... but you cannot tame the wild lion, for he is the king in his realm, and he will die before he wears the collar of slavery willingly. Beware the lion that has known freedom, for given the chance he will tear you apart.

- Balangon, "Of the Beasts and Birds of the South"

Chapter 23

"Please tell me you haven't lost your mind."

Éowyn's voice held such heavy disapproval that Lothíriel cringed to herself, and it took a moment to gather her calm to be able to turn around and see that face which bore a very impressive look of reprehension. Sometimes, she wondered if her friend really understood what an intimidating woman she could be when she wanted.

Lothíriel wasn't surprised to see Aragorn standing next to the White Lady. Whether they were here watching her loading her gear on the back of her dromedary in the middle of night because they knew her or had heard her sneaking out, she wasn't sure. But that didn't matter. The main concern right now was how she'd convince her friends it was for a very good reason that she was doing this... even if that good reason was not something she could rationally explain. Suddenly she was very angry at herself for not dragging the blue-robed man after her and asking him to explain to her friends what he had told her. But by the time her mind had calmed enough he had already disappeared and she had not been able to find the man again.

"I hope not at least", she said in a strained voice and even managed a small smile for her friends. "And I promise I didn't just forget about what we agreed before. I know it's dangerous and it's probably stupid too, but... I got it from a reliable source that Éomer doesn't have much time left, and unless we go this very night, he's... well, then it doesn't matter whether we go at all, because he's not going to last that long."

Aragorn and Éowyn exchanged an incredulous glance. Then she looked sharply at the princess.

"And who would be this reliable source?" she inquired.

Lothíriel cringed again.

"His name was Luinion. He happened on me when I was bathing... he told me that either I would have to risk my life, or Éomer would surely die", she replied, depressingly aware of how bizarre it sounded like. But then she remembered another thing he had said, and quickly continued, "Chieftain Varanat should know him."

Her friends exchanged yet another glance. This time, Aragorn spoke up.

"Then perhaps we should go and talk with him", he suggested.

"There's no more time for talking!" she argued. "We should go now. If you want to make sure I won't get into trouble, then you should come with me!"

"Lothíriel, surely you see you are acting very suspiciously here? We can't just act based on a chance encounter you happened to have with some stranger", Éowyn asked, gentler this time.

"... fine. We'll go and talk with the good chieftain", muttered the young woman gloomily.

Fortunately Varanat was still up and about when they asked to see him, and they were escorted again into his tent. When Lothíriel described her encounter by the oasis to him, he listened attentively and his expression did reveal he knew whom she meant. When she had fallen silent, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which was not in the neat braid now.

"I do indeed know this fellow and confirm Tangiel has not just imagined it, as could be judged by the expressions on your friends' faces. Luinion is... my father knew him and said he has the gift of foresight. Once he claimed Luinion had lived already when my sire had been a young boy, even though he would be ancient now if that were true. I understand he goes by many names and he was known to others than just my father. Before the war, he travelled a lot in these lands, trying to speak with the chieftains and persuade them not to join the Shadow..."

Varanat frowned, looking like he was recalling some unpleasant memories. He shook his head and looked directly at his guests again.

"I cannot tell you what you should do. Luinion is old and strange, but I admit sometimes his words are wise. But this? I do not know if it is one of those instances. You need my help, if you wish to free your friend", he said quietly.

"I know that, Chieftain, but Éo- our friend that is can't wait. He needs us now", Lothíriel said desperately. She looked from him to her friends: Aragorn seemed doubtful now, but Éowyn's face was blank. They did not speak, and she reached for her liege-lord's hand. "Please. We've already come this far and I need your help. I can't lose him – I can't..."

Aragorn's hands were very gentle when he pulled her close, and in a way it felt as though it was her father actually who was holding her instead of the King of Gondor and Arnor. Ever since they had begun their journey he had possessed the ability of make her feel he could smart his way around any obstacle, and that he would lead them unfalteringly... she had trusted him, and as she pulled back slightly and saw his eyes, she knew she could trust him still.

"Very well", said Aragorn quietly. "We will go, but we will do it as carefully as we can."

They both looked at Éowyn, to see what she thought of this. The White Lady sighed and looked somewhat exasperated.

"You're going to get us all killed", she grumbled, "so I suppose all I can do is come with you and bury your bodies."

"Thank you", Lothíriel managed in a shaky voice.

