When it was dark, you always carried the Sun in your hand for me. - Gilmith of Dol Amroth

Chapter 33

Near Edoras, Rohan

After months of misery and hopelessness, Elfhelm was returning to Edoras a different man. It felt good to greet a new day with some optimism, and so even the prospects of returning to the capital and facing Feran did not disconcert him. For now, he was feeling the sky would have to fall down before his mood could be dampened.

At hearing Éothain's words his first thought had been to race all over the kingdom to spread the joyous tidings. However, looking at the captain's face had eventually brought him back from the dizzy heights, and he had known that if he went about declaring this, it would only cause trouble to his friend. Moreover, Éothain's family was like to suffer for it – he did not put it past Feran to harm innocents to maintain his position as the underking. And frustrating as that was he knew Eorlingas had little to no reason to believe him.

So he decided perhaps Éothain had the right of it. Maybe all they had to do was just lay low for now, keep quiet of what they knew, and wait for Éomer to return. The man himself in the flesh was the proof no one could doubt or deny, and he was someone Feran would not be able to remove. Not to mention, it might not be wise to let Feran know their king was coming back, and thus give the underking to prepare any mischief before the arrival of their rightful lord.

The capital had not changed of when Elfhelm stopped to regard it, and yet the sight of the seat of the Kings of the Mark caused in him joy rather than resentment. Feran ruled there still, that was true, but perhaps that would soon change. Éomer would come home, he'd make things right, and life could carry on from where it had abruptly stopped with his disappearance. Perhaps he would bring Lothíriel with him, and then hope would once more reign in this land.

But how soon would that exactly be? This Elfhelm could not answer and he did not like the feeling of anxiety it gave him. In a brief bout of madness he thought of travelling south and looking for his king, but he was reasonable enough to quickly realise how foolish this idea was. For one, he did not even have a clue of where he should start searching for Éomer. The best he could do was to wait, until the word of his return came, for it surely would sooner or later. If he knew his liege-lord at all, he guessed Éomer would probably travel to Mundburg, and from there he'd send for an éored of riders. And Elfhelm very much intended to ride with those who first travelled to meet him.

He sighed and pushed aside those thoughts. For now he had to focus on the present, no matter how tempting was the idea of the future. So he urged his horse to move again and headed for the gates of the capital.

Elfhelm had made the journey from the Wold alone, mostly for the sake of cooling down his mind in peace. The news he had learned had left him with a mood that would quickly have alarmed those unfriendly eyes Éothain had spoken of, and Feran did not need to know what words they had exchanged. So, the very next morning he left the garrison, and Breca had not apparently minded that. His old friend seemed to know Elfhelm was not the man he used to be, and thus did not wonder about his sudden whim. But not even friends needed to know yet he was maybe starting to regain who he had used to be.

At last he reached the mounds of Simbelmynë that lined the road to Edoras. Elfhelm bowed his head in respect to the late kings and thought: sleep peacefully, Kings of old. Your heir will soon come home.

He was a familiar sight in these parts and so the guards at the gates didn't mind his passing as he rode in. No doubt a word of his return would soon be delivered to Feran, as the man kept a close watch of what happened in the capital. Elfhelm also knew that he'd soon be called to Meduseld and the underking would want to know of his comings and goings, but he had no intention of making that matter easier for the villain. So he headed not for the Golden Hall but instead stopped by his favourite tavern with the plan of enjoying some ale while waiting for Feran's minions to come barking at him.

The place was the largest tavern in Edoras; they served also the best ale and their mutton stew was legendary. When Elfhelm strode in, a familiar sense of nostalgia came to him as he recalled the times past when Éomer had been a captain still and they had come here to enjoy the night after the day's labours. Eventually they had stopped doing that, because his friend was usually too busy guarding East-Mark, and Elfhelm hadn't been left idle either with what were in fact the First Marshal's duties in Edoras. Those days before the Ring War seemed so far away now, but where the memories had previously caused him bitterness, now he allowed himself a secret smile.

For the moment there were only few other clients about the tables, and Elfhelm's arrival quickly caught the attention of the innkeeper. He was a tall, bald man and as far as the former Marshal knew, the tavern had been in the possession of his family for generations.

