Chapter 11
Edoras, April the 28th, 3018
The council chamber was dark, the air inside stale as if its windows hadn't been opened in a long while. A man stood guard at the entrance, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes throwing hostile stares at his direction: his was but one of the many stranger faces that had swarmed the hall in past few months and Éomer had little doubt where his allegiance rested. "Where is the King?", he asked, though the answer was hardly any relevant.
"Resting, for he does not wish to be bothered with your many failures", sighed Grima, his voice strained as if those words brought him deep sorrow. "Villages destroyed, convoys attacked and now, the Holbeck farm wiped out by no more than a handful of orcs. Dire must be the days of the East-mark if its Lord fails at protecting his people from even such negligible foes".
Éomer stood tall and proud, determined not to fall for Grima's provocations: "I ordered Cenulf and his family to relocate to Caerdydd. Had they stayed there, none of this would have happened".
The King's councillor advanced towards him, his hand sliding silently on the polished surface of the oak table: "And when all the farmers will have taken cover in our cities, when all the shepherds will have abandoned their meadows, what then?", he asked. "You'd have us cowering instead of fighting, don't you?".
"I do what I can with the men I am given", he growled, forcing himself to stand still despite the revulsion caused by the man's proximity.
"Of course you need more men. After all, an Éored is hardly enough when half of your men are kept busy hunting down your wife instead of defending our people. Your marriage was arranged to secure us an alliance with our southern neighbours, yet you seem determined to gain us another enemy instead", hissed Grima. He circled around him, his glassy eyes looking at him head to toes: "Do you not care about the oath you have taken? Do you not care what could have happened, had your wife perished while attempting to escape your clutches?".
His teeth were clenched so tightly, Éomer thought they might have just cracked: "Why so suddenly concerned with my wife's well-being? Weren't you the one who did everything in his power to prevent this alliance from being forged?".
Grima's eyes flashed dangerously: "I was against this alliance because we do not need Gondor to defend our land. Besides, marrying a Gondorian princess to the likes of you is like casting pearls before swine". He stretched on his toes until he could feel his breath on his face: "Is she really as beautiful as everyone says?", he whispered in his ear, licking his lips in the most repulsive, obscene way.
Éomer snapped and grabbed him by the front of his tunic, picking him effortlessly off the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guard taking a threatening step towards him and if it didn't end in a bloodshed, it was only because Grima had other plans: "I advise you think through your next move, Marshall", he told him, a hand raised to halt his man and a half-smile plastered on his hideous face.
Éomer's heart was pounding in his chest, his muscles tense and ready like before a battle. His right hand slid behind his back and towards the dagger hidden under his belt: he felt the cool metal of the blade, brushed his fingers on the carved hilt. He could easily break Grima's neck and have the guard drop dead long before getting in his sword's reach, but that would hardly be the end of his problems. Though few would mourn Grima's passing, many would scramble to replace him: with the King weakened so, being appointed chief councillor meant having absolute ruling power over Rohan. A way too tempting position for all those vultures hanging constantly around his uncle: advisors, counsellors, self-proclaimed old friends and comrades. Many of them were more involved with Grima than they dared to admit and he knew the moment the Wormtongue had been knocked off the board, one of them would rise to power and take the opportunity to make an example of him: he'd be arrested and left to rot in Edoras' dungeons for the rest of his days.
Who'd look after the East-mark then? Who'd care for his sister? Who'd ensure all the fine promises he had made Lothíriel would be fulfilled?
Is she really as beautiful as everyone says?
Éomer let go of his grip, the man's grin turning soon into a mocking laughter: "Your impulsiveness will be your doom, as it was already your father's". He walked past him, poured himself a glass of some foul-smelling infusion: "That dear friend of yours – what's his name again?".
"Éothain".
"Yes, him. A simpleton he is, wouldn't be able to lie even he wanted to. If he says your wife is back, then it must be true. Yet I can't help but wonder what it is, that he hasn't told me".
