Chapter 9

Aldburg, April the 24th, 3018

Éomer snapped the book shut and leant back in his chair, his legs stretched in front of him: when he had recommended Twilight Tales to Lothíriel, he hadn't quite remembered just how melancholic and gloomy those poems were. If he had, he'd have surely opted for a little lighter and more cheerful reading.

He placed the book back on the nightstand, readjusted the bookmark where he had found it: page twenty-seven, Sonnet of Desolation, author unknown.

Rather fitting, he had to admit.

Reaching out for Lothíriel, he held her hand for a moment, studied carefully her features but nothing had changed since the last time he had checked on her - which was at best only a few minutes earlier: she still lied motionless in her bed - same as she had done for the past three days, and no matter how many times he called her name, no matter how many hours he spent talking to her, she would show no sign of regaining consciousness whatsoever. Are you even still in there, he couldn't help but wondering as he took in the sight of her pale, gaunt cheeks: truth was, his wife was withering in front of his very own eyes and yet there was absolutely nothing he could do for her, aside from waiting and hoping she'd find in herself the strength to awaken from the slumber to which she had succumbed.

Seeing tiny drops of sweat forming on her forehead, Éomer pulled her woollen blanket a little lower, then stood and opened the window to refresh the stale air. It was such a perfect spring day: the sun was warm but not too much, the cornflowers were already blooming and swallows had arrived in the city since a few days. Observing them as they flew erratically from building to building, Éomer wondered if Lothíriel had seen them: they were not among the birds she had portraited, so maybe she had missed them.

Caught in a moment of sudden creativity, he walked to her desk, grabbed paper and charcoal and tried sketching one of them: he used to be good at it, at least when he was younger. But he had always preferred landscapes to animated subjects and after years of no practice, his drawing skills resulted in something quite disappointing and not even remotely as nice and vivid as his wife's creations.

He sighed, crumpled the paper and tossed it away: his hands were callous and scarred, his skin rough. The hands of a warrior, definitely not the ones of an artist.

Outside of the room, the sound of approaching steps and hushed whispers told him it was already noon and Frumgar had arrived to check on Lothíriel's wounds and relieve him for a few hours from his watch. Not that he needed it – quite the contrary in fact, but the healer had given him little choice; besides, he knew Runhild too wished to spend some time with his wife and doubted she'd have appreciated his presence in the room with her. The girl obviously hated him and really, he could not blame her for it: for the past few months, she had done with Lothíriel what he could not – did not want to do. She had spent all her time with her, supported her, helped her adjusting to life in Rohan and even started teaching her their language. And when the hour of need had come, it had been her who hadn't hesitated to jump in her saddle and ride for a half-day just to find him and warn him about what had happened.

The debt he had with her was one he was never going to repay but someday, he ought at least to thank her for what she had done. Just, not yet: not until he knew if his actions had costed Lothíriel her life or whether instead she was going to survive his stupidity.

Frumgar silently unlaced the upper part of Lothíriel's gown, then checked the status of the angry swollen hematoma that the impact with the branch had left on her chest. Her skin was bluish, verging to green in some areas and under the patches of broken capillaries, Éomer could easily count her ribs, follow them until they joined the breastbone in the middle: "She seems so emaciated", he observed.

"She's losing weight".

"Isn't there anything we can do?".

"I'm keeping her hydrated and as well-fed as possible given her unconscious state, but my hands are tied: unless she awakes, there's nothing I can do apart from slowing down the deterioration in her condition. Speaking of which, there's something else you should know".

Éomer dipped a cloth is a basin filled with fresh water, then squeezed it thoroughly and gently passed it on Lothíriel's neck: "What is it?".

"The wound on her leg".

His head snapped up: "I thought you said the infection was improving".

"It is. She hasn't had any fever in over a day and the wound itself looks much better, so much that I don't see it needing any further purging".

"Then what's wrong with it?".

