Chapter 24

Aldburg, August the 17th, 3018

Around the third week of August, weather in Rohan slowly started to change. Gone was the stifling heat and a cool wind blowing from the North-East took to sweep incessantly the plains – something many read as the omen of a long and bitter winter to come, which Lothíriel could only hope was not the case. Éomer had left since a week already and as it always happened during his absences, she had taken to spend half of her time working, the other half staring helplessly beyond the city's gates. Something felt different this time though, and she often wondered whether there was more to Éomer's departure than he had told her: upon leaving to survey the Northern region of the East-mark, he had unexpectedly informed her that he intended to ride all the way to the Hornburg to spend a few days with his cousin and while that itself was not strange, Lothíriel had found the timing of that visit a little odd. Éomer had met with Théodred not long ago and during the past month, there had been a constant flow of couriers riding between Aldburg and the Helm's Deep, so why would he need to go there in the first place – especially at a time when the East-mark needed him so badly? Meregith's reassurances that there was nothing to be concerned about had done little to soothe her worries and after the umpteenth night spent tossing in her bed, Lothíriel decided she needed to speak with someone or else, she'd lose her mind.

The question was: who?

The obvious choice would have been Lady Aldwyn but alas, she was in Edoras, and not only Lothíriel refused waiting for two days – in the best case, to send her a letter and receive an answer, but she also felt like she needed to speak in person about what was tormenting her. Next, she thought about asking Runhild, Wilrun or even Meregith, but she wasn't sure her friends would have been able to give her any advice and as per the housekeeper, there wasn't yet enough confidence to open up with her on such delicate matters. In the end, Lothíriel decided to seek Brunwyn's council: Gárwine's wife was a lovely lady and even though she did not know her too well, she knew she could trust her with being honest and discreet. Even more importantly, the woman had been married to a rider for almost thirty years, so she was likely to understand her situation.

When Lothíriel arrived at her house, she found Brunwyn tending to her small garden: "Gárwine is not here, he's helping Wíddig with a particularly stubborn colt", the woman told her when she saw her approaching.

"I know. Actually, I was hoping I could steal a moment of your time…", Lothíriel explained in a cautiously low voice.

Brunwyn seemed surprised by her request, but did not hesitated at inviting her in. "So, what's the matter?", she asked while she set table and offered her a slice of pie filled with leaf vegetables. It was cold – probably a leftover from the day before, but the crust was crunchy and the stuffing tasty.

Lothíriel chewed slowly, unsure where to start. She had always considered herself a very private person, and to expose such personal matters with someone she wasn't too well aquatinted with, went literally against the will of every single fibre in her body. Yet she had to do it because as it was, she and Éomer were going absolutely nowhere: "I'm sorry I dropped on you in such fashion, but I needed to speak with someone".

"I can see that. It's about Éomer, isn't it?".

She nodded. "I am worried for him".

"Figured that much. Gárwine told me he hasn't been in his best mood these past few weeks".

"That's quite the understatement", sighed Lothíriel. "Since things started to get worse last month, he… he hasn't been himself. He is distracted, barely speaks to me at all…".

Brunwyn tilted her head to the side: "May I ask why would you seek my advice to find out what troubles him? I mean, Gárwine knows Éomer much better than I do, and you know Gárwine much better than you know me…".

"I know what troubles him. I am perhaps naïve, but I do remember what I saw that day when I stumbled upon those wargs: I remember Dúnor's parents, I remember their torn bodies, I remember the shattered remains of their cart… it's something I don't think I'll ever fully get out of my head". Lothíriel swallowed a sob and looked away. "As horrific as that was, it was nothing but a small sample of what Éomer witnesses each time he rides away. And to make things worse, no matter how hard I try to make myself useful, he always comes back to find twice the problems we had when he left. I know that given the current circumstances I can hardly expect him to be cheerful, but I'd still like to be part of… this… him", she said opening her arms. "Instead, he's been keeping me at a distance. He's slipping further and further away and I fear that whatever frail relationship we managed to build in the past three months, will soon crumble down. More than that, I worry because he cares so much for us all, but he cares not enough for himself".