"All is well in Aldburg". It was a bloody lie, but a necessary one.
"Then why did he ride all the way to Edoras – and with such haste?".
"Lothíriel and I had a disagreement. Something I'm sure you'd be able to understand, if only a woman had ever allowed you to touch her. It was my wish to postpone our hearing so we could spend some time together: I thought caring for her and our alliance with Gondor was worth keeping you waiting for a few days, but I see you are of a different mind".
His words hit home and for a brief moment, Grima's usually pale face turned red. Éomer knew it was only a matter of days before a complete account of what had happened would reach Edoras but with some luck, he'd be gone by then and who knows what could happen before his next encounter with his uncle's advisor. "What of the Holbeck farm? Do you intend to do something, or will you pretend nothing has happened?".
"I have already taken care of…".
"You killed the orcs responsible for the carnage, yes. Very impressive. But someone disregarded your orders when Cenulf was allowed to move back to his farm. Do you have an explanation for that too, Marshall?".
If he called him Marshall another time and with that same tone, he was going to cut the man's throat open: "No".
"Then I suggest you find one as soon as possible. After all, now that all is good between you and your wife a few more days apart will hardly change anything. Am I not right?".
Éomer's nostrils flared and for a moment, he thought about throwing the man out of the window. Leaving Lothíriel so soon after she had awoken had been already bad enough - even more so after their last conversation. He had left Aldburg with a heavy heart, knowing all too well that now more than ever he needed to be there to show her that he stood by his words - every last one of them. He had taken comfort in the fact that riding to Edoras and back would have taken him no more than three or four days but of course, he was going to be gone for much longer than that: "Of course".
Finally satisfied with what he had achieved, Grima dismissed him with a careless wave. Éomer left the chamber and stormed out of the Golden Hall like a mad man. There, he found his sister waiting for him: "How did it go?".
"I'm still a Marshall and I'm not missing any limb - despite that guard very much wished to depart me from some of them. All in all, not too bad", he muttered as he climbed down the stairs.
"That damn woman…".
Éomer stopped and retraced his steps, towered over his sister with a thunderous expression on his face: "I will assume you're talking about Meregith when you say damn woman".
"I am not", snorted Éowyn: "Look how much troubles she's costing you!".
None too gently, Éomer took his sister's arm under his and forced her to follow him away from the hall and its many prying eyes: "You know nothing of her".
"Meregith shouldn't have left her to die, but that doesn't change the fact she's a spoiled little girl", declared Éowyn, somewhat struggling to keep up with his pace.
"Had you been in her shoes…".
"Had I been in her shoes, I wouldn't have let my father marry me that way. That she accepted it without saying a word only makes her soft and weak in addition to spoiled. There's no place for women like her in Rohan and you know it!".
Éomer steered suddenly to his right and dragged his sister into an empty ally: how many letters had Meregith written her during those past few months? For how long had she been poisoning her with her hateful words? "When did Éowyn of Rohan become such a spiteful person? One who can't even bring herself to show some empathy for a woman who has been betrayed by the one man who was supposed to protect her".
Éowyn pulled her arm free of his grip and gave him a cold stare: "I know you feel responsible for what happened to her, but you can't let her turn you against your own family".
"She is my wife, Éowyn. She is family!".
"It takes more than a contract to be part of a family".
"And it takes less than a murder attempt to lose it for good".
His sister's eyes widened in shock: "Do you even listen to yourself?".
Éomer sighed in exasperation. He pulled her to him and pressed a kiss on her brow like he used to do when they were children and he would cradle her to sleep every night in the hope his presence by her side would chase away her nightmares: "I love you, Éowyn. Please don't be my enemy".
She stiffened, her arms hanging by her sides.
"I know we rarely see each other, and I know I seldom answered your letters during the past few months. It's like I'm being pulled in so many different directions that not even if there were ten of me, would that be enough. I became blind to so many things that were happening around me: I did not see what Meregith had become until it was almost too late, I acted as if I did not have a wife and I neglected you as well".