Chieftain Varanat did not seem happy, however. He was frowning but it looked like he recognised attempts of persuading them to change their minds would not succeed. So he just sighed as well.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you it is dangerous for you to go alone, so please tell me at least you will agree to take some of my men to escort you there? I can't tell them to fight for you, if it comes to a battle, but their presence will show my uncle that you have my support", he said. Lothíriel gave him a brilliant smile.

"It would be an honour, Chieftain. We are most thankful to you for all your help", she said and carefully curtsied at him. She even managed to make it graceful.

"Let us hope it is enough", he said in a low voice, and she couldn't but agree.

It was not long after the departure of the three travellers that Varanat's wife went into labour. The birth of their child effectively distracted him from all other concerns for the night, and he was not left to consider what precisely had taken place – those thoughts were left for much later.

His wife was delivered of a healthy baby boy just before sunrise, and the healers reassured him it looked like both would be just fine. For Varanat this was great consolation as he had much worried for his dear wife. All the same, the happy family event had him so distracted that he didn't receive the message when it arrived during the hours of the night.

Only when he had secured both the new mother and their little boy were safely resting did he turn his mind towards the other matters, and received a messenger who had been asking for him since before the day's rising.

"Chieftain, I bring word from your mother Mistress Fanara. I was supposed to bring you this message as quickly as I was able, but some robbers gave me trouble on the road and I strayed from the fastest road here. Most honourable Mistress says it is very urgent and it concerns your tribe as well, Chieftain", explained the messenger and offered Varanat a scroll from the satchel he had carried on his side.

"Thank you. I would read the message in peace – you may go and find yourself some food and rest", said the Chieftain, dismissing the messenger. As he rolled open the message he wondered what his mother was writing about, and what was so urgent. Could it perhaps have something to do with the man his uncle had imprisoned?

The letter read:

Varanat -

I write this to you in great and grave need, and I would not approach you with this unless I was truly convinced there is no other way. I know your wife's childbirth should be very near now and you do not need my concerns to inconvenience you, but this is not just my private trouble. Something ill is afoot in Haradwaith and I need you to help me.

Your uncle Chieftain Sapat has taken a prisoner – a man from the far northern kingdom of horselords. This man is not just any horsemaster, but a great lord among his own folk. With his imprisonment my brother thinks he is having some vengeance for the slights of war. I have tried to tell him how mad and dangerous it is to keep this man as captive, but Sapat won't listen to me, and with each passing day the situation grows more troubling. You see, with his actions your uncle has earned the hatred of this horselord and he has already killed several of our men. I fear the amount of the dead will rise yet before all is finished.

But the worst thing about this affair is that if the northern lords and kings ever learn of what has happened here, and that one of their own has been our prisoner, a terrible war will fall on us, and I do not know if there is a future for Harad then. However, if someone could persuade my brother to change his mind, then perhaps the horselord could be freed without any bloodshed, and this peace would not turn out but a false spring.

Please, Varanat. I need your help.

With love,

your Mother

Varanat sat for a long time staring at the scroll in his hands. As he read and re-read the words it felt almost like some puzzle was before him, and one by one the pieces were falling in their places. But even then, there was one word there, scribbled hastily above the word "horselord", that drew his eye. Four letters there were: aran. Why would his mother be scribbling a Sindarin word in the message? Moreover, what did this word mean?

Long ago, a man from the north had taught Varanat's mother some Sindarin. She had passed along to her son what little she had remembered at the time of his childhood. It was not because of need of course, but more for his amusement, as Varanat had loved all strange words as a child. Indeed, he was rather good in adapting different languages, and he spoke fluently many tongues found in this part of the world. Sindarin he did not speak very much, but that was mostly due to the fact no Sindarin speakers were found this far south, and so he had never had a chance to learn that ancient tongue beyond what his mother had been able to teach him.

She must have recalled that, and so there was a reason she had scribbled that word there. She was trying to communicate something... If only he could remember what it meant!

Varanat closed his eyes, reaching back in time and memory... he remembered the afternoons by the oasis, as they had sat there side by side and Mother would draw pictures and words in the sand with the use of a stick. She would read out loud the words for him. That was the way he had learned to read and write as well. She had taught him their own language, and Westron too, and Sindarin because of his insistence.

His brow creased and the memory returned to him. He could see the focused look on his mother's face when she had drawn the crown in sand.

Aran...

King.

His eyes flashed open and he sought the message for that word, just to make sure it really was there... and there it did stand still – it wasn't just his imagination. And things fell into place, explaining themselves, and he felt like watching a great and formidable image unfold before him.

In that one long, horrible moment he understood just who was Sapat's prisoner... and who had been the tall grey-eyed man and the steely-gazed woman of Rohan who had come here looking for their lost friend.