Brunwyn exhaled, her eyes resting on the far corner of the room. When she spoke, her voice was soft: "Gárwine and I married when we were eighteen years old. We had known each other for less than three months but fell so hopelessly in love with each other, that we decided there was no point in waiting. The first year was… perfect, just like I had expected life with him to be. We were so shamelessly happy that the world might have fell, and we'd have just stepped aside. That same year Éomund and Thédowyn – Éomer's parents, married too, and maybe it's just the trick of an old woman's memory, but it felt like such a hopeful time to be alive. Things changed gradually, to the point that for a long time I still believed everything was as it was supposed to. Until one night I awoke to find Gárwine had returned and instead of joining me in the bed, he had arranged his cot in that spot over there. He refused coming to bed with me, refused explaining why he was sleeping on the floor of our kitchen. He kept doing so for months: every time he'd return from a patrol, he'd dig himself into his little hole and only come out a few days later, acting as if nothing had happened even though we both knew it had".

"What did you do?".

There was an apologetic look on Brunwyn's face: "You came here hoping I could offer you an easy recipe to solve your problems, but I don't, Lothíriel. Me and Gárwine struggled for months: at first, I was worried for him; then, as he grew more distant, I became scared I'd lose him; then, I got angry because it seemed to me I was the only one trying to hold the pieces of our relationship together. But I can assure you he was trying to save our marriage just as much as I was. Just, we were both doing it the wrong way: me trying to force him to open up at all costs and almost taking offence for the things he refused telling me, he holding on this idea that home was a sanctuary where the horrors of the outside world should not be let in, as if stepping through that door he himself could forget about them. What our men see out there, what they do, is hard to live with, hard to share with the young wife waiting for you at home. What did I do, you ask? I did not give up, none of us did. Eventually Gárwine understood that keeping everything inside was no way to shelter our marriage and with time and a lot of effort on both sides, we found our balance".

Seeing her intent on studying the cracks of the table, Brunwyn brushed her cheek. "Almost every young bride whose husband is a rider has gone through what you're experiencing, Lothíriel. Men are stubborn and perhaps less inclined than us women to talk openly about their struggles, and I suspect this is especially true for someone like Éomer. Don't take this situation as a sign you've been doing something wrong or not helping him enough, because I can assure you that's not the case. Why, Gárwine almost talked my head off about what a remarkable young lady you are!".

That got a smile out of her. "He also talks a lot about you, else I wouldn't be here today. It's just that things were going so well between us, that maybe I thought that no matter what the world would throw at us, being with Éomer would always be…".

"…easy?".

"Yes, like we were invincible and nothing could ever bring us harm. It's a childish thought, I know".

"Every young man or woman who has ever been in love has felt that way. I surely did! But life is complicated and while love is surely the foundation of a happy marriage, it takes more than that to weather through the storms of life. It takes respect, it takes resilience, it takes hard work. Marriage is something you need to tend to the same way you'd tend a beautiful garden, else it will wither".

"Let's hope I'm a better wife than I ever was a gardener then, for I killed every single plant I've ever owned!". It was meant as a joke, but it came out as more miserable than funny.

Brunwyn kissed her forehead and pulled into what felt like a mother's embrace. "I'm quite sure you are, my dear".

Going to the Westfold proved a terrible idea. It took Éomer and his men almost an entire week to get there - what with their journey being continuously interrupted by either orcs or the unsuccessful tracking of the wargs who had attacked and killed some cattle not far off the road, and once they came in sight of the Hornburg, their party given a cold, almost distracted welcome. How much things had gotten worse since the last time he had been there, was clear by simply looking at his cousin's face: his optimistic and ever cheerful mask was a thing of the past and he did not bother anymore to hide his concerns. Not behind closed doors, not when he was in public.

Théodred looked just like the rest of them: tired, haunted, distraught.