"Lothíriel was very lucky that the trap missed her bone, for that might have caused much more extensive damage. Nevertheless, the spikes and the following infection have severely compromised her calf muscle, to the point I don't think it will ever fully recover".

"You mean she won't be able to walk ever again?".

"She'll walk, but she might likely limp for the rest of her life and even she doesn't, her leg won't be able to sustain prolonged efforts anymore: a little run or a long walk, and it will probably give out and start aching once again".

Éomer took a deep breath, tried to calm down: a slight limp sounded like such an inconsequential thing when he didn't even know if Lothíriel was going to survive. Yet it bothered him, it bothered him to the point he wished he could throw a punch in the wall: "I understand", he just said, then strode towards the door so he could bring his foul mood elsewhere.

"You'll be back for supper, yes?", Frumgar called him.

"Of course. If you need me, I'll be at Gárwine and then at Éothain's place".

Outside of the hall, it was just another normal day: the streets were busy with the usual coming and going, Cadda was walking around and looking for someone he could bother with his meaningless chatter and a delivery of grain had just arrived from the countryside. For everybody, life seemed to be going on as usual and it was only him and a few others that were left behind, stuck in a nightmare with no end in sight. As irrational as it was, Éomer felt anger mounting inside him and with his fists clenched and his teeth gritted, he climbed down the stairs two steps at a time. At the bottom, someone had the misguided idea to stop him: "My Lord?", Hánild called him.

He barely grunted in response, then noticed the woman was holding something in front of him. A pretty shawl in the customary Rohirric green, with two golden prancing horses – one per corner, sewed along its hem: "I'm sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to give you this. A token of gratitude for your wife and for what she did for Dúnor. The boy would be dead if it wasn't for her and I want you to know we very pray Oromë every day for her recovery".

Éomer stared stupidly at the gift in his hands, Hánild's words leaving him for some reason momentarily speechless: "Thank you", he finally managed to say. "How is he doing? I tried to visit him the other day, but his grandparents told me he was sleeping and didn't want to disturb him…".

"Yes, he can't sleep at night the poor child: wakes up every now and then, screaming and crying, and at day he never speaks, barely eats anything at all…I brought him some of his favourite pies yesterday, baked them especially for him, but he didn't so much as look at them. He survived those beasts almost unscathed in the body, but…".

"I know", Éomer stopped her, placing a hand on her arm. He himself remembered all too well the day his father's lifeless body was brought back to Aldburg: he remembered the wounds, he remembered the blood, he remembered the smell even of that day. He knew Dúnor was never going to forget what he saw, was never going to forget the horrible death of his parents; but he also knew he was a strong boy: after escaping the massacre, he had walked all alone for miles until finally being rescued and though in a state of shock, he had reported with remarkably precise details what had happened. Where the wargs had come from, how many of them, in which direction had his mysterious saviour disappeared.

It was true that had it not been for Lothíriel, the boy would be dead. But at the same time, had it not been for him and his help, then Lothíriel would have surely been dead too.

Hánild shook her head, waved a hand like all her worries were nothing short of ridiculous: "He's alive, that's all that matters", she told him with a forced smile before hurrying up the stairs, her eyes misty.

Left standing alone with the shawl in his hands, Éomer felt his stupid anger fade away only to be replaced by an all-consuming and overly familiar sense of unease. The type that grips at your guts and twist them up; the type that leaves no space for any other emotion, any other sensation; the type that makes you want to curl up in a ball until your worries have eaten you from the inside. For a moment, he even considered the idea of retracing his steps and seeking shelter in his study or perhaps in his mother's solar, but eventually changed his mind: he forced himself down the road, reached Gárwine's house and once there, he felt shamelessly relieved at finding the man waiting for him all alone, with Birthwyn and Estwyn nowhere to be seen.

He had no stomach for people those days.

The old rider welcomed him with a pat on his shoulder and a stretched smile, then showed him to the table: "There's fresh soup and some meat leftovers. Will that suit you?".

"Yes, of course".

