Chapter 18

Rohan, June the 24th, 3018

Glancing behind her, Lothíriel couldn't help but huffing in disappointment.

Ever since returning from the chase, the whole city had been buzzing with excitement in preparation for these famed Midsummer celebrations. Everybody had a different reason to look forward to it: for some it was the tournaments, for others the many stands selling traditional foods and beverages, for others still the feast that was scheduled to start at sunset and drag long into the night. As for her, she had been excited by… everything, really. She had let Runhild and Dúnor's anticipation infect her and for the past week, she had been barely able to think of anything else: she had shamelessly neglected the reports she was supposed to be working on, postponed any matter that wasn't too urgent and spent her time wandering around the city, helping here and there or – most of the times, simply marvelling about the fact that among the many things Rohirrim excelled in, knowing how to enjoy themselves was definitely at the top of the list.

The only thing she had managed to get done while counting down the days to Midsummer, was following Éomer's advice that the sooner she faced her fear of getting back on a horse, the better. The morning they had left the encampment she had followed him in the horses' enclosure and upon returning to Aldburg, she had kept visiting regularly the stables: at first she'd just walk by and offer a treat to one of the colts but after a few days, she had started helping Wíddig – Aldburg's recently appointed stablemaster, taking care of the older horses: one day she'd brush them, another he'd teach her how to properly care for their hooves. It had been on one of such occasions that she had first met Ethelfola, a fifteen-years-old dark bay gelding who rivalled Firefoot in terms of size while being at the same time the sweetest horse she had ever met. She had cared for him for a couple of days and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, she had taken a saddle, bridled him and hopped on. When Wíddig had seen her, he had laughed heartily: "I was wondering how long it would take you to do just that!", he had told her.

Perhaps trusting herself a little too much, Lothíriel had asked him to go for a ride around the city. Luckily, Wíddig had refused and insisted she practiced in the paddock before venturing out: she had been trotting just in front of the stables when two big hounds had jumped out of nowhere, growling at each other over a piece of rotten flesh. Within moments Wíddig had shooed them away but even so, their sudden appearance had scared her enough to tug on Ethelfola's reins in a way that would have caused any other horse to rear. Instead, her gentle giant had simply halted and backed off; and when Wíddig had helped her down the saddle, he had given her a little nudge as if to reassure her it was all good.

Since then, she had been riding almost every day and little did she know how providential that would prove, for on Midsummer's eve one of the King's messengers rode into town bringing a letter Lothíriel knew would have enraged Éomer: both their presence was requested in Edoras by latest the following day.

When she had told him, Éomer had flown into a fit of rage, wished at least a dozen different terrible deaths upon Grima and reassured her he'd have taken care of it.

But they both knew that was easier said than done.

The more time went by, the more Grima's presence hovered heavier above them. There wasn't a single thing happening in town the Councillor wasn't going to be informed about, and with Lady Aldwyn's investigation proving so far fruitless, they had no way of controlling the flow of information he was being fed. Almost on a weekly basis, a new request would come from Edoras: a consignment of timber one day; the early delivery of a load of grain the other; the temporary stationing of a few extra men away from the East-mark the next. It was as if the man took great pride in coming up every day with a brand-new idea on how to torment Éomer, how to make his life miserable. As such, Lothíriel had known it was only a matter of time before he'd try using her as a pawn to his own advantage: with their marriage being a political alliance before anything else, what better excuse to question Éomer's authority than her near-death experience of two months earlier? That she had been the one foolish enough to run away because of a stupid argument, that her father had been the one ruthless enough to land them in that situation, mattered not: she had never met Grima in person, but she knew he was the kind of man who wouldn't hesitate to twist the truth to his own advantage. And she was painfully aware that at the moment, she was Éomer's greatest weakness.

