Chapter 8

Rohan, April the 21st, 3018

"This must be the place!", Éothain called, pointing at a giant boulder covered in moss and lichen. It was surmounted by a tall oak, its branches thick and low and ahead of it, the road gently rose up the hill, cutting through a clearing between the beech and larch forest.

Just like the hunter who had rescued the little boy had said.

He raised a hand, halted Firefoot and so did his men: their only hope at finding Lothíriel was to read the tracks she and the wargs had left behind, and he didn't want to compromise them by having thirty horses trampling all over them. They approached the site carefully, mindful of any sound or sign of tension in their horses, and though he was prepared for what they were about to be confronted with – a scene he had witnessed countless times, it still caused his guts to twist up: the crushed remains of the cart on which the boy's family had been travelling lied in the middle of the road and after a night-long feast, the wargs – or maybe just wild animals, had left very little of its occupants and their horses.

Éomer stared and the hipbone of one of the mounts, picked white and clean and nicked by strong fangs, then shook his head: Rohiril is no ordinary horse, he reminded himself, holding tight on that last glimmer of hope that Lothíriel might have managed to outrun her pursuers and survive the ordeal she had put herself into.

In front of him, Gárwine climbed down his stallion and one careful step at a time, circled around the carriage and the carcasses: "Quite some traffic of animals. I can barely distinguish the wargs' footprints here but if it's true what they told us, that Lothíriel's mare bolted towards the forest, we might still be able to track them there". He walked away from the scene of the massacre, his eyes fixed on the ground: up and down he went, again and again, and just when he was about to lose hope that he would find something, he proved him wrong. "Got them!", he yelled, moving fast towards the forest: "Footprints of one horse and two wargs!".

"Torfrith: take a couple of men, give a proper burial to the victims and burn everything else. All the others, with me!", he ordered.

Leaving their horses behind, they followed Gárwine into the woods: Rohiril had cut straight through the forest, no doubt panicking at the sight of the wargs chasing her and ended up choosing the most rugged and dangerous path for her escape. Behind him, Éothain must have had the same thought: "Rough terrain, but she might have made it: we'll find her, Éomer", he tried to encourage him while besides him, Gram kneeled and examined closely what he judged to be old tracks of passing wolves.

"These woods haven't changed one bit: with my old man, we used to come often up here for fur trapping. I'm sure others still do, better keep our eyes open", he advised but Éomer barely heard him, his attention entirely focused on Gárwine.

They had advanced for quite some distance, when the man suddenly halted. He did the same, observed him silently as he frowned, placed a hand above one of the hoofprints left behind by Rohiril, then walked back and did the same thing again: "What is it?".

"It's strange but Rohiril's tracks change somewhere around here. Look at them: they are slightly less pronounced, more superficial. As if…".

"As if she lost weight", he finished the sentence for him: "Lothíriel might have fallen from the saddle!".

"Yes; and the wargs' footprints seem to indicate they kept chasing after her horse, so…".

"So she might have escaped them!", he concluded, looking frantically around for signs of her presence.

"Hey, take a look at this!", Éothain called, holding a broken branch in his arms, the tear in the wood still fresh: a branch robust enough to throw someone off a saddle, but not robust enough to survive unscathed the impact against a body lunched at full gallop speed. When he examined it from more up-close, Éomer found a small piece of dark blue fabric caught on its rugged surface: "This could be from her cloak, she has one of a similar colour!".

Gárwine peeked down the ravine and needed not say a word. They all climbed down after him, but each movement was a struggle: the ground kept giving way under their heavy boots and at every step, a small avalanche of rocks and stones was initiated. At one point, Éomer lost his footing, fell and landed on his back and only the providential intervention of Éothain, who grabbed him hard by his arm, prevented him from rolling down and dragging Gárwine alongside with him: "Watch out, man. You won't be of any use with a broken leg".

Éomer snapped back on his feet and though his armour made every movement difficult, the thought of Lothíriel tumbling uncontrollably all the way down pushed him to keep going in what felt like a never-ending descent. When they finally reached the bottom of the ravine, Gárwine paused and resumed studying the terrain: "She landed here", he said, pointing at a hollow in the ground, "and then managed to stand up".

Lothíriel had left behind a track as clear as the day. A track of footprints and broken wigs, but also of more teared fabric and sometimes strands of hair: "Despite the fall, she was still able to run", Gárwine noticed.