Éomer waited until he too had taken a seat, then dipped a spoon in the bowl in front of him: Birthwyn had enriched her buttermilk soup with potatoes and green beans and just like everything coming out of her kitchen, it tasted delicious. The meat too, though cold and a little hardened, was just as good and before he even knew it, Éomer had silently devoured his portion: "I'll remember to tell my wife you appreciated her cooking skills", Gárwine teased him.

His mood not really allowing for jests, Éomer chose to ignore his comment: "Thanks for having me. I'd have invited you to my study, but I thought it would do me good to leave the hall even if just for a couple of hours".

"Please, Éomer: you owe me no explanation. Is someone with Lothíriel?".

"Frumgar: he'll tend to her wounds, change her into something clean, then Runhild will keep her company until I'm back".

"No sign of improvement in her condition?".

"No", he said, shaking his head and trying to swallow his fears that if Lothíriel didn't awake any time soon, then all he could do was watching her slowly dying off.

Sensing his mood, Gárwine wisely chose not to press the topic any further and changed subject instead: "You said you wanted to ask me something?".

"Yes, yes: something of the utmost important", he solemnly declared.

Gárwine frowned, like he was already smelling bad news ahead of him: "Bema, you are worrying me. C'mon then, ask away: you know you can count on me!".

Éomer pushed his bowl away, then took a deep a breath: "I've been thinking a lot about it and I beg you not to take this the wrong way", he started saying, to which Gárwine's frown deepened even further. "As a member of my Éored, you're quite honestly invaluable and there's no one with a set of skills to match yours. You're just as valid as any Éothain with a sword in hand, no one read tracks better than you – as you just recently demonstrated, and while many of us have the tendency to act first, think then, you are the opposite. You're a keen observer, you see and hear things that go unnoticed to the most, you're good at reading people…".

"…why do I feel there's a but coming after all these praises?".

"There's no but. Plain and simple: despite your skills as a rider, you stand to serve me much better here in Aldburg than risking your neck on some orc's hunt".

Gárwine froze, his mouth gaping: "Are you…removing me from your Éored?".

"That's what I meant when I asked you not to take this the wrong way", Éomer groaned, rubbing his face: "I am often away, Gárwine. Too often and I can't, I just can't ride away unless I know the city, its people and my wife are in good hands: those hands used to be Meregith's ones, but now…".

"Now you don't trust her anymore".

"How could I?", he asked, opening his arms.

"Then why is she still here? Why haven't you dismissed her after what she did?".

"Because she wasn't always like that, Gárwine. Because aside from my sister - who was anyway too young back then, I feel like she's the last living connection I have with the days before my parents' death. The last one with whom I can talk about it, the last one who remembers how life was back then: with them, between those very same walls. She's there in my happy memories and she's there in my sad ones and I just couldn't bring myself to dismiss her without giving her a chance to prove she can change", he admitted, feeling a sudden lump in his throat.

On the other side of the table, Gárwine stared at him unfazed: "I understand how you feel, but I think you're making a mistake. A big, fat mistake".

"Then I'll be ready to deal with it before it's too late".

"Ready? How?".

"To begin with, I spoke with each and every member of the staff: maids, cook, pantlers, guards, errand boys…soon I'll be speaking to the pillars too! I made clear – very clear, that I expect the general attitude towards my wife to change and that I want each of them to keep their eyes open: should Meregith – or anybody else for the matter, start antagonizing her again, then I want to be informed immediately. Whoever fails to do so, whoever covers up for her, will face dire consequences. And as per Meregith herself…".

"You don't want her to be in charge anymore".

"Warm meals and clean linens: that's all she'll be in charge of from now on!", he hissed. "She'll be Aldburg's housekeeper but will have no further power beyond that. Which brings me back to why I came here in the first place: I need someone to run this place when I'm away. Someone I can trust not only with the welfare of the city, but also with the safety and well-being of my wife. Someone like you".

Gárwine stood, paced back and forth a couple of times, then came to a halt in front of his armour stand: "This is…unexpected".