That was why she had urged him to do as bid and ride together to Edoras – even if that meant missing the Midsummer celebrations: if Grima was planning on using the wedge that once existed between them to further his interests, then let them show him they were as close as ever. Let them get rid of him, once and for all! Éomer had been hesitant about her resolution; not because he had thought it a bad idea but because being the man he was, he had been reluctant at forcing her on a full day ride. And Valar, that had given her an even stronger motivation to proceed with her plan!

Lothíriel turned back in the saddle and sighed: Aldburg had long disappeared behind them and the plains now stretched around them for as far as the eye could see. When she had first arrived in Rohan, she had thought it an ugly, awful place. But it wasn't: there was beauty there too and the more time she spent on those vast grasslands, the more she felt like falling in love with Rohan's rugged wilderness.

"How's it going?", asked her Éothain.

Lothíriel grinned and watched carefully over her shoulder: "Good. Though I think if you keep teasing Éomer over Ethelfola, he might just strangle you".

"If he didn't want to be teased, he should have chosen you another horse".

"I chose him and besides, I don't know what took him earlier to try biting him that way".

"Oh, I know. Firefoot is one jealous, foul tempered brute: he has been glaring at you since we left Aldburg and Ethelfola is not too keen on having him anywhere around. Serves Éomer right for all the times Firefoot almost snapped one of my fingers!".

Lothíriel laughed, when a sudden sharp noise had her snapping around. She looked down to her left and for a moment, her brain failed to make sense of that single arrow embedded in the ground only mere inches from Ethelfola's hooves. She stared dumbly at it, the realization of what was happening only dawning on her the moment Éothain unsheathed his sword and grabbed the reins of her horse: "Keep behind me!", he cried. Lothíriel searched instinctively for Éomer, their eyes only meeting but for a split second before a dozen shadows emerged from the sparse woodland.

And then, it was utter chaos.

When he caught sight of Lothíriel staring at him with wide eyes, Éomer had to call on every last bit of self-restraint he possessed not to rush to her: Éothain would see that she was safe and as for him, he was bound to be far more useful there in the midst of the battle; he only needed to ensure none of the orcs made it past him and towards her, and all would be good, he told himself. "Form a line!", he called.

Firefoot stomped nervously his hooves. Gúthwinë felt cool and reassuring in his hand.

Éomer took a deep breath and stared ahead: he counted eleven orcs charging ahead, with three more – all armed with bows, keeping by the forest's edge. His blood froze when he realized who they were aiming at, but the only thing he could do now was getting rid of those devils as quickly as possible: "Wulf, Torfrith: once we clash, I want you to move towards the flanks and circle around us. You are to get to the woods and kill the archers. Watch out, there might be more of them hiding in the bushes", he ordered.

As the next set of arrows flew past their heads, the grip on his sword tightened to the point of pain and it took Éomer one single blow to struck off the head of the first orc he crossed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wulf and Torfrith closing in on the archers as fast as they could but even so, he counted four more bolts whooshing above them. He gritted his teeth and cursed, struggled to release his blade from the belly of a particularly nasty looking orc. It was then that he saw him: perched on the branch of a tree, was a fourth archer. Neither Wulf or Torfrith had spotted him and the moment he saw him baring his teeth and taking aim, Éomer let go of his sword and reached for his bow: "Cover me!", he had the time to cry before nocking the arrow and pulling back on the string. The orc squealed when his bolt pierced him and that was all Wulf needed to turn his horse around and finish him off.

"Take this!", shouted Gram as he tossed him his spear. He snatched it and feeling Firefoot shifting his weight on his front legs, he turned back just in time to see an orc sneaking behind them. Firefoot dealt him a kick in the chest and the creature staggered back, dark blood pouring out of his mouth: Éomer thrust his weapon and pinned him to the ground, then reached down to dislodge Gúthwinë but by the time he was ready to slay the next foe, the fight was already over.