Éomer followed him, holding his breath and trying to resist the urge to dash blindly forward: let the man do his job, he told himself. But when Gárwine stopped, an arm raised mid-air, he shoved him aside and run, run towards that barely discernible shape of a person, lying on the ground, half-hidden behind a bush. "Lothíriel!", he called her, rushing by her side.

But all he could do when he finally reached her and laid eyes on her, was to freeze on the spot: freeze at the sight of his wife's pale face, her cheeks covered in scratches, a clot of coagulated blood on her temple, her beautiful hair spread around her, soaked in wet and dirt; freeze at the sight of her lifeless body, of her torn clothing. Freeze at the sight of a trap, locked tight around her right feet, its spikes sunk deep into the flesh of her calf.

Gárwine kneeled by her side, placed two fingers on her throat, then on her wrist: "Her pulse is weak but she's alive, Éomer. She's alive!".

It took him a moment to register the meaning of those words and when he did, he collapsed on his knees: "Lothíriel!", he called her, cupping gently her face.

But she did not respond, did not move.

"Maybe it's for the best that she's unconscious", Gárwine pondered, eyeing her trapped leg: "She needs a healer but first, we need to get rid of that thing".

"Here, let me do it", Éothain volunteered.

Éomer moved to help him, held Lothíriel's leg in position but the rusted springs of the trap wouldn't release and only after several failed attempts, did Éothain managed to open the jaws. Someone passed him a cloak and Éomer promptly wrapped it tight around his wife's leg, trying to stop bleeding: he turned around to see if she had given any sign of consciousness but she hadn't moved at all, so much that it was hard to believe she was still alive. He lifted her in his arms and with Gárwine and Gram opening the way and ensuring they wouldn't run into more surprises hidden under the leaves' covered terrain, they retreated back to their horses. With Lothíriel's head resting on his shoulder, Éomer advanced one careful step at a time and if the previous night his mind had been a whirl of thoughts - each worse than the one before, now he just felt totally, utterly emptied: hollow, as if someone had carved a whole in his chest.

But he shouldn't despair for it wasn't over yet, he told himself as they finally left the woods behind them and stepped back on the open road. He called Firefoot to him, took a blanket from his saddle and wrapped it around Lothíriel: she was pale, her lips blue. "Hang in there, Lothíriel", he whispered in her ear and with Éothain's help, he climbed into his saddle and carefully positioned her in front of him.

"She made it through the night, she'll make it until Aldburg", Éothain told him as he fixed the blanket around her legs to ensure they would keep as still as possible during the ride. "I'll take a few men and see if we can track her mare and find those wargs", he then added but all he got as a response, was a distracted nod as he already urged Firefoot forward.

The half-day ride until Aldburg seemed to take ages, eons: one arm firm around Lothíriel's thin body, he held her carefully against his chest, speaking incessantly in her hair. Most likely, that was the longest conversation they had ever had, he bitterly thought: "I was a fool, I'm sorry", he spoke softly before cursing himself.

Save your pathetic apologies for when she's awake, you dolt!

At times, a moan would escape her lips: he would then check her leg, ensure it wasn't bouncing too much, and then he would see if she had awoken. But her grey eyes never opened and though unconscious, a grimace of pain was frozen on her face.

It was the early afternoon when they finally came in sight of the city and almost immediately, a familiar sound of horns rose in distance: knowing it meant they had been spotted and that Frumgar would be ready for them, Éomer just kept galloping until the hall's entrance, grateful to whoever had ensured people would keep out of his way. With Lothíriel in his arms, he stepped down his horse and at the exact same time, the hall's doors banged open and Runhild rushed out towards him. When she saw his wife, she went white as a ghost: "What happened?", she asked, but he just walked straight past her.

Explanations could wait.

Just as he had anticipated, he found Frumgar waiting for them in Lothíriel's room. His apprentice Wídleth and Ides were there too, one keeping a pot of boiling water ready, the other prepping some bandages. He lowered his wife in her bed, as gently as he possibly could: "She fell down a ravine. A steep one but was able to walk afterwards; then, she got caught in a trap", he explained.

Frumgar, who had already started to check her pulse and unlace her dress to look for wounds, stopped abruptly: "What type of trap?".