"Back to cause more mayhem, eh?" asked the innkeeper distrustfully, which was not entirely baseless – the last time Elfhelm had visited the tavern he had got ridiculously drunk and caused a proper brawl. His last memory of that night had been when four men had thrown him out.

"I promise that is not my intention. I just came in the hopes of strengthening myself for the inevitable, when they come marching here to drag me up to Meduseld", he said amicably.

The innkeeper made a gruff sound at the back of his throat.

"You'll need plenty of strengthening for that", he huffed. Elfhelm hid a smile - no one who brewed such fine ale could be so misguided as to actually support the underking.

"Aye", Elfhelm agreed. "I would like to say I'm very sorry for how the events unfolded the last time I visited your establishment. It was most uncouth of me, but I will promise to behave better in the future."

The man behind the counter grunted and poured him some ale, which Elfhelm took for the sign of an apology accepted.

He was halfway through his drink when the men from Meduseld came. They were apparently riders from Westfold – most like Feran's kin and friends, of which he apparently had many. And with Éomer's alleged death he had attracted more, being now the most powerful man in the land. Where Éomer had been a king whose favours were given only to those who served well the Mark, Feran had a reputation of basing his opinion of men on different standards.

"Lord Elfhelm, Feran Underking requests your presence", said one of the two men sent to fetch him.

"And leave my ale unfinished? Surely he can wait for a bit?" he asked out of spite. Perhaps it was not wise to annoy the underking but then, this was hardly something he could get arrested for.

"Now, if you please", was the answer however, and he sighed. Elfhelm emptied the rest of his mug with one go, knowing he'd need it once he walked before the underking. He half expected them to grab him by elbows, but at least they had tact not to make this look like they were taking a notorious criminal to his judgement.

The men assigned to escort him did not speak a word during their way uphill. Neither would he have fancied a conversation with them. Indeed, what could they possibly have said to each other? Briefly he re-entertained the idea of travelling south to look for his liege-lord, if only to put an end to these little talks with Feran.

Stepping in to the Hall of the King never ceased to feel strange these days. Though different men guarded now this heart of the Riddermark, the household was still mostly the same, and spotting them among the new arrivals was not difficult; those who walked quiet and grave were Éomer King's folk and their countenance reminded Elfhelm so much of the time of Gríma Wormtongue that in a way it felt like he had stepped into past. He saw there Osythe as well - she had been the chatelaine of Meduseld already in Théoden's time, and she was dearly loved by all who served under her command. Though the woman carried on with the iron will of one who has endured many storms, Elfhelm saw new lines of worry on her face and more grey in her hair. She had taken Éomer's alleged death very heavily, as she had loved him like a son, and she was one person he ached to reveal the truth. But Elfhelm held his tongue, and just nodded silently as a greeting. Soon things would be made right again, and Osythe too would know their king was not gone forever.

He focused his gaze on the end of the hall and made way for where Feran Underking awaited him. At least the man did have some sense of propriety, for his guards bore not the rich green mantles which only the King's Riders had a right to wear, and instead of claiming the throne he sat on a smaller and plainer chair. It did not stand on the dais but slightly to the right of the throne, which was empty and covered by a black cloth to signify the absence of the king. Other advantages Feran had taken however, as was betrayed by his attire. The golden jewellery, rings and brooches glittering in the light of torches, and the extravagant materials proved he was enjoying his position as self-proclaimed guardian of the realm.

Elfhelm came to a halt before him, only a step closer than was proper, and bowed in a way he proudly thought of as sarcastic. The ale and the news he had got from Éothain were making him rather foolhardy, but he was past caring if that was wise or not. Even Feran could not arrest people for arrogance.

"My lord, you wanted to see me", he spoke, lifting up his eyebrows in a perfect study of unsuspecting innocence.

"Indeed I did", said Feran, considering the former Marshal from under his brows. "It was brought to my attention you rode to the Wold recently."

Elfhelm cocked his head slightly but met the other man's gaze steadily. The word got here fast. Éothain was right.