Varanat sprang up on his feet and dashed out, cursing himself for not seeing it before. As he went, he called: "Guards! I need men! I need all the fastest horses! And I need a damned miracle!"

The deserts of Harad

The three travellers rode through the night. With them six of Varanat's men had come, and one of them rode up in the front to show way while another scouted ahead. Though past days had given them little rest, Lothíriel did not feel tired: she was now moving beyond all exhaustion, and the force of determination was driving her. Perhaps she could lay down herself when this was finished and sleep for days, but she would not have rest before she had made sure Éomer was fine and he was free.

When she glanced at the faces of her friends she wasn't sure what they thought of this, or if they consider her very mad for suddenly deciding to follow a stranger's advice. Then again, Varanat's words concerning the mysterious Luinion did seem to imply there was a very good reason to pay heed to what the old man said. After all, foresight was a gift to be taken seriously, and she had seen it at work in her own family.

She looked ahead and breathed deep the chilly air of the night. Waves of anxiety came and went as she wondered what lay ahead. Luinion had said Éomer did not have much time left, but what did that mean precisely? Did he need them to interfere somehow, or was he maybe dying already? Was this merely Luinion's gift so that she could say goodbye to her beloved before the end? That alternative was more painful than she could bear and she quickly pushed it out her mind. She couldn't have travelled this far just to see him die.

The princess lead her dromedary next to Aragorn's, hoping to distract herself from dark thoughts by talking with him.

"Do you think we'll be able to persuade Chieftain Sapat to listen to us without Varanat's help?" she asked softly.

"We do have some men from Varanat's tribe, so perhaps he will be more inclined to listen to us than he would be if we came alone", Aragorn replied at length. "And I would still place my hope in Fanara. I'm certain she'll do what she can to help us."

"Let's just hope that's enough. I for one am starting to seriously miss my husband", commented Éowyn, who had lead her mount next to Lothíriel's.

"Then you should be happy to hear we'll take the fastest road back home once we have freed your brother – the sea way, that is. If Captain Cairon is keeping his word, he should meet us at the mouth of Harnen", Aragorn commented. That made Lothíriel smile.

"You never run out of your tricks, do you, old fellow?" she asked.

"I try not to, at least. One has a reputation to uphold, after all", he replied lightly. But then a darker look came to his features and he glanced solemnly at his companions.

"What is it?" Lothíriel asked, as she didn't like that expression at all.

"I was just thinking", he said in soft tones that only she and Éowyn should hear. "If all goes well tomorrow and we are able to free him, it will not necessarily mean our work is finished."

"What do you mean to say?" Éowyn asked, leaning closer to hear better. His brow knit and he looked worried. Aragorn didn't start to speak right away; instead, he looked forward and seemed to be searching for words.

"We do not know what has happened to Éomer during his captivity. If he was taken prisoner for the sake of vengeance, then Sapat may have devised many tortures for him, and it could be he has suffered horrors we can't even imagine. There is a good chance that the man we are trying to save is not the one we remember", he said at length, studying the princess and the White Lady as they listened to him. He continued, "There's no telling what they have done to him, and how it has affected him. So, don't be surprised if he seems different to you. If my fears are correct, then it may very well take a long time before he is what we would call normal."

"And because of that, we must be very careful with him. Like I said, he may have changed into something we might not understand. He could be aggressive, even towards us, if he feels threatened. He is a man with a spirit of flames, and release from captivity could turn it into a wildfire", Aragorn said very gravely.

Neither of his companions answered to that. In fact, Lothíriel felt there wasn't really anything they could say. What he had just proposed was not a pleasant thought... in fact, it was slightly terrifying. But it was also a very valid concern, and it posed some rather dark outcomes to all this. Indeed, how would they find him? She couldn't imagine a captivity this long could have left him unaffected. He might be very angry – or worse. Oh, it could be so much worse! What ifs were endless and very few of them sounded hopeful.

"We will do what we must", she said, despite the doubts that had occurred to her. "But we must also trust in him. He is strong and tenacious and he wont give up."

She gave her friends a determined look and sat a bit straighter in her saddle.

"I believe in him."

Sapat's camp

The morning dawned and as always, the camp rose with the sun. The cooking-fires were lit and slowly the members of the tribe woke up and welcomed the arrival of a new day.

Shaugit awakened as well as the sounds of the camp pierced through his dreams. There was a foul taste in his mouth and his neck was stiff from sleeping in a bad position: the wine they had drunk last night had been very potent stuff. Indeed, it had been so potent he had not made it back to his own tent at all, but had snored away by his watch post. So had his companion Golnauk, who had also enjoyed the wine in fair amounts.

