" asked the horselord after a while, his voice a little more alive now. Fanara didn't answer right away, but concentrated on the task at hand as she sought for an explanation that would make at least some sense to him.

"He thinks he is avenging friends who died on Pelennor fields, as though the dead cared for such thing", she said at length and frowned to herself. "King Théoden – your uncle, I understand? – killed a man named Tanfuksham on the battlefield. We called him the Black Serpent, and he was a great leader of men. He was Sapat's blood-brother. They were very close, you see."

Her frown deepened when she recalled the time before the war, and how the deserts had been bustling with life when the war parties had made their preparations before they had travelled north. There had been great excitement in Harad then and little to no expectation as to the devastation that would fall on the armies of the south. But Fanara had only sensed evil things in the air and she had not been excited in the slightest.

"There's more to it, though", she eventually said, her voice soft.

"What more is that?"

"The chieftains of Harad were promised many things before the war. I suppose it was different for everyone. Some wanted revenge against Gondor for past slights, others lusted after the riches of the northmen. There were dreams of power and greatness. Fantasies of establishing wondrous kingdoms in the fertile lands of the fabled north, taking beautiful golden-haired wives, living rich like the princes of old... perhaps it was a bit of everything for Sapat. Of course there were many who didn't really want to go, and only went because they had no other choice. All of that burned down in the great battle before the walls of the White City, and only few ever came back to tell stories of what had happened. I don't think there's a man or woman in Harad who did not lose a loved one in the war", Fanara said, shaking her head in weary sadness.

"And you think that excuses this? Do you actually believe we did not lose loved ones? Or that you would have had your riches and your kingdoms?" snapped the imprisoned man, and though he remained still, she could feel the tension emanating from him. The Pelennor Fields must bear some dark memories for him as well, she guessed.

"Of course not. I never believed anything good could come out of it. I knew where those promises came from, and that they were empty. I kept saying that to my brother and my husband, and I believe many a woman of Harad did the same. But it didn't matter then. It matters even less now", Fanara sighed. Remembering the catastrophe that had been the war she felt that same cold grief which had been there when she had watched her husband march north. Even then, she had known she'd not see him again.

And yet she wasn't angry. Not to this man, not to anyone.

"I'm sorry for all this. I truly am", she said in a barely audible voice.

"If that's what you are, then why don't you persuade him to let me go?" asked the horselord, but she chortled at his words.

"Why do you think he'd listen to me? I've tried to talk to him already, but my brother is too far gone – too consumed by his hatred. He has you now and he will not let you go as long as he lives", Fanara muttered darkly.

"Then my only alternative is to kill him, and all who stand with him. Are you going to just watch me do that?" he asked, though it sounded he didn't really expect a reply from her. His tone was again cold and flat, matter-of-fact in a way as though he was talking about weather. That he could be so void of emotion when he spoke of killing was truly something terrifying.

"I wonder if you will last that long", she murmured, half to herself.

"Oh, I will. I will", growled the northman under his breath and that moment, she didn't doubt him one bit.

The game was to poke the caged man with a stick. The young men and boys of the camp would dance about the cage, and through the bars they would push in their sticks to try and poke him, or beat him if they could.

Sapat allowed it to happen. This was, after all, what he had promised: humiliation, torment, pain. He even stopped by to watch, smiling to himself. He expected to see that helpless rage there on the haggard face of his prisoner, the kind he had seen when they had first forced the northerner into the cage.

But somehow, the man did not look angry, although that was what one would have expected. He was just... focused. Silent he sat there and let the game go on, and his expression only betrayed intense concentration.

It wasn't long after that the reason for the lack of reaction was revealed: he had just been waiting for a slip. Fast like the sand snake, he grabbed one of his tormentors by throat and snapped his neck as though a dry twig before the guards could come and beat him back.

There was no more poking that day, or any day after it.

Éomer quickly observed that the days in the Haradrim camp had its own workings, its ordinary comings and goings. There was gathering food and carrying water, tending to the animals, collecting their manure to be used as fuel for fires, bickering and bantering, laughing and arguing, fixing and building and treating the wounded. Altogether it was so normal that sometimes he found it hard to concentrate on his fury and vengeful thoughts. These people were not at all so different from Rohirrim, and watching them he quickly learned few of them even had anything to do with Chieftain Sapat's revenge.

