Chapter 14

Aldburg, May the 20th, 3018

In a stroke of unprecedented luck, the weeks following Éomer's return to Aldburg turned out to be some of the quietest he could remember to date. Although he was called a couple of times to visit some nearby villages, he always managed to return well before dusk and - most importantly, he was never forced to leave to go hunt some orcs.

A part of him feared those peaceful days were the calm that precedes the storm but even more so, he was determined to enjoy them for as long as he could.

Even without his patrolling duties to keep him busy, Éomer's days were hectic and packed with all sort of things to do. First of all, there was the orphanage: thanks to the combined effort of both him and his men, the project was now well ahead of schedule and assuming his good fortune would last him for another fortnight or so, the construction should be finalized by the end of the month. Add another week to arrange the interiors and the orphanage should be completed well ahead of the Midsummer celebrations. Of course, there was plenty to do at the stables too: together with Wulf – Aldburg's stablemaster, they had started discussing the best breeding opportunities. At the same time, there were several horses being trained and while most of them were chargers, among them was also a handful of very promising palfreys. One of them especially, a bay dun filly with a spirited - and yet sweet at the same time temperament, had caught his eye and he had spent several afternoons working patiently with her. On top of all of that, there were a multitude of other obligations he had to take care of: the city's walls needed to be patched in at least four different spots; a few silly disputes required his wisdom – or rather said his annoyance, to be solved; both the smith and the armorer had been constantly on his heels; and the list went on and on…

But no matter how many people were constantly seeking his advice and requesting his presence, Éomer always made sure to find time for Lothíriel too: every day, he'd spend at least an hour sitting beside her in his study, either working on his own papers or helping her with hers'. Not that she needed much help, to be completely honest: she was quick to learn, had a quick mind and an obvious affinity at taking care of any paperwork in the shortest possible time. What was more, she was very picky: once he had inadvertently shuffled some letters she had been working on and as a result, he had almost been kicked out of his own study! But he enjoyed the time spent together and didn't even mind being scolded for keeping his things in such a messy, disorderly fashion. Helping him with the housekeeping had given Lothíriel a purpose, a role from which she felt more comfortable approaching her life in Rohan. And the consequences of it, had not been long to show: the mood of the entire household had considerably improved and there was a general excitement every time she'd be around the hall.

On her side, Lothíriel had been mostly amiable and on those very few occasions when she had snapped and reacted harshly to someone or something, he suspected it had been out of shyness and awkwardness rather than anything else. In this, they were way more similar than he had anticipated: none of them was particularly good at dealing with unpleasant situations but while he reacted with anger when confronted with something he did not like, Lothíriel hid behind a mask of conceited aloofness instead. But it was just that - a mask, for in truth she was the most down-to-earth, kind, genuine young woman he had ever met.

Looking at her as she eagerly devoured the food in her plate, Éomer couldn't help but smiling: "Hungry?", he teased her, only to be rewarded with an icy glare.

"Said the one waving a chicken leg in the air…".

He laughed as he bit on it: "So how was your day? Did you manage to decipher those records from Caerdydd I gave you?".

"Partially", said Lothíriel, shrugging her shoulders. "It took me half-day just to sort them out: some were over fifteen years old, while others did not refer to Caerdydd at all. Which is hardly any surprising, given the state of your study: if anything, it's a wonder you found those records at all!".

Éomer rolled his eyes and sipped on his ale: "Despite what you fussy people may think, I'll have it known I've never lost anything in my study. Everything I need is there, you just need to know where to search".

Lothíriel gave him a pointed look, one that actually reminded him of Éothain: "Of course. I mean, you erupted in an almost deadly coughing fit when touching those shelfs and you had to examine the content of each single one of them before finding what you were looking for, but far be it from me to suggest that place needs a thorough clean up!".

"You are making it worse than it actually is".

"I am making it worse?", snorted Lothíriel with a half incredulous laugh. "Do you know what I found in that room the first time I entered? And no, I'm not talking of the mess on your desk, nor of your boots and shirt lying around. Though it is a piece of clothing I am talking about, one that mysteriously appeared in my hand once I sat on the sofa. It was half-hidden behind a pil…".