With a groan of pain he sat upright and spent a moment holding his head in his hands. There was a pounding feeling behind his forehead and he felt profoundly sick. The scent of his own unwashed body made it only worse and he rolled to his side, emptying the contents of his stomach in a rather violent bout.

When all was out he sat up again and let out a wavering breath.

"Damn it", he mumbled to himself, "I'm never going to drink wine again."

"I think you have the right of it", said his friend, who looked just as ill. Shaugit thought with longing of his own nice bedroll and perhaps a bath, but that would have to wait.

"Let's just not tell my father that we drank ourselves silly and passed out here. He'd throw a fit", he muttered and rubbed his eyes. Last night would have been a fantastic opportunity for the horselord to escape or conjure some other shenanigans, but a quick glance towards the cage confirmed he had not seized the chance.

The horselord lay on his side, his back towards the two guards. Usually by this time he was already awake, as his light sleep was interrupted by slightest disturbances. Though Shaugit and his friend had certainly made a lot of suffering noises upon waking, the man had not even moved.

"You think he got drunk watching us?" Shaugit asked, chortling at the idea. The horselord truly had the damnedest fate, and with some morbid curiosity he wondered how long the northman would last in the hands of Dhaub. Some said the man's true worth was measured with the arts of the Man-eater, though personally Shaugit considered he'd rather never find out if that was what it took.

"I don't know. Maybe he's slipping. Do you think we should have given him some wine? The poor devil might have appreciated it, seeing he's going to meet Dhaub today", grunted Golnauk. He reached through the wooden bars with his spear and poked the man against his back, "You there! Time to wake up! It's the last day of your life!"

The poking, however, had no effect. The man lay as he was, quiet and unmoving. Normally at this point he'd already try to grab at the spear.

"What's this now? Some new game to cheat us?" Golnauk asked, poking the man more relentlessly now. And still the horselord did not react.

Shaugit muttered a curse under his breath and walked about the cage. He poked at the horselord too, but with the effect of pushing him on his back.

The prisoner lay still and quiet as only the dead lay. His eyes were half open and the gaze in them was empty. Another half-hearted poke with the spear caused no reaction, and Shaugit groaned. Was this a stroke of good luck for the northman, or bad luck for Shaugit? For the prisoner this meant an easy escape from the clutches of Dhaub, but Shaugit knew what it meant for him. Once Father heard the horselord had died during Shaugit's watch, and that the young man had passed out because of too much wine, his sire was sure to throw the fit of ages.

"What do you suppose killed him?" asked Golnauk. He too had made the correct observations already.

"I don't know. Aunt was always lecturing my father that he didn't give the poor bugger enough water. Or maybe he just died of being miserable", Shaugit muttered, sighing to himself. Then he offered his spear to his friend, "Go and heat up the spearhead. I suppose I should go and tell Father of this."

As he made way for Father's tent he muttered curses under his breath. Moving made the pain in his skull worse and also brought him another wave of nausea. It was already bad enough as it was, but when Father would notice he had been drinking...

"Would someone just kill me already", Shaugit groaned and felt thoroughly abysmal.

He found his father the chieftain by one of the camp-fires, enjoying some breakfast. Father's sharp eyes immediately took in Shaugit's dishevelled and sick state and the faint narrowing of his eyes had the young man wincing.

"What is it, son?" Father asked, looking like he already knew to expect something bad.

"Father, I... I don't know how it happened, but it looks like your prisoner died during the night", he mumbled reluctantly. Father leaped up on his feet in one swift movement, and in his eyes there was a flash of fire. Shaugit flinched and instinctively took a step back.

"Please tell me how it is even possible that he died, or that you don't know how it happened?" Father asked. He was sounding very calm and patient, but Shaugit knew not to be fooled by that.

"Really, I have no idea. Maybe he was sick or something... I don't know – I was sleeping, so I didn't see it happen", he said, looking away from the older man as he couldn't quite bear that blazing stare.

"And why were you sleeping?" Father asked.

"We had some wine... don't be angry! I swear we didn't even drink that much! It must have been spoiled or something..." Shaugit said quickly. The excuse didn't spare him from a slap to his cheek, which was delivered with the speed of a sand snake; after all, Chieftain Sapat had been a fine warrior in his younger days.