"I understand. And you don't need to give me an answer right now, but…".

"Of course I'll do it".

"You will?".

"Don't get me wrong, Éomer: I already regret hanging up my sword for good. I've been a rider of Rohan for over thirty years now and that's not something you cease to be from one day to the other. But I know I'm getting old, I know Birthwyn would like to have me more often around here and I myself would love to spend more time with my grandson", he admitted, his voice deep, sad almost. But when he turned, there was a tiny smile on his lips: "You haven't lost hope".

Éomer stood, collected their bowls and returned them to the stove.

"You plan for when Lothíriel awakes. You plan for the life that will follow", Gárwine insisted.

"Maybe I'm just a fool".

"You are many things Éomer, but a fool is not one of them. Besides – and brace yourself because I won't admit this ever again, I agree with Éothain and I also think Lothíriel will recover".

Éomer chuckled thinking of the abrupt change in his best friend's attitude: "Before he used to call her with all the possible disparaging nicknames. Now, she has been upgraded overnight to warrior Princess".

"High time he quitted whining about her!".

"Yes, I suppose you are right. Speaking of which: I need our dear friend to ride to Edoras as soon as possible, so I shall better go find him before he ends up totally wasted in some cheap tavern and with a hangover to last him an entire sennight".

"Why to Edoras, if I may ask?".

"Because I am supposed to be there in a few days".

"What for?".

"A council with our beloved chief advisor, naturally. It was planned weeks ago, but there's no way I can leave now. I'll send Éothain in my place", he explained, to which Gárwine almost choked and turned purple. "So that he can tell Éowyn what happened", he hurried to clarify: "Hopefully, she'll find a way to postpone the meeting without Grima getting too suspicious".

"You don't want him to know what happened?".

"He'll find it out, sooner or later. But for now, I don't want to deal with it: not until Lothíriel awakes or …".

"Not until Lothíriel awakes", Gárwine stopped him. "Sounds like a good plan. And Éomer?".

"Hm?".

"I know I'm not exactly bouncing off the walls and may need a couple of days to digest what you just told me, but know this: it was an honour to serve in your Éored, it will be an honour to serve as your deputy here".

That night, something startled Éomer awake: a nightmare, he realized – and an awful one at that.

He swung his legs down the cot and rubbed his eyes, but the image of Lothíriel lying on a blood-soaked bed and with her right leg from her knee downwards completely missing, was a hard one to forget.

He stood, walked up to her, searched for the reassuring sight of her chest heaving rhythmically up and down, then collapsed on a chair: with dawn still hours away and knowing he would not be getting any more sleep that night, Éomer briefly entertained the idea of reading something but then and without even realizing it, he started dozing off.

It was in that strange place between sleep and wakefulness, where boundaries are blurred and you can never be sure if what you are seeing is real or not, that he first realized something had changed. He twisted his head up, marvelled at the sight of Lothíriel shifting in her bed like she had never done before but for the longest time, he did nothing: worried that even the slightest movement might have caused him to awake from the first decent dream he had had in days – if not weeks, he kept still, barely breathed at all. He observed her silently as she slowly regained consciousness and it was only when her eyes - those beautiful bottomless grey pools with just a tinge of green that were so unique of her, gazed back at him, that he felt a sudden jolt.

He jumped to his feet, covered the distance between them in one long leap, his knees wobbling: "Lothíriel?", he called her.

She looked confused at him, her eyes unfocused, her pupils dilated in an abnormal way: "You're in Aldburg, Lothíriel". She frowned like his words made no sense: "We found you in the woods. You've been unconscious for almost four days", he tried to explain, stroking gently her cheek.

Bema, this better not be a dream!

Lothíriel's eyes darted around the room, lingered on the sill on which she had spent so many hours and slowly, she seemed to recognize the place, recognize him. She lied quietly for a moment but then, as if suddenly remembering something important, she turned towards him, opened her mouth like she wanted to say something but little more than a strangled whimper came out of it. She grabbed him by his wrist then and there was an urgency, a plea almost in her eyes: "Easy, easy", he tried to calm her down, but all he managed to accomplish was to make her panic even more.