"My braies!", groaned Éomer, hiding his face in his hands. When he had been called to ride to the Holbeck farm, he had hastily changed clothes in his study and he remembered tossing his breeches on the couch, where they probably stayed until Lothíriel accidentally found them. When he peeked between his fingers, he found her grinning at him: "Do you find this amusing?".

"Yes, almost as amusing as Ides' reaction when she saw them: she tore them from my grasp, run out of the room and never spoke of it ever after!".

"Alright, you made your point: my study needs to be cleaned up. Happy now?".

"Very much so!", she rejoiced, obviously very satisfied with his surrender. And if he had learned anything at all during those past two weeks, then he suspected she was not only going to insist on doing the clean-up herself, but she was going to enjoy it incommensurably!

As the maids cleared the table, Lothíriel stood from her chair and slowly limped towards one of the armchairs. Frumgar had removed the stitches since a few days already and finally, she was able to move around on her own. He knew the leg troubled her but in spite of the pain, she was determined not to let it get in her way. "You seem tired", he told her, seeing her eyelids getting heavier.

"Tired is good. Means decent chances of a good night rest".

Éomer put down Firefoot's genealogy – which he had been studying to find him the most suitable mating partner, and joined her by the empty fireplace: "Still having nightmares?".

"Yes", she admitted, staring blankly at the direction of the window. "But I reckon that the more exhausted I am, the less likely they are". She chuckled then, hugged her knees to her chest as she turned towards him: "Last week, I made the grave mistake of telling Runhild about it and she immediately declared she'd have slept in my room so that were I to awake in the middle of the night, she could keep me company".

"Did it work?".

"Oh, it worked splendidly: not one single nightmare. Alas, also no sleep at all because as it turned out, Runhild is even more hyperactive while sleeping than when she's awake!".

Éomer crossed his legs on the armrest and mirrored Lothíriel's position: "Why, what did she do?".

"Let me put it this way: Runhild is very, very talkative in her sleep".

"Why am I not surprised at all?", he burst out laughing. "And? What did she say? Any entertaining anecdote?".

"Not at first: she was speaking in Rohirric and it was hard to make sense of her mumbled words. A few hours later however, she got a little more understandable and at one point, she turned towards me and asked whether I had seen her flamingo".

"Her flamingo?".

"Yes! I told her she doesn't have one, to which she complained that in my mind I do, then turned the other side and went on sleeping. Later on, she started complaining that she was thirsty but could not drink because the watermill was broken, whatever that means. She must have stayed quiet for a while then, for I fell asleep. Not for long though: I was awoken by some strange sounds and sure enough, I see her kicking the blanket away, standing up – with her eyes wide open mind you, and crouching down under the bed. I ask her what she's doing, and she says – brace yourself for this, that she was looking for her cleaver!".

"She was looking for her cleaver?", asked Éomer, laughter suddenly dying in his throat: "Did she happen to say what she needed it for?".

"No", giggled Lothíriel. "She went on rummaging for a while, then climbed back on the bed and went on sleeping as if nothing had happened. I questioned her the following morning, but she could not recall anything nor explain what she had been talking about. Needless to say, I've been sleeping with my door locked ever since!".

"Guess I should do it too", pondered Éomer, "for I have a feeling Runhild might be way more inclined to use a cleaver on me than on you!".

Lothíriel laughed and for a while, they let silence be their companion. Their dinners in the solar had quickly become his favourite part of the day, a short quiet moment to tell each other about their day and get some much deserved relax. Sometimes he'd take the chance to catch up with his work, others he'd read a book. More often than not however, they'd both end up dozing off until eventually either Runhild or Ides would wake them up and prompt them to retire for the night.

"Éomer?".

He opened his eyes and found Lothíriel staring at him: "Hm?".

"I've meant to ask you since a long time: do you think I could visit Dúnor? I mean I know I can, but do you think it would be a good idea?".

"Why not?".

She swung her legs down the armchair and frowned: "I don't know, maybe he doesn't wish to see me. Besides, I'm not very good children: what if I go there and can't find anything appropriate to say?".

"He lost his parents, Lothíriel. There's no appropriate thing you can say that will bring them back, but that does not mean you should not go visit him. I spoke to him a few days ago and he asked me about you, so I think he'd be happy to see you".