His heart caught in his throat, he snapped around and the first thing he saw, were the three arrows lodged into Éothain's shield. For a painfully long instant, he feared the worst: had they been too slow? Had one of the bolts made it past Éothain's defence? Had Lothíriel been injured? As he covered the distance between them, Éomer realized he wasn't even able to draw a single breath. But then, he saw her: half-hidden behind Éothain's sturdy figure, as pale as a ghost and frightened to death. But alive!

He made haste towards her, but then she suddenly jumped down the saddle and hobbled away: "Lothíriel, wait!", Éothain tried to stop her, but she pushed him strongly away.

Éomer caught up with her and the moment he saw her quivering eyes and heaving chest, he felt as if they had travelled back in time to that night in her room, when she had awoken in panic from those three dreadful days of unconsciousness. And just like he had done that night, he cupped her face and forced her to look at him: "It's over", he told her, breathing deeply in and out in the hope that would help her calming down.

It did not work: shaking like a leaf, a hand clutching at the fabric of her shirt right above her heart and the other gripping on his wrist with enough strength to hurt him, Lothíriel wriggled away from him.

She only managed two steps before her knees gave way, sending her tumbling painfully to the ground. Éomer was instantly behind her, his arms locked around her, his hand covering hers right above her throbbing heart.

"I-I don't want you to see me like this", Lothíriel managed to say between the strangled gasps.

Éomer turned her around and rested his forehead against hers, their noses only barely brushing: "And I don't want to leave you like this", he whispered. A little sob escaped her trembling lips and this time, she let him pull her into his arms: "All will be good, I promise", he told her over and over again until at long last, the panting and shaking had appeased. "I'll get you back to Aldburg, don't worry".

Lothíriel remained silent for a long while, then pushed feebly against his chest so she could look up at him: "No", she just said.

"No?".

"No. We shall go to Edoras, Grima…".

"Forget about Grima, I'll deal with him".

"We're halfway there. Riding back to Aldburg or continuing towards Edoras hardly makes any difference. And I want to go on", she declared, her voice shaky but her will unexpectedly firm.

"You are tired, you need to rest", he insisted.

"Can I not rest in Edoras? Please", she begged him as she slowly got on her feet, "I wouldn't ask if I didn't know I can do it".

Éomer stood and stared long into Lothíriel's eyes: she was still frightened, her hands were shaking and she could barely stand on her own. It was true that distance-wise there was almost no difference between Aldburg and Edoras, but then perhaps they should go elsewhere: "See those hills down there?", he asked pointing towards the East. "There's a settlement on the other side. We could stop there for the night and should you still want to ride to Edoras when we awake tomorrow morning, so we shall do".

Torn between her stubborn will to ride at all costs and the awareness she was in no condition to spend another few hours in the saddle, Lothíriel hesitated before finally consenting to his plan.

"One last condition", told her Éomer as he called Firefoot to him: "You ride with me".

He lifted her in the saddle and after a quick word with his men, they were on their way towards the small village of Gippeswyk.

Just as Éomer had expected and in spite of her earlier bravado, Lothíriel soon looked utterly exhausted: her limp body rested against his, her head nestled against his chest, the hook of her cloak pulled all the way up. A couple of times he thought she had fallen asleep, but her eyes remained open and haunted: "This wasn't the first time such thing happened to you, was it?", he asked her at last.

"No".

"Is this what Runhild meant when she said you had made yourself physically sick?".

"Yes".

Éomer wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, anger and sorrow mingling in his heart: how desperate and dreadfully hopeless she must have felt, for her mind and body to react that way to their marriage? How could he be so blind to her pain?

"The first night after we arrived in Aldburg, I felt sick and Runhild found me. That's how she found out. She once told me it is not uncommon, that her father has seen such behaviour before. In survivors, people who barely escaped with their life from unspeakable horrors and can't cope with the trauma they experienced. Isn't it pathetic?", asked Lothíriel after a moment of silence. "Am I not pathetic?".

"We don't choose what to be afraid of, Lothíriel".

"No. But that doesn't make me any less pathetic".

