Chapter 12
Aldburg, May the 4th, 3018
Lothíriel smiled when she recognized the sturdy figure standing in the doorway: "Come in, Gárwine! I'm ever so glad you found the time to pass by".
The man crossed the room in long strides but instead of bowing or kissing her hand, he drew her into a firm hug: "You gave us quite the scare", he spoke in her ear. "How are you feeling?".
Lothíriel gladly returned his embrace, locked her arms around his broad chest: she had never noticed it before, but there was something so deeply comforting in the way people of Rohan embraced physical contact as just another way to interact with each other. In Gondor, the presence of someone like Gárwine in her room would have been considered inappropriate, the way he had approached her scandalous. Yet in that moment, his touch was worth more than a thousand words: "Much better", she reassured him.
"How's your leg?".
"Fine, I guess. The stitches are a torture, but Frumgar says the wound is healing better than he had expected".
Gárwine exhaled and let himself fall in the chair next to her bed: "That's good news. Does that mean he expects you to make a full recovery?".
"He thinks the extent of irreversible damage should be minor and that the wound will only trouble me if I exert the leg too much. As far as I'm concerned, I'd call that a full recovery", declared Lothíriel, earning herself an amused look.
"Sure enough you are not letting that to upset you!".
"I can think of worse people to whom this could have happened. I mean, look at me: how often do you think I exert my legs too much?", said Lothíriel with a shrug of her shoulders. "Besides, it could have been worse. Way worse". A shiver run down her spine at the thought of it: she hadn't told anybody, but what precious sleep she had managed to get during the past few days, had been tormented by countless nightmares. Once, she had dreamt the wargs had smelled her down the ravine and followed her: her leg caught in the trap, all she could do was watch in horror as they pounced on her defenceless body. Another, she had dreamt she had not fallen from Rohiril's saddle: the wargs had slowly closed in on them until finally, one of them had leapt forward and sunk its fangs in her leg. Another one, she had dreamt Dúnor had been attacked instead. A horrific sequence of bloody images that tormented her every waking - and sleeping moment, and rarely ever abandoned her.
Perhaps guessing her thoughts, Gárwine stared at her with a smile that was both warm and encouraging at the same time: "What you did is quite remarkable. You know that, yes?".
"Remarkably stupid you mean", snorted Lothíriel.
"No, remarkably brave", he corrected her, all traces of laughter suddenly gone. "You found yourself facing a terrible danger, one that would have most men turn and flee with their tail between their legs. Yet you did not hesitate to set yourself up as a bait".
"It wasn't bravery. It all happened so fast I had no time to think about the consequences of my actions: I'd have fled and saved myself otherwise, believe me".
Gárwine's brows lifted in a look of genuine disbelief: "I'd normally call this false modesty, but I think you are just blissfully unaware of your own strength, Lothíriel".
She almost laughed then: she might have done something seemingly brave when she had tried to save Dúnor, but that hardly made her strong. For nineteen years she had been a spectator of her own life without even knowing it. Leaving Dol Amroth had felt like having her heart ripped out of her chest and yet the day of her wedding she had dutifully spoken her oath and had Éomer wanted, that night she'd have even let him have his way with her. For almost five months now, she had lived in the constant fear of falling prey to one of those crises that always reduced her to a sobbing, pathetic mess.
Runhild was strong. Lady Aldwyn was strong. But her?
Lothíriel recoiled when Gárwine's hand reached for hers: "Did Ides mention why I wished to speak with you?", she asked, unwilling to dwell any longer on that day and her supposed strength.
"No", said Gárwine, leaning back in his chair and doing a much better job than herself at hiding his uneasiness for her recent outburst. "Though I was surprised you sent her and not Runhild or Wilrun instead".
"Runhild is not here – her aunt had an accident and she had to go help her out, and Wilrun is busy caring for her brothers. Besides, I don't think they would be happy to hear what I'm about to ask you".
Gárwine looked at her through narrowed eyes, his expression turning suddenly suspicious: "Why do I have a feeling I won't like it either?".