"Yes, I did ride to the Wold. My friend Breca, who was supervising the delivery of some provisions to Osgar's garrison, needed a hand. What of it? Can't a man go where he wishes, especially when a friend has a need of him?" he asked pleasantly.

"A man can indeed ride where he wants and take up new toils, given that he has already finished tasks he was previously given", Feran replied.

"Which is precisely what I had done, my lord. I had delivered the messages I was given, and considering I'm not the only man in the realm capable of delivering tidings, I did not think it would be wrong of me to join a company of riders I knew", Elfhelm stated calmly. The underking narrowed his eyes just slightly and leaned back his head as he regarded the rebellious rider. He was probably attempting to find some fault in those words, but even he could not come up with anything.

"Your task ends when I say it does", he snapped.

"My lord, you gave me orders to deliver some messages, nothing more. In past times that has always been enough for a man who has full use of his wits, and I believe we can agree that a man who served as a Marshal does not need more explicit commands. Or if so, what next? Are you planning on telling me when to breathe and when to think?" Elfhelm inquired. Though his words were sharp he kept his tone light and cheerful, as though he was jesting with a friend.

"Oh, there seems to be a lot I could teach you, Lord Elfhelm", Feran said, his voice falling low and threatening. "Discipline would be the first lesson."

At that, Elfhelm lifted his eyebrows.

"Éomer King at least seemed to find no fault in that", he commented. "Are you placing yourself above him and his judgement?"

Feran shifted on his chair so fast it looked like he was about to leap from it – and perhaps wind his hands about Elfhelm's neck.

"Éomer King is dead", he barked sharply. "And some might say you, Lord Elfhelm, should be blamed for it, as you did not insist on sending more men to guard him. I have endured your wilful ways, but my patience is not endless."

Realising they were now entering a dangerous place, Elfhelm said nothing. One more word from him might be too much. So he just stepped back and bowed, holding his tongue before he pushed the man over the edge. The underking stared hard at him, as though trying by willpower to make him say something that could be used against him.

Eventually Feran did speak again.

"You would be wise to watch yourself, Lord Elfhelm", he said, emphasising the word lord in a way that did not hide the mock. "I am under no inclination to make use of your services. We would not wish the scion of an old house like yourself to end up an outcast."

Somehow, with a tremendous effort of will, Elfhelm was able not to answer in an equally sharp manner. Instead, he just smiled at the man before him.

"That would be most grievous indeed", he said and bowed again.

Fortunately he was then dismissed and he was happy to leave behind the underking's court. The way guards made him way might have made one think of the fashion people avoided the diseased, but he was only relieved. Once outside, he breathed deeply, as though the very air of the Golden Hall was poisoned by Feran's presence. It was entirely different to how the place had felt during Éomer's time - and Théoden's, back before Gríma Wormtongue came to power.

To rid himself of the taste of that unpleasant meeting he headed back to the tavern, ordered a tankard of ale, and sat down with some mutton stew and fresh bread. It was hours since his brief meal on the morrow, making him quite famished, and the tavern's ale at least helped to cheer him up somewhat.

He had just about dug into his meal when the door of the tavern was opened and in strode a Shieldmaiden.

Lady Ceolwen was a woman one would not forget easily. Her hair was a mane of pale golden braids, falling down her back. Her eyes were ice blue and the lines of her mouth revealed the strength of her character. Tall she was as well, almost as tall as Elfhelm. Her face could almost have been called soft if not for the stark expression that always ruled her features, and she was a striking vision as she strode inside dressed in tunic, jerkin and breeches, and carrying a sword on her hip.

As she came in she scanned the tavern with her gaze and her eyes settled on the former Marshal. A faint smile came to her features.

"Lord Elfhelm! It has been too long", she called. He didn't know her as well as he might have hoped, but perhaps a familiar and friendly face was as welcome to her as to him.

"Indeed, my lady. Why don't you join me and tell me what you old warhorse have been up to lately?" he asked. She smiled again.

"I'll just get some of that ale", she replied and turned to the counter.

As soon as she had a tankard of ale, Lady Ceolwen joined him at his table. Now that he was looking at her more closely Elfhelm took note of a tiny crease on her brow and wondered what was the cause of it.