Shaugit exclaimed in pain as he fell back, but his father wasted no time standing about. Instead, he turned and headed for the edge of the camp and the cage, cursing and swearing the whole way. As soon as the young man was recovered from the strike he hurried off after his father as well. As he walked, he spied a glance of Dhaub the Man-eater standing before the tent Father had given him. No doubt the orc of a man would be disappointed to hear his services were not needed after all... but truthfully, Shaugit did not really mourn that fact. The sooner he left the better.

At the cage, Father went through same routine as Shaugit and Golnauk already had, but the horselord remained quite dead. His face was positively murderous as he ordered the cage opened, and one of the guards who had arrived to the scene at his call pulled out the body with some difficulty. A man so tall and big, even as famished as he had been in the end, made a heavy corpse.

It was then Golnauk arrived. He had done as Shaugit had told him and the spearhead of his weapon glowed red. The chieftain turned sharply to look at him.

"And what do you purpose to do with that?" he asked.

"I was just hoping to make sure this is not some trick", Shaugit replied. Golnauk gave him the spear, and carefully Shaugit lowered its head down Though the glowing-red spearhead was pressed against the skin under his collarbone and it burned, the northman lay as still and quiet as before. That at least was proof enough.

"He really is dead", Shaugit announced the obvious and handed the spear back to his friend.

"I can see that", Father snapped. "What I'd like to know is why."

But even a healer, requested to answer that question, could not say the reason for why the prisoner now lay dead. After inspecting the body for a long while he could but shake his head.

"I can't say for sure. It could be that he wasn't given enough drink and food, which weakened him. It could be he sickened, though in that case it must be some concealed illness. The only thing I can say is that this man here is dead", said the healer and stood up again.

Father said nothing at first. He glared at the healer as though the man was somehow guilty of this, and then he abruptly turned and strode away from the site. When he stopped, he let out a long, furious roar, full of angry disappointment. No wonder, Shaugit thought as he shuddered under his skin: Father was famously vindictive and now he had been robbed of his ultimate retribution.

His sire returned to the site again, but he did not seem to have calmed at all with his frustrated yell.

"After all the effort I saw to take him! All the lives lost because of him! And now he has died just like that!" he muttered to himself and rubbed his temples as though suffering from a very bad headache. Then he glared at his son, "You will see the body buried. Don't mark the grave in any way."

Shaugit blinked.

"You're just going to bury him like that?" he wondered out loud. Briefly a dark thought of Dhaub occurred to him but he quickly decided even his father wasn't ruthless enough to let something like that happen here, under the eyes of their tribe.

"What else I can do? That body is proof that he didn't die in the hands of some vengeful pirates. I want it buried and hidden – all of it. No one will ever know how and why the King of the horselords died or where at last his body lay", Sapat growled. He stared at his son coldly, "And once you have taken care of it, we are going to talk about this."

He was slowly awakened to a sensation of pain. For one, there was a burning feeling on his chest, just under his collarbone, and altogether his back felt like someone had dragged him through a field of rocks. Éomer's mind was hazy at first and all he wanted was to fall back into sweet darkness... but perhaps only when he had consumed enough water to empty Snowbourne, and someone had done something about the burning feeling on his skin.

It slowly dawned to him he was no longer in the cage. Instead, he could feel the earth under his back and instead of the familiar noises of the camp there was just wind and three male voices conversing about something. As his mind cleared he realised the plan had worked out the best he could have hoped for: they had indeed taken him for dead and were now meaning to bury him. For all his faults Sapat did not apparently take pleasure in disgracing dead bodies.

He tried to lay still, hoping to rest and regain his strength, because it was cool in the lap of earth and for one the sun was not scorching him... if only those voices would stop talking and go away... moments passed by and slowly his wits and strength returned, and it seemed to him that to try and stay motionless was the best idea for the moment.

… but then something light was tossed on him, something with rough texture; he recognised it as sand. More came, landing on his face.

It was not a reaction he could control or smother. It was a reflex, caused by the grains of sand in his nose. So, because of the involuntary reaction and the fact that his mind had not yet cleared so completely for him to be able to fight it, he sneezed.

And that was all it took to ruin the plan.

"He's alive!" gasped the voice near him, and in less than a second Éomer was moving; just above himself he saw a man who had occasionally been his guard, staring down at him in shock. The King of Rohan did not think as he acted. One could have called it a reflex as well, wrought into the cruel sharpness of Elven steel in this captivity. He grabbed his would-be gravedigger by neck and pulled him down, and murderous fury gave him the speed and the strength of a lightning. No thought entered his mind when he snapped the neck of the man and tossed him aside like a rag-doll.