"It's nothing bad", she promised. "It's just… funny, really: I've spent the past three months locked in this room and refusing to ever leave it and now that I finally have an excuse to stay here without anyone faulting me for doing so, I long for the world outside of that door".
"You need to be patient. Lothíriel: nobody likes being bedridden, but it's the only way to ensure your wounds will heal properly".
"I know that, and I promise I'm not planning on running away or doing anything stupid again. But I'm tired of lying here and I'd like to make myself useful somehow".
"Caring for yourself is the best way to make yourself useful right now".
Lothíriel huffed in exasperation. She knew the man – like pretty much everybody else, was trying to help her. But there were no appropriate words in the whole Arda to express just how frustrating and suffocating all those well-meant attentions were: "I have a few dozen stitches in my leg, an awful green bruise across my whole chest and countless more spread all over around. But my head is quite alright and I'd like to do something with it. Something that isn't thinking over and over again about those awful beasts and what they did to that poor child's parents. Something that isn't getting more and more angry with my father. Something that isn't regretting the way I wasted the past three months of my life".
The frown on Gárwine's face deepened. He stared intently at her, his head tilted on one side and his hands clasped firmly together: "What would you like to do?", he asked after what felt like an endless silence.
Lothíriel smiled and this time, it was her who reached for him: "Thank you, Gárwine!".
"I haven't agreed to anything yet", he was quick to curb her enthusiasm. "First tell me what you have in mind and then I'll think about it".
"Actually, I had hoped you could help me find some suitable task. I don't know much about running a household, but I'm quite sure it involves plenty of paperwork: isn't there something I could help you with?".
The moment she mentioned the word paperwork, Gárwine visibly relaxed. He scratched his beard and took a moment to consider her request: "To tell you the truth, this is all very new to me too. As I'm sure you know, it was Meregith who used to be in charge in Éomer's absence: she took care of his correspondence, filled in reports for him and pretty much run any errand that did not require his presence. This to say that there's definitely a lot of paperwork to do around here but alas, I know close to nothing about it. Éomer left in a hurry and if he had needed help with something, he did not say. However", he added as he saw the disappointment on her face, "I know the winter reports have been keeping him busy. He was supposed to send them out by the end of last month but as far as I know, he's lagging behind".
"Winter report?", asked Lothíriel, somewhat ashamed by her ignorance on the matter.
"Yes. At the end of the cold season, each village and settlement – no matter how big or small, has to report on their current situation. It may sound easy, but we are talking of dozens of places, some of which are inhabited by no more than a handful of people who can hardly read and write, let alone draft a report".
"When you say current situation, what do you mean exactly?".
"Everything. Population, food supplies, status of their crops, any other pressing need: livestock, weapons, wood, medicines… some villages get completely isolated during the winter and Éomer can hardly afford to visit them all once the snow melts. It would take him weeks - if not months, to do it. He relies on these accounts to plan for the months ahead and ensure that coming next winter, every village will be adequately prepped".
"And these accounts are then sent out to the King?".
"Not the account themselves - those stay in Aldburg, but rather a summary that provides an overview for the East-mark as a whole. I know Éomer was working on it and I'm quite sure he left all the relevant papers on his desk. We could have a look together and see if we can figure something out".
Though that was exactly the type of job she had had in mind, Lothíriel was reluctant to accept: "Don't you think Éomer will be upset when he finds out we went through his papers without his permission?".
"Upset?", snorted Gárwine: "Trust me, Lothíriel: if you manage to fill that summary for him, he'll be kissing the land you step on!".
When he awoke later that afternoon, Éomer felt as if a horse had trampled over his body and crushed every single bone he possessed. There was a pulsing pain inside his skull, his limbs were numb and he felt so impossibly weak.
"Look who's finally awake!".
Éomer winced and brought a hand to his forehead: "Would you please stop shouting? My head feels like it's about to explode…". Éothain sat back to front in an old wooden chair, swung lazily back and forth as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the bright crimson light filtering through the window. Only then did Éomer notice the four angry scratches running across his face: "What happened to you? You fought a lion or what?".