He had first met this woman several years ago, when Éomer had become a Marshal and there had been a feast in Aldburg to honour the return of Éomund's line to the seat of Eofor. Elfhelm had been fairly drunk at that occasion and he had made some crude suggestions to the Lady Ceolwen, for which her betrothed had been understandably furious. It had resulted in a fist fight but fortunately Éomer had been there with Éothain to pull the two men apart. When he had sobered, Elfhelm had of course apologised for his crude behaviour and she was graceful enough to accept it. The good thing about the incident was it had been her betrothed to try and hammer him into the mud, for if Ceolwen had taken the matter to her own hands, Elfhelm was fairly sure he'd have ended up with much more than just a bloodied nose.

Lady Ceolwen was indeed a Shieldmaiden: her father had provided her with training any Rider could have been proud of. She bore distant relation to Éomer as well, for her grandfather had been the cousin of Éomund's father. As a descendant of Eorl's line Lady Ceolwen was accounted among the nobility of the Mark, and her family had lands near Aldburg. She was couple of years older than Lady Éowyn and her wedding was planned to take place in the summer, but that not prevented her from riding to the War with the Muster of Rohan when Théoden King had lead Eorlingas to Gondor. She had seen the horrors of the Pelennor fields, participated Éomer King's famous charge, and even ridden for the Black Gate. But where she had returned home her betrothed had not.

"It is good to see a friendly face here. It's been two years, hasn't it?" he asked. He had not seen her since the Great War had ended and Rohirrim had returned home from Gondor.

"Aye. I've been kept busy back home, so I haven't had many chances for socialising", Ceolwen confirmed, wrapping her fingers around her tankard and staring at its contents as though the drink held some great mystery.

"What brings you to Edoras now, if that is the case?" he asked. The crease on her brow deepened and the shadow of grief flashed in her eyes.

"My father passed away last spring. I've had my hands full with running my household... you see, Father's will was to leave our family's lands to me. But now my cousin has decided he is the one who should have inherited the seat of Astdun, even though it is a fact well and widely known in Eastfold that I am Father's lawful heir – he proclaimed it last year before Éomer King himself, who fully advocated my father's decision. However, that mockery of a Marshal in Aldburg, the one appointed after the King died... he supports my cousin's claim. So I've come to Edoras to plead my case to the underking", Ceolwen explained, keeping low her voice. She grimaced and took a long sip of her ale before continuing. "I'm doubtful of how it'll go, though. Everyone knows the new Marshal in Aldburg is Feran's creature, and if he supports my cousin... what reason does Feran have to favour me? Still, I have to try. One has to fight for one's own."

"Anything I can do to help?" Elfhelm asked, considering her words. He had heard of her inheritance and known it made her perhaps one of the most eligible unmarried lady in the realm, and it was not surprising to hear that some greedy relative might have different ideas. After all, the lands Lady Ceolwen now ruled were accounted among the most fertile and prosperous east of Aldburg. And during his long life, her father had diligently worked to multiply his herds, which were now highly sought after even this land of horselords.

She sighed and shook her head.

"I'm afraid you can't. I know the underking doesn't like you at all", she said gloomily. He had to lift his eyebrows at that news.

"The word has got that far?" he wondered out loud. Ceolwen let out a small wry laugh.

"Oh, your troublemaking ways are quite famous these days. I hear it is a common understanding you lost your mind when Éomer King died", she said and sipped again her ale. He snorted and lifted up his tankard to his mouth.

"I suppose that is not so far from the truth", he muttered.

"You don't have to explain", she said and her expression grew grim. "Believe me, I understand. A lot of things have gone crooked because of that ill-fated campaign."

"Aye", Elfhelm said quietly, thinking of Éothain and his family.

"And one hears these tales. My aunt visited me lately – she lives near the village of Harrow, and apparently there are some thugs there trying to bully people to abandon their farms", Lady Ceolwen said, the crease on her brow deepening.

"Lots of fertile lands there", he commented. He frowned now too, "But if someone's bullying people, why don't they bring the matter to the underking?"

Ceolwen rolled her eyes and looked at him pointedly.