As he climbed up from his grave he saw how it was. One of the men to try and bury him had already darted for the camp, but Shaugit was still there and he had pulled out a knife and dropped into a defensive crouch. But though his pulse had risen with this sudden explosive violence which had also taken away all memory of pain, Éomer's mind was now cool and concentrated and the blade in his opponent's hand brought him no fear. This was what he had been trained to do: to kill. And he had never been more fit to do that than this moment.

Perhaps there was something in his eyes that alarmed the other man, for a look of fear appeared on Shaugit's face. Yet despite his fear he stepped forward and slashed with his blade, but the Rohir easily leaped aside and away from the blade's reach.

He saw the opening before Shaugit even realised what was happening. He was not a knife fighter and his second stab was even clumsier than the first one. As his hand lay extended towards the target that had again moved aside, Éomer made his move and grabbed Shaugit's hand in a vice-like grip. Sapat's son desperately tried to shake his hand free, but it was too late now. Éomer drove his forehead against that of his foe, and blinded by pain Shaugit stumbled backwards and fell.

The knife dropped from his hand and Éomer caught it, but not with the intention of using it. Instead, he quickly stuffed it into his boot to wait for the inevitable. When he dropped on his knees it was rocks he chose as his weapons, grabbing one in each hand. And he lifted one above his head, ready to strike.

"Please! Have mercy!" Shaugit begged, trying to cover his face. His eyes were full of terror and fear of death, and in that moment he was just a scared little boy.

One moment Éomer hesitated. He remained frozen, staring down at the face twisted by horror. It made him realise what he was... what he had become. A bloodthirsty beast with no mind or forgiveness. That realisation almost had him pulling back, and letting this young man go.

This is not me.

But then he remembered... the screams of dying men and horses and the terrible moment when hope died.

Vengeance was the only thing he had left.

"Éothain", he said, clear and strong.

He hit.

"Cyneric. Breca. Hæthcyn. Fyren."

He hit again and again.

"Merewing! Hrothulf! Wulfgar! Cerdic! Eadwine! Wigstan!"

And he kept hitting, shouting the names of his Riders who had been slaughtered, who had given their lives to defend him, and when he finally stopped Shaugit was long dead.

It was the shouts of men that brought him back from the haze of red and black. He stumbled up on his feet and saw the five of them, running towards this scene of a very uneven fight. For one moment he worried what to do as he only possessed a knife to defend himself with, but then noticed the scimitar on the body of the man he had killed first. Éomer darted towards it and quickly grabbed that weapon. At last he had some steel in his hands he could use to fight, and his mind filled with sureness and he turned to face his enemies.

Chieftain Sapat came first. The man had seen from afar what was happening and in his eyes there was the red haze of bloodlust, but it was dimmed by tears, and it was very obvious he was not charging clear-minded. But Éomer was not clear-minded either, not when it came to this man. Had not these past almost two months taken place he could have used his opponent's distraught state and easily finished Sapat... however, he too was ruled by hatred that went beyond reason, especially when he saw the blade the chieftain was wielding. Gúthwinë he'd have recognised anywhere, for he had carried that sword to countless battles, and he knew its weight and steel as though it was not just a blade, but an extension of his own body.

So, it was not a quick death he dealt to Sapat when the man was close enough. It was just pain, though nothing he could do at this scene was truly enough to pay for what he had been forced to live through. It was with a trick learned from Éothain that he used to wrestle the sword from Sapat's hand, and then as the man stumbled back Éomer leaped forward and dealt his tormentor a left hook, perfected in training rings and a tavern brawl Wormtongue had devised to kill him.

Sapat fell and the young king lunged forward, tossing aside the unfamiliar scimitar. As his fingers curled about the hilt of Gúthwinë he breathed deep, feeling a kind of relief running through him. This was his.

The other four arrived then but they were no match. Two he slew rather easily – they were no swordsmen, and he was now driven by something else than fury. The only pang of disappointment came when he saw the two remaining men grabbing Sapat and dragging him away. When Éomer had slain the two who had dared to fight him he briefly considered running after Sapat and the men carrying him, but he quickly decided against it. They were already too close to the camp and he would not take the risk of them taking him captive again just to get to Sapat. And he knew now the chieftain would tail him to the ends of the world, for Shaugit lay dead and with him Sapat's line was ended.

So he grabbed a flagon left by Shaugit and a short battle-spear from the ground, turned, and headed south where he saw some hills rising from the desert. One thing he knew for sure as he jogged forward: he would not get away alive from this place. It was only a question of time when Sapat would recover, and then he'd gather his forces and come after him. If he tried to run Éomer knew he wouldn't get far. And even if the tribesmen were not after him he had no chance of survival on the deserts without supplies.