"Leghold one. Got her on her right feet: we managed to set her free and contain the bleeding, but she spent the whole night with thing biting on her calf".

Behind them, Runhild gasped.

"Wídleth: hold her leg still", Frumgar ordered and then, gently but firmly at the same time, he got rid of the cloak wrapped around Lothíriel's calf.

The last round of clothing was drenched in blood and as it was finally removed, it produced a horrific scraping sound: the wound looked awful and smelled even worse, dark blood started to gush again from of the holes left by the spikes and above them, Lothíriel's knee was swollen and her whole thigh covered in bluish and reddish marks. Staring at them, Éomer was forced to bite his tongue: he so desperately wanted to ask how bad it was, he so desperately wished Frumgar would tell him his wife was going to survive and would recover from her injuries. But he knew better: Lothíriel's life hanged on a thread and the healer needed to work in peace, not to be pestered by his pointless questions and belated concerns.

Instinctively, he reached for Lothíriel's hand. To give her strength, even in her unconscious state. Or maybe to find some for his own.

Trying not to get in the way, he waited. He waited until the gashes were cleaned and the bleeding stopped. He waited until the stitches had closed the wounds. He waited until a bandage soaked in some ointment was placed on top of them. Then, he waited until Frumgar had examined all the other wounds and bumps. He rubbed a salve on Lothíriel's knee, probed each and every of her bruises, looking for a broken bone, an internal bleeding perhaps. And there were so many of them: on her legs, on her arms, on her chest, on her back… He cleaned the scratches on her face and the slash on her forehead and with infinite patience, one drop at a time, managed to administer her a medicine.

When he was finally done, a pile of blood-soaked bandages covered the floor and the air was heavy with the pungent smell of his remedies: Ides quickly cleaned everything, then left the room; Wídleth collected all his mentor's tools and ointments and then he too, disappeared outside. With only him, Frumgar and Runhild left around Lothíriel's bed, the room grew suddenly quiet: "How bad?", he finally asked.

"Bad", Frumgar told him. After all, he had never been one to mince words: "She has no broken bones and I found no evidence of internal bleeding. The trap too miraculously missed her tibia and sunk into muscles and tendons instead and the fact that she didn't manage to break free on her own, has averted the risk of bleeding…".

"…but?".

"But infection has already set in and she's severely dehydrated and weakened after the ordeal she went through".

"Will she make it?".

Frumgar sighed and by his side, Runhild observed him with wide eyes, like her own life depended upon his next words: "I don't know, Éomer. I only placed a few stitches on the wounds: I'll have to regularly open them, purge them and then close them again. I will give her medicaments to try keep her fever down while fighting the infection, but there is only this much I can do. If she pulls through today and tonight – and I don't know if she will, maybe she'll have a chance. But for now, it's too early to say".

Éomer swallowed, reached again for Lothíriel's hand but found Runhild instead. The girl slapped his arm away and if she had looked pale earlier, she now seemed moments away from bursting into flames: "Get out of here", she hissed.

"No".

"Haven't you done enough?! Look at her!", she cried.

"I'm staying here until she awakes…".

"If she awakes", she reminded him: "And even if she does awake, do you think she'll be pleased to see your mug by her side? You're the reason she lies in this bed!". Frumgar tried to stop her then, but she was a river in flood: "Some great husband you've been! For months you've avoided her like the plague, never cared to show her some sympathy, some support, and now all of a sudden you pretend to play the concerned spouse?! Too late for that!".

"I know I made mistakes…".

"You made mistakes? Is that your best excuse? You and that father of hers, you married her off without even caring for telling her! What a surprise the Marshall's wife", she spat out, mimicking perfectly Meregith's thick accent "is hostile and resentful. Who would have thought, how shameful of her!".

"Runhild…".

"Do even know what she went through? Do you even know she made herself sick, like physically sick about it? Do you even know how many nights I spent watching over her?".

And she'd have continued, had it not been for her father who forced his way between the two of them: "Enough!", he yelled. "The last thing Lothíriel needs is for the two of you to make a scene! Éomer, you will stay here and warn me immediately if something changes in her condition and you", he said, raising a hand to shut his daughter up before she could ger a word out of her mouth, "you are feverish yourself and will go to bed: now, you hear me?". Runhild made for protesting, but Frumgar took her by her shoulders, his voice soft: "I know you're worried, but you've done all you could and I'm sure Lothíriel would want you to care for yourself. Éomer will watch over her and yes, I know mistakes were done: but they got themselves into this situation and only they", he said glancing towards him, "can get themselves out of it. Besides, Lothíriel wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for him. He managed to find her and brought her back to us: does that count to nothing? Don't you think he deserves at least the chance to apologize, should Lothíriel awake?".