Éowyn pulled back and rested a hand on his shoulder: "I know that. And I never expected a daily stream of letters just so you could keep me entertained with the events of the Eastfold".
"That would hardly make for an entertaining correspondence anyway", he tried to jest, though the bitter tone in his voice somewhat ruined it.
Éowyn's hand reached for his bearded cheek: "I hate to see you like that", she told him, her earlier anger melting quickly away: "I'm not the enemy, I just wish there was more I could do to help you".
"You're doing plenty already".
"Aside from being supportive towards your wife".
"Aside from that, yes. But then, I'm hardly innocent too. All I'm asking is that you give her a chance: she deserves as much".
Her head tilted on one side, Éowyn observed him for a long while: "You like her", she finally said.
Éomer looked away and couldn't help but feeling awkwardly embarrassed. Not because he was reluctant at admitting what was obvious at that point, but rather because he himself could not explain what it was that had triggered such change in his feelings towards Lothíriel. There were the obvious reasons of course - the fact that she had proven more strength and courage than most men possessed. But it wasn't only that: there was something hidden in the softness of her words, in the delicate strokes of her paintings, in the abyss of those grey eyes that had suddenly gained the ability to see right through him in the most disturbing - and yet strangely welcomed, way. For months he had deliberately ignored her; now, he found he could hardly think of anything else: "I do".
The look in Éowyn's eyes was many things: puzzled, surprised, maybe a little disappointed too. "Why?".
Éomer run a hand through his hair and gave her a sheepish smile: "Does it even matter?".
"It does if your feelings are born out of guilt".
"Rest assured they are not!", he snapped. "You said you wished there was more you could do to help me. Did you really mean it?".
"Of course!", said Éowyn, her cheeks turning a bright pink.
"Then stop believing everything Meregith says and stop hating on a woman you have never even met!", he hissed and this time, his sister had the decency to look ashamed. "I did it too, Éowyn: I trusted her blindly, never even considered the idea she might have been lying to me. Gárwine tried to open my eyes but instead of taking action immediately, I hesitated until it was almost too late. Please don't repeat my same mistakes!".
Éowyn drew nearer, leaned with her forehead against his shoulder: "I suppose you are right", she sighed. "Do you think Lothíriel will stay in Aldburg with you?".
"What if I told you I feel slightly optimist about it?".
"You optimist? Who are you and what have you done to my brother?".
Éomer laughed but seeing the ally was becoming a little too crowded, he decided to keep moving: he took his sister's hand and together, they set off towards the stables. They were about halfway there, when he casually slipped a paper into the pocket of her dress: "I'll be leaving tomorrow morning for Caerdydd. I want you to wait for a couple of days, then deliver this letter to Lady Aldwyn", he instructed her.
"What is it about?", asked Éowyn, her eyes fixed on the street ahead of them.
"It's a list of all the people who left Aldburg in the hours after Lothíriel's disappearance. One of them must have ridden straight to Edoras to inform our dearest advisor. I want to know who".
"I could take care of it", she pointed out, irritated that he was not entrusting her with that task.
"I know you could, but Grima keeps a close eye on you. Lady Aldwyn on the other hand, she comes and goes as she pleases and has trusted men at her orders. She can look into this without raising any suspicion".
"Were we to succeed, what shall we do with the rat?".
"Nothing. Just let me know the name and I'll take care of it".
Lothíriel folded the letter with great care before placing it back in its envelope.
She didn't know why it had taken her so long to read it: after Éomer's departure, for days she had kept it hidden under her pillow or between the yellowed pages of her books. It was almost as if she had been afraid of its content, afraid of what it might have revealed of her husband, afraid of the decisions she might have taken because of it.