He would die indeed... but he could choose the manner of his death. And if nothing else was clear at least one thing was, and that was he would not let them capture him and drag him back to the camp, where Dhaub the Man-eater was no doubt still waiting.

No. He would not have such an undignified death. Instead, he'd make his last stand in the place of his own choosing. This time, they would not take him alive.

This time, he'd die as his riders had died.

The blow horselord had dealt him had truly been one of murderous fury, and by the time Sapat recovered they had already brought back the body of his son from the desert.

When he had awakened there had been a brief blissful moment he had thought it was all but a dream, but then reality had hit him. Dazed and shaking he had stumbled up and seen Shaugit. The horselord had been very serious about his wish to cause harm: Shaugit's face was barely recognisable.

And he howled in agony, seeing his only son there... but even as he cradled Shaugit against his chest the boy did not answer. Shaugit was dead and his last words to his child had been angry and hateful. Now there was no way to take them back.

Fanara was there as well, sitting beside the body of Shaugit. Silent tears streamed down her face as she gazed down at the face of her nephew. Sapat half expected she'd lecture him, tell him how he was guilty of this... but for once she did not speak. This time, Fanara knew to remain quiet.

When Sapat laid down his son, Fanara moved to his side and pulled him close. How long had it been since she had last hugged him? Sapat could not recall such a thing. Even now it was a motion he did not welcome. But as he moved away, he saw her bloodshot eyes. And he knew what she thought: he didn't kill your son. You did – you and your mindless vengeance. Now you will have to deal with the consequences.

That was what he recognised in her gaze. Perhaps she was not wrong to hold him responsible for what had happened to Shaugit. With it a thought came to his mind. A thought, or rather a memory of what he had once heard.

We create our demons. That was something his father had once told him, a long time ago. He had never really understood what the old man had meant by that.. but now he did to the fullest extent. He had created his own demon, and he had not realised it before it was too late. Now his demon was out there and Shaugit lay dead.

And the only thing Sapat wanted was to kill the man who had taken the life of his son.

Sapat rose up on his feet. He wiped away the last of his tears and glared at the guard who had stood by the doorway of the tent.

"I need men. We are going to hunt for a lion."

The spot was as good for the last stand as any. Éomer had the advantage of higher ground, giving him the chance of taking a fair deal of them with him, and when they would overrun him, he would be able to stand against the tall rock and greet his death proudly.

For now he was resting and preparing for what was to come. He had already emptied the flagon he had taken from the site of his would-be grave, and fresh water had renewed his strength and cleared his mind. Running was not an option, as he had resolved before. Sapat and his men would track him here sooner or later, and then... he had no illusions as to how it would turn out once they found him. But he was not afraid – he had never feared death and now he was facing it with calm acceptance.

He sighed and closed his eyes, thinking of the woman he had left behind in Gondor. He should have known it would bet he last he'd see of her – he should have bid her farewell in a way that left nothing unsaid, and make sure she knew how much he loved her, how very much he had wanted to share his life with her. The memory of the last kiss they had shared came to him, and it was almost as though he could feel her arms around him, though she was far. Lothíriel... if only there were some way he could tell her how he thought of her on his last moments! For a moment he even considered if on the other side they would allow him this one last thing before he passed on - if they would let his spirit seek her for the last time, gaze on her face and take that glimpse with him... surely all this pain had earned him such a small grace?

But who knew? Maybe she had already moved on. Perhaps a thought of him would only have come as an unwelcome, wounding recollection... she might not welcome his spirit visiting her chambers. Yet he couldn't really imagine her letting go – just as he wouldn't let go of her. Had their roles been reserved, and she had been the one to stand on this hill waiting for her death, Éomer knew he would have carried Lothíriel with him until his dying breath.

The thoughts of those who were now behind were interrupted then as he saw the troop of men approaching the hill where he had chosen to make his stand. There was twenty of them he counted, and all of them were armed to teeth. But Éomer felt no fear or concern. He had come here not to survive, but to die. Those men down there had other prospects, they could hope to live - they would fear for their lives while he did not.

After all, he had nothing more to lose.

The company of tribesmen stopped at the foot of the hill. Éomer stood with his feet apart, his back straight; in his hand he held the spear he had taken from a dead man. It was not like the tall kind he was used to, meant for riders who could make use of the momentum of their horses. With some disappointment he noticed it wouldn't reach the man who was now approaching the hill. Sapat knew to be careful and stayed at the shouting distance.