"Why do you think?" she asked, her voice very quiet now. "It's for the same reason he took away your Marshal's seat. He's digging down his roots and building himself a steady support. Namely, the kind he'll need behind him to establish a new dynasty. That's why I'd rather not have come here."

She saw the questioning look on his face, for she sighed and went on, "I'm not as directly descended from the House of Eorl as Lady Éowyn, bless her soul, but if you rule out the White Lady one doesn't get much closer to Eorl's line. And being related to Éomer King and his sister... that would be terribly convenient, don't you think?"

Elfhelm blinked and looked at her in a mixture of surprise and disgust at her words.

"That is... well", he mumbled, not really sure what he should say to something like that. "I know there is not much I can do, but if there's anything..."

Lady Ceolwen smiled bitterly and took a long gulp of ale.

"That is kind of you, but as I said before there's not really any way you can help. I can take care of myself", she said, her voice as dark as her expression. "I wish Éomer King was alive. He'd never tolerate any of this... but then, had he lived none of this would have come to pass."

"Aye. He'd put an end to the wrongs", Elfhelm agreed, carefully guarding his face. The temptation to tell her the truth was nearly too much for him to bear, if just to give her some consolation that perhaps a turn for the better was not so far now. But the thought of Éothain and his family was enough to help him keep the secret.

Ceolwen lifted up her tankard.

"To Éomer King. May he rest in peace", she announced. Elfhelm returned the gesture, but to himself he thought: To Éomer King. May he soon return.

Pelargir

After the breakfast that morning Lothíriel and Éowyn headed out with Erchirion – though not before Aragorn had lectured them to try and stay inconspicuous. After all, it was not supposed to become common knowledge that they were in the city, and they should avoid all the speculating which would surely follow. Éowyn just rolled her eyes and reminded him they were not children, and Lothíriel grinned when she told him he really did sound like her father. That was apparently funny for the three of them but Éomer didn't understand the joke. When the others were gone, Aragorn explained it had to do with their cover stories from when they had been looking for him. The idea of Lothíriel posing first as Aragorn's son and then as his daughter did make him smile briefly.

"What is so important out there?" he wondered out loud. This morning, he had not much followed the conversations at breakfast table – instead, his mind had travelled elsewhere, on paths of thoughts that consisted of the journey to Minas Tirith and the vague concern it caused him.

"There was something at the markets they wanted to get", Aragorn answered. "And if you're wondering where they got money, it so happens my possessions from before our journey were still here, along with some gold."

He suggested a sparring session then, to which Éomer readily agreed, and they headed outside. It was an effective distraction, for when he concentrated on his swordsmanship it was very easy to ignore everything else. Not to mention, his friend provided more challenge than the guards of Lady Ivriniel's house.

The two women returned not long after they had finished with sparring and were seated outside, both busied with the task of caring for their swords. With Éowyn and Lothíriel came Erchirion and he had been made their pack animal: in his arms he was balancing an assortment of parcels of various sizes.

"Well, you did put that gold to some use", Aragorn commented, lifting his eyebrows.

"As amusing as the idea of making a beggar of you by shopping for trinkets is, that was not what we were doing", Lothíriel said and winked.

"We merely decided that perhaps my brother would appreciate some new clothes. That is, unless you insist on making an appearance in the court in a Haradrim attire", Éowyn said for her part.

"Pity that we lost our veils in that shipwreck. We could have arrived to the court in matching outfits", his princess said playfully, which made Éowyn laugh. She looked at Éomer then, "Would you like to see what we got for you?"

"I trust your judgement", he replied carefully. When he considered the matter he decided it was probably a good idea. To rid himself of the reminders of the south should be for the better, and he had never felt truly comfortable in the clothes of Fanara's late husband.

Lothíriel smiled and came to give him a hug, which ended up somewhat clumsy – it seemed that was because she meant to kiss him as well but changed her mind in the middle of moving closer. At first he panicked and thought it was a bad sign, but then he realised it was because her brother was watching. Somehow she had never had any qualms about shows of affection with Amrothos around, but with Erchirion it was different. Her relationship between those two of her brothers was indeed different. For one, Erchirion had never exhibited any matchmaking tendencies, which for Amrothos seemed to be a dear hobby.