However, even if he had to admit these things, he never forgot that he was a prisoner. He did not forget about the men who had been fallen defending him, and he certainly didn't forget how it felt like when they whipped him and put him in a cage like he were an animal. And ordinary as they were, he could not forget these people simply closed their eyes from what their chieftain was doing.

During the days, there wasn't much for him to do except sit and watch. So he got to see a lot of the ordinary life of the camp, even if the women and children and old folks made sure never to come too close to his cage... especially after the incident with the sticks. Food came, if Sapat allowed. Same went for drink. From what Éomer could gather Fanara had tried to ensure he at least got some food every day, but in this matter – as in all matters that concerned his prisoner – the chieftain listened only to his own whim.

After Éomer had snapped the neck of that young man a few days went by that nothing really happened. He assumed it was because they were scared – they knew now he'd not hesitate to kill anyone who got too close. Perhaps it was also partly because for all his cunning plan and vengeance, Sapat wasn't so sure of what to do with him now that Éomer was safely in his cage.

Or maybe... maybe it was all just a waiting game.

There were two things he knew for sure, at least. One was that he couldn't expect anyone back home to know he was still alive. The second thing was there was only one person he could count on now, and that person was himself. To trust anyone, even the woman who had shown him kindness, would only end badly.

On the seventh day of this nightmare, Éomer, the captive King of Rohan, lifted himself up. He took a firm hold of the bars above his head, and though moving still hurt, he began the task of building up his strength; lifting the weight of his body again and again distracted him from all that despair and darkness that might consume him otherwise.

And his heart and mind grew grim, and thoughts of blood and death filled his waking hours, until it was like his whole existence was solely concentrated on the fight for survival. He'd bide his time, and when the focus of his captors faltered, he'd make them pay.

Eventually, it would be Sapat's heart he would rip out.

And between each lift, there was a name:

"Éothain. Cyneric. Breca. Hæthcyn. Fyren. Merewing... Hrothulf... Wulfgar..."

"Lothíriel."

House of Lady Ivriniel, Pelargir

The decision itself was easily made. It wasn't much of a question to begin with: as soon as Éothain had told Lothíriel what he had seen, she had known this was how it would have to go.

If Éomer was alive, then she'd go and find him. It was simple as that. Luckily, she did not have to explain this plain fact to Éowyn; the White Lady heartily agreed, especially after Lothíriel had explained everything she had heard from Éothain.

The problem was how they would do it – which was also Éowyn's first question when they sat down in Lothíriel's chamber and began weaving their plan.

"How do you think we should begin?" she asked, her hands moving anxiously as though to wield a sword.

Leaning her chin on her hands, propped up on her knees, the princess tried to see which was the best way to proceed. "How do I save a captive king" was not a question they could consult any living man with.

"It's obvious we can't go to my father or Faramir and ask their help. For one, I don't know if they'd believe it in the first place. They might say Éothain just made everything up because he can't bear the idea that Éomer is dead, or that he saw things that weren't really there. We will have to do this without saying anything to them. And what would it avail if we raised an army to look for Éomer? The tribe holding him would know we were coming before we would even be able to find out who took him", she started thoughtfully. Éowyn considered her words and nodded.

"Aye, that sounds about right. They wouldn't just sit by idly and let us find them. What northern army can hope to find a small mobile tribe in their home terrain? In the worst case, they might just kill my brother", she agreed.

"Precisely. As soon as they realise we are looking for him they're just going to flee and disappear into the deserts, and we'll never even catch a glimpse of them. However, if we keep this small and do it quietly, they will never see us coming", Lothíriel said. She allowed herself a wild little smile, "And something tells me they won't expect two women coming for Éomer. We should use that to our benefit."

"Oh, yes. They will not know what hit them", Éowyn said ominously; in her eyes, there was a cold light. She shook her head then and spoke more soberly, "What of the means of transport? Shall we make way by sea or by land?"

"Ship would be faster... and Éomer might depend on our speed. But if Father decides to come after us, he'll send an entire fleet to search the seas. It would be easier to avoid him if we took the road by land", Lothíriel said, her brow furrowing as she spoke.

"We must make haste then, and push the horses as much as we can", Éowyn said. She was frowning now too. "When we reach the Harad side of the border, we'll have to hire a guide – someone who knows the language and can help us to survive on the deserts."