"Horselord", called the chieftain, "if you give in now perhaps we will grant you a merciful death."

"My horse would perhaps give you a merciful death if he still lived", Éomer shouted back out of spite. The memory of the loss of Firefoot came sharply to him; he had raised his stallion from a foal, and they had been together for many years... but Firefoot had died on that same battlefield that had taken the lives of so many of his friends.

It was too far to see clearly what was the expression on the face of the chieftain, but at least he thought he saw some displeasure there. All the same, it didn't matter. He knew Sapat not give him the pleasure of a quick death, no matter what lies his mouth spewed.

"You killed my son in cold blood", called his enemy, staring hard at Éomer now. No doubt he was wishing to awaken some feeling of regret by that statement.

"I showed him all the mercy that you showed when you had my riders slaughtered. I believe that was what I promised when you captured me", he shouted back, keeping his voice steady and calm. It was not far now, the moment the chieftain and his men would fall on him... they were too hungry for his demise. But he found he wasn't scared. If this was where he'd die, then he'd die in a way fit for a king. No songs would be sung of this afternoon, or the deeds he would do ere he fell, but Éomer was prepared to make it a stand these tribesmen would never forget.

So it was. He saw them making ready, wasting no more time for this useless exchange of words. Sapat was yelling orders for his men and Éomer breathed deep, taking these last moments before the storm to calm himself, and prepare for the night that would soon fall on him.

This was where he'd die... and the only thing he regretted were the goodbyes he had not said.

Westu hal, Lothíriel.

A/N: Dun dun dun duuun! Things are about to go down, my dear readers. Don't you just love it when I give you these cliffhanger endings? In all honesty I didn't mean to cut it here, but around 7000 words it started to feel like this was the place for a cut if any, because otherwise I'd end up with one mammoth chapter no one would have patience to read through.

So, things are shaping up in this chapter indeed. Varanat did not accompany our three travellers, but the moment he realises just who these strangers are he does indeed deeply regret he didn't go with them in the first place. His reaction stems from his understanding that if these people get killed, the northern lords will not be happy, and Varanat wants to prevent that from happening. As for how his mother Fanara knew Sindarin and could teach it to Varanat in turn, that was of course Aragorn. During his stay among Fanara's tribe he did teach her some Sindarin, and so she's able to communicate with her son in Sindarin.

As to whether Lothíriel, Aragorn and Éowyn will make it in time will have to wait for the next chapter. For the moment Éomer will have to hold on his own. I suppose I could have written a scenario where the plan worked out perfectly, and everyone would have gone their merry ways. But I don't think anyone would have been happy with that solution after everything our favourite horselord has been through. Moreover, by having him kill Shaugit I wanted to illustrate what his imprisonment has done to him. It's not a beautiful thing and I actually felt slightly uneasy writing that bit, but after all I did promise some darker themes would be discussed this story, and altogether I think it would be unrealistic if all this did not have some bad effect on Éomer.

In the last chapter I promised I'd elaborate on the blue-robed man in this chapter's A/N. You guys were indeed right in guessing he was one of the blue wizards. I love it when the canon allows such characters to make appearance! I did entertain the idea he'd join forces with our travellers, but eventually decided that would not be his style. Gandalf for sure is active in that kind and he'd probably join the quest indeed. But I decided the blue wizards would have different manner of doing their jobs. They go by a different approach, giving a push here and a nudge there, essentially helping people to help themselves. I'm not sure yet if we'll see him again, but let's not rule out that possibility!

As usual, thanks for reading and reviewing. Hope you liked the chapter!

DepthsOfMySubconsciousness - That he was indeed!

Wondereye - He was the blue-robed man we saw in other scenes as well - one of the blue wizards.

The Hare and the Otter - You guessed right. :)

MairaElleth - Yup, that is right. Gandalf he is not for sure, because according to the canon timeline at this point he should be in the north (perhaps still having that long conversation with Tom Bombadil), and he has to be in the Grey Havens by September, when he will depart over the Sea. Maybe if he was riding Shadowfax he could make it in time but I seriously doubt it. Moreover, I think Lothíriel would recognise him if he was Gandalf.

Talia119 - Oh, real life can really be very distracting sometimes! But in any case your comments are always very much appreciated. :)

I hope at least it's not a bad thing this is the angstiest fic you've ever read. Angst really is inevitable when you choose take the roads like these, but I think it can be an entertaining read. Moreover I really want to explore the psychological effects of these situations, as it's not something I've done before.

Also this chapter probably does nothing for your fear for Éomer, but I promise I'll try to get the next chapter ready as soon as I can!