On one evening when they had indulged in too much wine and ale, Éomer opened up with him and let loose all the ghosts that haunted his days and nights: the sense of helplessness; the angst at seeing death spreading around them like wildfire, eating away villages and innocent lives, eating him away; the feeling of inadequacy every time he'd return to Aldburg and realize another little piece of himself had disappeared. Théodred listened silently to his words, but all Éomer could find in his dark eyes, was a mirror of his own fears and as selfish as it was, in that moment he wished he had stayed in Aldburg and washed away his torments in Lothíriel's warm embrace, for even now that things were less than idyllic between them, she really was his only joy.

Together with his men, Éomer left the Hornburg just a couple of days after their arrival. Upon riding through the sturdy gates, he glanced often over his shoulder, the sight of the imposing fortress spawning a strange, ominous sense of foreboding. He felt torn: a side of him wanted to stay to help his cousin, while the other urged him to ride back home, to those who depended upon him and even more importantly, to his wife. In the end, he did none and at Théodred's request, he crossed the Snowbourn and proceeded to patrol the border between the Eastfold and the Westfold.

It was in the hours before dawn of their third night on the plains, that the mountain breeze carried to their camp the unmistakable smell of smoke and burned grass. A sinister red glow in the sky guided them East until the crest of a hill, from which all they could see was a raging fire engulfing the valley below them, the flames running fast North towards the river. While fires were not unusual in Rohan and had resulted in the past in widespread destruction and heavy death tolls, Éomer could not recall any recent thunderstorm that might have started that burning hell and instinctively, his eyes travelled South, where the valley widened and hidden behind the thick smoke, rested the village of Hurstham.

It took them almost an entire day to find a safe way to descend into the valley and reach it. By then, the front of the fire had extinguished on the banks of the Snowbourn, leaving behind a smoldering wasteland. Éomer inspected the eerily silent village and by the corner of what had once been a henhouse, he found proof of what his guts had been telling all along: a dead man clad in leather garbs, with dark and unkempt beard, his hand resting on the pommel of a rusted sword. "Dunlendings".

Éothain spat on the blackened ground: "We found two more North of the village, burned to a crisp. Perhaps the blaze was started unintentionally and quickly got out of control in the wind-swept valley, causing them to flee in panic".

Inside the henhouse, Éomer found the lifeless body of a young woman. She reminded him of Runhild, with her auburn hair and freckled cheeks. Her clothes were torn from the waist down, her throat slit - just like the one of the infant lying by her side. Éomer did then something unusual for a seasoned warrior like him: he emptied his stomach, down the last bite of bread he had eaten for lunch.

"What were they doing this far South?".

"Théodred's forces are stretched. They probably got lucky enough to make it through the Westfold without encountering one of his patrols, and found here what they thought would be an easy target".

Gram appeared by the door, his eyes promptly fleeting the sight of the massacre. "The villagers put up quite the fight. We found several slain Dunlendings and plenty of tracks heading up the hills: some may belong to the attackers, but others were too small and light to be grown men".

Éomer snapped around. "You think there might be survivors?".

"Yes. I suspect most of the Dunlendings fled towards the river, while the locals either sought refuge in the woods or tried reaching the nearest settlement…".

"… which is a two days' ride across the hills from here". Éomer stepped outside and took a deep breath, but the air was still pungent with the smell of smoke: "We will split", he ordered while caught in a fit of coughing, "Háca, you stay here and take care of the dead ones. Gram and Torfrith, you take each five men and comb both sides of the valley, bush by bush if necessary. Éothain and the rest will ride with me: the Dunlendings probably fled on foot, which means we have decent chances of catching up with them and make them pay for what they did".

