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This is the last chapter where our couple is separated - next chapter, it's reunion time!

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48. Fortune favours the bold

In the end, the decision to return home was not a difficult one to make after all.

What turned out to be difficult instead, was the question how she could actually get back home.

She had agonised over that question for days on end. Plans had been formed only to be discarded again, as she had weighed each of her limited options against their advantages and disadvantages, against the likeability of their success, against the improbability of their implementability. It had been a disillusioning process, and, at the end of it, she had come to no feasible solution. At the end of it, the only thing to come out of this frustrating back and forth of pro and con was the realisation that she was quite literally stuck here, and that there was simply no way home.

It was not just a matter of her not knowing the way home – although that was definitely a problem she couldn't simply ignore: she was in the middle of fucking nowhere after all, with no idea where to go. She might have an idea of the general direction – north and then east, to cross the Fords of Isen and then to head south towards Edoras. But she had already surmised a while ago that the Gap of Rohan was probably no longer held by the Rohirrim patrol. (How else could the Horse-Breaker have spirited her here, if not because bands of Dunland folk now held the Gap? Just a momentary upper hand, for sure – until it would be ultimately won back by the Rohirrim in that endless game of advance and retreat between the Riders and their enemies – but still, it presented some difficulties to her now.) A crossing through the Western Marches, therefore, seemed impossible. And a crossing via the mountains? The queen was not nearly as foolish or desperate enough to even entertain that idea.

But be that as it may, the route home wasn't even the biggest problem. Much more problematic was her physical condition which was still too weak to travel great distances, especially on her own, especially, if she had to try and steal herself away under cover of night, in secrecy, without her "hosts" noticing her absence all too soon. Her wounds were healing well enough, that much was clear to her, even though she had been been largely ignored in the process of her treatment by black-haired Génnis. But while the wild woman might have been blessed with nimble fingers and sharp eyes, that didn't make her enough of a healer in the queen's eyes to ease her worries and doubts about it. Or maybe it was just that because she herself had never experienced the wounds of war before, she had simply not been able to imagine just how much of a toll such wounds would take on the healing body. It most definitely gave her a new appreciation for the warriors and soldiers she had cared for during the war in the Houses of Healing.

But it was not just the pain, although it was considerable. Whenever she moved her arms, or moved to lean forward or back, or to sit up or down, agony would burn through her like a bolt of lightning. Once she had even passed out from the pain of it; she had been woken one morning by the shadow of red-haired Graina over, and the sight of the wild woman staring down at her, with that ever-present cruel smirk on her lips, had given her such a fright that she had tried to jump up and run away from her. She had not even made it halfway towards the entrance of the tent, before the sharp pain in her shoulders and back had knocked her clean out and everything had turned to black. When she had come to again, she had been thoroughly reprimanded by both the wild father and black-haired Génnis, who had been forced to re-do her stitches, as her desperate flailing movements had managed to tear them open again.

It had been a set-back to her healing process and worsened her overall condition which was in such a weakened state to begin with that she became feverish once more the night after, leaving her to hover in between waking and unconsciousness throughout the darkness, and the only thing she clearly remembered that night was the grave face of Gunnar Garthson as he kept his silent vigil over her. She had somewhat recovered afterwards but it had made it painfully clear to her that her wounds, and also her pregnancy, had taken quite the toll on her body and her stamina – so much so that she was sure that she would not be able to make that journey on her own, even if she knew where to go exactly (which she most definitely didn't know).

That, of course, laid open the biggest problem she faced: convincing her hosts to help her get home.

At first, she had thought she could rely on the Horse-Breaker to be at least sympathetic to her request, but he seemed far less inclined to the idea of her leaving now than he had initially claimed to be. In fact, after their talk a few days ago, after he had empathetically guessed the secret she carried under her heart, after he had empathetically surmised her reasoning for leaving – or rather for fearing to return – she had been under the impression that the wild man had practically urged her to face her fears and return to the person at the very heart of her desire. Actually, after that talk she wouldn't have been surprised, if that wild man had quite literally shoved her out of the tent the very next day.

Now, however, whenever she tried to hint at her intentions, he would pretend not to catch her meaning, and even when he did acknowledge it, he waved it off. At first, she had believed it to be a mere side-effect of her not painting an accurate picture of the dire nature of her situation and need to return. But what was she supposed to do? She couldn't very well outright tell him that she was the queen of his most hated enemy, trying to get home to her king. So, instead she put on the act of the heart-broken woman, languishing in love, yearning to return to her beloved husband and father of her unborn child – and, yes, while it was an act, there was also truth in it.

She wanted to return home – and now there could be absolutely no mistake in her mind and in her heart that Edoras and the Mark were her home now – and not just because she was a queen who had a responsibility to her people and to the kingdom she was meant to rule. She also longed to return home because she had made a promise to the man she loved, and she intended to fucking keep that promise – whatever it took … even if that meant she would have to play pretend as a version of herself she would have surely scoffed at a year ago.

But funnily enough, Gunnar Garthson himself seemed not to take her antics any more seriously than she did. Whenever she lamented her homesickness, whenever she proclaimed her longing for her husband, whenever she pressed out fake tears (to hide the real ones burning a river running through her heart) – the wild father would only smile a small smile and shake his head. As if to dismiss it with the knowledge that she mostly put up a show, as if to laugh at her for stooping so low as to try and fool him just as she fooled herself – as if to challenge her to reveal the truth hiding underneath it all.

It was frustrating, really.

She had tried it all; she really had used everything and anything as a pretext to get him to agree to help her get back home. But when she wailed that she missed her husband, he would remind her that she had not become his wife of her own free will; when she bemoaned that she missed her home, he would point out that she had been made to leave her real home by the sea to live in a foreign place made of grass and rock and dry land; when she insisted that her child needed its father, he would insist that a child needed love and care more than it needed a parent; and when she used the excuse that she didn't want to be a burden to him and his family any longer, he would only shrug it off as a father who was used to a full house – and with a charming grin at that.

(In the back of her mind, she suspected it was more than just kindness that saw him refuse her over and over again with a paternal smile and gleam in his eyes. Lately, it had become harder and harder to ignore the way in which his gaze had softened whenever it had settled on her – and on her black hair and sea-grey eyes in particular – and she knew exactly who he saw reflected in her, even though she did not have the heart to acknowledge it.)