In a state of obviously growing agitation, Lothíriel started tossing around and went as far as trying to pull herself up, only to fail miserably and fall back onto the pillow, her face a mask of pain. Concerned she would end up hurting herself, Éomer pinned her down and cupped her face with one hand: he waited until her quivering eyes were looking straight back at him, silenced an attempt at speaking with a finger on her lips and then, he took one loud deep breath. Then he took a second one. And a third one until finally, Lothíriel seemed to understand and nodding imperceptibly, she started following his lead.

In and out. In and out.

He continued until she had calmed down and then, without ever removing his eyes from hers, he snatched a cup of water from the nightstand and holding her by the nape of her neck, helped her drinking some.

"Better?", he asked after she had taken a few sips.

Another little nod.

"Good. Can you speak now?".

She swallowed, licked her lips: "Y-yes", she confirmed, her voice so hoarse she barely sounded like herself. She paused like she was trying to collect the strength needed to continue, then took one shaky breath: "The woods…the woods where you found me…", she managed to say. "…there was…a child. Did you…".

"Did we find him?", Éomer finished the sentence for her, smiling – laughing almost! Foolish, silly girl! Still thinking about him after all she had been through! "We did: his name is Dúnor and he's here in Aldburg, safe and sound".

"...safe?".

"Safe", he repeated, to which she exhaled and sunk deeper into the mattress, visibly relieved.

A dumb smile still plastered on his face, Éomer brushed her hair on one side, adjusted the pillow under her head, then fixed the blanket around her legs: he was aware his attentions were most likely unwanted and his presence there unwelcomed, but it couldn't be helped. After days of anxious waiting, after struggling not to lose hope in spite of the mess he had created, after life as a whole had been put on a hold around that bed, to see her finally awake was almost too much. A part of him remained firmly convinced that was all but a dream and in a foolish attempt to silence it, he just kept walking in circles around the bed, smoothing the sheets and doing other utterly useless things until inevitably, the weight of the recent events came down crushing on them.

Her whole body now shaking like a leaf, Lothíriel stared at the ceiling above her and in her eyes, Éomer recognized a terror he had seen far too many times: "W-what were they?", she asked, her hands clutching desperately at the fabric of her nightgown.

He sat beside her, made for taking her hands but she pulled them away instead, slammed her palms on her eyes like she desperately wished to unsee.

"Wargs".

"Wargs?".

"Orcs' hounds, steeds at times".

Her nails digging into the skin of her forehead, Lothíriel gasped for air: "Those horses…and those people, those poor people! They had been…they had been…", she only managed to say before being overcome by an uncontrollable sobbing and Bema help him if stepping with his both feet into one of those traps wouldn't have been a thousand times better than seeing her that way!

But he couldn't: he couldn't change what had been and he knew there were no words in the whole Middle Earth could ease the way she felt. So, he did the only thing in his power: he took her in his arms, cradled her gently against his chest and waited. Waited until her tears had run dry, waited until her body had stopped shaking, waited until what little energy she possessed had been totally depleted. And even after that, when she went limp in his arms and her uneven breath and occasional hiccups were the only signs of consciousness, he kept holding on her, kept rocking her back and forth.

All too aware of his own tears, Éomer would have gladly kept her where she was for the rest of the night but when her hands started pushing feebly against his chest, he did not try to hold her back: Lothíriel stared at him with swollen red eyes, frowned at the sight of his wet cheeks. "Is that what you always see?", she asked, her voice so low he could barely hear her.

"What I always see?".

"When you ride away with your men in tow, when you come back tired and exhausted in the middle of the night. Is that what you always see out there?".

Taken aback, Éomer did not know what to say: "No, not always", he lied at first. But he could feel her eyes boring into him and really, what was the point of sugar-coating when she had seen for herself what could happen on those plains? "Often", he admitted.