Afraid she'd lose her newly found courage, Lothíriel didn't waste any time and after a few hours of anxious mental preparation, in the late morning of the following day she set out towards Dúnor's house. Both Éomer and Runhild had offered to accompany her but in the end, she had decided to go alone.

Dúnor's grandparents lived in a small cottage located on the other side of the city. Getting there would take her no longer than a few minutes under normal circumstances, but going downhill with a walking stick and an injured leg was no small feat: she was often forced to pause to catch her breath and in more than one occasion, strangers offered her their help. Putting to test her shaky knowledge of the Rohirric language, she politely refused and shortly before noon, she finally came in sight of her destination.

Just like Éomer had told her, Dúnor's grandmother – Guthrith was her name, handled the common tongue with remarkable confidence and after a very warm welcome, she pointed her to the backyard. Lothíriel circled around the house with some difficulty: it had rained the previous night and her walking stick kept sinking in the mud while her right boot – which she sort of dragged along the way, was covered in an outrageous amounts of filth. Any annoyance at the dirty state of her clothes vanished however the exact moment she rounded the corner and spotted Dúnor for the first time after that faithful day.

The boy sat on a wooden bench and for a moment, she felt air was kicked out of her body.

She could see him bolting away from under the cart, she could hear him screaming in terror as he run away from those hideous beasts and for a moment, she felt a harrowing pain radiating from her leg, as if she had stepped anew into another of those traps. She winced, fought hard the urge to turn around and go back where she had come from: I haven't come this far to give up so easily, she told herself as she entered the enclosure. A few hens scrambled around her feet while in the far corner, two goats eyed her suspiciously: "Good morning, Dúnor".

The boy stared in surprise at her, then leaped to his feet and attempted a rather clumsy bow: "Good morning, my Lady". Seeing the chickens were making it difficult for her to advance, he shooed them away and made place for her. His cheeks were flushed red and as they sat next to each other, he glanced furtively at her, his brow furrowed and his eyes wide.

Assuming her presence there was bringing back all sorts of terrible memories and willing to distract him, Lothíriel pointed at the rudimental decoy standing in front of them: "Were you training?". Dúnor nodded and showed her a wooden sword: it was worn out and even to her inexpert eye, it looked way too long and heavy for him to handle properly. Mentally thanking Éomer's thoughtfulness, she unfolded the package she had carried all the way from the hall: "I think this will suit you much better".

Dúnor's eyes bulged out. His hand snapped forward, then froze mid-air: "Go on, take it", she encouraged him and this time, he did it without blinking an eye. He jumped on his feet, adjusted his grip around the hilt and tried swinging the sword: "It belonged to Éomer", she explained, smiling at the boy's excitement.

"Did it?".

"Yes, it's the very first sword he ever trained with. His father carved it for him".

Dúnor stared at it mouth gaping, brushed his little fingers on the wooden blade: "Can I try it?".

"Of course! As long as you promise to make good use of it, it's yours!", she told him with a wink and was immediately rewarded with the brightest smile she had ever seen. Dúnor rushed to the decoy and took his time to adjust his position: he placed his right hand below the guard, grabbed the pommel with his left one, brought his left foot behind the right one and finally, struck at his opponent with considerable strength. The decoy started leaning dangerously on one side and at the fourth strike, it surrendered and almost came down crushing on one of the hens: "You really showed him!", encouraged him Lothíriel, but Dúnor did not seem satisfied with his performance.

"Nay, it's the decoy: it needs to be better anchored", he complained, kicking it out of the way. "What of you, can you fence?".

Lothíriel grabbed Dúnor's old sword and held it hesitantly in front of her: "Can't say I do, but perhaps you'd like to teach me?".

"It's easy, let me show you!". Dúnor fixed the way she was holding the hilt, then took position in front of her: "See, you don't even need to stand! And now, left high", he said as he swung the sword above his head, "then left low and left high again. Can you parry?".

The first time she met his blow, Lothíriel's sword almost flew out of her hand. She tightened her grip and tried again: left high, left low, left high. Left high, left low, left high.

"That's much better!", praised her Dúnor - something she deeply appreciated because really, she ought to be the worse swordswoman Rohan had ever seen. "And now we do the same, but on the right-hand side. Ready?".

Right high, right low, right high. Right high, right low, right high.