Runhild looked away, sniffed a few times and after fear and after anger, came also her moment of breakdown: she threw her arms around her father's neck, sobbing uncontrollably and mumbling something unintelligible against his chest. "I know, I know", he soothed her as he slowly walked her out of the room. Before the door locked behind them, she threw one last glance at his wife, then at him.

And then, he was alone.

He circled around Lothíriel's bed and stood for a while by her side, unsure what to do with himself: Runhild was right that he had avoided her, that he had postponed dealing with her like she was merely more than a chore that had befallen him. But on one thing she was wrong: he did know how difficult it had been for her. Just, he had never been able to confront her about it, he had never really understood how to approach her, how to speak to her so that he could make things better. And then he had done the worse thing of all: he had lost his temper in front of her, showed her his worse side. A side nobody liked – him least of all: but while those who knew him well had learned to expect such outburst from him and knew how to deal with them, how could Lothíriel?

Running away had been a stupid, reckless idea. But how desperate she must have been to go on such a suicide mission rather than staying by his side?

Éomer got rid of his chest plate, then sat by her desk: there was a wooden box, badly scratched and with its lid missing, holding some letters and by its side, more papers were neatly arranged together. He flipped through them and to his surprise, he found himself staring at a multitude of charcoal sketches. There were dozens of them: some simple and made only of a few strokes, others way more elaborate. The subjects were often birds: owls, crows, magpies, red kites. The last ones especially recurred over and over again and with an increased level of details: but while the shape of their angled wings and forked tail had been masterfully outlined, the pattern on their feathers was somewhat off and changed slightly at each attempt, like she had been struggling to get it right. There were also many drawings of a cat – always the same one, black and wait and with a short and crooked tail, and even a couple of Runhild herself: in one she stood, hands on her hips, a smug expression on her face, while another was a close-up of her smiley, freckled face. The last illustration was the portrait of an elderly woman sitting by a tall window and with the same large cat sleeping in her lap. It was more detailed than the other drawings: the furniture, the clothing, the sea landscape, the fading afternoon light. All had been mindfully laid out and it surely must have taken a long time to finish it. On the bottom corner, partially overlapping with the gown of the old woman, were four simple letters.

Home.

Éomer brushed his fingers on them, smudging irremediably their edges: was it too late? Even if Lothíriel survived, was it too late to save their marriage? He desperately wished to make things right, he desperately wished he could prove himself a better husband, but what if she did not care for it anymore? What if they had gone too far and there was no fixing? What if Lothíriel awoke only to ask him to let her go?

He sighed, frustrated and angry at the same time but also knowing that if that was the case, then there was only one thing he could do: so he re-arranged the papers together, mindful to keep the last portrait at the top, where he could see it; and then, he searched for a blank parchment and started writing.

"Éomer?", someone called him.

He opened his eyes and the moment he realized he had fallen asleep, he snapped up: "Did something happen? Did she awake?".

But Frumgar was quick to shut down his hopes: "No, but I need to change her bandages and you should go get some rest".

"I'm fine, I was just…resting my eyes".

"Yes, that's called sleeping and you can't watch over your wife while you are dozing off. So, let me tell you again: go get some rest and come back later. Meanwhile, I'll stay with her".

Éomer looked outside: it was dark, the sun had set since a few hours already and after having slept on a chair, partially armoured to boot, he felt totally wracked. Frumgar was right that he would be of no use in such condition: "You will call me if something happens?".

"I will. Now go!".

He made for leaving bur first, he moved closer to the bed: Lothíriel's breath was ragged, sweat trickled down her forehead but when he brushed her cheek, her skin felt much cooler. Her fever must have gone down which, he hoped, was a good sign: "I'll be back in a few hours", he promised her, then carefully tiptoed outside of the room, as if afraid the sound of his steps might have awoken her.

He walked into the corridor and…almost tripped and fell on something! No, not something but rather someone, he realized as he saw Éothain sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, looking like he too had been resting his eyes: "When did you come back?".