"How? How do you do it? How do you live with what you see?", she asked, her hands closed in tight fists like she was trying very hard not start sobbing all over again.

Her question came unexpected and for some reason, Éomer felt the urge to put some distance between him and her piercing gaze: he slid a little further down the bed and resting with his arms on his knees, he stared intently at his bare feet. How? How did he live with all the horrors he had witnessed throughout the years? Did he have a magic formula? One to forget everything and live happily ever after no matter what you have seen, no matter what you have done? "I don't know. Maybe…maybe I've just grown used to it".

He regretted his words the moment they left his mouth, but it was too late to take them back and when he finally dared looking up, Éomer found Lothíriel staring at him with a strange, painful look in her eyes: "I'm sorry, Lothíriel. I'm sorry for having been one pitiful husband and I'm sorry for what I told you that day. I was angry and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that is no excuse. What I said was unfair and…".

"Why?".

"Why what?".

"Why were you so angry?".

Éomer sighed, tossed his head backwards: "Something happened…".

"What happened?", she pressed him and he knew she would not give up, she would not settle for a half-true explanation of what had occurred that day.

"There's this place…was actually, there was this place. It was called the Holbeck farm, maybe you've heard of it".

"Holbeck like the cheese?".

"Yes, it's where they used to make it. Nice place, nestled in the hills and with vast pastures surrounding it on all sides. Starting from last autumn, we suffered several attacks and ambushes in the region, so I decided to have Cenulf and his family - who were living there at the time, relocated to a nearby village: one where they would not be alone, one where they could protect themselves should the enemy strike. But there were…troubles: troubles between Cenulf and the local ealdormen. I don't even know what happened exactly, all I know is that Cenulf decided to move back to his farm and that I was not informed of it until that morning, when it was already too late to do anything".

"He was killed?", Lothíriel asked, holding her breath like she still hoped for his story to have an outcome different from the obvious one.

"Yes".

"His family too?".

"Yes, his wife and three children were killed too: the oldest was ten years old, the youngest only four. All I could do for them, was pursuing their attackers and dispose of them".

For a long time, Lothíriel remained silent, her gaze fixed on an undefined point on the blanket: "I'm so stupid. So utterly, hopelessly stupid", she finally said. "I really thought I could make it, you know? Find Harn, travel with him and the rest of the Gondorian merchants until Minas Tirith, then find a way to Pelargir and my aunt. I thought it would be easy, so easy that even I could do it. But I had been living in the clouds, had no idea what was prowling out there, had never cared for…".

"It's not your fault, Lothíriel".

"It's not my fault?", she yelled in a sudden and unexpected burst of anger. "It's not my fault that I dug myself into this room for the past three months? It's not my fault that I was so self-absorbed in my own misery that I was never able to look beyond my own nose and realize what was happening around me?".

"I shouldn't have told you those things".

"No, you shouldn't have! And I should have known better than running off because of a stupid argument!".

"Lothíriel…".

"Why? Why did you even come to save me? Why didn't you just let me die in that forest?", she yelled.

Her words hitting him like a flurry of punches to the gut, Éomer moved closer to her, cupped her neck with his hands: "How can you even say such thing?! I would never want for anything bad to happen to you! And I know it may be hard to believe, but I also never wanted for our marriage to turn out this way".

"You forced me into it with a few days' notice: did you really think it could end up in anything but a disaster?".

Éomer stared at her and for some reason, it took his brain a moment to register the meaning of her words.

You forced me into it…

…with a few days' notice.

His hands dropped and slowly, the seed of a terrible suspicion awoke inside him. A suspicion that found fresh fuel in something Runhild had told him the other day, something he had initially regarded as words dictated by anger and nothing more, but what if they weren't? "A few days' notice?".

"Yes: how could you think that keeping me in the dark would have been the prelude to a happy marriage? How could you think I would ever forgive you – or my father, for the way you schemed behind my back, for the way you decided on my own's life without ever caring for telling me?".