"Pathetic is the last adjective to come to mind when I think of you. We all have fears, what set us apart is whether we choose to face them or allow them to rule over us instead. You stood up, you fought your way out. And if at times you are still afraid, that's ok".

Lothíriel snuggled a little closer and drew a shaky breath: "The first time it happened, I thought I'd die", she said, her voice caught in her throat. "It was the day my father told me about our marriage: when I realized there was nothing I could do to make him change his mind, when I saw my belongings being packed, I panicked and fled, hid in a room for I don't even know how long".

"Does your father know about it then?".

"No, no. I've never told anyone, always been terrified someone might find out. With time, I learned to recognize the symptoms that precede a crisis: the sudden rush of heat, the sweat on my palms, the feeling of having someone's hands locked around my throat. And whenever I sensed them approaching, I'd run and hide before it was too late".

"Back in Minas Tirith, I remember a few times when you just disappeared and no one knew where you had gone…".

"Yes, back then it was awful", she admitted.

The picture of Lothíriel hiding all alone in some dark place, gasping for air and terrified she'd die, had Éomer's body growing tense with an almost overwhelming rush of blind fury. But then, her hand sought his, her lips only barely brushing the hardened leather of his gloves: "It got better though: with time, it got better. And since my accident, I haven't had a single crisis".

For some reason, Éomer felt a lump in his throat. He removed his glove and snuck his hand past Lothíriel's cloak, until he could feel her smooth skin and silky hair: how he wished he could get rid of that cursed armour! How he wished she could feel his heart beating furiously in his chest! He held her so for a long while and when he eventually pulled her hood down, he smiled at finding her fast asleep: "Sleep tight, Princess".

Éothain approached him and shot Lothíriel a concerned look: "Is she alright?", he asked.

"Thanks to you, yes".

He rubbed his face, his nostrils flaring: "They were aiming at her. From the very first arrow down to the last one: they were aiming at her".

Éomer nodded, his hand resting on the side of Lothíriel's head as if to shield her from that painful truth. "They might have happened upon us by chance, recognized me and therefore Lothíriel. It's no secret our marriage was arranged to strengthen our alliance with Gondor and perhaps, they realized killing her was an easy way to weaken Rohan".

"Do you really believe that?".

"No", he admitted.

"And who knew we'd be here? Who got us out of Aldburg and on our way to Edoras?".

Éomer had always known Grima had ambitions of his own, had always known he cared nothing for Rohan. But if he had really sent orcs after them, that meant he was something far worse than a disloyal advisor: he was colluded with their enemies, with those very same who sought to annihilate Rohan and its people. "What you are suggesting is treason, Éothain".

"What I am suggesting is perhaps Grima has realized to get rid of you, he doesn't need to kill you. Think about it: he kills your wife, daughter of the second most powerful man of all Gondor. After her accident of two months ago, would it be difficult for him to suggest it was your neglect that caused her death? No. He'd have you removed, stripped of your title and before we even knew it, the East-mark would be in the hands of one of his henchmen. Théodred would be the only one left standing in his way then".

It made an awful lot of sense, Éomer knew that. Which was why they had to tread cautiously: "What happened today, what you just told me: you will speak no more about it", he ordered.

Éothain looked at him like he was a madman: "Have you lost your mind? He almost killed your wife, Éomer!", he hissed.

"What do you want me to do? Storm in the Golden Hall sword in hand? I'd be imprisoned – or dead, long before getting the chance to gut him! Until we have proof of his involvement, what happened today is to be referred to as an unfortunate incident, do you understand?".

Éothain turned purple with rage: "Aye", he eventually agreed.