"I think I'm getting the hang of this!", cheered Lothíriel and feeling a little too confident, she eagerly waited for the next charge. She parried the right high, she parried the right low but then, she swiftly changed to the left and before Dúnor could do anything, she lightly tapped his chest with the tip of her sword: "Got you!".

Dúnor stared with a frown at her sword, then shove it out of the way and gave her a look that should have warned her of what was about to happen: he grinned and all of a sudden, he started striking at her. Only this time, he did not give her any warning of which direction he would be coming from. Out of sheer luck, Lothíriel managed to parry the first few blows but that in turn made the whole exchange a lot more heated. Dúnor kept charging at her and the moment laughter started bubbling inside her, she was doomed: his sword came down striking her squarely in the middle of her forehead.

"Dúnor!", shrieked Guthrith, who had just materialized at the edge of the fence. The boy dropped his weapon and pressed both his hands on her head: "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!", he apologized and quite honestly, she wasn't sure who looked more horrified of the two of them.

Guthrith placed a tray beside her and removed the boy's hands: "Oh dear, this will turn into a bump. Dúnor, how could you be so inconsiderate?", she scolded him, to which he blushed and stared mortified at his feet.

"It's my fault, really: I had it coming".

"Shall I bring you something to press on?".

"No need, I'll be fine".

Guthrith shot her grandson a stern look and only after much insistence, did she finally accept her reassurances and left them alone to enjoy the lunch she had brought them: there were some vegetables and cheese, but also a couple of slices of aged meat and judging by the way Dúnor eyed them, she had a feeling it wasn't something they could afford eating every other day. Lothíriel put the tray between them and pushed the ham towards him, but from the bench's corner into which he had retreated, Dúnor still looked utterly contrite for the incident he had inadvertently caused: "You should eat, least when we resume our fencing practice you won't have enough strength to keep up with me".

Dúnor gave her a goofy smile and started munching on the meat: "You've never practiced with a sword before?".

"No, never even held one in my hand".

"Bow?".

"No".

"Dagger?".

"No".

"Are all women in Gondor that helpless?", he asked with the type of blunt honesty that only a child could be capable of.

"I'm afraid so", laughed Lothíriel. "It's considered improper for ladies to wield a weapon and it is assumed there will always be a man to protect them". Which, coming to think about it, sounded like the most stupid, ridiculous idea ever.

"I could teach you if you…", Dúnor started to say, before stopping abruptly: "Wait, do you hear that?", he asked as the faint sound of a cheering crowd reached them.

Lothíriel turned towards the direction the noise seemed to be coming from: "I do. Do you know where it comes from?".

"The training grounds!", yelled Dúnor. He jumped on his feet and stuffed his mouth with what was left of the meat: "Come with me, my Lady!".

He took her hand and started dragging her towards the street and it was only when she almost tripped and fell, that he finally slowed down and allowed her to set the pace. Though obviously impatient to get there, Dúnor held tight on her hand and when she needed assistance to overcome some particularly treacherous step, he gladly helped her. Luckily for Lothíriel, their destination was not very far away and as they finally approached the place, they found themselves facing an unusually thick crowd of people: "What is going on here?".

"The men must be training for the midsummer tournament and judging by the number of cheering gals, I bet Lord Éomer is here too!".

Lothíriel laughed at Dúnor's statement - that was surely something he must have picked for somebody else!, and followed him until they were confronted with a human wall of spectators blocking their way: "Oh no", cried the boy in dismay, "we'll never be able to see anything from down here!".

Lothíriel scanned the place in search of a way in, but every little spot had been filled and quite honestly, she was not too keen on challenging such crowd on her wobbly leg. But one look at Dúnor's pout, and she decided to give it a try anyway: she pulled him behind her and hoping no one would step on her, she tried squeezing in between two young lads, only to be promptly pushed back. She huffed and seriously considered the idea of putting into practice Runhild's notion of making way – meaning kicking and elbowing everybody around her, when a warm hand came to rest on her shoulder. She expected it to be Éomer – or Gárwine perhaps, but when she turned, she was met with Éothain towering figure instead. He sported a nasty looking bruise on the side of his face, but that did not seem to bother him: he stepped forward and literally grabbed the two lads by the neck of their shirts and tossed them aside as if they were nothing more but two tiny bugs standing in his way. The boys made for protesting but upon seeing his face and realizing she was the person they had shoved back, they paled and meekly retreated further away. Needless to say, all those who were left standing between them and the fence dispersed at a similar record speed: "There, a nice premium spot for both of you".