In her latest attempt, she had even stooped so low as to paint herself as a meek, little female, too weak and helpless to get far on her own, relying on her hosts to help her get home – and she made sure to remind him of the way they had met, the life-and-death situation he had saved her from. But the Horse-Breaker only laughed it off (together with his two daughters sitting at the other end of the tent, tending to their favourite weapons), as he was wont to do with her whenever she tried to sell herself short on purpose – she had learned quickly enough that he was not a man that took kindly to self-pity – and he only shook his head, not willing, apparently, to play along with her farce any longer.

'Ye did' look like ye needed anybody's help back there, lass.', the wild man commented with a good-natured wink, quickly dashing her hopes of being able to cater to his protective nature to get him to help her to get home. It made her wonder again how long exactly he had watched her fight off her attackers back then before he had deemed it necessary to step in, and what kind of messed up idea of strength he worshipped to watch a barely armed woman take on three attackers – armed to the teeth – all on her own rather than step in immediately to help. And while a part of her ego felt most certainly boosted by his confidence in her, the other, more logical part of her was positively annoyed that he had been able to see right through her. And she was sure that her face was not able to hide her irritation, when he added, 'It's true, I only squished a pesky little fly that didn' know it was dead already. But ye didn' need my help, not really. An' ye don' really need my help now. If ye really wanna get home, then go. No one's stoppin' ye.'

'Don't you think that if I could go, I would?', Lothíriel commented dryly, all the while pointing at herself lying helplessly and uselessly buried under the pile of furs and blankets, but the wild man only chuckled at her scathing sarcasm, which only served to rile her up even more, leaving her to add with a voice dripping with bite, 'And it's not like I would be able to get far – even if my body weren't failing me. You and I both know, this … this show of hospitality is barely more than an act. It's you that doesn't want me to leave. You can call me your guest all you want, but we both know that's just a pretty word for a prisoner.'

Gunnar Garthson didn't counter anything at first; he left that talking to his eyes that tightened for just a moment before he let out the heaviest sigh she thought she had ever heard. Behind him, it had become quiet as well; but while black-haired Génnis seemed to stare at the arrow left unfinished in her lap, red-haired Graina stared straight ahead – the eyes of a watchful guard dog, teeth already bared, waiting for the signal to pounce and tear and kill.

But no signal ever came.

Leaning forward to snatch away some of the meat strips she had left untouched on the plate on her lap (she had refused to eat any of that mystery meat for fear it might have once walked on four legs and nickered in delight as it ran across green fields), the Horse-Breaker nibbled on it before fixing her with yet another look that spoke too much of pity for her liking.

'It takes a bitter heart an' a crooked mind t' see only cunning in kindness.'

'It doesn't take much cunning to see through your ruse.', the queen spit back then, infuriated beyond reason by his dismissive words, and even if a part of her warned her not to speak too rashly, she could not stop herself. Frustration had always had a way of loosening her tongue in dangerous ways, and this time right here was no exception, and if he could dish out hard truths, then, by Ulmo, so could she.

'I know why you don't want me to leave. I know why saved me back there. I'm not blind. I've seen the way you look at me.', she spoke then, but even though the fire in her had compelled her to speak, it was the water in her that softened her voice then to barely more than a hushed whisper, and it was the embarrassment of speaking intimate truths out loud that had them both lower their gazes as though they had just directly touched a fire that had previously only warmed them from afar – and perhaps they really had been burned.

She had taken a wild guess, based on a hunch she'd had since their very first conversation, and she wasn't sure what shocked her more – that she had actually dared to speak those words out loud, or that her instincts in this moment might have been right?

Never before had they so openly addressed the oliphaunt in the room, but now here it was, all out in the open. And even though all her senses of propriety squirmed in protest, she still fought against the awkwardness, swallowing her discomfort at having to strike a nerve with the wild man, lunging at the only chance she might have to get him to help her.

And so, she continued.

'I'm not her. I'll never be her. I don't belong here … and I have to go home. You do know that, don't you?', she murmured quietly but with no less fervour, shedding all pretence for naked, raw truth, and when she saw the wild father shiver at her words and refuse to meet her gaze, she reached out to him then – and not just with words but with one of her small hands placed on one of his large ones, and that at last seemed to get through to him and he looked up with unshed tears in his eyes, 'And I need your help … because I can't get there on my own. I'm not strong enough and it's not safe – not for me … and not for the babe.'

Gunnar Garthson didn't respond at first; he only leaned back, out of her hand's reach, as if to save himself from the truth such words and such contact forced him to experience with an intensity he simply could not bear. Or perhaps, as if to pretend to disregard her words about herself, like a true father would, always seeing the best in one's child, not knowing that it would crush it with expectations it could never ever hope to reach.

But really, his gaze was unreadable.

Behind him, she could see the reactions of his two remaining daughters very well. Red-haired Graina was seething at this point; but although she was positively foaming at the mouth, with her eyes glowing almost red with anger, there was also grief mingled with that fury. She seemed to understand exactly what it was that Lothíriel was trying to do here – and even if her heart bled for the sister she had lost, her heart raged all the more for the way in which her dead sibling was used here to persuade her father to do this imposter's bidding. Black-haired Génnis next to her reacted as she so often did: barely at all. With her eyes never lifting from the arrow lying in her lap, she held on to her sister – one arm on her shoulder, and it wasn't much, but it was enough to hold the Firehair back, to keep her quiet and contained. For now.

Lothíriel, for her part, tried her best to block out this scene that played out in the background.

'You remember the day we met. You know about the dangers I speak of.', she went on to say then, choosing to chase the chance presented to her, leaping at the opening his silence offered; she had seen it in his gaze then, the realisation dawning on him that she was right, and all she had to do now was to push him just a little further – surely, a little more would do the trick? But then again, with its eyes set on the carrot dangled in front of it, even the surest horse could lose one's footing, and she sure as hell managed to put her foot quite literally in her mouth with her next words – or rather, the words she stopped herself from saying at the very last minute, 'Last time, it was cut-throats. What will it be next time? Highwaymen? Thieves? Or – '

'Wasn't my people that attacked ye, lass.', the wild man cut in then, successfully shutting her up. It was the first time that he spoke a word since she had struck a sensitive nerve with him by bringing up the topic of his dead daughter, and even though he didn't seem his usual, jovial self yet, he seemed to have recovered enough to have his sharp wits about him – and he didn't hold back either. He had known what she had wanted to say before she could have said the words; her face flushing with shame had been telling enough, and his blackening gaze zeroed in on her in silent judgement as he added, with no quarter given, 'Nor thieves neither.'