"Not long ago. How is she?".

"I don't know", he admitted, rubbing tiredly his eyes: "She's alive but Frumgar is not sure whether she'll make it".

"She will".

"She…she had a high fever and her wound is badly inf…".

"She's a fighter", Éothain cut him short. Then, seeing the expression on his face, he smiled: "I give you that she did something stupid to start with. But Éomer, she came across two wargs: awful beasts for those who are familiar with them, imagine for someone like her. And yet instead of turning around and run back where she came from, she tried to distract them just so a boy she had never seen before could have a chance at surviving. She rolled down a ravine that would have killed the most and then just stood up and rushed back towards the clearing. And you know why she did it? To find that boy, of course! She got caught in a trap and survived a whole night just like that, without a fire or anything to keep her warm, completely alone and terribly wounded. She may not look like it, but I'll be damned if that wife of yours doesn't have the spirit of a warrior!".

Éomer stared at him, wishing desperately he could absorb even a little pinch of his friend's optimism. "Don't lose hope", Éothain told him, giving his shoulder a light squeeze.

"I'm trying", he promised, his voice shaky. "What of you? Did you find Lothíriel's mare?".

"We found what was left of her, which was not much".

"She didn't make it?".

"No", Éothain said, shaking ruefully his head: "She reached the edge of the woods and kept going for a while. Maybe she tired up and the wargs caught up with her, or maybe she encountered more of them: there were a lot of tracks, a bit too many for only two of them but alas, Gárwine is the expert and he was not there to confirm what happened. In any case, it's a good thing Lothíriel was thrown off the saddle: ironically, that branch might have just saved her life", he explained. Then, he reached for his pocket, pulled something out of it: "I found this nearby Rohiril's remains. It was inside what was left of her satchel: it must have been important if Lothíriel decided to bring it with her and maybe", he said as he passed him a silver necklace, "it'll make her happy to get it back when she awakes".

Éomer looked at it and he had to admit he had never seen a more beautiful, precious creation: three dark blue sapphires hanged on a chain that, he realized now, was not made of silver but rather white gold and embedded with more precious stones. "She must have brought it with her from Dol Amroth", he guessed.

"Probably. I tried my best to clean it, but there might still be some dirt…".

"Thank you, Éothain. For this and well…for everything else too", he suddenly told him, pulling him into a tight embrace: things between them had been shaky during those past few weeks, but the man was his best friend and to have his support in those dark hours meant the world to him.

With his wife's necklace secured in one hand, he made for leaving but was almost immediately stopped: "Wait!", Éothain called him back, his eyes fixed on the ground like he was struggling to find the right words to say.

Something so deeply unusual for him.

"I know I've never been a supporter of this marriage of yours and I know I've lost no opportunity to remind you about it. But what I said earlier about Lothíriel, that she's a warrior and a fighter: I truly think so and I'm not saying it just for the sake it. Meregith…I don't know what took her to behave that way, but what she did is inexcusable and I want you to know that had I been in her place, I'd have never…".

"I know", he reassured him and then, without saying a further word, headed for the stairs. But instead of climbing up towards his room, he went down, then crossed the empty hall and kept going until he had passed the kitchens and reached the staff's wing. Once there, he gave the necklace in his hand one last look, then knocked on the door.

A sound of rustling sheets came from the other side and then, a sleepy voice: "Yes?".

"It's me. Can I come in?".

"Éomer?", Meregith called before opening the door and peeking out.

"Can I come in?".

"Of course!", she welcomed him with a smile that was equally warm and inappropriate at such time.

He waited until she had draped a robe around her shoulder, then walked in and standing in front of the window, his to back to her, he glanced outside at the deserted streets.

He waited.

And then he waited some more.

"Lothíriel might die. Are you not going to ask me how is she doing? Will you not even pretend you care whether she lives or dies?".

"How can you say such thing, of course I care…".

"You care that she leaves this place and whether she does it on her own legs or lying in a casket, that does not interest you", he stated, his voice flat.

"That's not true. I don't know what Runhild told you, but…".

"She told me you refused to search for her and would have rather condemned her to certain death than rescue her. Strange enough, Eofor supported her claim. Was he lying too? Is this a plot against you? Is that what you are saying?", he pressed her: calm at first, but for each further word his voice rose and by the end of the sentence, he was shouting to her face.