For five days, the weight of the choice she had to make had loomed oppressively over her. It distracted her at day and kept her awake at night, so much that the day before she had been forced to swallow a full glass of some foul-tasting sleeping potion Frumgar had brewed especially for her. She knew Éomer would give her all the time she needed, she knew he wouldn't pretend an answer the moment he rode back home. But maybe she pretended it of herself, for she didn't know how long she could take of that uncertainty, of not knowing whether she should settle in Rohan for good or prepare to bid farewell to her friends instead.
The choice had seemed so obvious: when she had left her room at dawn of a cold spring morning; when she had slipped out of the hall through one of those secondary entrances she knew would be unguarded at such time of the day; when she had draped herself in an old shabby cloak she had found in the stables to ensure no one would recognize her; when the city had disappeared behind her and she had been confronted with endless plains ahead of her. The choice had seemed so obvious: escape Rohan, escape your husband, go back home – or as close as possible to it, and return to the life from which you had never asked to be parted. And had she succeeded in her foolish plan, she might have just done that and be happy with it. But things had gone differently and now, she felt like her old life was a handful of sand slipping through her fingers: she could no longer hold on to it and whether she decided to go back to Gondor or stay in Rohan instead, things were going to change dramatically.
I give you my word that you'll always be free.
She knew nothing of her husband, yet she trusted him to keep his word. And what he had promised her, was way more than her father had ever given her, way more than she could ever hope to achieve in Gondor.
She took the letter out of its envelope, read it once again.
Éomer had a beautiful handwriting: neat, elegant. He had been concerned she might have found his letter disappointing, but he was wrong about it: dead wrong.
True, it was not romantic – how could it ever be, given it was addressed to a woman he had never met. However, it was so much more than that: it was honest, it was candid, it was sincere. There were no ludicrous promises of eternal love, but rather one of respect and mutual care. There were no great expectations placed on her shoulders, but rather the hope for a future together. Éomer's own uneasiness was hidden in almost every line, and so were his efforts at ensuring Aldburg would give her a worthy welcome: he had restored his mother's books' collection just so she would have plenty to read; he had renovated their bedroom and deliberately left it empty and unadorned just so she could decorate it to her liking and feel more at home; he had chosen her handmaid as someone who knew Gondor well just so she could transition to life in Rohan in the smoothest possible way. He apologized profusely for not being able to travel to Dol Amroth and though his letter said preciously little about himself, his words revealed a strong desire to get to know her better, a wish to marry someone to whom you are not a complete stranger.
Noticing her fingers were starting to shake, Lothíriel placed the letter in her lap and took a deep breath. It didn't work, so she grabbed a mug from her nightstand and threw it with all her strength against the wall: it fell short of a few feet and crashed with a loud bang on the floor.
"My Lady?", called a voice from the other side of the door. It wasn't a familiar one, so she assumed Eofor was no longer covering the night shift.
"I'm fine. I just…dropped something".
"Do you need help?".
"No", she answered, but the door was already opening.
The guard was a man in his thirties with a neatly trimmed beard and thick moustaches. He stared at the mug lying in the middle of the room, then at the distance between them: "When my wife starts dropping things this way, it's normally a sign I should better leave the house", he noted as he kneeled on the floor. "Can I get you something?".
"No, thank you…".
"Balláf", he introduced himself. "Perhaps you'd like something to drink?".
"No", she chuckled: "Rest assured I didn't fly the mug across the room because I was dissatisfied with the quality of water".
"That's a relief!", he grinned as he returned the mug to her: "In case you need to drop something again".
"Thank you, Balláf. If I'll ever run out of projectiles, I'll know who to call on".
The man looked at her for a moment before roaring with laughter: "You do that, my Lady!".
"Wait", she called him back before he could leave: "Could you please open the window?".
"Are you sure? It's quite chilly outside".
"Yes, I need some fresh air".
"As you wish", Balláf conceded, finally allowing for the crisp morning air to flow inside her chamber.