'What … what makes you say that?', Lothíriel asked then, hesitation turning her words into barely more than a whisper, but even though it was a question she asked, she already knew the answer. And the Horse-Breaker knew it too. As she held his gaze, the warm brown from before having turned into an unyielding black mass, she understood it on an almost physical level that he knew that she knew. And so, she waited with bated breath for him to continue and to break this silent stand-off between them.

'Steel that cut ye was too good. Too sharp. Cut too deep, too clean – no scars. Never known a thief t' carry steel that good. Also … in case it might've slipped yer notice, none o' my people've ever even seen gold coins, much less carried 'em in their pockets.', the wild man explained patiently, although there was a dry undercurrent in his voice that could have almost been mistaken for a sardonic smile, had it not been for the mirthless expression lengthening his face under that fierce, black beard – and for those pitch-black brown eyes, carefully trained on her and her every expression, as he added, slowly, for maximum effect, 'Must've been lordlings, high-born folk … with golden hair. Must've been … Riders.'

In the silence that followed, the queen sucked in a deep breath, and it was all she could do to keep herself from gasping audibly. She tried so very hard to school her face into an expression of unaffected cool, reminding herself that she was a lady of the Southern courts, born and bred and properly trained – but she could see it in his eyes, the moment he saw through her facade, the moment he knew that he had struck a nerve with her.

And it became too much – too much to hold his intense gaze, too much to put on a face, too much to bear it all. As she lowered her eyes, she saw her own hands gripping the edge of the blanket around her with such force her knuckles turned white … before her vision became blurry. Not from tears; from dissociation. In her head his words echoed, repeating over and over again – coins? – and even though she herself had guessed as much about her attackers, since that day she had tried to disregard it as much as she possibly could have. A survival instinct, no more – because if she had actually confronted the fact that some of her subjects literally wanted her dead, then how could she find the courage to return as their queen?

And return, she must.

I can't lose you.

You won't lose me.

And so, it was with that same blinding determination that she refused the wild man's wisdoms.

'You can't know that.', she insisted weakly, her words barely more than a whisper, and one she was not even brave enough to breathe to his face but rather to her hands, that, still holding on to the edge of the blanket in their white-knuckle grip, seemed a far less challenging image than the piercing gaze of the man before her. The Horse-Breaker, however, seemed about done with her constant tactics of evasion and now switched to a more direct approach. He had always appeared to be a man of infinite patience, but now even his patience seemed to have run out.

'Oh, but I do know that, an' ye do too.', the wild man growled with such unshaken certainty, she would have been forgiven to think that he was gloating at her obvious self-delusion with a smirk that split his face clean in two, but when she looked up at his words, she saw that he was neither smirking nor gloating but rather that his eyes glowed with a pitch-black conviction that spoke not of the good-natured, good-humoured side of him, but of the fierce father ready to scold a wayward child, 'Or didn' ye hear 'em talk? If I did, then surely ye did too. Or maybe ye didn' get a good look at 'em from yer place lyin' on the ice in a pool o' yer own blood? Because they sure as hell looked like 'em straw-haired cunts t' me.'

'That doesn't have to mean anything, and you know it.', the queen protested quietly then, a shallow protest with no real teeth and no real bite, and they both knew it. She was desperately clutching at straws here; her mind jumping from thought to thought with hope of finding an argument that would be distracting and strong enough to divert his attention away from her attackers or what their true identity meant for her and her return, and her eyes were searching as well, flitting back and forth, to and fro, until they settled on something – or rather someone – that would serve her well enough as a diversion, 'Light hair is not exclusive to the Rohirrim.'

Gunnar Garthson leaned back, perplexed, but only for a moment, because when he followed her quick, flitting gaze, sheepish almost in its shamefaced retreat, and looked over his shoulder, he found the distinct shape of his second daughter, Graina, and the fire in her hair seemed telling enough as to what the woman across from him was implying. However, instead of furiously scoffing at her allusion, the wild man only chuckled, a refreshing return of his usual good-humoured self, though whether he laughed at her boldness or at her foolishness she could not say.

'Aye, true indeed. Folks've been known t' mix every now an' again, here an' there, an' ye'll find a handful o' redheads among us as proof o' that.', the Horse-Breaker admitted with a patient smile, as though to admit defeat with a show of a humble nod in her direction, but this was still the same man who had admitted to having made a name for himself for killing people she now called her own, and intimidation was a mask he could slip on between smiles as easily as a wink of an eye, 'But – between the two o' us – I'd keep my mouth shut around Graina over there. She's fancied lasses twice as lovely as ye … an' cut 'em down for sayin' even half o' that.'

Shocked speechless, Lothíriel could almost feel her jaw hit the floor. Staring at the wild man (who could not hide that mischievous, gloating grin now, not even under all that fierce black beard) with wide eyes, she could not stop herself from looking over to the figure of Graina Firehair. And as if in a daze, she saw the red-haired daughter of the wild father wink at her with the widest, most sardonic smile she had ever seen – as if father and daughter shared the same predatory mind, and they probably did. Two predators with smiles full of teeth, grinning at their prey in a show of intimidation.

Or, perhaps, that was only her stressed-out mind seeing shadows and threats were there were none.

Or was is possible that –

'Why would 'em Forgoil try an' kill one o' their own?'

Snapping her head back towards the Horse-Breaker with the flash of a lightning strike, Lothíriel stared at him for a moment, disbelieving, rendered speechless yet again. It took her a long moment to register his words – the sudden switch from her inner line of thought to his question had her momentarily confused – but once she did, her reaction was immediate. Swallowing hard, her eyes that had been as big as the gates of Minas Tirith before, now tightened and hardened in realisation, in understanding.

Looks could be deceiving indeed.

Squaring her shoulders, the queen lifted her chin up high, regarding the wild man before her with a new sense of awareness. She had underestimated him; even after everything she had learned about him, even after she had been careful to consider him with caution only, he had managed to blind-side her anyway. She, a lady of the Southern courts, had been tricked and fooled by a man regarded as little more than a savage – and yet, he had not only managed to see through her half-hearted delusion but also managed to unbalance her so that she would not see his own attack coming. And he wasn't handling her with kid gloves now either. He was going straight for the kill this time.