"I've got money. I'll take some from my dowry, if need be", Lothíriel said, tapping her lower lip with a finger. "You know, we may have to rough up our guide a little bit. Show him we're not going to tolerate any scheming except our own, as I'm not sure how seriously people down there take the matter of two women on a quest."

Her friend nodded emphatically – she had a feeling Éowyn would be most effective in the task of intimidating people into submission – and slowly the plan began to take its form. It wouldn't be easy, and perhaps things would happen they wouldn't even know to expect, but those were the risks they'd have to take if they hoped to find Éomer.

One thing Lothíriel had to ask, though.

"What do you suppose will happen in Rohan, if you come with me? They're probably expecting you to take Éomer's place", she pointed out. Something like a smile appeared on the Shieldmaiden's face.

"If there is even the slightest chance that my brother is alive, then I must help him. I already gave up on him once and there is no way I can do it again. Gamling, Erkenbrand and Elfhelm will have everything under control in the Mark until my brother is ready to return", Éowyn replied evenly. She continued then, speaking in a slightly softer voice, "Right now he needs me more than Rohan does. And I have a feeling you will need me too."

Lothíriel could not really deny that. She did need Éowyn... and hopefully together they could bring back a man they both loved.

That evening, as the both women were busy making their preparations, King Elessar arrived in Pelargir.

Father -

By the time you find this letter I should already far away – hopefully far enough that you won't reach me, if you send your men or my brothers after me. I suppose as soon you realise I'm gone you will know what I am about to do, and I know it's no use to try to mislead you. Father, please let me do this. I know it's a lot to ask, and you are under no obligation to allow me to go – at least give me a headstart, if you can.

I've decided I can't live with myself unless I go and look for Éomer. I know you think he's dead, but my own heart refuses to believe it. I choose hope, Father, and if there's even the slightest chance that a mistake was made when they said he's dead, then I have to find out. I need to do this. I need to find the man I love.

Please don't be angry with me. I love you and all of our family, and I'm so sorry.

Your daughter

The sealed scroll on which read "Father" would be waiting for them on the table in her chamber. Lothíriel had chosen not to make long explanations: Father would know her reasons anyway. Maybe, if she was very lucky, he'd also let her do this.

For one last time, she went through her bags. A purse of money, as much food as she had been able to take, some spare clothes, Elven rope gifted by Legolas, and small objects like flint and steel necessary for survival. On her person she carried a short blade, similar to the two Legolas used, and a few small daggers. Her bow and quiver of arrows would come along of course, as that was her preferred weapon. Her jerkin, shirt and leggings were sturdy material but not very noticeable, and her boots were soft and light. She had even bound her chest so that she could pass as a member of the opposite sex.

But to perfect that picture there was one more thing to do. So she took a firm hold of her long braid, just at the back of her head. Then she breathed deep and lifted the sharp dagger and placed it against the braid. As the blade cut into hair there was a slight crackling sound, and then its weight was gone and her hair billowed wild and free in a way she had not felt before. Looking at the braid Lothíriel had cut away she felt a strange kind of sadness: she had always liked her hair and knew he did too - often when they were together he would run his fingers through it and get his hand tangled in her tresses, and she would joke her hair was refusing to let him go.

There was no choice, no matter how much she or him liked her hair. Father's men would know to look for a long-haired woman, but they would not spare a second glance for what they would think of as a young man. She didn't know if the disguise was necessary, but she wasn't willing to take any chances.

To hide the evidence she burned the braid in the fireplace, and the night wind came from the open windows and blew away the smell of burned hair. Then, making sure one more time she had everything she needed, she cast one last look about her. It was time to go: soon she'd meet Éowyn in the stables and they would ride. There was no telling what would happen and if they'd even survive, but she couldn't think of that now.

What she did need to think was Éomer.

Lothíriel gritted her teeth, took her things, and exited the chamber.

One would have thought that arrival in Pelargir and the chance to sleep in a real bed would have had Aragorn passing out the moment he lay down his head on the pillow. But as it often was these days he couldn't find rest. His mind was too preoccupied by his many concerns and the grief that kept a tight hold of him still. So much had happened and so many leagues he had travelled, but the hold of dread and grief were tight on his heart.