Lothíriel waited until he had left the room, then lied back and pulled the blanket all the way up until her chin.
Outside, the roosters were already starting to crow and the slightest aura of light was slowly rising on the East. Her fingers tracing the edges of Éomer's letter from under the cover of the linens, Lothíriel glanced at the barely discernible profile of the White Mountains: behind them, leagues away from Rohan and Aldburg, a scenery of rolling hills and placid rivers stretched until the sea, until a wild and rugged coastline battered with high waves and lashed by strong winds. Moving further South, the landscape would gradually change until finally reaching the calm blue waters of Lond Cobas and the white cliffs of Dol Amroth. At this time of the year, it wouldn't be unusual to see children spending their days playing on the beach, admiring the great ships leaving the harbour and fantasizing about the great adventures awaiting those brave sailors.
Lothíriel smiled and it was with a sting of sadness that she first started to realize how easy it would be: going back home, lock herself away in the safe haven of her room, fill her days with the tales of heroes that only existed in books. The memories of what she had witnessed in Rohan would eventually come back haunting her but from the height of her ivory tower, she could just ignore them until one day, her time among the Horse-lords would be nothing more than a long-forgotten nightmare.
Wasn't that what she had always wanted? What she had risked her life for?
She tossed in her bed and wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders: Balláf was right, it was really cold outside. Yet the breeze blowing in the room and wreaking havoc among her drawings felt like a much-welcomed thrill, one that cleared her mind of all doubts and fears.
Going back to Gondor was the easiest choice she could make.
But perhaps, it was not the right one.
It wasn't until his third day in Caerdydd that Éomer started to realize something was seriously wrong there.
Upon arriving in the village, he had immediately proceeded to interrogate Fulor – the local ealdorman. Not that he had expected him to collapse on his knees and beg for his forgiveness, but still the man had proven remarkably uncooperative. Totally unaffected by his foul mood – and by the fact it was getting fouler for each further hour he was forced to spend in that place, he had claimed his dispute with Cenulf had been caused by the man pretending larger grounds for his cattle and the exclusive use of the diary to make his famous cheese.
The tale itself was plausible for Cenulf was known to be proud and often despotic. He had been unhappy about abandoning his farm and likely gave Fulor and the rest of the villagers a hard time getting used to his presence there. However, Éomer found it hard to believe the two men had come to blows over such thing. And the fact that Fulor had failed to notify him of what had happened – the only thing for which he had actually apologized, made him all the more reluctant to believe his side of the story.
The only other person who had witnessed the start of the fight between the two men was Beyrith, a young woman who lived with Fulor and who had introduced herself as the man's niece. Though her story was a sadly common one in Rohan – an orphan moving in with her closest relative, there had been something deeply disturbing about her. The way her eyes had quivered while recounting the events of that day; the fact that her account had matched perfectly Fulor's one – down to the use of the exact same wording; the sudden burst of anger when she had muttered that Cenulf and his family had gotten what they deserved. Her interrogation had left him with more questions than answers and he had spent the following two days looking for clues and asking around. Unfortunately, the whole village had proven to be exceptionally tight-lipped and so in the end, he had done the only thing that always worked in such cases: he had declared he'd be leaving in the morning and invited everyone for a round of ale at the local tavern. He had let everyone drink their fill until finally, alcohol had started to loosen tongues: a half-whispered confession here, a careless word there and long before dawn, the truth had been served on a silver platter.
Taking advantage of the distraction caused by a group of girls singing and dancing on a table, Éomer sneaked out of the tavern without telling anyone.
A persistent rain had reduced the streets to a filthy mess and by the time he had arrived in front of Fulor's house, the lower part of his body was covered in dirt while the upper one was soaked wet. Hearing hushed voices and muffled sounds coming from the other side of the door, Éomer strode in without even caring for knocking: "Leaving in the middle of the night?".