The village of Gippeswyk was little more than a handful of houses spread on the banks of the Snowbourn. The inhabitants were mostly farmers and fishermen, there were no taverns or inns to welcome passing travellers and their arrival caused quite some excitement in an otherwise quiet and uneventful place. An elderly couple agreed to take her in for the night and the moment Lothíriel's head touched the thin hay mattress, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

She awoke some time before dawn and for some long hours, she stared into the darkness. Her mind was a turmoil of thoughts and her heart was torn between so many different emotions, she could not say herself how she felt. Yet when Éomer tiptoed inside her room to wake her up, she did not hesitate in assuring him she still wanted to ride to Edoras to face Grima. He consented without even trying to make her change her mind, but he did give her a lengthy speech about the ambush they had fell into the day before: he apologized profusely, warned her that even though in Edoras no one would dare harming a hair on her, under no circumstance was she to wander on her own and finally, he solemnly promised he'd keep her safe.

As if she didn't know he would; as if she ever doubted he'd rather take an arrow himself than see her hurt in any way! After the events of the previous day, after she had broken down in front of his eyes like she had long feared it would happen, there had been much she had wanted to tell him. But Éomer's mind was obviously elsewhere – understandably so, and so in the end, Lothíriel thought it wiser to postpone any further conversation to calmer times and more familiar places.

As it was to be expected, the ride to Edoras proved more than a little nerve wracking. Éomer and his men rode in a tight formation around her and for the whole length of the journey, not one single word was exchanged. They reached the capital shortly after noon and the moment Lothíriel caught her first glimpse of the city, she felt thunderstruck: the Golden Hall was such a glorious, breathtaking sight! Perched atop a green hill, its roof looked like thatched with gold and shone bright under the midday sun; wooden pillars and a green terrace towered over a sea of pitched roofs while in the back, the White Mountains - enveloped in the tiniest veil of mist, loomed over the city in all their mighty glory. Lothíriel couldn't help but smiling but the moment she took in Éomer's sullen face and Éothain's unusual sternness, she immediately felt her mood greatly tampered. They were to spend only one night in Edoras but undoubtedly, that wasn't going to be an enjoyable time.

Proving just how true that was, their party was given an icy welcome to the city: no horn was rang, no help came their way, no host awaited atop Meduseld's stairs. "We are no honoured guests here", reminded her Éomer as he helped her dismounting.

"I know".

They left their horses behind and headed together towards the Hall. As they stepped onto the terrace, the big wooden doors opened with a sinister squeak and woman clad in a brown gown and a stained apron, rushed out: "Éomer, I did not know you had arrived. I'd have come out to give you and your Lady a proper welcome otherwise".

"Welcoming guests is not your duty", reassured her Éomer. "Lothíriel, this is Beywyn: cook of Meduseld officially, invaluable keeper of the Hall unofficially".

Beywyn bowed and gave her a cautious look, one that reminded Lothíriel that for the people of Edoras, she was still the foreigner Princess who had yet to prove herself worthy: "It's a pleasure to meet you, Beywyn".

"Where's Háma?", asked Éomer staring at the empty door.

"Manning the walls…", answered Beywyn, the look on her face worth more than a thousand words.

"Háma? Why?".

"Orders of theKing".

Éomer clicked his tongue, irritated: "I had hoped I could speak to him…".

"Then go look for him", prompted him Lothíriel: "I'm anyway tired and in dire need of freshening up before I can take care of a few things".

"A few things? Do you have any plan I shall be informed about?".

"Well, if Lady Aldwyn is in town, I'd like to visit her. And I have yet to meet your sister, of course!", said Lothíriel trying to hide her nervousness.

"Lady Aldwyn is in town and as per Lady Éowyn, she went riding earlier today and shall be back any moment now. If you'd like, I can show you to your room", offered Beywyn.

"That's settled then: you go search for Háma and we shall see each other later today. Don't worry, Éomer: I haven't forgotten what you told me and I won't leave my room until you are back".

Éomer agreed, but not before having whispered something in Beywyn's ear. Something that had the woman paling, her eyes bulging: "Of course, Éomer".