"Thank you. All three of you", Éomer said, briefly regarding Erchirion. The prince was wearing this thoughtful look, the kind he was spotting there more often these days. He had yet to understand what it meant.

"You're welcome", his beloved said. She patted his arm affectionately and smiled, "We'll just take everything to your chamber. You can go through the things we bought and see if they suit you."

He nodded and quickly reached over to kiss her brow, though that was only a very mild show of how much he appreciated all that she did for him.

Seeing they had brought him new clothes it felt appropriate to properly bath before donning on any of it, and so after the supper Éomer decided it was a good time for that as any.

He was all but ready to carry and heat up the bath water, but it was revealed the house actually had running water – the amount of time that was saved by this fact made him seriously consider perhaps he should find out if it was something he could bring to Meduseld. The thought of his home back in Rohan did not make him feel longing... surprisingly, the most he felt was uneasiness.

Before the bath he unwrapped some of the parcels Lothíriel and Éowyn had purchased to find himself some clean clothing. They had got some linen shirts and tunics along with several pairs of breeches, all of which were made of good materials but not particularly noticeable. Tunics were brown, dark blue and purple – not his usual but he preferred it so for now. When he had picked up clothes and a bar of soap, he began to undress.

The bath water was almost too hot when he settled down in the tub. Yet the sensation was welcome, as he had not enjoyed the luxury of a hot bath in some time, and maybe the virtue of hot water might scald his skin clean of memory. The heat relaxed his muscles and with a sigh he sat back, leaning his head on the edge of the tub.

A blessed quiet had come to his mind too and for a while he remained there, feeling like floating on some calm surface. Around him the house breathed and from outside he could hear Lothíriel's laugh as she passed by with her brother. The sound was somehow reassuring – all was well in the world.

But so he could only pretend while the quiet lasted, and that was not long. Because eventually Éomer remembered the evening by the river Harnen, just after he had been freed. He had bathed there, furiously scrubbing the filth off his skin and hair... the smell of blood and dirt had clung to him like they were permanently etched on him, and he had washed and scoured himself until his skin was red and raw.

All it took was the memory of that stink.

The smell of cage, of old dried blood on his clothes, of sweat... he grabbed soap and started to wash, trying to get rid of that stench that still clung to him. They'll look at me and they'll smell it too, they'll see... and they will know..

The soap slipped from his fingers when he tried to reach it over to his back, but instead of grabbing it again his trembling fingers fell on scar tissue. Whip lashes.

Faces of dead men, friends and foes alike, the screams of dying horses. Éothain falling, falling endlessly. The taste of blood when he had bitten off a guard's ear and the man's screams when he had clutched the pulsing wound. The firm certainty he'd die and feeling of what was like death, when Fanara had attempted to help him flee. And the cage before him...

Dizziness and nausea nearly struck him down but he leaned down his head to his knees, gasping for air. He had thought of getting rid of reminders of the south, but he could not get rid of this. South was not in any clothes – it was on his skin, in his mind, in the memories of each life he had taken and each moment that had killed a bit more of his pride and hope.

The south was engraved on him. And he was a broken thing.

After supper Lothíriel sat for a while with her brother and friends, but eventually as Éomer did not rejoin them, a thought grew on her mind to go and check on if everything was all right. Perhaps this was one of those nights when sleep was elusive, and so she bid good night to the others in case her beloved wished for her company. The other night it had apparently been very welcome and she had stayed with him until late hours and her own eyelids would not remain open any longer; kissing him goodnight had never felt quite so good as then. That they were on such terms again and she knew for sure that he very much still loved her had brought her a sense of peace.

When she made way down the hallway she wondered if Éomer had fallen asleep in the bath, but she found the bathing chamber empty, and so she turned away to see if he was in the guest room Medliel had appointed to him upon their arrival.

At his door she knocked softly and called, "Éomer? Are you in there?"

No answer came and concern grew in her heart. For a moment she hesitated, but her worry won in the end and Lothíriel peeked in.