Éomer snapped up, wrestled with the meaning of her accusations: "But that's not true, Lothíriel. You knew about it, you consented to it!", he cried like he desperately wished for that to be true and for some reason, the realization of what had truly happened dawned on her before than it did on him.

"You thought I knew", Lothíriel whispered after a long silence, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging.

A statement. Not even a question.

Éomer staggered back, half-sat and half-fell on his cot: "Y-you didn't?".

Lothíriel shook her head, paled visibly: "My father only told me about a week before the wedding, I-I didn't know until then, had no idea", she confessed, and he could see that she was telling the truth, he could see that she was just as shocked as he was to learn the truth.

Éomer took his head in his hands and suddenly, so many things made sense: "That's why you were always so angry: with me and with your father as well. That's why after we were first introduced, you refused speaking to me, looking at me even. You thought I had been complicit with your father, you thought I had not deemed it relevant for my bride to be informed of our impending wedding, you thought…", he had to stop himself then, because the urge to grab something and throw it against the wall was becoming hard to ignore and he was not going to lose his temper again in front of Lothíriel.

But his wrath all but melted away the moment he looked up and saw her staring blankly at the hands in her lap, her head hanging, looking so frail and so utterly broken: "How could he do such thing?".

Yes! How? How could he care so little about his own daughter? How could he threat her like she was nothing more than a horse you're selling to the best bidder? How could he tell none of them? How could he keep them both in the dark about his handling of the whole situation? So foolish they had been: for months they had been stubbornly ignoring each other and the problems in their relationship instead of facing them like two adults should do, and it had taken to Lothíriel to almost get herself killed before they finally realized that half the things they hated about each other were nothing short of a lie!

Éomer knew he was not a perfect man – far from it in fact, but he would have never married a woman that way. And Lothíriel may not have been perfect either, but she had a reason for her anger, for her contempt: a damn good reason! She had been betrayed by her own father, thrown unknowingly and unwillingly into that joke of a marriage, forced to leave her home from one day to the other and once in Aldburg, she had had to cope with a husband who completely ignored her and a housekeeper who tormented her for faults that were not hers. All in all, it was a wonder she hadn't tried to run off any earlier than that!

Éomer walked to her, kneeled by her side and took one of her hands into his: "I wrote you a letter, you know?".

"A letter?".

"Yes: last autumn, after signing the contract, I wrote you a letter. I had intended to travel to Dol Amroth to meet you in person, but with winter upon us and troubles brewing everywhere, I simply could not afford leaving Rohan. So, I wrote you a letter instead. It wasn't a masterpiece of epistolary literature to be sure, but I just couldn't stand the idea of marrying someone with whom I had never even exchanged a word".

"I never got it".

"I know. Your father sent it back, said correspondence between betrothed was deemed unproper".

Lothíriel drew a ragged breath and when she spoke, her voice was little more than a raspy whisper: "Of course he would", she said, then started wavering and would have fallen down the bed, had he not been there to catch her just in time.

Cursing himself for not realizing the toll their discussion had been taking on her, Éomer helped her lying, then pressed a light kiss on the back of her hand: "Frumgar will have my head for tiring you this way". He tucked her blankets, ensured her right leg was in a harmless position: "I shall better go find him and then, I'll wake up Runhild: what do you say to that?".

She nodded, her eyes already half closed: "Éomer?".

He smiled: miss-proper-etiquette must have been really tired for not even realizing she had stopped calling him my Lord. "Yes?".

"The letter you wrote me: do you still have it?".

"Yes, it must be somewhere in my study. Why?".

"I…I'd like to read it, I think".

"Then I shall find it for you".