The first thing Lothíriel noticed as she stepped inside the Hall, was that the place was enormously disappointing and did not live up to the expectations set by its grand appearance: not because it wasn't beautiful – quite the contrary indeed, but rather because there was no intricate wood carving or majestic tapestry in the whole Arda that could make up for its cold and almost hostile atmosphere. Compared to Aldburg, it was also much less lively: Lothíriel counted three guards in amour, a maid and perhaps four or five men scattered around, some busy chatting, others staring coldly at her. "Meduseld doesn't make a great first impression these days, I know", said Beywyn in an apologetic tone.

Lothíriel did not have the time to come up with an answer, that a shadow emerged from the dark corridor to their right: "Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. What a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance".

The hair on her neck stood, a shiver run down her spine. She had often wondered whether the nickname Wormtongue had only to do with his appetite for scheming, or if it had been inspired by his appearance too. Now, she had her answer.

Beywyn stiffened, but Lothíriel managed to keep remarkably calm: fearing the man was legit, but after all she had gone through to be there that day, she refused to be so easily intimidated! "You know my name, but I don't think I know yours, sir".

"I am the King's Councillor, my Lady…".

Lothíriel waved dismissively her hand: "The King has many Councillors, ten as far as I know. You can hardly expect me to remember all your names".

The man's eyes flashed with ill-concealed anger: "My name is Grima: Chief Councillor of Théoden King and humble servant of Rohan". He bowed and made for taking her hand, but she pulled it back just in time: "I know it's unbecoming for a Lady to say so, but after a long ride under a scorching sun, I am ashamed to admit I am in an unseemly state. So, if you will excuse me…".

Grima's hand hovered awkwardly in the air, but he recovered swiftly: "Of course, I understand. I'm sure you are keen on getting to your quarters as soon as possible, but perhaps I may convince you to stay for a moment?", he asked pointing at a room which Lothíriel supposed was either his study or the council chamber.

"I'd rather not. After all, I'm sure you, Éomer and I will have a chance of speaking later today".

"I'm afraid I have to insist, for I'd very much like to have a word with you in private".

Lothíriel felt her temper rising: "The manners of this hall must be lacking indeed if an exhausted guest is not even granted the chance of a moment of respite. Besides, there's nothing you might want to talk to me that can't be discussed in my husband's presence".

This time, Grima did nothing to hide his annoyance: "Beywyn, could you please give me and the Princess a moment?".

The cook made for refusing, but Lothíriel raised a hand to stop her: Grima might have been the instigator of that horrific ambush, but as long as she was in the King's hall and therefore under his protection, he could do her no harm. Beywyn nodded and fell back - just enough so she could not eavesdrop on their conversation, while still being able to keep an eye on them.

"As I was saying, I'm ever so grateful to finally meet the daughter of the mighty Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. Grateful", said Grima circling around her, "but also relieved: troubled have been my nights since I learned of the terrible accident that befell you, my Lady. The day you married a Marshall of Rohan, our entire kingdom took an oath of protection over you and to see it broken so, brought great shame upon us all".

"If there's someone who shall be ashamed, that is me. I should have never ventured so far on my own".

Grima sighed, his pale face set into a contrite expression: "Do not blame yourself, my Lady: desperate times call for desperate measures, I understand that. And that is why I can't in good conscience sit back while you put your life - and the reputation of our country, at risk over the failure of one single man".

Lothíriel's fists shook with rage, her nails dug into the skin of her palms: "That man, is the one who saved my life. That man, is the one keeping the East-mark from being tore apart by the very same hideous creatures which assaulted me. If I were you, I'd chose my words a little more carefully, Councillor", she hissed to his face.

"That you would defend your lord husband is commendable indeed. But you do not owe him a thing, my Lady".

"Make your point already: what do you want?".

"Only to help", said Grima with a smile that was supposed to be reassuring, but turned out revolting instead. He moved closer, until she could feel his foul-smelling breath on her skin: "I'm offering you a way out of a marriage we both know you never wanted".