So be it, the queen thought then, as she made a sort of huffing sound, somewhere between a huff, a sigh and a snort, staring down the wild father (and his wild daughters too, who both now watched her with expectant eyes, hungry for an answer, hungry for the truth, hungry for a mistake), truth will always out in the end, as the wise fools say.

'I told you, they don't see me as one of their own.', Lothíriel answered at long last then, as though it were no big deal at all that she had just confirmed the Horse-Breaker's suspicions about the nature of the incident that had brought them together, as though it didn't matter that she was about to reveal a whole lot more of herself than she had ever planned on revealing, as though the answer and its revelation didn't cost her at all, 'To them, I'm a stranger from a strange land bringing in strange ideas.'

'Ideas? Like, horseys make for good meat?', the wild man chuckled sardonically along with his red-haired daughter as he snatched another piece of mystery meat from the untouched plate on her lap, snacking at it with a relish and a mischievous wink, and had she not been so caught up in the momentum of the true nature of their conversation, she would have surely been almost physically sick at the insinuation of his question. But as things stood, she merely scoffed impatiently at his poor attempt at making light of the seriousness of her story.

The time for jokes and evasions was clearly over.

'No.', she insisted with all the impatience and warning of a motherly tone, even though she was not a mother yet; but she had no time for his good-humoured mischief now, and her voice and words clearly showed it as she continued, 'Like the idea of peace in times of war.'

And that shut him up for good.

(Behind him, even his red-haired daughter watched now as silently as the black-haired one.)

No more smiles, no more jokes.

Only a pair of fierce, black eyes that tightened in question as they regarded her then.

And then came the smirk; a mischievous little thing, barely visible through that thick, black beard.

But the queen saw it all the same – and she heard it too.

'Aye, that'd be a wild idea.'

'Yes, it would be.', the queen repeated with no small amount of impatience, and not just the tight undercurrent of her voice but also the frowns on her forehead showed her so very obvious confusion – nay, her suspicion. There was just something about the way the wild man before her smirked, the way his eyes glinted with almost roguish delight, that told her that he knew a lot more than he had initially let on. And so, she spoke on – and while her words had been slow and hesitant at first, they picked up speed and volume … and a wary tone, 'My people are not exactly fond of the idea of making peace with your people – their long-standing enemy, catalyst of a centuries-old feud – '

'Last time I checked, it takes two t' make enemies.', the wild man quipped back then, cutting her off, and not even the long sip he took from his massive wooden tankard could hide the self-satisfied grin crowning those cracked lips under that fierce, black beard. But he didn't gloat for long, because no sooner did she open her mouth in protest than he already held up one of his large hands to stop her words of objection with words of his own –

'But ye're right, my folk sure as hell aren' too fond o' the idea o' peace between our people either.'

– words that sounded very much like acquiescence.

(Even if he just couldn't quite keep the tone of sarcasm out of his voice here.)

A strange thought, and an even stranger occurrence.

For a man of such contrary nature to agree so readily?

Something was definitely afoot here.

'But you are?', she guessed more than she really asked, and yet, it was a question all the same, as understanding seemed to be quite out of reach and confusion soon enough clouded her forehead into thunderous, dark frowns and coloured her voice into a tone of scepticism, 'After everything you've done? After everything that's happened? After – '

Silence – a sudden chasm of unspoken words opening up between them, swallowing them whole.

Two pairs of eyes that met across that chasm – one pair frozen in trepidation, the other pair hardened in comprehension. It was a silent stand-off between their gazes. But while he fixed her with a look of quiet and intense appraisal, she felt herself holding his gaze out of fear for his reaction, scared to even move her eyes off of him.

(Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see the two daughters of the wild father stare just as spell-bound – eyes wide in anticipation, mouths hanging open in shock.)

Lothíriel might have stopped herself short of speaking the words out loud, but they both knew what she had wanted to say, and those very words now hung between them like a thick cloud promising rain and thunder and bolts of lightning, strong enough to cleave their tentative bond clean in two – the electric tension before the release and relief of a summer storm, or the devastating violence of a midwinter's blizzard? The dead daughter of the wild man had hung like a shadow over their weird little relationship from the day they had met, but never since their first conversation had they touched upon her death. Sure, the wild father had talked much and more about her character and deeds while alive, but her supposed demise at the hands of the Rohirrim had been a subject they had so far avoided with the utmost care.

But now, it was right there, and what was more: an unspoken question between them.

After what was done to your daughter, how could you even think of peace?

In that moment, in the back of her mind, something painfully sharp edged closer to her consciousness –

Would you make peace with the men that savaged your friends? Would you forgive them? No, as I recall you hatched some wild, fucked-up revenge fantasy!

This is different!

No, it fucking isn't! You cannot go around and hold up other people to standards you yourself cannot even reach! So, don't give me this pretentious talk of peace and working together! You're just an entitled Southern princess who doesn't know what the fuck she's talking about!

– but the memory was pushed back down the moment the Horse-Breaker's voice broke through.

'I'm old 'n' I'm tired. I'm tired o' killing. And my people … they're tired too, but they're too stubborn t' see that.', the wild man murmured then, a quiet admission that for all its subdued tone might as well have been no more than a whisper an old brooding warrior might utter in the dead silence of the night, when no one would be there to witness the naked truth of it all. But this was not an absent-minded confession of an old warrior drunk with fatigue, carelessly letting his guard down. This was purpose and courage and brutal honesty all rolled into one – and she felt it more than she really saw it once his piercing black gaze fixed her with intent.

She found herself unable to look away.

'My daugh'er's dead. The men that killed her are dead too. And before long, I'll be dead as well.', the wild man spoke then, and now his voice no longer sounded like a whisper in the night; it was hard and tough and unyielding as steel pulled out to cut deeper than flesh and bone alone. But more than his voice, his eyes cut through her then, and only when he tore his gaze off of her, could she breathe again. However, as she followed the way his eyes were pointing – a long look thrown over his shoulder – and saw the way they softened as they gazed at his two remaining daughters, she felt touched more than anything else.

And when he turned back to her then, there was something in his gaze that spoke of a parent's resolve and one she could understand so well.

'But my people …', he spoke then at last, and she knew exactly who he meant, 'I want 'em t' live.'