"More like a feral cat".
He groaned and probed his shoulder: it was sore, swollen, warm to the touch. There were no bandages but when his fingers slid further down towards the nape of his neck, he found two little wounds: not the usual cuts and gashes, but rather two tiny perfect holes. "What happened?", he asked.
"You don't remember anything?".
"We are in Edoras…no, Caerdydd", he corrected himself, the memory of the past few days coming back to him in disorderly flashes. "Grima sent us here to find out what happened to Cenulf", he remembered as he swung his legs down the bed. His left arm itched terribly and when he rolled up the sleeve of his tunic, Éomer found another pair of strange holes right under his wrist. He brushed a finger on them and suddenly, it all came back at once: "Damned snakes", he muttered, cringing at the memory of them crawling all over his body.
"Vipers, to be precise".
"What was Fulor doing with them?".
"He kept them for their poison. It's used in several concoctions and his list of buyers included half of Rohan's healers and herbalists – Frumgar too, it would appear".
Éomer simply nodded, the mention of vipers' venom bringing back a much older memory: years before – he had been but a fresh recruit at the time, he had been enjoying a refreshing swim in a lake up the mountains when a small group of poorly armed orcs had charged at him and his comrades. They hadn't stood a chance but in the midst of the battle, a blade had gotten him right through his side. He had started bleeding profusely and after rushing him to the nearest village, the local healer had had the not so brilliant idea to inform him he would administer him some viper's venom – or rather a much-diluted version of it. His mind weakened by the blood loss, he had started having terrible visions of the man being some sort of evil wizard who was trying to turn him into a goblin. His friends had been forced to tie him up – and eventually even to gag him, and the whole incident had become matter of teasing for many, many years. "Bema, how many times was I bitten?", he asked, trying to resist the urge to scratch not only his shoulder and arm, but his leg too!
"Nine times. But there were only four snakes, so half of the bites were probably dry", explained Éothain. He crossed his arms on the back of the chair and shot him an angry look: "What happened, Éomer? I mean, one moment you were drinking with us and the next you were gone from the tavern. Why didn't you tell me what the midwife had told you? Why didn't you tell me what you were planning to do?".
"Do I need your permission to deal with an old pervert?".
Éothain rolled his eyes: "Right, because things went so smoothly…".
"How was I supposed to know the man kept vipers in his house?", he snapped.
"You couldn't, which is why one would advise caution. Men like Fulor are capable of everything and you know it!", he growled back, growing visibly angry. "Besides, do you have any idea the amount of troubles you'd have caused by killing him that way?".
Éothain was lucky to be out of his reach because right then, he'd have liked very much to throw a punch in his stupid face: "Since when you are so keen at defending the likes of him?".
"I am not defending him! All I'm saying is there were better ways to deal with him, ways that wouldn't have given Grima further ground to question your loyalty".
Éomer hid his face in his trembling hands and took a deep breath: it burned to admit it, but there was truth to Éothain's words. A deranged Marshall murdering a King-appointed official without any trial and without even discussing the matter with the local elders. What better chance for his uncle's advisor to accuse him of plotting against the crown and finally strip him of his role! "You are right", he admitted. "I should have known better than rushing in there that way, but I was out of mind: after speaking with the midwife, I bided my time and sneaked out of the tavern. Fulor knew it was only a matter of time until we learned the truth and was planning to flee under the cover of darkness. I confronted him, placed myself between him and the girl in the hope to protect her. Little did I know that I was turning my back to danger".
"Beyrith tossed the snakes on you?".
"Yes. She rushed after Fulor then: I tried to catch her but did not manage. That's when I got bitten on the neck, I think", recounted Éomer. "By the time I got rid of all the snakes, Fulor and Beyrith were gone and the poison was starting to set in. I remember dragging myself until the tavern and collapsing on some unfortunate woman, then it all went black".
In spite of the gravity of the situation, Éothain managed an amused grin: "I know I have luxurious hair but mistaking me for a woman? I am flattered".
"That was you? No, impossible: I remember a woman's screams…".