Lothíriel stared hard at him, her face eventually breaking into a sneering grin: "Whoever your mole in Aldburg is, whoever told you I might consider such proposal, I regret to inform you he is feeding you outdated information. The time when I'd have foolishly accepted whatever you are trying to sell me, is gone. You and your ludicrous proposition are a few months too late, Grima".

"Are we though?", he asked in a malicious tone, "Because it seems to me you are trying so very hard to play the happy wife, but we both know you and Éomer do not live like husband and wife. And I can't help but wondering why…".

"For a country troubled so, I find it odd that the King's Chief Councillor has nothing better to do with his time than sticking his nose into matters as petty as other's intimate life", pondered Lothíriel. She towered over Grima, until he was forced to bend his neck to look up at her: "Just so in the future you'll be able to focus on problems which are a wee bit more urgent for our country and our people, let me assure you Éomer and I share a very happy and satisfying married life".

And with that, she stormed out of the Hall and into the nearest corridor.

Beywyn rushed past her and showed her the way to her room: "I've sent for Éomer", she only had the time to say before Lothíriel shut the door on her nose. She paced restlessly around the room and when her eye fell on an empty wooden mug sitting on a desk, she just grabbed it and flung it against the wall. She then picked it up and flung it again, and she'd have continued until shattering it to pieces, had Éomer not barged in: "What happened?", he asked visibly alarmed.

"That Wormtongue, that filthy scoundrel, that…".

He tried getting a hold of her, but she slapped his hands away: "Who does he think he is to speak to me that way? Who does he think he is to speak of you so? Does he even know half the things you've sacrificed for this country? Of course he does, but he doesn't give a damn! And this is… this is… preposterous!", she shrieked.

"Why? What did he say?".

Lothíriel walked to the window and leant against the sill: the room overlooked an inner courtyard, seemingly abandoned and with weeds growing as tall as a dog. "He suggested it is your fault I almost died".

"That's all?", asked Éomer almost surprised.

"That's all? What more could he have possibly said?!", she yelled outraged.

"His accusations are nothing new and you know that".

"He also implied that since we don't have an intimate life and are therefore an unhappy couple by definition, he could help me finding a way back to Gondor".

"Do you want to go back?".

She flipped around and opened her arms exasperated: "You know I don't!".

"Then it's all good", he reassured her. "This is why we came here, Lothíriel: you wanted to prove Grima he can't use you against me and within your first hour in Edoras, you already succeeded at doing that".

His words hung in the air, together with those he did not dare saying: now that Grima knew she stood by his side, he would not hesitate in pursuing other – more dangerous, strategies to get rid of her. "When was the last time you wrote to my father?", she asked.

Éomer blinked in surprise: "About five weeks ago, why do you ask?".

"Does he know what happened?".

"I wrote him you had had an accident, that you were recovering and in good spirit. I also informed him I found unacceptable the way he had handled our marriage and expressed my wish to keep our correspondence to the bare minimum – namely state and diplomatic matters".

"I think that would be unwise", argued Lothíriel. "Don't get me wrong, Éomer: I have no wish whatsoever to reconnect with my father. But I fear if we don't inform him of what is going on, someone else might use this to his own advantage".

"You think Grima would go behind our backs and try poisoning your father's ear?".

"For all we know, he tried to assassinate me. So why not writing my father to tell him his precious daughter was desperate enough to attempt running away from her awful husband and almost got killed in the process? What do you think will happen then?".

"I'll awake to the sight of the Amrothian army camping in my backyard?".

"Perhaps not, but there will be consequences. Of that you can be certain".

Éomer's eyes were fixed on her, his voice grave: "What do you want to do?", he asked.

"I'll fetch paper and quill and pen a letter to my father. I'll tell him the truth, Éomer: that his actions - combined with our stubbornness, caused us to ignore each other for months; that following a silly argument, I decided to run away and seek shelter in Pelargir; that I encountered two wargs and almost got killed. But also", she added taking his hand, "how far we have come together and how my life in Rohan turned unexpectedly busy and happy".