As he rode out of Hurstham, Éomer's mind was fogged with an all-consuming, blind fury. Yet in the midst of that raging mist, he managed to remain steady and when after a day's chase they found fresh tracks of the fleeting men, he decided to send a scout ahead instead of charging blindly at their enemy. It was a good thing he did so, for the vermins had regrouped and their numbers were now surpassing theirs by almost two to one. They were on the lookout for possible pursuers, heavily armed but also exhausted, all things Éomer thought he could use to his advantage. He waited for the cover of darkness, left Éothain and a small group of riders behind and instructed them to charge at the Dunlendings in the most predictable way, while he and the rest of the men circled around for many miles.

At dawn, a single flaming arrow gave Éothain the signal he had been waiting for. He attacked the camp and as soon as the overwhelming numbers of their opponents started shifting the odds of the battle against him, he ordered to tighten their formation and hold their ground. By then, the attention of the Dunlendings was so focused on the small group of riders in front of them, that they did not see the ones charging from behind their lines until it was too late.

It was a carnage, one Éomer's heart had been craving for since the moment he had stepped into that henhouse. He fought with such mad frenzy that once their foes had been reduced to a haggard group of battered men, they all turned their backs and tried fleeting rather than having to face him. Éomer showed them no mercy, but once the clashing sounds of the battle had subsided and the adrenaline in his veins gone, he found no sense of relief or justice in what they had done. Not even when they returned to Hurstham and found that Gram and Torfrith had managed to find and rescue almost twenty villagers – among them many women and children, did he feel relieved in any way.

They escorted the survivors to a nearby settlement and almost three weeks after their departure, they finally returned to Aldburg.

No horn was rung to announce their arrival. They entered the city like thieves in the night and while most of the men headed to their respective homes to find respite in the arms of their beloved ones, a few others opted for a quicker and more treacherous way out of their grief. Among this last group were Éomer and Éothain, who headed to the Green Gate and drowned their sorrows into as much liquor as their stomachs could hold.

Leaning against the fence with her chin plopped in the cup of her propped-up hand, Lothíriel observed closely the beautiful bay dun mare Éomer was training. It was quite a rare coat in Gondor, disliked by the most for some strange reason, but one she had always liked. And that palfrey especially, was remarkably beautiful. She had a tan body with a pitch-black mane and tail, dark muzzle and legs sporting a hint of striping. She reminded her of Rohiril: lean and elegant, though her late Amrothian mare had been on the smaller side and surely less spirited.

Éomer was a patient instructor and after each successful exercise, he'd reward her with a piece of apple that always earned him a vigorous rub of her snout against his shoulder. Yet not even the hint of a smile ever appeared on his lips, his features set in the deep frown that had never abandoned him since he had returned from the Westfold a few days earlier.

At least he's not drunk, Lothíriel told herself. It was quite the achievement, for he had rarely been sober lately: he'd normally start drinking in the early afternoon and by supper time, he'd be so deep into his cups to fall asleep without even caring for having a bite to eat. What was more, while drunken Éothain was somewhat amusing and entertaining, drunken Éomer was a way less pleasant person: rude, coarse, quarrelsome. After witnessing him starting a brawl that had required the intervention of Gárwine and other five men to be sedated before it could have spiralled out of control, Lothíriel had been mindfully avoiding him if she so much suspected he had been drinking again.

Needless to say, there had been hardly any interaction between them and even that irresistible attraction that had once pulled them together, seemed to have grown faint, to the point she couldn't even remember the last time he had kissed her or simply held her in his arms.

Lothíriel knew what had happened in the Westfold – or better said, on the way back from it. She had only caught a whisper here and an imprudent word there at first, but then Gárwine had given her a full, unfiltered account of what had happened in Hurstham: a tale of death, rape and violence, whose horrific extent was perhaps hard to grasp for someone like her. But if anything, knowing what had happened had allowed her to understand where Éomer's demons were coming from and find the strength to keep up with his aloofness and erratic moods.

"You seem worried".

Lothíriel turned around and almost snorted when she recognized the woman behind her. "Good morning, Trewyn".

