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41. In the Eye of the Storm

She had no idea for how long she had been riding; time seemed to have become a river running through her trembling fingertips. Around her the world had changed from the high wooden posts and palisades of the city she had fled from to the white open world of winter, covering everything and all under a blanket of ice and frost, and if there had once been greenery and something alive out here, it now seemed frozen and dead.

The storm was picking up. The winds were howling angrily at her. The snows a wall of white suffocating her, having her lungs burn in an effort to breathe. Her hands holding the reins were frozen stiff, even through the supple fur-lined leather gloves, and the only life she could feel in them soon was the burning ache of the cold. Sleet stung her face so cold it seemed hot, singeing where it touched her skin, and even the hood over her head and the shawl wrapped around her shoulders did little to fend off the unyielding, brutal force of this winter storm.

The blizzard she had hoped to avoid in the morning had her now fully in its grasp. But even more than the winds tearing at her figure, more than the snows blinding her vision, more than the cold biting into her flesh even, she felt her own storm raging within, pulling her further down into a maelstrom of bitterness and regret, ever down to a place of darkness and despair, where the ghosts of forlorn hopes were forever doomed to reign.

Traitor.

Traitor!

TRAITOR!

The breath she didn't know she had been holding broke free with a sob, and in a motion made up entirely of pain, her eyes snapped shut. The fresh tears that had stung in her eyes before (she no longer cared to pretend that it was the wind that had been the cause of them), blurring her vision, now streamed down her cheeks only to freeze there; and as she doubled over in her saddle, hiding her face in the mane of her mare, she allowed herself to break down at long last.

She cried.

She cried and cried and cried; and when she had no more tears to shed, and her eyes burned from the effort and her head felt like it would burst, she screamed. She cared no longer who would witness their queen – who was out here, who was with her now who would hear her? – in such a moment of weakness, and what did it matter now anyway?

Her world had been broken and in the shards that remained, she could see her own mistakes reflected back at her. All the poor choices she had made – as they had been the only ones she had felt she could have made – she could trace along the jagged edges of that glass, cutting into her flesh like the consequences she had been made to face, tearing into her heart, tearing it to shreds.

This morning she had truly believed that things could not get any worse. After the fight of the night before, after realising that she had backed them both into a corner, after understanding that there would be no way out of this, after coming to know that it was his love for her above all else and her desperate clinging to her new-found integrity that twisted the knife in both their hearts and tied their hands to condemn them to idleness – she had truly thought that this was the worst. They had been caught in the undertow of their conflicting feelings for each other, and the morals that bound them, and whatever bridges they had hoped to build towards each other, had been swept away by the tides crashing against them from both sides.

But they had still held on.

Now, however … now they were drowning both.

Lothíriel whimpered in pain as she recalled the events that had unfolded this morning; the house of cards that had been standing on shaking legs only, and that had now toppled over, collapsing, crumbling. What had possessed her to go out to the stables this morning? Despair had driven her. What had possessed Déor to approach her in such a manner? Longing had driven him. What had possessed them both to seek solace in each other's embrace? Grief and hope had bonded them.

In the span of a morning, foolish hope had been rekindled.

In the span of a morning, it had been destroyed once more.

Burned into her memory were the green eyes that had once looked upon her with so much love she had felt unworthy of it; only to look upon her then with nothing short of hatred. But even more than the rage-filled loathing screaming at her out of the depths of those eyes, it had been what was underneath it that had truly broken her. The hurt that had glistened in his eyes, the feeling of betrayal that had all but paralysed him – but only for a moment.

Éomer king had always been a man of action rather than of words, and he hated with as much passion as he loved – and therefore it should not have shocked her when he had raged like a thunderstorm against the pain beating in his chest, to inflict pain as well, if only to soothe at least some of the anguish inside of him, as futile as it had been. But still, the violence of his feelings had horrified her, and his actions had given voice to that violence, loud and clear enough – in the back of her mind she could still hear the ugly cracking sound as the king had broken the knight's nose with one brutal punch, sending the poor lad flying to the floor.

And yet – her king and husband had made no move to attack her. Despite all the rage she knew he had been feeling in that moment, despite all the hurt he had been feeling inside urging him on to lash out – despite it all, he had not touched her. He had not even made one move to advance on her. But she was far from rejoicing at it, because she knew in her heart that it had little to do with the care he still had for her. No, she knew it was far more than that.