Author's notes: sorry for taking a longer than expected, but this chapter turned out to be a very difficult one to write. I know the discussion between Lothíriel and Éomer was a long anticipated one and might feel like it was cut short here, but after four days of unconsciousness I doubt anyone could hold any longer than that. Further clarifications will have to wait until she has recovered but at least, they are now both aware of the circumstances of their marriage and can better understand each other's struggles.

xXMizz Alec VolturiXx: not everything could end well. Lothíriel survived and the child too, but unfortunately Rohiril didn't make it. Éothain was a torment but ultimately meant well: his distaste for Lothíriel was based on her behaviour and the moment he saw her for something more than a spoiled little girl, he was willing to admit his mistake and come to the support of his friend. And yes, sailing won't be smooth but at least Éomer and Lothíriel are finally on the same page!

Guest: I'm doing my best to update regularly! Will take time to see where their relationship is heading to, but at least you know she is well (more or less at least) and finally aware their situation is more complicated than she thought!

Katia0203: glad ravine was not completely wrong to describe what I had in mind! And thanks for the hint on somewhen vs. someday , will try to use it the right way from now on! :)

pineapple-pancake: he did a lot of mistakes but is definitely setting the record straight now!

Anne: thank you so much! That was exactly what I was trying to convey: that he may have a bad temper and pass for the seasoned warrior, but he's a human after all and hurts just like anybody else in that situation.

SwanKnightoftheNorth: not that I have that much to do these days so…better do something productive! :) You stay safe too!

Catspector: glad you like it! Keeping Meregith is maybe brilliant but also a bit of a gamble and we will see how it will turn out. At least he knows the odds are against him and is ready to deal with her in a more timely manner in the future. At this point, I don't even think Éomer needed Runhild's words to take the appropriate measures against his housekeeper: he had known for quite some time that something was wrong, but he had no idea the extent of it. The moment it became clear, there was no stepping back for him and the trust he once had in Meregith is now totally broken and will be hard to mend.

Aylatha: oh dear! I swear I'll never learn the whole niece-nephew-granddaughter-grandson thing. I think it's because in Italian they are all translated to the same word and in English, nephew is always the first one to come to my mind. I'll try to pay more attention next time and as per the typos, I try to do my best but English is clearly not my mother tongue and since I was not able to find a beta reader, they will keep occurring I'm afraid :(

tgo62: he was there, he did apologize and even more than that, they finally managed to have the first honest conversation since they got married. Obviously Lothíriel has a long healing process in front of her and as Frumgar anticipated, she might face long-lasting effects from her wounds. To which extent, we shall see.

Menelwen: good to hear from you again! :) Yes, Éomer was at fault but in the end, they both told terrible things to each other, they both got themselves where they are and I doubt Éomer could have ever imagined Lothíriel doing something so foolish like running off on her own. If anything, they reached the lowest point in their relationship and from here, things can only get better!

Lady Meropa: thank you for your reviews! :) I think the whole problem lies in none of them fully knowing the truth and blaming everything on the other. Éomer thinks Lothíriel has known for months about their marriage and is convinced she somewhat reluctantly consented to it. As such, he can't fully understand her blind hatred not only towards him, but especially towards everybody else. As per Lothíriel, she is convinced Éomer plotted with her father and has never considered the idea that he was tricked as much as she was. She comes from a society that is very much based on appearance and the moment something puts her off, she retreats behind a façade of haughty indifference. Runhild had the "luck" to happen upon her in a moment of breakdown and that helped her seeing Lothíriel for who she really is from the very beginning. Ultimately, I agree that since she's the one who had to leave her home, it should have been up to Éomer to do more for their relationship. It's true that he's the one in power, he's the one in control; but exactly because of this, it's easy to forget that he is but a man and what happens around him, affects him deeply - though he has learnt not to show it. Their upbringing couldn't be any more different: Lothíriel grew up in a golden cage, sheltered to the point of becoming completely "ignorant" of what life for a normal person could be. Éomer on the other hand saw his childhood cut short and grew up in a world of war and blood. Yet there are aspects of their characters that are more similar than they might think and if only they gave themselves a chance, if only they started being honest with one another - even if that means exposing sides of themselves they don't particularly like, their marriage would stop being such a miserable place to be…