The girl rode a giant stallion who could have easily rivalled Firefoot in terms of size, and with her flushed cheeks and tousled hair, she looked like she had come out of one of those old tales celebrating Rohan's wild, untamed spirit. She jumped nimbly down her saddle and walked her horse to where she was standing, to which Lothíriel took an instinctive step back: if that horse had even half of Firefoot's bad temper, she'd rather keep her distance!

"Between everything that is going on in the Mark and the failing of your marriage, I suppose there's more than enough to justify that troubled look you have on your face".

Lothíriel's anger mounted faster than she had anticipated: "I have no use for your spiteful words and pointless lies, Trewyn".

The girl stared at her for a moment before sniggering. "Lies? If that's how you see it, I can't help but wondering whether you are ignorant of what is really going on here, or simply pretending not to see it. I'd understand the latter though: admitting you left your beloved home for a husband who, after almost eight months of marriage, still can't even bother to share your bed, must be hard. And even more so to realize the reason for it is that he's getting his share of intimacy elsewhere".

Before she even knew it, Lothíriel had grabbed her by the scruff of her neck: "Your words border treason", she hissed.

"Yet that doesn't make them any less true, does it?". Trewyn did not try to break free of her grip, moving instead even closer until their faces were mere inches apart: "Did you really think it would work? Did you really think a man like Éomer could have been happy with a delicate Gondorian flower like you? Oh, he was intrigued by you, I give you that. But intrigued is not enough, and look at how fast he has grown bored of you".

"Let me guess: next you will tell me you", Lothíriel spat looking at Trewyn up and down, "are the one my husband has been cheating me with?".

The girl laughed. A loud, amused laughter. "No, I'm not his mistress – not because I wouldn't want to, but because I failed at catching our Marshall's eye. Someone else managed it just fine though, a woman named Lúfa".

"Never heard the name".

"Of course you haven't, for she lives not in Aldburg, but at the Hornburg. Why else would Éomer ride to the Westfold twice in a month?".

Lothíriel's stomach sank a little, but then she reminded herself who she was speaking with and waved those words away. "Yours is wishful thinking at best. Truth is, you are jealous and bitter because Éomer never even spared you a look. So now, you and that friend of yours – Godliss, are doing the only thing you are good at: spreading lies in the hope of tearing me and Éomer apart".

"You hardly need our help for that. In fact, you seem to be succeeding just fine on your own. And I don't expect you to trust my word either. But rumours about Éomer and Lúfa have been going around for months now, and had you ever looked beyond your nose, you'd have realized yourself what is going on. Why, just yesterday I heard that your husband met his mistress at the Putrid Hunter – a notoriously renowned tavern at the Hornburg, and took her right there in front of everybody!".

"Éomer would never…".

"Ask him. If you think I'm lying, then ask him about Lúfa. If I am wrong, I'll gladly take his wrath. But if I am not, then at least someone will have opened your eyes on what a farce your marriage is".

Lothíriel let go of her and took a step back: "To ask him, it would mean to give your words a credit they do not deserve. But I'm warning you, Trewyn: next time I'll catch you spreading lies or insinuating forgery, it will be the last. I tolerated you so far only for the sake of the friendship that bounds Éomer to your father, so if not for yourself, then do it for him: spare your family the shame of finding out what a wicked viper you are".

Glad that no one seemed to have noticed their heated exchange, Lothíriel whirled around and headed straight for the old watchtower – the only place where she knew she'd be granted some peace and the chance to sort out her tumultuous thoughts. She was still up there when, a couple of hours later, she spotted someone riding at breakneck speed towards the city. Sensing bad news ahead, she descended towards the hall and was roughly halfway there, when she noticed Éomer storming through the doors and disappearing inside. Ignoring the faint pain in her leg, she quickened her pace and rushed to his study, where she found him intent wearing his armour with frantic, impatient movements.

"What happened?".

"Orcs", muttered Éomer, his fingers fumbling in vain with the laces on his back.

Lothíriel walked around him and made quick work of them. "Where? How many?", she asked while she fixed his chainmail.

"East of the Entwash, not far from the Emyn Muil. Around seventy to eighty, perhaps more".