So, knowing the sleep would come at the small hours if it came at all, he pulled on some clothes and ventured out of the spacious room they had given in the house of Lady Ivriniel of Dol Amroth. Even as he had met many friends tonight, there had been no joyful atmosphere of reunions. Instead, the general mood was brooding and quiet, and during supper few words were exchanged between the company. Eventually, those present had retired one by one, and Aragorn too had decided to seek his bed, although he didn't expect to have much sleep. Oh, if only Arwen had been here! He missed her so much and now the only thing he wanted was to lay his head on her shoulder and just rest.

As he wandered the silent corridors of Ivriniel's house, he thought of how it had been in the camp, which now was dismantled as Elfhelm and Húrin diligently drove the men towards north and home. Though the Marshal very obviously grieved deeply for his friend and king, he had retained his working order... and somehow he was able to keep in line the Rohirrim as well, although for a moment it had looked like they would rain fire and death upon all that moved along the coast. They mourned their fallen lord and the faces Aragorn had seen were those of men who had lost their hope. Perhaps the fact they had agreed to go home was because they were still too shocked to really do anything else than to grieve. Éomer had been a young man and everyone had expected him to live for a long, long time, heal his kingdom, and produce many sons and daughters before he passed away. Now that future was gone and Rohan had lost yet another king in the course of but two years.

He had wished that at least he would find Éothain recovered, but though his health had improved Captain Feran said grief had driven the man insane and if he was not restrained he acted rabid, so the healers kept him heavily sedated for the moment with the help of some sleeping draughts and medicines. And so Aragorn was left frustrated and anxious and honestly rather scared, because he had no idea of what would happen now.

The King of Reunited Kingdom came outside then and breathed in the gentle air of May night. The sky was clear and the city had fallen in quiet slumber. All the world around him carried on as though everything was like before, and yet he knew nothing would ever be the same again. It was still so unreal and there were times he couldn't... he just couldn't believe it was true. Somehow, the world was emptier now, had less life in it. Éomer had left a gap in this world, the kind Aragorn didn't think anyone could ever fill.

A sudden flicker of light distracted him from his sorrowing thoughts. It was from the stables and his curiosity was sparked. Who was up and about on this hour aside from him and the night guards? Seeing he had nothing better to do, Aragorn decided to investigate this matter, and he headed towards the stables as possibilities raced in his tired mind. Could it be a horse thief? After all, it was known Prince Imrahil had some very fine stock in his stables, as nothing less could be expected of the man who would become the father-in-law to the King of the horselords. Well, would have become.

He pushed that thought out of his mind and as quietly as he could he entered the outbuilding that housed the steeds. It was dark there, except for the lantern standing on a counter... and in the light of it, he saw none else than Princess Lothíriel saddling a horse.

His arrival had her jumping around and pulling out a small blade, with which she threatened him. Then, as she recognised him, she let out an anxious little noise.

"My lord! You shouldn't sneak around startling people like that", she hissed.

"Forgive me, Princess. I was just having a walk and saw light here, and decided to come and see what it was", Aragorn said, nodding his head as a greeting. He frowned then, "May I ask you, what are you doing here at this hour?"

"I was just, hmm, thinking of going riding", she replied a bit too quick. "I can't sleep."

"Neither can I", Aragorn said softly, searching the face of the young woman. Something about her wasn't right. He had thought to find her heartbroken and grieving, and yet... there was no sorrow on her brow. Instead, all he saw was resolution, as though the entirety of her will was bent on some purpose he couldn't decipher.

He narrowed his eyes and cast a look about, and his eyes picked up much: her bulging saddlebag, her nondescript clothing, the fact that she had decided to cut her hair.. and there on the floor, standing against the wall, was her Elven-made bow.

Aragorn stared at that object for one moment longer than life and he understood. Just then, on that moment when it hit him, there was a sound behind him. He turned sharply to see none other than Éowyn standing there, and she bore in her arms similar gear. On her hip there was a sword – something he had not seen her carrying since the day she had been healed. Éowyn met his gaze and her expression revealed she knew that he had already figured out their plan. Neither of the two women said anything, but he could feel both their eyes on him. Brief glances from Princess Lothíriel to Éowyn confirmed what he suspected: their hearts and wills were already irrevocably set.

The King of Reunited Kingdom stood a bit straighter. He didn't know why that was, but a kind of calm had suddenly come to him... calm, and understanding.

"You're going to look for him, aren't you?" he asked in soft tones.

"Yes, we are!" Éowyn barked quickly, knowing it was useless to try and lie.