Dúnor did not waste any time and rushed past her, climbing nimbly to the top of the fence. Slightly embarrassed by the way everyone was looking at her, Lothíriel hesitantly followed him and at long last, she got a first glimpse of what exactly was causing all that mayhem. The training field was a wide barren area, surely big enough to be used for horse practice too: to the left stood what she supposed was a barrack while on the right was a small tribune – by now packed with dozens of people. In the middle of the field, two people were circling around each other: one she could have identified among hundreds of others for even among his kin, Éomer's features and imposing figure were easily recognizable. Both his clothes and hair were covered in mud which – she supposed, meant he had been pinned to the ground at some point. He was sweating and panting, his eyes focused on the opponent in front of him: "Who's that?".

"Háca", explained Éothain.

"Never heard the name before", said Dúnor, staring in awe at the two men.

"He's new, recently moved in from the Hornburg. I don't know him well, but it seems Éomer has finally met his match".

Dúnor seemed positively outraged by that statement: "That will never happen, Éomer will trash him!", he howled, waving his fists in the air.

Lothíriel chuckled and focused her attention on the match: both men looked exhausted and the more they moved around each other, the slower their footwork got. Even so, there was an annoying half-smile plastered on Háca's face: he faked a left jab but Éomer did not fall for it, his counterattack making it clear once and for all that while the other man might have matched him in height and speed, when it came to strength they were competing in two completely different leagues. Háca parried his blow but was pushed back of a few feet and almost lost his footing; trying to take advantage of the situation, Éomer charged at him with a series of blows that had him retreating until he was with his back against the fence in front of the tribune. The crowd erupted in a roaring cheer and thinking it over, Lothíriel turned back: "Looks like you were wrong!", she triumphally declared, but the man standing behind her was some stranger, definitely not Éothain!

"He left, said he had stuff to do", said Dúnor before crying in surprise: "It's not over yet!".

Lothíriel turned just in time to see Háca rolling to his right and evading Éomer, whose sword clashed with a loud thud against the fence. She gasped and using her good leg, she pulled herself up the fence and bent forward to get a better view: thrown off balance, Éomer kneeled and tried to release his weapon from the beam into which it had gotten stuck. Seizing his chance, Háca lunged forward but somehow – she literally had no idea how, Éomer dodged him and finally managing to pull his sword free, he rained one blow after the other on his opponent. The crowd fell silent and for some long moments, it was only the fast beat of his strikes to fill the air. But then Éomer suddenly changed rhythm, left Háca parrying a blow that never came while he swirled around, his sword making it through his defence and coming to rest on the other man's throat. There was a long, astonished silence and then, a roar so loud Lothíriel thought she'd go deaf. By her side, Dúnor was yelling at the top of his lungs and though she could not understand what he was saying, she realized she was laughing almost hysterically: "You were right, he did trash him!".

"Of course he did!", said Dúnor with a proud grin.

Éomer stretched an arm towards Háca and the two men slowly walked out of the field. Many clapped their hands and glancing at the direction of the tribune, Lothíriel understood what Dúnor had meant with cheering gals. Indeed, there were way more girls than boys occupying the seats and none of them shun away from making clear who they were rooting for. Godliss and Trewyn were there too and though they kept for themselves and did not partake in the shouting, they were both eyeing Éomer in a way that she couldn't help but finding extremely irritating.

The noise gradually subsided and as the next pair of riders stepped into the arena, most of the crowd dispersed. When she turned towards Dúnor, Lothíriel found him staring pensively at the ground: "I thought you'd be happier about Éomer's victory", she teased him.

"I am", he laconically said.

"Then what's the matter?".

Dúnor sighed and looked towards the barracks into which Éomer and Háca had disappeared: "Do you think I'll ever be as strong and brave as Lord Éomer?", he asked.

"You already are, Dúnor: you are the strongest, bravest boy I've ever met. But if it is proficiency with a blade you are talking about, then yes: I'm sure you'll be just as good as he is. No wait, what am I saying: you'll be much better than him!", she told him with a smile that went unreciprocated.