And then, there was silence again.

Not a silence of words so much as a silence of emotions felt too deeply to acknowledge them.

They both looked away.

Then, there was the sound of someone coughing; the wild father tried to clear his throat, to swallow the tears, to cover up his momentary lapse, his moment of weakness. The queen, for her part, pretended not to notice, allowing him the time to regain his composure – and when she did speak up again, she tried to steer their conversation back to the topic at hand, picking up right where he had left off.

'That's what I want too – for my people and for yours.', Lothíriel offered quietly then, and hesitation was turning her words into a slowly trickling rivulet, but once that stream had washed away the rocks in its path, it became a torrent, pushing her on and on, unable to stop, 'The way I see it, there's a lot more to gain from our people working together than fighting each other – '

'Workin' together, huh? Tell me, lass, have ye e'er seen a pack o' wolves run into a herd o' horses in the wild?', the wild man snickered then, cutting her off mid-flow, shaking his head slightly, and not just from the chuckles that slowly but surely ebbed away, 'Workin' together', she says. Well, good luck with that, lass.'

'But you're not wolves … any more than they are horses. You are all men and women, with the same flesh and the same blood – with the same needs and the same desires.', the queen countered then, not allowing him smiling at her choice of words to dissuade her from pursuing her idea further; nay, she was all the more convinced to see it through to the end, 'A roof over your head. Undisturbed days and nights, with no need to look over your shoulder. Food in your belly. A future for your children.'

Now, Gunnar Garthson wasn't smiling anymore.

He was listening.

(Behind him, his two daughters were listening too. But while Graina took her words with her usual spiteful scepticism, black-haired Génnis seemed to listen with genuine curiosity.)

'The Mark has good land, where wheat seems to sprout almost over night – I have seen it. But we lack the hands to farm it. You … you have more than enough hands, and yet they remain empty and your bellies go hungry.', the queen went on to say then, making sure to phrase her offer as openly as she could, to see if he would take her up on it, to see if he understood what she was implying here; but when his face remained an unreadable mask, she felt compelled to add more, to nudge him in the right direction, 'The way I see it, it doesn't take a wise man to see the solution to both our people's problems.'

'That's good 'n' all, but how d'ye get 'em folks t' work with us, an' not against us?', the wild man cut in with a low chuckle then, showing her that he had been listening indeed, and that he had been listening well, but he remained a sceptic, and for good reason too. Piercing, black eyes fixed her with a watchful gaze – like an animal, gauging her behaviour, gauging her reaction – as he reminded her once more that there was a lot more to him than just a wild man, 'Remember what brought ye here in the first place.'

Lothíriel had already opened her mouth to speak, but closed it quickly, without the work done. Silence stretched out between them once more, and she bit her lower lip as she let his words sink in and work their way around her clever but half-baked plans. But while the Horse-Breaker seemed perfectly at home in the quiet between them, content enough to watch her stew over his words, she watched him as well, realising, once more, that she had underestimated him yet again.

She had talked herself into a corner here, and she knew it.

But the only way out, was to move forward – so move forward, she did.

'I will make them. I will make them see and understand that this is the only way to survive, and more than that, to live.'

'But how? And why? Why should they listen t' a girl they already tried t' kill?'

There was a small smile playing around his lips, a smirking little thing that not even his thick, black beard could hide – and even if that had not been telling enough, the challenging glint in his fierce, black eyes would have been all the answer she needed. He knows, she thought suddenly, and the thought went like a lightning bolt straight through her, splitting her thinking clean in half. He knows, she thought again, and she knew instantly that it was true.

As a shudder went through her, and her clammy hands clenched into fists, her mind raced with thousands of questions, but none of them were as prevalent as the one regarding what she should do now. She was in far too deep to backtrack now, but how could she go forward from here? She knew there was only one reason why the Rohirrim would listen to someone like her – a stranger from a strange land – and using that argument could be the only chance she had at possibly convincing the wild man before her to join her cause.

But what if she were wrong?

If she had guessed wrong, and he didn't know who she were, then she could very well sign her own death sentence by admitting to her true identity. And even if she had guessed correctly, that he already knew who she were, who was to say that it would be enough to win him over to her side? Gunnar Garthson, after all, even though a savage in all his appearance, had shown again and again, that he was a man who knew very well how to see right through her, and who knew the workings of the world frightfully well. He was a man of terrifying intelligence, who was used to be underestimated because of his background – and he had learned to use that to his advantage, as she had been forced to learn the hard way, again and again.

Lothíriel squared her shoulders as she met the wild man's haze head-on.

The decision was made.

'Because … I am their queen.'

Her answer had been quiet but resolute, and in the aftermath of it, all she had to do was wait. Wait for him to react, to lash out, to pull that massive broadsword of his and to swing it at her. Or rather for his daughters to lunge at her, with their twin hatchets and their arrows, their little swords and daggers – and to end her once and for all. But – at first – nothing happened. The Horse-Breaker had dared her to rise to his unspoken challenge, and she had, abandoning all pretence, giving herself over to the faint hope that this move would be the key to convincing the wild man before her – rather than to incite him to abuse her as ransom or bait, or even worse.

But, at first, nothing happened – and for a moment, Lothíriel feared he might not have understood her words, that he might not even know what a queen was. After all, in all the conversations they'd had, the wild man had never so much as hinted at royalty among the wild folk – he had mentioned chieftains, but Ulmo only knew what he had meant by that. But just when she had opened her mouth to explain her confession, the wild man leaned back and spoke up at last.

'I could've killed ye for admittin' that.'

'I know.', she countered slowly, almost hesitatingly, as if she weren't entirely sure whether he was still considering it. But no, she thought resolutely, if he had wanted to kill her, he would have done so already, and he would have had plenty of opportunity to do so in the past few weeks, when she had been barely strong enough to walk but a few steps on her own. No, she thought determined, if he had wanted to kill her, he would have simply let her die that day in the snowstorm.

But he didn't.

He didn't.

He didn't.

'But something tells me you already knew.', she added then, and this time there was no hesitation shaking her voice.

Gunnar Garthson held her determined gaze for only a moment, before his dispassionate mask slipped from his face and his lips under that fierce, black beard spread into a mischievous smirk, and it told her all she needed to know really. So, she had been right, she thought grimly, though she was unsure whether that realisation should give her comfort or not. As things stood, his nonchalant reaction to her confession was as good as a laughter straight to her face – and she could feel her patience running thin when he spoke up then, just as nonchalantly, shrugging with his shoulders for good measure.