The corner of Éomer's mouth twitched, their fingers intertwined: "What of yesterday? Will you tell him about that too?".

"I will mention we were attacked while on our way to Edoras, but not that we think I was the target of the ambush and Grima the instigator. Until we know more, it's better to be cautious".

"Seems to me you've already thought of everything. Is there anything I can do?".

"Indeed. First, you can find me a messenger – someone we can trust and who can ride to Dol Amroth as soon as I've finished my letter".

"Consider it done. What else?".

Swallowing nervously, Lothíriel pulled her hand back: "Y-you have to sleep here tonight", she mumbled, her fingers fiddling nervously with the hem of her sleeves. "You see, I-I may have told Grima his insinuations about us not being intimate were false, and it would look odd if we were to sleep in two separate bedrooms".

"Haven't we had this conversation already?", asked Éomer rolling impatiently his eyes.

"This is not about doing something just because others expect it of us. It's about keeping an appearance that might save us from much bigger troubles in the future. It's just for one night and besides, look at that bed: there's plenty of place for both of us".

"Don't you think Grima will eventually find out that once we returned to Aldburg, we went back to our separated bedrooms?".

"And? In Gondor it is not uncommon to do so - especially among nobility".

"Is there a way I can talk you out of this?".

"None at all".

"Alright then, we'll do as my Lady commands", sighed Éomer, to which Lothíriel gave his arm a little pinch: "I'm no tyrant. I just think some problems are better prevented than dealt with".

Éomer made for the door, but turned one last time before leaving the room. There was no smile on his face, his mouth was set in a grim straight line; but when he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly soft: "Don't worry, Lothíriel: together, we got this".

Author's notes: yay, a slightly faster update every once in a while! First of all, regarding THE spelling mistake in the previous chapter… I admit I laughed hard when I saw it. Of all the words I could have misspelled, it had to be that of course! Also, I guess that answer the question was it a good idea to do the final spell check on your phone and while boarding a plane with a resounding NO. But hey, we live to learn! :)

As it was to be expected, Grima has caught wind that things between Éomer and Lothíriel are getting better and made his move. His involvement in the ambush is mere speculation at this stage, but the net is slowly – and inevitably, closing in on our characters. As per Lothíriel, what she had long feared finally happened and triggered by the ambush, she did have a crisis in front of everyone. But if anything, that got her to speak openly about it and understand Éomer doesn't think any less of her.

xXMizz Alec VolturiXx: thank you!

SwanKnightoftheNorth: aaaw thank you so much! Yes, there's much conflict but ironically, this is helping Éomer and Lothíriel getting closer. Lothíriel is also starting to understand how to play Grima's game and her decision to ride to Edoras – and to keep going after the ambush, speaks in volume of her resolution. She did not have an easy time in this chapter, but it was a "fun" one to write as I was looking forward to the moment she'd have to face Éomer on her health problems. Slowly, there are really no more secrets or untold truths left standing between them.

Katia0203: thanks for the heads-up! As the update was long overdue and I was flying to Sicily for holiday, I was keen on posting and did the last spelling check when I was already at the airport. Not the brightest idea! Yes, it was as close as they ever got and finally, Lothíriel is starting to realize she wishes more from their relationship.

tyskvalkyrja: thank you! The wealth of interactions is sometimes not the easiest part, but I think without them it would be a rather boring romance. And yes, I won the trophy for greatest spelling mistake in the history! :)

Guest: I feel reassured to hear the pace isn't too slow! Yes, Éomer is being flawless and the care and protectiveness he is showing Lothíriel, is getting to her. Perhaps Lothíriel's contribution to the relation is a little less obvious – to her too, but she is also giving him a lot: strength, hope, lightness. By the look of it, all they need now is a little push…