"And just so you know, my lord, if you're thinking of trying to talk us out of it, then you may rest assured that the only way Éowyn and I will ever comply is if you put us in shackles! We're going to get Éomer and there's nothing you can do to change that – Éothain said he's alive, it wasn't pirates who captured him, and I can assure you the body in that grave is not his, he's still-" Lothíriel ranted in a way that was probably meant to be formidable but ultimately sounded rather frantic.

There were things about her speech that didn't make sense, especially about pirates and Éothain; how the captain had been able to tell her anything certainly raised some questions. But then a moment of foresight came to him... and the fierce light of her eyes made Aragorn understand this was one of those instances one either had to pull back and let the chance slip by for ever, or just leap even if there was no telling where that would take you.

And Aragorn chose to leap. Strange, how it sometimes all it took was one or two braving hearts to make you see how it really was, and what needed to be done.

"Lothíriel."

When Aragorn spoke, his voice was gentle but firm, effectively silencing her. She stared at him in growing disquietude, looking like she was expecting a stern lecture on what a dangerous thing she and Éowyn were planning. Even the White Lady stood absolutely quiet – something Aragorn hadn't witnessed since she had left behind the shadows and started to live again.

"The idea of trying to change your minds didn't even occur to me", he said softly, lifting his hand in a calming gesture.

"Then what is this?" Éowyn asked doubtfully.

He smiled.

"You are going to need a guide."

A/N: *the dramatic music continues*

So, we now have discovered Éomer is not completely surrounded by enemies (although he thinks he is), our ladies are about to make their move, and Aragorn has decided to join the party. When I was thinking of how the story would unfurl I quickly came to the conclusion he'd take part in the quest to rescue our favourite horselord, because he does indeed love Éomer like a brother, and I think he'd really want to believe that his friend is not dead after all. Also, Aragorn is of a particularly strong Númenorean blood, so I think he'd also have their gift in foresight - which is a part of why he decides to offer his help to Lothíriel and Éowyn. And to be honest I really liked the idea of these three going together on a quest.

I know the pace remains kind of slow still and will probably remain so in the next chapter at least, but as much as I'd want to speed up there are some important things I need to explain and establish. And really, I don't want to leave this story just halfway done.

As for why Éothain remains unable to inform a larger audience of the truth, I do not think it would be too difficult for Feran to bully and blackmail a healer into vouching for the story that Éothain has lost his mind and has to be kept under sleeping draughts. And Lothíriel and Éowyn are both so focused on their plans that they miss this development and they don't notice something is wrong.

I must say that length-wise I am truly scaring myself with this story. Presently I've got entire 215 Word pages written, and that's just Part 1 and about half of Part 2 – we've still got two more to go after Part 2 is finished. Here's to hoping my muse will remain active and insane so that I shall be able to finish this story, which in my head at least has already reached rather epic proportions! Oh, the things I do for Éomer and Lothíriel...

Hopefully you liked the update, my dear readers, and as always I am thankful for all reviews!

Quote in the beginning originally by Henryk Sienkiewicz.

Inspiration for the chapter: Mumford and Sons - Dust Bowl Dance

Concrete63 - I agree! I think these two ladies can be very formidable when they join their forces.

Wondereye - Yes, some good news were indeed in order after all that had happened.

Talia119 - A scene of torture would have been one way to go about it, yes. I didn't go that road for two reasons actually. One is that I don't really like writing gory stuff of that kind. It makes me feel unwell to be honest. The second reason is that I believe there can be different kinds of torture, and Sapat is not – that much at least – going for the physical sort. He doesn't want to beat Éomer to death, he wants to break our favourite horselord's spirit. And there's only that much you can do by violence. He believes (rightly so, I'd imagine) more effective is just putting Éomer in a cage and taking away his freedom. I mean, for someone who has grown up free and wild and whose nature is wilful and so unconstrained, being put behind bars must be torture in itself. Also, robbing a man of his pride and dignity, as was done to Éomer, can be torment just as well.

Feran is a sly thing! I think he knew he wouldn't be able to stay with Éothain all the time, so as the section with Aragorn in this chapter shows, he has instead played the insanity card. As for as large his endeavour is, I'm afraid I can't go into that here!

Emelda jones - Thank you for all your reviews! Really warms my heart to see someone so diligently reading my stories. :) Hopefully you'll continue to enjoy this story!