'Word might've reached us, 'bout a lass from the sea who went t' live with 'em Forgoil. Word might've reached us, 'bout the Horse-master who got a woman t' match him. Word might have reached us 'bout that Lothíriel Merides,Sæides, the Lady of the Seas.'

'Then why … why didn't say a thing?', the queen asked, confusion writ in large letters across her perplexed face, and as their eyes met, her true question shone through.

Why did you save me?

Why didn't you let me die?

Why didn't you kill me – the wife of your enemy?

But the Horse-Breaker only smiled that small smile of his, and she knew he would not grace her with a direct answer just yet – as he was wont to do. Instead, he only smiled on, watching her quiet indignation with no small amount of roguish pleasure. And as per usual, he was not just content with watching her huff and puff in silent outrage, but also added to it with his next words, little more than a murmur, close enough to a chuckle to infuriate her fully.

'Perhaps, I wanted t' see what ye would do.', the wild man offered then with a smile that was half mischief and half earnest, and a full-on bait to see how she would react to his words, 'We wild folk ne'er had no queen, nor a king neither. We follow courage an' strength, an' we know it when we see it. Perhaps, I just wanted t' know what stuff ye're made o'.'

'Even the fool and the coward will find their courage when desperate times call for it – '

'Ye don' seem like a fool t' me, fairge cailin – e'en if yer little act as the damsel in distress was a bit blue-eyed. Pardon the expression, lass.', the wild man countered then, winking at her as she averted her sea-blue eyes for just a moment (and behind him she could hear Graina Firehair snorting in barely suppressed laughter). But even though there was still a tone of teasing in his voice, it ultimately gave way to a timbre of faith; a faith in her, the faith of a father towards his wayward child – a faith, by all means, he should not have, as he was not her father and she not his child. And yet, there it was; in his gaze, in his tone, in his smile.

'As for courage?', the wild father went on to say then, effectively pulling her out of her spiralling thoughts, 'No coward would've admitted t' somethin' that could've gotten 'em killed.'

'Yes, but you already knew who I was – '

'Ah, but ye didn' know that, did ye?', Gunnar Garthson interjected yet again, and there was that smile again, full of mischief and yet, his eyes glowed with pitch-dark conviction, 'Ye might've suspected it, but ye couldn've been sure – not unless ye came clean. An' that leap o' faith … that took courage.'

A deep breath, a moment of silence and then –

'Then, if you already knew who I was, back then, that day in the snowstorm – why didn't you kill me? Why did you save me?'

The words had been out before she could have stopped them, but then again, was it not merely the climax of a long search for answers? But only now, at last, was she brave enough to ask the questions that had been plaguing her thoughts for the past few weeks, and even though she had already guessed at his reason for sparing her life, there was some part of her that just wanted the wild man before her to simply admit to it, instead of the usual tactics of evasion he always employed. But once again, she was disappointed.

'The way ye looked, lass, there was no point in killin' ye. Ye're half-dead already.', the wild man chuckled sardonically, once again making light of a serious matter, and seeing her obvious expression of annoyance only seemed to amuse him even more, 'An' I would've gained nothin' from lettin' ye die either. Alive, ye're a lot more valuable t' a lot o' people – '

'But that's not the real reason though, is it? And we both know it.', she cut him off impatiently then, and even though there was frustration pulling at her voice, she was surprised at how small and vulnerable it really sounded in the end. And, perhaps, it was even that vulnerability she showed, the need she showed to know if that father figure really cared for her in the way she had guessed, that led the Horse-Breaker to show some vulnerability of his own. It was small, almost barely noticeable, but there it was: a nod, a sign of agreement, a confession of fatherly feelings of sorts.

And then there was silence between them once more, stretching out from one to the other and back again; but not like an abyss to pull them into, but rather like a bond to hold on to. It went unspoken between them but in that moment they were both thinking of the wild father's dead daughter; and while one was wondering at the character she must have been like, the other smiled a small smile in recognition of an old soul he believed to see reborn.

It were a quiet few moments, with nothing to disturb the comfortable silence between them, nothing except the crackling of the fire and the calming noises of the wild man's two remaining daughters working wordlessly at their weapons. (Or at least Génnis had resumed to work the arrow in her lap; red-haired Graina was staring off into the fire, with hands balled to fists and her jaws clenched so hard from words unspoken one could have feared she might snap in two every second now.) The Horse-Breaker for his part, lost in thought and memory, seemed in no real hurry to break the silence – and why would he? He was not the one who wanted something. And so, it fell to the queen to speak up and to reach out once more, tentatively – a last-ditch effort.

'So … does that mean you're going to help me? To make peace, I mean?'

'Wantin' peace is one thing, makin' it happen quite another.', Gunnar Garthson answered only cryptically then, and his pitch-black eyes searched her out with a gaze she could not quite read, but the unspoken history hidden underneath it sent shivers down her back all the same. It might have been for that very reason that she was too distracted and didn't see his next words coming.

'What makes ye think ye can convince yer man t' stay his blade long 'nough t' listen t' anythin' I got t' say?', the Horse-Breaker asked with that same serious tone from before, with the same paralysing gaze, and yet, when he caught her confused expression, he lightened up a little, or enough at least to chuckle a little before went on to explain further, 'Word has it, yer man is as stubborn an' as single-minded as they come. A fine fuckin' specimen o' a Forgoil man.'

Lothíriel quickly looked down at his words, feeling, oddly enough, somewhat embarrassed – rather for herself, for not having seen this twist coming, and not so much for the man in question. And yet, in that moment, she could not but remember the obstinate way in which her king had refused to move even an inch regarding their argument about the peace treaty, and his stubborn refusal to see the wild folk as anything other than savages and wild beasts. In those moments, more than anything, he had reminded her of the first impression she had ever had of him, before she had ever even met him: the impression of a warrior who would only ever be that – a warrior who fought with his sword rather than thought with his mind.