"Oh, that was the midwife. After she told me what she had told you, I guessed you must have gone after Fulor and decided to come looking for you. She said she wished to come too, that a woman's presence might have helped Beyrith. We were about to leave the tavern when you suddenly burst in".
"Damn, I don't remember a thing. What happened then?".
"We brought you to the healer, then went after Fulor and Beyrith. In their panicked retreat they got separated and shortly after dawn, we found the girl wandering in the wood east of the village. I sighed in relief when I saw her alone and unhurt but the moment I approached her, she started screaming and yelling. I tried to calm her down, got this little gift in return", said Éothain, pointing at his badly scratched face.
"That was Beyrith's doing?".
"Oh, not only this!", he grumbled. "When I tried to get a hold of her, she started kicking and throwing punches. I'll spare you the details but be warned I may not be fit for riding – or entertaining women, for a couple of days at least!".
"That bad?".
"Yes!", cried Éothain. "It took three of us to restrain her! We brought her back to the village, then went looking for Fulor. It was late morning by then and our chances at finding him were getting slim. As it turned out however, the man was closer than we thought: we found him less than a mile from here, the bastard did us a favour and hanged himself to a tree…".
Éomer found no solace in the news of Fulor's death. Instead, he felt a deep sense of unrest mounting inside him and judging by Éothain's expression, he wasn't the only one to feel that way: "How could this happen?", he asked, pacing relentlessly around the room. "Two hundred people live in this city and not a single one of them ever thought of doing something to save that poor girl! Now, they pretend to be shocked, act as if they had no idea what was happening under their very nose!".
Éomer wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and leant back against the wall: "Fulor considered Caerdydd his city", he remembered. "He ruled it with an iron fist for nearly two decades and to the most, a warm bed inside sturdy walls is worth more than the life of some poor orphan".
"You should have seen her when we told her he had killed himself. She yelled, cursed us, then passed out. Hasn't spoken a word since…".
"He took her in when she was little more than a child, Éothain. Frightened, scared, starved. He put a roof above her head, ensured she'd never go hungry again and for the past five years, he has been her whole world. He gave her what she craved for and without her even realizing, he took everything she had to give".
Éothain's hands were closed in tight fists, his eyes fixed on his boots: "The midwife took her in. She says forcing her to leave Caerdydd would only make things worse and promised to take care of her".
"What do you think?".
"I think I'd rather have her as far as possible from this cursed city, of course. But Beyrith won't come with us – not unless we force her, and I reckon the midwife seems to be the only one capable of reaching her, of speaking to her without her throwing another tantrum".
Éomer stared pensively out of the window and considered carefully his options. The obvious choice was taking Beyrith to Aldburg: there she would be well taken care of and he could ensure no one ever laid a finger on her. But given what she had done to both him and Éothain, he doubted she'd let them take her away without putting up a fight. And what was the point of saving her, if that caused her an even bigger trauma? Maybe the midwife was right, maybe all Beyrith needed was time to elaborate what she had gone through. And if she could do it in Caerdydd better than in Aldburg, who was he to decide otherwise? "Let her stay for the time being. Speak to the midwife, tell her I'll have someone come and check on her as often as I can but unless she decides otherwise, I won't force Beyrith to leave", spoke Éomer with great effort.
"What of Caerdydd? The elders have already gathered today: they want to know when you will inform the King and who will lead the city until a new ealdorman in appointed".
Éomer tossed his head back, hit the wall with more force than he had intended. He could not avoid informing Grima of Fulor's passing, but he had to plan carefully when and how he would do so: Caerdydd was an important trade centre and he could not afford to let it fall into the hands of one of Wormtongue's spies. "Tell them I'll do it as soon as we are back in Aldburg and that until things are sorted out, one of my men– Elffa is the best candidate, will remain here to act as my deputy and run the city. And make clear that if I ever catch wind of something like this ever being tolerated again, I'll make them all very, very sorry", he hissed.
"Shouldn't you be the one to tell them?".