Her beloved was inside, seated on the edge of his bed. That he had not yet dressed but wore an old faded robe could only mean he had not finished his bath very long before her arrival... unless something was wrong. And the way he was resting his head in his hands very much implied the latter.

"Beloved, what is it?" she asked as gently as she could, approaching him slowly and carefully. If he was in some dark place, then perhaps it was wise not to startle him.

"I think I'm starting to understand. And you... you have to..." he spoke, his voice quiet and comfortless. Now she was by his side and she sat down next to him.

"What is it? What are you starting to understand?" Lothíriel asked. She reached for his hand, leading it gently away from his face and cradling it between her own two. By doing so, she revealed his face and saw the deeply tormented expression on his features. Seeing such hurt there was painful, especially knowing there was little she could do to ease it.

He spoke again after a moment of silence, though he did not turn to look at her.

"I am damaged, Lothíriel. I don't know if there is ever mending me. And you deserve someone whole... someone you don't have to cater to like he were a child", he said quietly, sounding like it was only with great effort that he was able to utter those words.

As tenderly as she was able, she turned his face towards herself so that she could see his eyes. But he tried to turn away.

"Éomer, look at me. Look at me!" she commanded and at last he allowed her to look into his eyes. There was such pain there, and so much fear... it broke her heart, to see him like this.

"I don't care what I deserve", she started, softer this time, "for I know what I want. And that is you. This has not changed and it never will. I know you went through something horrible on those deserts, and I understand if you'll never be the same again. But you have to understand you don't have to hide from me. No matter what happens, I am here for you. Just... don't ask me to give up on you."

He was silent for a moment, and it seemed to her that all emotion was gone from his face and eyes. She got worried. Had she said something wrong? Had she upset him? But then at long last he reacted.

Éomer let out a sound that was best described as a sob, and then he grabbed her and pulled her close with roughness that could only signal a storm of emotions so deep and hurt that she knew not how to help him. But he held on tight to her and buried his face in her shoulder, and he cried.

He cried, and she knew he was finally letting out all that grief and pain and despair he had gone through, those emotions she had in concern thought absent altogether. And she held him close, running her hands through his hair and murmuring words of comfort and compassion, until there were no more tears left. There was so much she wanted to tell him and so much she needed to make him see; that whatever happened, she would never love him any less... and that she'd stand by him until the very end if he so wanted.

They remained so for a long while. She let him decide how long he wanted to be there, and thought at least she would contently remain like so for the entire night. Ever since they had found him there had not been closeness like this, both in body and mind, and she had feared there would never be again... but now here they were, enveloped by and in each other.

She thought about asking if he was all right, but then realised how wrong that question would have been. And perhaps words were not what was needed right now. So she closed her eyes and concentrated on how it felt like, to just be close to him: his breath, the feel of his form in her arms, the strands of his rough mane against her cheek... there was no trace of tension in him, and instead she thought he was at peace. For the moment, that knowledge was all that mattered.

After a long while he spoke at last, his voice very quiet: "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Lothíriel asked. She did not cease with running her fingers through his hair but instead held on a bit tighter.

"Withstand this – and me", Éomer murmured softly. At that she pulled back slightly and opened her eyes to regard him, and thought there was something deeply disbelieving about his expression.

"I have the very best motivation", she told him and smiled. "And I am also terribly, incurably stubborn."

That brought a slight smile to his face at last.

"Aye. That you are", he agreed.

Ever so gently, she caressed the side of his neck.

"Do you want me to stay?" she asked quietly.

"Always", answered her beloved. He cradled her face between his hands, searching her eyes with some uncertainty... but she met his gaze steadily. Then he moved slightly closer to her and kissed her, very tenderly at first. And she let her lips part for him, asking for closeness...

At last he groaned and pulled her tight to himself. Suddenly there was urgency about his touch and she welcomed it, just like she had before all this had happened. Now that desire burst in to flame once more, the way it had on those pre-dawn hours by the sea, yet even as she became aware of the fact he wore only a thin robe and things were quickly heading towards a very intimate direction, he did not hesitate now or withdraw from her.

But suddenly as his hands came to rest on her thighs, he pulled back. She opened her eyes and saw him looking at her, wary and uncertain.