'My king is, above all else, a man of honour and a man of reason. I'm sure that if you choose to speak, genuinely speak, then he will listen.', she advocated diplomatically, albeit with a small tone of uncertainty underlying it all. And at first, yes, at first her answer had been a mere reflex, an instinct born out of her heart to defend the man she had learned to love, but in the process of it, it reminded her of the times when her husband had lent her his ear, along with his heart as well, and that memory alone was enough to restore her faith – not just in the man she loved, but in herself as well, for knowing what he was capable of.

Gunnar Garthson, however, would not be so easily convinced.

'Hm, an' ye're sure he'll give me a chance t' open my mouth an' speak even a single word, 'fore he opens my throat with the slice o' a sword?', the wild man quipped with a sneer, and Lothíriel realised that in this matter of two fearsome warriors thinking with their hearts more often than their heads, reason alone would not be the key to success. In the back of her mind, the lady of the Southern courts smirked with delight as the queen started to speak once more, to make yet another proposition, albeit rather unwillingly and with great discomfort.

'Perhaps … perhaps it's all just a matter of the right kind of leverage?'

'Leverage?', the Horse-Breaker repeated then, a weird smile haunting the corners of his mouth under that fierce, black beard – as though he couldn't see perfectly well just how much the idea cost her, to go down that road again and to use such tricks on the man she loved. But, perhaps, he wasn't playing her here? Perhaps, he truly did not understand what she was getting at here? After all, what would a savage man from the Northern wild know of the intricate language of the Southern courts, with words that wound through lies and truths like a snake coiled up in the boiling sand under an unforgiving sun?

'What I mean by that is – '

'Oh, I know exactly what it's ye're meanin'. Leverage, huh?', the Horse-Breaker cut her off quickly then, repeating her choice of words with an appraising smirk before his intense gaze took the measure of her as he continued, 'I'm startin' t' see why yer own people might've tried t' kill ye.'

Gasping aloud before she could stop herself, Lothíriel averted her gaze and looked down.

The wild man's words had been like a slap to the face, leaving her eyes to burn with unshed tears and her cheeks to burn in a shame she cold not even hide from herself. Because it was one thing to know about one's own shameful decisions, the distasteful skills one had learned to use, but it was quite another thing to have another point them out so starkly, without any softening colours to whitewash it. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her of yet another man who'd had that very same talent: to call things as they truly were.

But now, she shook her head to rid herself of such memories – for Gunnar Garthson opened his mouth to speak once more, and she readied herself for yet another round of jaded truths and bared words.

'So, tell me, lass, what kind o' leverage would make yer man open the gates o' his wooden city t' the likes o' me – his sworn enemy?'

'The return of his beloved queen and mother of his child – and the man who saved her and brought her home?', Lothíriel proposed with a quiet voice, and while the nigh on conspirational nature of their talk might have well explained her subdued tone, she knew it was more than that, and she had to try and clear her voice several times before she'd found the strength again to have it sound like the voice belonged to a queen, and not to a reprimanded young woman, 'Surely, to such a sight and gesture even my lord would react with open arms and an open ear, and, perhaps, an open heart as well?'

'An' ye're sure yer man will believe that?', the Horse-Breaker challenged her conviction then, eyeing her with a gaze that spoke yet another question, and she was glad that he had chosen not to speak it aloud, as it terrified her already to it so clearly written in his pitch-black eyes.

Ye're sure yer man will fall for that?

Lothíriel swallowed hard but she knew she had to make sure not to let her feelings of doubt creep into her answer. It was the first time she had actually considered the willingness – or rather, that show of willingness – of the wild man opposite her, and it made her wonder how genuine his supposed wish for peace truly were. A life-long warrior after all, she thought, might talk fine words of peace … with a hand holding on tight to a sword behind his back.

The very thought brought about some feelings of unease and almost instinctively she shifted under her pile of blankets and furs. She made sure to hold the wild man's gaze, trying to read eyes as black and as reflective as any mirror she had ever seen. Could it be that he, a savage by all accounts, was playing her, a queen and a lady of the Southern courts, for a fool here? Could it be that for all his talking, peace was not on his mind as he dreamed up the day he would meet his sworn enemy? Could it be that it was rather a planned act of war that persuaded him to agree to her offer of meeting her king?

Lothíriel's eyes fell to the sword at the wild man's side – always at his side – and it was in that moment that she decided to shut off her distrustful ears, always harkening for seeds of lies and deception, and instead to look up with eyes that saw a man weary of war and hungering for peace … even though the proper table manners seemed to escape him yet. Perhaps the Horse-Breaker had been right when he had accused her of seeing only cunning in kindness because of her crooked mind and bitter heart. Perhaps his questions were born out of reasonable thought and not out of some conspirational motives. Perhaps it would be best to remind him of that clear distinction.

'My lord will believe the truth when he sees it, and believe the honest offer … of an unarmed man with open arms and empty hands.', she threw in cautiously, but even though she had made sure to keep her words vague, she could see that he understood her very well, as Gunnar Garthson only smirked in response and shook his head with the slight motion of a man who needed no grand gestures to make his will known.

(Behind him, his red-haired daughter hissed something harsh and quick – a warning, perhaps? – but her father simply shrugged her off.)

'Where I go, this blade goes as well, lass.', the wild man quipped back then, and even though his voice was calm as he spoke, there was a certain warning that underlay the cool tone of it, and her sharp eyes did not miss the way his hand tightened around the hilt of his massive broadsword, 'Or did ye really think I'd be stupid enough t' enter my enemy's lair unarmed and unprotected?'

'Master Garthson', the queen warned then with a voice as calm and cool as the old warrior's voice had been, 'I don't think a warrior armed to the teeth and with an army at his back is really the look of a man looking for peace, wouldn't you agree?'

'Don' mind what it looks like, lass. Just get me through the gates an' I'll handle the rest. I know how to behave.', the Horse-Breaker quipped back then and she did not miss the emphasis he put on his last words, knowing full well that he was implying that if any violence broke out, it would not be by his doing but rather by her king's rash and passionate nature. An insult, albeit a hidden one. And thus it was with the patriotic fervour of a Northern queen that she had already opened her mouth in a rush to defend her king, but Gunnar Garthson merely waved her off and continued to spew painfully reasonable questions that frustrated her even more, 'Anyway, that's not what ye should be worried 'bout. It's the part o' getting' there that should worry ye.'