Fulor was so shocked to see him there, that he didn't even try to invent some ridiculous excuse to justify himself. Instead, he glanced towards Beyrith who immediately retreated far from him and towards the hearth. Éomer was surprised and relieved at the same time: he had feared the man might have taken the girl hostage but instead, he seemed keen to get her out of their way. "You should have joined us at the inn. You've missed a great deal of interesting stories".
Fulor made one step towards the window and licked nervously his lips: "Such as?".
"Such as the one where no one knew you had any brothers or sisters, let alone a niece". From the corner into which she had retreated, Beyrith glared at him and there was no mistaking the hatred in her eyes: "How old are you?", he asked her.
She did not answer. Not until Fulor had nodded imperceptibly at her: "Twenty-seven, milord".
"Twenty-seven", he echoed her, scratching pensively his beard. "So, in which year were you born?".
Beyrith looked in panic at Fulor and mumbled something unintelligible.
"2091. Had you been born in 2091, you'd be twenty-seven years old today. But I find that hard to be believe because for one thing, you look much younger than that. What is more, your neighbours recall quite clearly your arrival in Caerdydd. They say it happened five years ago and that you were but a young girl at the time: some say fourteen years old, others say fifteen".
Fulor retreated further away from him, rubbed his hands together as he took a deep bow: "My Lord, it is not uncommon for a peasant girl to not know the year of her birth".
"Tis' true, milord!".
Éomer circled around the table until he stood between the two of them: "Right you are. But there's also another piece of story that I heard and found very, very interesting. One that concerns Cenulf or, to be more precise, his wife Tidith. Do you want to hear it, Fulor?".
The man's eyes darted towards the door but he knew there was no way he could get there before him, so he just nodded.
"You see, Caerdydd's midwife was at the inn tonight and I daresay the woman really drank her fill. So much that when I asked her about your niece, she started to tell me the story of Cenulf and Tidith's second born instead. Seven years ago, Cenulf showed up at her door in the middle of the night and begged her to follow him at the farm. When she got there, she found Tidith lying in a pool of her own blood: the baby in her womb was turned upside down and it took her hours to bring him into this world. She told me she was sure Tidith would have died but instead, both mother and child survived. A happy ending you might call it, but with a twist because the woman assured me Tidith could never have borne another child after that night". Éomer took a further step forwards, Fulor one backwards: "Now, imagine my surprise when she told me that: not only I know very well that Cenulf and Tidith had three sons but in fact their youngest one – Elcref was his name, forced me to give him a piggy back ride all the way here the day I helped them moving in. I remember telling Cenulf the boy was just as pig-headed as he was and there was such pride in the man's eyes. And that's where the story gets really interesting because when I asked the midwife about Elcref, she gave me a name: Beyrith".
"That's ridiculous!", gasped Fulor, managing somehow a truthfully shocked look.
"Is it? Because you see, though no one spoke clearly very few around here believe your relationship with Beyrith to be appropriate for an uncle-niece pair. Do you want to know what I think, Fulor?", he asked, his voice getting dangerously low. "I think you are a degenerate and a pervert. I think you got that girl to warm your bed when she was barely more than a child. I think you got her pregnant and had her give up her baby to Cenulf and Tidith. I think they had no idea you were the father until they moved to Caerdydd. I think Cenulf confronted you about it but instead of running a sword through you like he should have done, he decided to bring his family back to the farm and as far as possible from you. Have I come close enough to the truth?".
Fulor's demeanour suddenly changed then. He squared his shoulders and glared brazenly at him, then turn his head to spit on the ground: "You forget yourself, Marshall. I was appointed by the King himself to lead this city: when I first came here, Caerdydd was barely more than a pile of rotten wood. It was under my guidance that it prospered until becoming the second largest town in the East-mark; it was under my guidance that it was fortified to protect its people from the terrors against which the likes of you fail over and over again. You think you can come here and kick me out of my own city? You can't! Your authority means nothing here!".