"It's all right", she told him gently. "I still want you."

"You do? Even when you have seen the way I am?" he asked softly. Now she understood it was just this – all those times he had pulled back was because he feared perhaps he'd find her rejecting him if things got that far. Her first instinct was to reproach him for such foolish thoughts, but then she understood it was not the way to convince him.

"Of course. You're mine", said Lothíriel, resting her hands on his shoulders.

"Aye. Yours I am, and ever will be", he agreed, and she knew she had said the right thing.

She kissed him again then, seeking the lines of his mouth with her own, seeking him in that kiss. And he answered, slow at first but then more eager. It was curious as it was in many ways the same as it had been, and yet it was different too. She felt there was kind of a vulnerability in that kiss, a kind of tenderness that revealed some things that were fragile and only starting to heal.

But that kiss grew stronger, and as it did his fingers tugged at the laces of her tunic, turning more impatient. Then all need for tenderness disappeared, and instead there was just pure, raw need – desperate, anxious, and rough. And when the clothes were gone he rolled her to her back, and she pulled him close with little grace, wanting him more than she ever had.

When he entered her, she hid her moan in a kiss, and he was there, with her in her under her skin; she held on so tight that her fingernails must have left marks on his back but none of that appeared to bother him. He brought their hips together again and again, until all was stars and she could not hold on anymore, and her release was just as powerful as her desire, and made even greater seeing the pure bliss on his face. When her lover lay down his head on her breast and fought to regain his breath, she felt so close to him that Lothíriel could not tell if she was separate from him at all.

Aftershocks of lovemaking had them locked in that embrace for some time, but eventually Éomer lifted up his head to look at her. There was light in his eyes and great tenderness, but something like wonder too. No words sufficed to express what she felt for him then, so she just smiled. He answered that smile and reached over to kiss her once more.

Some time after, when they had rested for a while, he turned towards her again. But after that first wild and passionate union it changed. There was much tenderness in their embraces that night, and a new kind of intimacy; she felt like he was showing something of himself he had never shown before, and that she did the same for him.

And night grew older and deep warm exhaustion beckoned to dreams that were promising only peace. She held him close and told him time and again that she loved him, and in turn he sighed... and she never forgot the sound of his voice when he breathed that he might just die if he lost her.

At the edge of sleep, she knew he was telling her the truth.

A/N: And I return with an update! I'm going to be very busy for the rest of the week, so I decided to rather update sooner than to keep the next chapter until next week. Hope you liked it!

Here we return to Rohan to see how Elfhelm is faring. As you can see, he has reasoned to keep the secret for now, as he doesn't want harm coming to Éothain and his family. Also even if their lives were not at stake he'd see little reason in spreading the word, because who is going to believe him without any proof? So he resolves that Éomer will come home soon and when he does, the man himself is the ultimate proof.

In Rohan we meet another original character of mine, called Lady Ceolwen. I have a feeling hers was not an one time appearance!

It seemed to me that at this point Éomer and Lothíriel have got close enough to resume to sharing a bed. It could be they both need it - and each other. I was pretty sure from early on they'd re-establish their intimacy eventually, but I thought it would not happen so quickly, because they'd both have things to work through. And at any rate it felt like it should take place when he has just been through what could be called a panic attack. I don't think he's past those yet, but perhaps here he is starting to understand what is wrong with him and that he can't recover from it without any help.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Quote in the beginning originally by Seán O'Casey.

Inspiration for the chapter: Vast - Flames

MairaElleth - You are very right about that! I think that's rather important in longer stories that takes characters through profound experiences, like this story. So every now and then one has to "feel out" where the characters are at the moment and how it is impacting them.

Here's at least a bit more of tenderness! :)

Dee - Glad to hear that! Hope you like this chapter as well. :) As for how the road to Rohan will go... wait and see!

brandibuckeye - Thank you!

Thalia - Oh, I know the frustration that causes.

Wondereye - Considering he's in a state where he is all but attacking strangers and generally just is highly mistrustful towards people, I don't think it would be a very good idea to bring swarming crowds of curious people around him.

Imrahil should be on his way by now, so we'll see what he has to say about all this! :)