'Well, I suspect your people already chased off the patrol at the Fords of Isen by now, so the Gap of Rohan should be open to us, should it not?', the queen commented dryly then; a quick side remark to let the wild man opposite her know that she was aware of a lot more things and that she would not be so quickly outmanoeuvred in this game of wits. But the Horse-Breaker only smiled good-naturedly in response to her and when she saw him slowly shake his head then, she knew instantly that he would not allow her to outwit him that easily.

(At the other end of the tent she could hear red-haired Graina chuckle sardonically, and the queen knew immediately that she had miscalculated.)

'Hate t' break it t' ye, lass, but yer man might've overplayed his soldiers' prowess a bit there. The Fords haven' been manned in a long while, not since the War.', the wild man spoke slowly then, almost with hesitation, but as she saw the smirk he could barely suppress, she knew the only reason for his subdued speech was the fact that he was trying too hard not to laugh openly at her obvious ignorance. And that stung.

(At the other end of the tent black-haired Génnis spoke up for the first time; her words were quiet but stern and enough to have her father become serious and focused once more.)

Now, to be fair, it might have been her hurt pride, more than anything else, that made it a lot harder for Lothíriel then to listen to anything else he had to say – even if his words carried truth and wisdom she would have found it hard to deny.

'But it isn' the obstacles in our way so much as the way itself that worries me here, fairge cailin, if ye take my meanin'.'

Lothíriel frowned and said nothing. She had been so thrown off by the perceived slight to her pride from before that she did not quite understand him at first. But she could definitely read the sudden shift in his voice, the quiet undertone of concern, and, together with him calling her by the nickname he had given her, she understood that they had arrived at the heart of the matter for him at long last. And Gunnar Garthson seemed to sense the change in her too, because it made him bold enough to give voice to the fatherly concern he tried so hard to keep hidden.

'It's a long fuckin' way from here t' there, lass, an' – pardon me for sayin' so – ye're not exactly the picture o' fuckin' health here.'

At that Lothíriel's eyes dropped in an instant while a deep blush crept up her neck. But it wasn't the indignation from before that made it hard for her now to meet the gaze of the man opposite her. Rather it was the fact that it was essentially the gaze of a father – and even though she was not his daughter, there was something so paternal in his gaze, that she felt compelled to answer with a sense of filial duty, eager to ease his worried mind.

'I can make it, Master Garthson.'

'It's a long fuckin' way.', the Horse-Breaker repeated once more then, and with even more emphasis this time, as though she hadn't very well understood him the first time, as though he needed to make sure she understood now – and in doing so, he might well have overstepped the mark more than just a bit in his eagerness and in his worry, 'Now, if we could build a makeshift stretcher or … or find one o' those four-leggers ye Kneelers like so much, then yes, that could work, but – '

'No. No makeshift stretchers. No bodies to carry mine.', Lothíriel countered then, and she was all but a queen now as she denied this father the meagre crumbs of consolation he had tried to carve out of his concern for her, in favour of the things that needed to be done, 'If I am to get us through those gates, I'll have to do it on my own two legs, walking, with my head held high – and with you by my side, as my equal, as my saviour, as my partner in this endeavour of diplomacy. This is the only way – '

'It's a long fuckin' way – ', the wild father protested once more, and this time she was sure to see tears mirroring in those pitch-black eyes but she could not allow herself to fall prey to them now.

'You're not listening to me! What do you think will convince my people to back this peace treaty? The sight of a half-dead woman, dragged across the threshold, hours from death, unreliable in her fragility? Or the sight of a queen, strong and reliable, bringing home a potential new ally?', the queen thundered then, and if her voice shook as she spoke those words, then surely it could have only been the weight of conviction pushing her forward.

'Your people aren't the only ones that follow only strength.', the queen pointed out further then, and the increasing despair in her heart lent some urgency to her voice, reminding her of the lesson she had learned for her short reign as queen to her Northern people – that seeing was indeed believing.

And when the queen saw then that the wild man was still torn about the whole affair – still torn between the worry of a father and the need of a warrior seeking out peace – she reached out yet again. Her hand was trembling as she placed it on his large paw, but even though hers looked tiny compared to his, so terribly out of synch, they still felt each other other's warmth, as though, underneath, there was already a connection of two very different people who were surprisingly similar in all the ways that mattered. And when she spoke this time, her voice neither shook nor boomed; it was calm, compassionate, reassuring.

'I will make it … adar. With your help.'

Gunnar Garthson considered her for a very long moment. His eyes looked from her hand on his to her pleading eyes and back to her shivering, fragile form buried under a thousand blankets and furs. But even though there was still worry and doubt in his gaze, there was also acceptance. Here was a warrior who had never before admitted defeat, but he did so now; not because of what he had lost, but because of what he could win.

The nod from him was barely visible but it was still unmistakable.

(Behind him, his two daughters reacted very differently to the decision that had been made here; red-haired Graina all but stormed out of the tent while black-haired Génnis simply tucked away her finished arrow into her quiver with a sigh that was as unreadable as the woman herself.)

With a sigh of his own the Horse-Breaker slipped his hand from hers then and moved to get up and leave, but before he could have left the tent, and the daunting task ahead in it, behind, he turned around once more. His huge figure seemed to have shrunk somewhat, and with his shoulders drooping and his head hanging low, he appeared, for the very first time, old and small to her.

A frightening idea, she thought, but before she could have wondered where that thought might have come from, the wild man spoke once more, and his flippant tone and attitude stood in stark contrast to his body language from before, or the dried-up tear streaks on his bearded cheeks – but perhaps that was just the despair and despondency in him giving life to something dangerously rash and almost recklessly manic.

'Well, ye better make it, lass. 'Cos if I show up t' yer man with a dead body instead o' his woman, ye can kiss yer peace treaty goodbye, much less this ugly head on my shoulders.'

FUN FACT #1: This chapter was a bitch to write. Not just because it was long but because my head has been anywhere but here for the past month. Oh, btw, I moved, the new apartment is awesome; I'm also on my summer break, which means I indulge a lot. This week it was The Borgias (TV show). Worth every minute of me not writing, I tell ya. So good, so fucking good.

FUN FACT #2: Gunnar Garthson is a complex character. He has a past, he has demons, he has hopes and he has faults. I hope to be able to explore them all.

FUN FACT #3: Did ... did Lothíriel call the Horse-Breaker Adar? Yes, yes she did. *mic dropped*

FUN FACT #4: Next chapter - reunion time! But also: clash of the brooding warriors! =)