"I'd rather not", he muttered as he lied down. "Tell the man we ride for Aldburg tomorrow at first light".
"I'm afraid that won't be possible", Éothain informed him, a nervous smile plastered on his tanned face: "The healer says it will take at least another day for your body to expel the toxins and you shan't be able to ride until then".
Éomer turned to face the wall, pressed half of his face into the pillow in an attempt to soothe the pain in his head: no matter how sick and wrecked he felt, he didn't want to spend another day in that awful place. He wanted to ride home, he wanted to have a few days' respite from grief and sorrow, he wanted to forget but for a short little time about the evil at their doorstep: "I'll be fine, don't worry".
Éothain's steps echoed in the empty room. He walked to the door, then halted and turned back: "Lothíriel will understand. I know you promised her you'd be back soon, but she'll understand why you couldn't keep your word. And I'm sure she'd rather see you coming back with a few days' delay but in one piece, than half-dead in your saddle".
He did not answer nor move. He pretended to be asleep until finally, Éothain left the room and locked the door behind him.
Eofor descended the stairs one careful step at a time. He was flushed red and a drop of sweat was trickling down his brow. Not because of the weight he was carrying – she hoped not at least, but rather because he seemed terrified of what could go wrong.
She should have felt sorry for the distress she was causing him but instead, all Lothíriel could think of was how good it felt. To be out of bed. To be wearing something that wasn't a nightgown. To leave her room behind – even if just for a few hours. And above all, it felt good to have a purpose, a reason to stand up in the morning!
She knew they had arrived when Ides sprinted ahead to hold the door open. She looked around with some interest, but she had to admit Éomer's study was nothing like she had expected: it looked like her father's study…right after a hurricane had blown right through it!
"Oh my, I suppose someone should have warned you that this place can be a little messy", said Ides, noticing the astonishment on her face.
Messy did not do it any justice. The desk was covered in books, piles of papers and old candles. Sitting on top of everything was a map, held in place by – in order: an empty mug, a stone, a half-carved piece of wood and some cutlery. The shelves too were packed with documents and parchments and she'd be very surprised if there were any criteria in the way they had been stored. She spotted a shirt hanging on a chair, a pair of boots lying under a red couch and at least a dozen crumpled papers tossed around the room: "How can he work in such place?", she wondered aloud while Eofor laid her on a chair and propped her leg on a cushioned footstool.
"That has been topic of discussion for years, believe me!", laughed Ides. "Shall I fetch you some tea while you wait for Gárwine?".
"Yes, please".
The girl bowed and rushed out of the room, leaving her alone with an overly concerned Eofor: "Are you comfortable?", he asked as he probed her leg. "Perhaps I shall bring you some more pillows…".
Lothíriel bit her lip and tried her very best not to burst out laughing: she didn't know what Runhild had told him prior to her departure, but Eofor had since transformed into an anxious mother hen and needless to say, he had not been happy about her new endeavour. Not even Gárwine's reassurance and Frumgar's approval had managed to put his mind at ease and when earlier that morning she had asked him to move her to Éomer's study, he had paled visibly and started muttering under his breath that it was a bad, bad idea. "I'm as comfortable as I can possibly be. I will call you if I need something, don't worry".
In the time he needed to cover the small distance that separated him from the door, Eofor turned back three times to stare at her with a concerned – and almost comical, look. Once he was finally out, Lothíriel exhaled and allowed herself an amused laughter: Eofor was such a fine young man and for the life of her, she could not understand why Runhild was not interested in him. He was a thousand times better than any of the boys she had flirted with and yet, when she had asked her about him, all she had gotten was a sceptical – and somewhat very scornful snort! She still hoped things might change but according to Wilrun, it was a helpless situation.
While she waited for Gárwine to join her, Lothíriel started digging into the papers in front of her. Éomer had split the winter reports into four different piles and the first thing she noticed, was that there were huge differences in the way they had been filed: some looked neat, the calligraphy not elegant but easily comprehensible at least; some were sloppier and barely readable; and others were not written at all, resorting instead to abstract symbols to describe the status of their supplies. Lothíriel produced a bundle of papers out of her pocket and examined closely the content on the first page: Runhild had taught her a lot about the Rohirric language but alas, she had told her almost nothing of its written form. For such reason, the evening before she had taken advantage of Eofor's kindness and asked him to translate into the Rohirric form of Cirth a long list of words she thought she might have needed.