"Your wife is no child, Éomer: most women are mothers by her age and if she takes a decision to leave, then I don't see why I shouldn't respect it".

"Ah, of course!", he laughed, throwing his arms in the air: "You've never respected anything that concerned her until now, but you see it fit to start the moment she tries to run off. How convenient!".

"I didn't respect her?", she echoed him, a hand on her chest, her eyes wide like he had just told her the most ridiculous thing ever: "And what of her respect, eh? She despises me – us!, and loses no chance to remind me, yet you expect me to mollycoddle her and act as if I was her wet-nurse! You expect me to put up with that terrible attitude of her and pretend what? That I like her just because of her title? That's not who I am, Éomer: I say things like they are and your wife is spoiled, obnoxious and disagreeable. However, that does not mean I disrespected her: she never lacked for anything since the moment she arrived and was always allowed to do as she pleased!".

Éomer took a step back and looked at her up and down: "Bema, I can't even tell whether it's me you are lying to, or yourself instead".

"I am lying to no one. Least of all to you!", she declared.

And she spoke with such conviction, that Éomer felt at loss: he hadn't expected her to fall on her knees and beg for his forgiveness, but that she would refuse to acknowledge any responsibility, that she wouldn't even try to justify her actions, that she'd rather put all the blame on Lothíriel, Runhild or whoever else came to her mind, that went far beyond anything he had anticipated from that discussion. It was as if Meregith's perception of anything even remotely related to his wife was completely altered, her sense of judgment impaired. But at the same time, hers wasn't the intent of a madwoman for there was premeditation, malice even in her actions: "I couldn't believe it, you know? When I was first told of you and Lothíriel, when the rumours of your continuous fights reached my ears, I couldn't believe it. But I knew there was some truth to them and so I started keeping my eyes open, I started watching closely any interaction you had with Lothíriel. And you know what I saw, Meregith?".

"No".

"Not a damn thing!", he yelled.

"Then why are you angry?".

"Because I couldn't quite understand it at first, but now I see it: you pretend, Meregith. Whenever I'm around, you pretend to be your usual self, you pretend to behave with Lothíriel like it is expected of you. But the moment I leave, the moment I turn my back, you are ready to do anything that would ger her out of your way! Including getting her killed!".

"I did not force her to leave".

"No, that is my burden. But in the name of your blind hatred for her, you were ready to scarify her life. Her life, Meregith! And you did it without even thinking about the consequences of your actions!".

"I did think about them".

"Did you?", he asked, advancing menacingly towards her: "Did you think I would have never wanted her out there on her own? Did you think I would have never wanted her dead? Did you think I would have never wanted her gone? Did you think there was nothing I wanted more but for our marriage to work? And even if you did not care about all of that, about me and her: did you think about the consequences for Rohan? What do you think will happen if she dies? She's the nephew of Gondor's most powerful man and the daughter of the second one: should Lothíriel die, how do you think her family will react?".

"If she dies it will be as a consequence of her own actions, not ours. And besides, we don't need Gondor: we can manage on our…".

"It's not her fault!", he finally cried, loud enough for the entire hall to hear him: "Dawyn's death it's not her fault!".

And there seemed to be a reaction: a flash in the old housekeeper's eyes, a tremor.

"Dunlendings killed her but if you need someone else to blame, if you need someone towards whom you direct your anger and despair, then let it be me!". Meregith turned around in a futile attempt to mask her tears, but he had none of it: "Dawyn didn't leave Aldburg because of Lothíriel's arrival. Dawyn left Aldburg because I could never give her what she wanted, because I could never love her back the same way she loved me".

She shook her head, pushed him away: "You don't know that".

"I don't know my own feelings?".

"You were never interested in settling down and with the kind of life you live, with what happened to your parents…no one could blame you for that. But somewhen things would have changed, Éomer. Somewhen you'd have realized there is more to this life than slaying orcs and keeping alive, you'd have realized you needed more, you needed someone…".

"And you think I'd have then suddenly fallen in love with the girl I grew up with?".

"She loved you and she'd have made you a wonderful wife".

"She'd have made a wonderful wife, but not to me Meregith. She'd have never been happy by my side, by the side of a man who did not reciprocate her feelings. Dawyn deserved better than a loveless marriage", he spoke and even if just for a moment, she seemed gone: the resentful, rancorous woman seemed gone and Meregith looked like she was back to her usual caring - albeit stern, self.