Dúnor crossed his arms on the fence and rested his chin on top of them: "I couldn't do anything", he mumbled, his little hands closed in tight fists. "After the wargs toppled the cart and killed my mum, papa got stuck under one of the wheels. He tried to break free, but it was too heavy. I should have helped him but I was too scared to move, stayed hidden under the wagon instead…".

Lothíriel felt her chest tightening: "There was nothing you could do, Dúnor. And were your parents here today, I'm sure they'd tell you that hiding was the right thing to do and that they are both very proud of you".

"I'm sorry for what happened to you and your horse, my Lady", he muttered, hiding his face in his arms.

Lothíriel climbed down the fence and careless of the pain in her leg, she pulled Dúnor to her and lifted him in her arms: "There's nothing to apologize for, nothing to be sorry about. None of what happened was your fault, none of it!". The boy flew his arms around her neck and started sobbing uncontrollably: unable to hold his weight any longer, Lothíriel sat on the ground and let him cry it all out. Some people approached them to offer help, but she waved them all away and waited patiently until Dúnor had calmed down.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were puffy and his breath ragged. Lothíriel wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of her dress and brushed back his hair. After a moment of hesitation, Dúnor mirrored her actions, his hands clumsily reaching for her face and her braid: "I like you", he said, sniffling and rubbing insistently his eyes. "People said you were mean and rude, but you are not".

"That's good to hear, for I like you too!", said Lothíriel, ruffling his dark blond hair and earning herself an enraged scoff. Dúnor got on his feet, picked her walking stick and as best as he could, he helped her standing up. His hands clasped nervously together, he looked up at her: "What is it?", she asked him.

"I know you are very busy, but would you come back visiting me from time to time?".

"I'd be happy to. And you know what? You can also come see me any time you want: just come to the hall, ask one of the guards and they'll bring you to me. How would you like that?".

"That would be awesome!", said Dúnor gallantly offering her his arm.

"I thought you wanted to see the men training?".

"I've seen enough for today. Come, Lothíriel: I'll get you home!".

As it was to be expected, the aftermath of his fight against Háca dragged well into the night and everybody had something to say about it: "For a moment, I really thought he got you", said Torfrith with a sneering grin.

Ten years ago Éomer would have laughed and waved the man's teasing away, but Bema was he right! He had known Háca to be good, had heard his own cousin praising his skills in several occasions, but it had been way too easy to underestimate him, what with that stupid grin on his handsome face and the fact he considered himself one step above everybody else. He was cocky and an insufferable braggart, but sword in hand there were preciously few who could keep up with him: he was fast, had the stamina of a bull and though it burned to admit it, he fought in an elegant, spectacular way.

"Guess winning this year's tournament won't be the usual walk in the park", said Éomer, wincing as he made for lifting his mug – a gift he had gotten when his sword had gotten stuck in the fence.

"Listen to him: a walk in the park!", snorted Éothain: "I think I'll reconsider my allegiance and start supporting our newcomer. Heaven forbid he might just teach you a lesson!".

"Remind me again, what did you say right after he sent you biting the dust? Something about kicking him until he had spat every last tooth, if I remember correctly?".

"Oh, and I stand by what I said! He comes one day, trashes us the following and doesn't even care for joining us for a round of ale afterwards. Pretty boy lacks manners, let me tell you", declared Éothain, earning himself a choir of approving murmurs from around the table.

Éomer let out a resigned sigh. Rohirrim had never been fond of strangers, but Éothain had always had an exaggerated distaste for them: "You'd lack them too, had you had Éoith eating out of your hand", he very innocently declared.

Éothain shot him a murderous glare. Éoith was one of the girls working at the Green Gate: lovely curly hair, ample bosom and a ready wit, from her very first day in Aldburg she had had half of the customers of the tavern – with Éothain standing firmly on the front line, flirting her relentlessly. However, in the year and a half she had been in there none had succeeded in their courting efforts. Until that day, that is: "She was with him?".

"Saw them with my own eyes", grinned Éomer.

"Me too: they were headed upstairs…", said Torfrith, leaving the sentence purposely unfinished.

"Not Éoith!", groaned Éothain, collapsing with his head on the table.