Wheat. Hay. Timber. Leather. Iron. And the list went on and on…
Comparing the words written in the accounts to those in Eofor's list, Lothíriel realized with a thrill of excitement that it might have just worked and when Gárwine finally arrived, she looked up with a triumphant smile on her face. She froze however, when she realized it was not him who was standing in the doorway: "What are you doing here?" asked Meregith, staring sternly down at her.
Lothíriel knew that moment would have come, but she had hoped she'd have had more time to prepare for it, more time to figure how she felt about Aldburg' housekeeper. The woman had played a crucial role at making her life a living nightmare: she had ensured she'd always feel like an unwanted guest, never lost an opportunity to belittle her and make her feel like she was nothing more than a spoiled little brat. She had played wisely on her own insecurities, mined what little confidence she possessed with her continuous jabs and quips. That she had refused to send a search party, had not come as a shock to her. To learn of the reason for her resentment however, had been… difficult. Labelling a person as inherently evil was simple, hating on someone like Meregith easy. But to find out that her spiteful words and blind hatred were born out of one of the worst types of sorrow a person could ever experience, made things terribly more complicated.
A part of her was confident there was no way they could ever ger along, while another desperately wished it was possible. Because there was no way they could live under the same roof unless they accepted each other's presence but especially because based on what she had gathered, Meregith had been to Éomer what Gaeril had been to her. More than a housekeeper, more than a friend. She was part of what little family he had left and how could she ever blame him for wishing there was a way to mend things with her, for hoping she could change?
"I am waiting for Gárwine. We…I", she corrected herself, "thought I could help Éomer while he's away by filling this report for him".
"That's a ridiculous idea. You'll end up messing with his documents and then he'll be forced to start over", she told her. Then, as if suddenly realizing that was the type of behaviour which had gotten them there in the first place, she managed a stretched smile: "You should be resting. No reason to stress yourself over such matters".
The words hung in Lothíriel's mouth, but she knew she had to spill them out: "I know my arrival here has caused you more hurt than I could ever imagine and for what is worth, I'm sorry". Meregith's eyes widened imperceptibly, a tremor seemed to shake her body. She did not utter a word but perhaps - Lothíriel thought, it was because she could not bring herself to speak of her late daughter with her: "I'm just trying to help", she offered.
Meregith took the papers from her hands, placed them back in their respective piles: "I know your intentions are good, but you need to understand that given the gravity of the situation, scribbling all over Éomer's documents is the least helpful thing you could do. Did he tell you why he had to leave Aldburg with such haste?".
"He said he had an audience with the King…".
"Yes. One where he will have to answer for what happened to you", she informed her. "Éomer has dedicated his whole life to this country, sacrificed everything he had for us and now, we might just loose him. Not because he perished in battle while trying to defend us, but because someone at court might hold him responsible for your actions. What do you think will happen then?".
Lothíriel felt her hands starting to sweat, wished she could stand only to kick herself for her own stupidity. Of course her escape attempt would cause him problems: it would have caused them if she had succeeded, and it caused them now too! She was the daughter to the Prince of Dol Amroth, niece to the Steward of Gondor himself: had something happened to her, had she died in those woods, the alliance between their countries would have died with her. A month ago, she wouldn't have cared about it. But now she could no longer ignore the significance of it: what if things got worse? What if more wargs and orcs started roaming those lands? What if Rohan called on its allies and they failed to answer just because their marriage had fallen apart? People might die – people like Dúnor and his parents, and all because of her actions! "I-I had no idea, he d-didn't mention anything…", stammered Lothíriel, her breath getting short and her throat tight.