The dagger concealed in the sleeve of his tunic slid into his hand, the blade shining ominously in the pale moonlight filtering through the window: "Who said anything about kicking you out?".
For a man of his age, Fulor moved faster than he had anticipated: "Now Beyrith!", he cried as he rushed for the door.
Éomer made for going after him but strange noise had him turning around just in time to see a basket flying towards him. He instinctively raised a hand to protect himself but realized too late what was coming at him: the first snake wrapped around his hand and sunk his fangs into his forearm before he had had the time to do anything. He cursed, pulled himself free of the bite; he tried to catch Beyrith as she run past him, but she dashed left and away from his grasp. It was then that he felt something moving on his shoulders first, between his feet then: he reached for the damn beasts, tried to get rid of them but his hands were always one second too late and by the time he had finally stomped with all his strength on the last one of them, he realized he taken too many bites.
Way too many.
A severe pain started radiating around each wound and he could feel his hand swelling already. He stumbled out of the house and into the dark streets. Fulor and Beyrith were nowhere to be seen but the tavern was not far: he could see its lights, could hear the people celebrating inside. He was halfway there when the first heave forced him on his knees: he emptied his stomach inside an empty keg and with an almost unbearable effort, he managed to get back on his feet. A dull headache was tightening around his skull like a vice grip, yet he managed to make it to the tavern's entrance.
He pushed the door open and the last thing he heard, were the cries of a woman as he collapsed on top of her.
Author's notes: seriously, I don't know how I ended up here. I started this chapter having something completely different in mind, but the story just took an unexpected turn.
Though Grima has never been in favour of strengthening Rohan's ties to Gondor, of course he wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of the situation to undermine Éomer's position. He doesn't fully know what has happened to Lothíriel, but it didn't escape him that Éomer was keen on going back home as soon as possible. Forcing him out of his way to investigate what happened at the Holbeck farm serves his purpose of complicating things as much as possible.
I had a bunch of ideas about Caerdydd and finally, I went for the worst-case scenario – namely, the most dramatic one. Further details will come in the next chapters, but I think it likely for someone like Éomer to decide he'd rather kill a man like Fulor. What he failed to consider though, was that Beyrith might have been so subjugated by the will of the man, to actually try save him.
Meanwhile, Lothíriel is having a hard time on her own. She can finally have all she ever wanted but ironically, it may just be too late for that.
pineapple-pancake: always glad to hear it!
xXMizz Alec VolturiXx: thank you!
Guest: I was afraid this story had started a bit too slow, but hopefully the pace is now better. Happy you like the depth of characters as it's normally the part I enjoy the most when writing!
SwanKnightofhteNorth: glad you are not too silent in your cheering! :)
Guest: Runhild is very young and has quite the temper. I figured she wouldn't be so easy at forgiving Éomer! Hope you settled well in your new place, it's always a hell of a job to move into a new house!
Guest: it took way too long to come out. But if anything, they are finally on the same page and can progress together.
Guest: thank you!
Aylatha: I sent you a PM over the issue of words out of context, hopefully you got it :) As per Aragorn, I don't think he should be taken as example. I know average lifespan in Gondor should be between 80 and 100, but I didn't want to Gaeril to be too old. She must have been fit enough to take care of her duties as a handmaid, but at the same time old enough to consider a ten days ride in the heart of winter out of her reach. I'm glad you're enjoying and please, do not hesitate to let me know about any mistake. I deeply appreciate all inputs!
readergirl4985: yes, he was going exactly where we expected. But even if far apart, Éomer and Lothíriel are still making steps towards one another.
Menelwen: it's going to be a few more months before the events of the Ring War really come into play. Let's see where Éomer and Lothíriel will be by then! :)
Mary07: hopefully this was a fast-enough update - though Éomer and Lothíriel ae momentarily apart and both having their share of problems. The confrontation with Imrahil will take time but hopefully, the development of the relationship between Éomer and Lothíriel will make up for it! ;)