Her hands wavered. "That's what, ninety miles from here?".

"Well over a hundred, it will take us three full days to ride there".

"Did they attack the herdsmen?".

"No, most of them are stationed further North at this time of the year. But now that they have destroyed one of the few permanent camps of the whole region, they will surely pursue them. If they find them, they will slaughter them all – people and horses alike, and…".

"… and we can't let that happen, I know". When the last of his shoulder pats had been secured, Lothíriel took his helmet and raked a hand through the flowing tail on its crest: "I know there's no time for planning and that you need to make haste but please, promise you'll be careful".

Éomer walked briskly past her: "I'm taking the whole Éored with me, and Gárwine too. Do you think you can manage without him?".

"Of course".

Éomer caught a flicker of uncertainty in Lothíriel's voice and had he had a moment to spare, he'd have taken it to remind her that Aldburg was in good hands with her. Alas, he had no time for rousing speeches and by the time he had reached the stables, most of his riders had already assembled and Firefoot had been readied. "I probably won't be back before a fortnight. If anything happens while I'm away, send word to Elffa or my sister", he instructed her as he saddled up.

"We'll be alright, don't worry".

Lothíriel's wide, quivering eyes reminded Éomer of a frightened dove. He briefly held her hand and cursed himself because really, what was that for a miserable, wretched way to say farewell to his wife! But just as he was about to get off his horse and remedy his brutish manners, Éothain rode up to him to inform him the men were ready and one last, hastened glance was all he managed to give her before riding out of the city.

Keen on covering as much distance as possible before nightfall, Éomer and his riders pushed their mounts hard and only halted once a pitch-dark night had enveloped them. They resumed their journey at first light and crossed the Entwash in the late afternoon. It was dawn of the following day when, with roughly half of the distance yet to be covered, Gárwine spotted someone prowling in the sparsely wooded area to their South. Convinced it was a scout of the enemy and that the rest of the orcs could not be too far, Éomer readied his men for the upcoming battle but much to his surprise, it was a man who appeared at the edge of the forest: "My Lord!", he called waving a hand at their direction.

He descended the hill on foot, followed by a beautiful dark bay stallion and a pack of furiously howling hounds who caused no small amount of irritation in their horses: "Silence, you rowdy lot!", barked the stranger, to which the dogs fell immediately quiet.

He wore brown-greenish cloths, carried a large bow on his back and a long knife in his belt. A hunter, most likely.

"You and your men are a sight for sore eyes!".

Éomer dismounted and grasped his arm as greeting: "We've heard of the attack on the camp".

"Aye, aye, was there meself. I think we should have gotten them all but either way, it's good to see you around here".

Éomer frowned at the casual way the man addressed what had been described to him as a bloodbath. "You got them all?".

"Well, there wasn't much to get anyway. The orcs probably expected the camp to be abandoned and were surprised to find me and the rest of the men there. We had only returned to load the last crates when they attacked us. Luckily, the hounds warned us of their presence and we managed to get rid of them without suffering any casualty".

The man's words were nothing but cryptic to Éomer. "Why was the camp supposed to be abandoned?".

The hunter stared at him for a moment before spitting on the ground: "Blasted Frumca, he was supposed to send a messenger to Aldburg to inform you! Last month, we moved the camp about fifty miles north, closer to the pastures and in a more sheltered location".

A strange feeling twisted Éomer's guts: "Hold on…".

"… Altor, my Lord".

"Altor. A young herdsman rode to Aldburg not two days ago, reporting the camp had been attacked and destroyed by a large party of orcs, the people killed. Could it be that he was speaking of the new camp - perhaps he assumed we knew about its new location and did not think it worth mentioning?".

"Nay. It's a three and a half days' ride from the new camp to Aldburg. And you said this messenger arrived two days ago. That means the attack must have taken place five to six days ago, and that cannot be".

"Why not?".