Éomer knew he shouldn't have laughed of his friend's misfortunes, but Éothain's desperation was just hilarious: "Shall I search for someone who can give you advises on how to mend a broken heart?".

From under the table, Éothain managed to hit him with a treacherously precise kick in the shin: "You should be nicer to me, for I am in possession of information you might find very interesting".

"Meaning?".

"Meaning there was someone very special in the audience today. Someone in whose presence you really wouldn't have liked to get your ass kicked", he said and judging by the way everybody was grinning around the table, he had the feeling he was the only one who had no idea what he was talking about.

One of Éoith's fellow workers approached them to refill their mugs, but Éomer politely declined. He waited until the girl had left their table, then poked his friend in the side: "Care to explain yourself?".

"Not sure whether my broken heart allows it…", he dramatically declared. His intention of keeping him on his toes was however ruined by Torfrith's smug smile: "Your wife was there. Not sure when she arrived, but she was very obviously very taken with your match".

Éomer leant back in his chair and he'd be lying if he said his victory over Háca hadn't suddenly become a whole lot sweeter. He wrapped an arm around Éothain's neck and pulled him to him: "Be a good boy and spit it all out".

Éothain tried wriggling out of his grip but eventually gave up: "She and Dúnor arrived shortly after you and Háca had stepped into the arena. Just so you know, I'm the one who got them a first-row seat so if you can boast about your victory with her, the merit is only mine! Anyway, you will be pleased to know that both her and the boy were extremely satisfied with your performance: last time I saw her, she had climbed atop the fence and was laughing like I have never seen her doing before!".

His appetite for drinking suddenly lost, Éomer released his friend and glanced quickly out of the window: the hour was late but if he rushed back to the hall now, he might get there in time to bid Lothíriel good night. "I have to go", he declared as he stood and pushed his chair out of the way.

"You haven't finished your ale…", Éothain started to say, but he was already making his way out of the tavern.

He stepped out and breathing deeply in the cool night air, sped up the winding road that lead to the hall. He was roughly halfway there, when Trewyn suddenly materialized by his side: "Good evening, my Lord". Éomer gave her distracted nod and deliberately quickened his pace, but the girl seemed perfectly able to keep up with him: "The night is young, how come you're already retiring? Surely you have plenty to celebrate after today's grand victory…".

Choosing to ignore her malicious tone, Éomer pointed at the bow on her back: "Did you practice too?", he asked.

"Yes, Godliss and I were at the target range. Midsummer celebrations are close, and so is the hunting season. Competition is though", she said as she shot him a languid look, "but I think this year we might just win the best prize!".

"Good luck with that", he muttered, rolling impatiently his eyes: two more turns and we'll split ways, he told himself, keen on getting rid of the girl as soon as possible and wondering for the umpteenth time how two fine men like Gram and Torfrith could have such harpies for daughters. Both Trewyn and Godliss were not only spiteful with anybody who did not belong to their closest circle of friends but – to make things even worse, shameless in their advances towards him. Ever since coming of age a couple of years back, they had been constantly on his heels: every celebration, every ride, literally every occasion in which they could justify their presence, they would be there with him. At first, he had waved their attentions as nothing more than a passing crush; but things had not improved one bit and if anything, ever since announcing his marriage they had gotten a lot worse.

He didn't know what was not clear about the fact he'd never want to have anything to do with them, but he was fairly sure that one more wrong move in Lothíriel's presence on their side, and he was going to lose his temper for good.

Éomer inhaled and was about to take his leave, when Trewyn lost her footing and tripped forward. His arm snapped and though he managed to save her from hitting the ground face first – a rather unpleasant experience as he had recently found out for himself, the girl scratched her palms and knees on the rocky terrain: "I'm sorry", she apologized, "It's rather difficult to watch one's step in this pitch black darkness".

Sighing impatiently, Éomer glanced towards the hall's highest row of windows and there, he spotted a flickering light: Lothíriel is still awake, he thought with a silly thrill of excitement! He turned back towards Trewyn but the moment he saw her bleeding hand and her ridiculous attempt to clean the dirt out of her wound, he resigned to the fact he had no other choice but walking her home.