Meregith kneeled beside her and the expression on her face was one she had never seen before. There was softness, kindness even: "Of course he didn't, he's Éomer", she told her, her voice almost cracking with emotion. "I owe you an apology, Lothíriel. When you first arrived here, all I could think of was that had it not been for you, my sweet Dawyn would have still been alive. But what happened to her is not your fault and I see it now that I have wronged you terribly. And for that, I am sorry".
"W-what now, Meregith? What can I do to help Éomer out of this mess?", asked Lothíriel, her cheeks burning and her fingers shaking. "I-I could write a letter to the King…".
"To tell him what?".
"That I take responsibility for my actions, that what happened to me wasn't Éomer's fault at all!".
Meregith stroked gently her cheek and for a moment, she almost got her: she thought it was redemption she was seeking; she dared believing the path to a peaceful coexistence would not be a winding one; she hoped there was a way Éomer could mend his relationship with her. But when she spoke next, Lothíriel realized the woman cared nothing about any of that: "It's too late for that, don't you see? You've become a liability for Éomer and it matters not that he's not at fault, it matters not that you put yourself in that situation: as long as you stay here, there will be people who won't hesitate to use you – and what you did, against him. Éomer will tell you that it does not matter, he will tell you that you need not worry but if you care about him, if you care about the man who risked his neck to come save you, then you should leave Lothíriel. Tell him you wish to go back home and…".
"No", said Lothíriel, finding in herself a confidence she did not know she possessed. She gazed straight into Meregith's eyes, her resolve growing stronger with each further word she spoke: "I refuse to be a liability and I'm sick of people playing me around, using me as a pawn to fulfil their own interests. You wanted me dead and now, you are settling for the next best thing: seeing me gone for good. But I won't go anywhere, Meregith. I'll stay in Aldburg, I'll make things right and no matter how hard it will be and how many times I will fail, I will earn my place here".
Meregith bent forward, her hand indulging on her face and her words barely more than a whisper in her ear: "You'll never be one of us, Princess".
Authors' notes: little transition chapter before reuniting Éomer and Lothíriel. Lothíriel made up her mind and finally understood that the only way to move forward, is to come out of her shell and take the reins of her life. Unwittingly, Meregith might have just re-enforced her will with her words. As per Éomer, months of patrolling and daily struggles – topped with everything that happened to Lothíriel, his encounter with Grima and the terrible things he uncovered in Caerdydd, are taking their toll and now more than ever, he longs for home. A place where he can seek shelter from the misery surrounding him and find the strength to continue fighting through every day.
xXMizz Alec VolturiXx: at least Éomer has learned not to underestimate your opponent, no matter how weak he might look like!
vilaspa: I'm glad you're enjoying it!
Katia 0203: glad I managed to find something original! Luckily, he's alright and just needs to rest for a while. I wish that too, believe me. But I'm a slow writer these days and sometimes, I get lost in grammar and spelling (even so, I know there are plenty of mistakes in my stories). But if anything, knowing there's someone hoping for faster updates keeps me motivated to go on :)
SwanKnightoftheNorth: thank you, your review definitely got me smiling! Éomer will be fine and though he ended up being away from Aldburg for way longer than he had expected, at least Lothíriel has used her time wisely and understood what she needs to do to get herself out of her misery.
tyskvakyrja: oh my, your review surely had me shedding a tear too. I hope life is a happier place today than it was back then when this happened: in the end, that's really all that matters. And yes, Éomer and Lothíriel are progressing even now that they are separated. It only remains to be seen what happens once they are reunited. I definitely agree with you that what Éomer did was wrong and utterly despicable. We shall see whether it'll come back haunting him like prophesized by Théodred…
almythea: takes more than that to take him out ;)
WildBright: Éomer has knowingly taken a big risk by allowing her to stay and – it would appear at this point, Meregith has no intention whatsoever to change attitude. Runhild will be back in the next chapters, so we'll definitely see more of her temper and of what she has to say of Éomer and Lothíriel's evolving relationship. As per Dúnor, I haven't forgotten him and I'll definitely get back to him - though I'm not sure how big of a part he will play. Thank you for your beautiful review and stay safe too!