"And what of this marriage you got instead? Is it any better? Is it any less loveless?", she asked him and though she was crying, though tears streamed down her cheeks and her body trembled with the pain of a loss she'd never come to terms with, there was in her voice just enough bitter resentment, just enough ill-concealed loathing that made him wonder if their discussion had managed to accomplish anything at all.

"No, but it's not hopeless. Not for me at least", he said, then took a step back from her. "I don't know what will happen: maybe Lothíriel will die and it will all be over - for her and probably for me as well. Or maybe she'll live, maybe she'll awake and demand to be sent back to Gondor – and after what happened, how could I ever refuse her that? But if by Bema's grace she'll live and decide to stay here, by my side, then I'll be damned if I won't make everything in my power to give her the life she deserves".

Meregith straighten her back, wiped off her tears with the sleeve of her gown: "I understand, Éomer".

"So you say but after everything that has happened, I'm not sure you do".

"I'm sorry", she just mumbled, sobbing and covering her face with her hands.

But he did not move, did not try to console her: "I feel like I can barely recognize you these days", he admitted, "but for the sake of how long you've been part of this hall and of my family, I'll give a chance to redeem yourself".

Meregith's head snapped up then and she looked at him with wide, shocked eyes. Like she hadn't expected him to give her a second chance. Or maybe like she hadn't expected him to be considering the idea of removing her from the hall altogether. In all honesty, he could not say.

"I'll always be by your side, Éomer. You're like a son to me and there's nothing I wish you more in this life than happiness".

"Then prove it. But know this: I'm giving you a second chance, but I'm not doing it blindly. Don't expect me to sit back and just hope you'll change attitude towards my wife: I'll have my eyes on you and rest assured that from now on, if you as much as look at Lothíriel the wrong way, I'll be the first one to know. And if I'll ever suspect you are back at plotting against her or simply trying to make her life miserable, then you have my word that I will have you removed from this hall without a second thought. Do you understand?".

Author's notes

xXMizz Alec VolturiXx: indeed they have. Questionable decision on Éomer's side, but we'll see what it will bring. At least he lost no further time at dealing with her and is now standing firmly his ground. Just know that each review brings me joy so we're even J

Beancdn: had she managed to catch up with the merchants, she might have been reasonably safe. But risking a day's ride on your own in a land you know nothing of, was utterly unconscious. If anything, Éomer seems to have cut the chase and is now taking the matter in his own hands without further hesitating! Stay safe too!

Katia0203: yes, the poor boy managed to survive and his fate will be cleared up in the next chapters. Now you make me doubt ravine was the right English word, but what I meant is not like a cliff with several feet of smooth vertical rock. More like a very steep, rugged terrain, the type of which animals can walk up and down without too much problem. As per Meregith, at least now Éomer knows! Stay safe too!

AmandaBaker852: child, yes. Lothíriel, we will see!

BlueRevolution: glad you liked it!

Catspector: wow, quite an accurate analysis! J If there's any good to come out of all of this mess, then it's in the fact that Meregith's hatred for Lothíriel is now clear to everybody and most importantly to Éomer. The circumstances of how exactly he and his men came to know about what had happened, will be cleared up in the next chapters and yes, Meregith's actions were obviously short-sighted and she is clearly out of her mind. Maybe Éomer's decision is questionable, but I suppose it can be hard to ban from your life someone who's basically family for you. At least he knows he's risking and will keep his eyes open!

rossui: thank you! Yes, lot of irons in the fire on all sides and yes, a quick update! :)

tgo62: I know, I was somewhat cruel to her! No, she didn't really see Runhild, but the reassuring face of her best friend just came to her mind as she slipped into unconsciousness…

pineapple-pancake: so happy to hear you're liking it! Yes, all that could go wrong went even worse for Lothíriel. As mentioned, the boy survived and was rescued by a hunter (who, where, how... we'll see in the next chapters) and his witness – plus a good tracker (I can barely follow my own footprints in fresh snow, but I am told they can do miracles! :) ), put Éomer and his men on the right way to find her. Still, she had to spend the whole night and part of the following morning lying there. As Éothain said, she may not look like a warrior but she definitely has the spirit of one!