He took the bow from her back, passed her a handkerchief she could use as a temporary bandage and offered her his arm: he forced himself to keep a slow pace – the last thing he wanted was for her to trip again and further delay him, reassured her she was not imposing on him – Bema forbid!, then wasted a good ten minutes convincing her mother that no, he was not interested in a cup of tea.

After that, he pretty much rushed out of the house and run all the way up the hall and the stairs leading to the last floor. He pushed the door to his mother's solar open but much to his disappointment, the room was silent and the armchair by the window sadly empty.

Trewyn be damned!

Author's notes: a couple of weeks have passed and things are slowly settling down in Aldburg. Lothíriel is gaining confidence in her newly acquired role and thanks also to Éomer's support, she has found the strength to face Dúnor for the first time since the accident. A couple of you had asked about him and as I'm growing fond of his character, I think I might give him a bigger role to play in the events that will unfold in the next chapters.

readergirl4985: poor Eofor has everyone's sympathy! :) After so much angst, it was fun to write a sweeter chapter and finally set Éomer and Lothíriel on the right course. He's more into her than she's into him, but things are obviously evolving…

pineapple-pancake: glad it hit the mark, for cute and funny is what I had in mind. Lothíriel doesn't trust Meregith but at the same time, she wishes there was a way for things between them to work. To some extent, she understands what Éomer has gone through with losing both his parents and is aware that were she to admit it was Meregith who told her those things, Éomer might decide to cut all his ties with her. She doesn't want to be the one who caused this, at least not without trying to somehow get along with her.

tyskvalkyrja: to be honest, it's a bit of both. The part about the geography of the East-mark is based off what Tolkien described in his books (hopefully I didn't commit any error!), but when it comes to things like specific villages or mines, I took the liberty of placing them where I thought it made more sense. It's nice to hear you appreciated it, for it does indeed takes some time to do all the needed researches (so, no: I don't remember everything off the top of my head, but I have the whole 20+ Tolkien book collection and many notes and bookmarks to help me!).

Rho67: loved your review and I'm really happy to hear you've come to like this story too! The first part of the story wasn't easy to write either, but I thought it was needed to bring all the characters in the right place. As you said, both Éomer and Lothíriel behaved terribly, each for their own reasons. It won't be smooth sailing from here, but at least they now have each other's back!

Catspector: Éomer has been given plenty of warnings by now and is very well aware of the risk he's taking. I know it might look like the easier solution to get rid of Meregith, but I don't think a man like him would turn his back on such an important part of his life without giving a chance of redemption. And to his credit, his decision of being fully honest with Lothíriel inherently mines Meregith's chances at interfering in their relationship. Of course that doesn't necessarily mean things will be smooth, but I guess it's a good start!

xXMizz Alec VolturiXx: finally! :)

WildBright: we'll see if your prayer works! :) Yes, Lothíriel is slowly finding her place and gaining allies: Runhild, Wilrun, Ides, Eofor, Gárwine, Éothain… with the latter one there shall be some sort of confrontation at some point, as I think they have much to talk about. And now, Lothíriel has Dúnor too on her side. He may be just a child, but his friendship may bring some fresh hope to her life…

Rubandepluie: it was high time!

rossui: I moved in a new flat in March, so I totally understand how you feel (I will also admit on having still some five or six cartons hidden in my cellar…I'm sort of pretending they don't exist so I' don't have to unpack them!). The men and melodrama surely had me grinning though. Not sure if you meant it in relation to the moving, but my boyfriend had some quite dramatic moments while going through it! :) It's really nice to hear you liked the side the characters and found them adding to the story. It's not always easy to introduce them, but I think the story would be way too flat without them. Thank you so much!

Guest: I will!

Menelwen: she's finally stepping up and it's nice to see the change it has brought to both her and the way she interacts with other people. You sort of hit the mark with the nightmare thing, as it's mentioned in this chapter. Of course the relationship is not yet at a stage where Lothíriel would ever think of asking such thing, but maybe in time… As usual, I love your reviews and I'm glad you came back to this chapter to re-read it and comment on it! Greeting from the Swiss summer!

pzacharatos: thank you for your review! To be honest, not really. Aside from what we can assume to be more or less the canon appearance for Lothíriel (dark hair, grey eyes), I portrait her in my mind without having someone specific in mind. But I'll try to think about and if a name comes up of someone who I think would be resembling this specific Lothíriel, I'll let you know!