"Because I was there three days ago, my Lord. The place was quiet and peaceful – or as quiet and peaceful as a Rohirric camp can be. This herdsman you spoke of, what's his name?".

"Erkenling".

"Never heard of him".

Gárwine got off his horse: "About twenty years' old, with flaxen hair and a scar on his forehead. He said his family - father, mother and two little brothers, were killed in the attack…".

"If there was an Erkenling living at the camp, I would know about it", insisted Altor. "Besides, had such such large group of orcs been on the move, my hounds would have surely sniffed them. We've been scouring the land between the old and the new camp for days now, and the most unpleasant thing we saw, was a stinky skunk".

The news that no camp had been attacked, no civilian killed, was a short-lived relief. Éomer turned around to look at his men: a hundred riders, among them some of the best warriors of all Rohan. Behind them, a city left dangerously undermanned. "We've been lured out".

Shock flashed in his men's eyes. Most of them had family in Aldburg: parents, brothers, sisters, wives, children. He had family! And at the thought of Lothíriel, left all alone defending Aldburg, stripped of even Gárwine's precious support, something cold gripped his heart.

Fear.

Even through the thick hardened leather of his gloves, Éomer could feel his hands growing slick with sweat. "We ride back!", he ordered, and he could not say whether it was his voice to sound alien, or his ears to trick him.

Right then, the world around him felt like a muffled, blurry mess of noises and colours and when someone – Háca he believed, volunteered to ride with the hunter to the new camp to ensure all was in order, all his throat was able to produce was an incomprehensible gabble. They rode back as swiftly as they could and for each grassy mile of land covered, for each time Firefoot's hooves beat the soft ground, there was only one thing Éomer could think of: that he hadn't even kissed Lothíriel goodbye before leaving, and that he may now never be able to do it again.

A green pin placed in an otherwise totally blank area. According to Balláf, that was where the herdsmen's camp was located. About an inch to the North-East, a black pin stood right in the middle of a group of trees. Also according to Balláf, that was where Éomund had been slain, almost sixteen years before.

By all accounts, Éomer's father had been a valiant captain. But also a reckless one, known for riding against the enemy with too few men.

Endien climbed on the table. She knocked down the first pawn and chased it to the ground. The second pawn, Lothíriel knocked it down it herself and tossed it away: Éomer took his whole Éored with him, he's been cautious and Gárwine will see that he doesn't take any rash decision. Yes, their situation was nothing like the one that had brought Éomund to an untimely death, and Éomer would not suffer his father's fate!

But then why was the sinking feeling in her stomach only getting worse and worse?

Since Éomer had left two days before, she had not slept, she had not eaten, she had done literally nothing but staring at that damned map, telling herself over and over again that Éomer will come back. Broken in the spirit perhaps, but he will come back and they will find a way to be together. Yet she found that there were no words, no reassurances and no amount of rational thinking that could ever dispel the grave foreboding growing in her chest.

Lothíriel stood and walked on wobbling legs to her nightstand: she ought to eat something, but she wasn't sure her body could handle food. One look at the honey waffle Runhild had brought her earlier that day seemed to confirm her suspicions, but she forced it down anyway: she had a city to take care of and she didn't want Éomer to come back only to find her barely able to stand!

Her stomach grumbled, which Lothíriel took as a good sign: "I'm eating it, Runhild. I swear, I'm eating it!", she said when her friend barged in the room moments later. As she took in her dishevelled look however, her brows creased: "Are you alright? What happened?".

"Look outside of the window, now!", shouted Runhild, gasping for air as if she had been running long and hard to get there.

Lothíriel did as bid and when she caught sight of the party that was fast approaching the open gates, the plate in her hand fell with a clink on the floor. This cannot be!

Author's notes: I guess every story deserves a cliff-hanger…

Katia0203: it was a fun one to write and unintentionally well timed to offer a little cheer-up ahead of the holidays!

xXMiss Aleec VolturiXx: the more I think of Éothain in a pink dress, the more I laughed :)

tgo62: glad you liked it!