It was disgust, pure and simple. The kind of disgust you felt realising that the thing you loved most in this world, would ultimately destroy you no matter what. The kind of disgust you felt realising that the hopes you had carried, despite all logic, had made a fool out of you. The kind of disgust you felt for yourself most of all, allowing yourself to be tricked into falling for the one person you should have known would be your weakness and your downfall – and yet to allow that person to have you fall for it nonetheless.

Never before had he looked at her like that. Not even after her betrayal down in the South, when he had learned of her enforced duplicity, backing him into a corner, tying his hands. Not even after her betrayal up here in the North, when she had refused to support him as her king against the peace treaty he had perceived as a threat. No, this here was different. Because this time it wasn't his honour she had betrayed, or his idea of loyalty that she had questioned. It was his love for her that she had stabbed in the fucking back.

Or so he undoubtedly saw it.

A hiss of pain went through the whole of her body at the thought of it, and the headache that had been plaguing her for days – only to dull in between, like a throbbing reminder almost – now returned with a vengeance that left her momentarily blinded. Overwhelmed she felt the ache turn to nausea as her stomach rebelled, and weakened by this, she sagged forward on top of the horse, face pressed against its mane. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe; her mouth lined with the old, sour taste of saliva as her abdomen constricted in preparation for what was to come.

It was the frustrated neighing of her mare below her then that pulled her out of her state of momentary paralysis. In her mindless sorrows and numbing hurt she must have pulled the reins too hard – a motion surely born out of the pain within – and naturally the animal had protested. Well, the queen for once was only too glad for the rude interruption, as it gave her body the opening her mind just hadn't been prepared to give.

Leaning back and making herself heavy in the saddle, Lothíriel gently squeezed her thighs together, softly pulling at the reins this time, giving her mare the signal to stop, and without hesitation the trusty animal followed orders. However, the queen hadn't even been able to wait until the mare had fully stopped, before she already slid out of her saddle and landed more or less graciously on the snow-covered ground. And, surely, there would have been more graceful, tactful words to describe what happened next, but none would have done this any justice.

The queen vomited.

Kneeling there in the whitely painted dirt, with her fine riding attire and her fine rules of etiquette, Lothíriel threw up her meagre breakfast (she hadn't been able to eat much to begin with), down onto the snow, marring the white with the contents of her stomach. She retched and retched and retched, until her stomach felt hollowed out and her throat dry and burning, and when she felt that she could no longer hold herself upright, the queen simply allowed herself to slump to the side and to fall into the powdery snow.

For a moment then, all she did was lie there, with her eyes closed, trying to control her breathing, trying to calm the chaos in her guts. As exhaustion claimed her, she could feel the cold wetness of the snow beneath her already creep through the thick layers of her clothing, but even though she knew she should grab a handful of that snow under her palms to try and wash out her mouth with it, she just couldn't be bothered to move at all. Her head was still throbbing with the sheer violent force of her headache, and even though the nagging feeling of nausea seemed to have at least somewhat lessened now, she knew it would only give her a fleeting, momentary respite.

Letting out a deep sigh, Lothíriel could not quite keep the frustration from tensing up her body all over again (although she knew it would just serve to worsen the headache all over again). Stress really had taken a toll on her for the last few weeks, and this right here had to be the most annoying side-effect of all! Because usually she never got sick like that; even as a child she had been hale and hearty – hours of running naked at the beach had given her quite the immune system, and not even the cold chill of the North had been able to gnaw away at that.

Now, however, for the past few weeks, ever since they had returned from their prolonged stay in the South, her body had been weakened. Battling exhaustion and, at the same time, restlessness, headaches that plagued her for days, and, slowly but surely wearing her down, a sick stomach that sometimes would not even allow her to put on a dressing gown in the morning before she already had to bolt from the bed to grab hold of her chamber pot.

Of course, she knew, and understood so perfectly, that it was but a mere result of her strained relationship with her king that had drained her of her last strength. To pretend to be strong, to be above it all, to be hopeful in the face of bleak reality, to be stead-fast in face of her own treachery – it had become too much for her body to take. However, she knew the strain it had put on her soul was much harder to bear, and the stain it had left there was much, much darker than she would have ever thought possible.

Unbidden came to her again the memories of the night before, the talk that had filled her with hopes only to dash it, the bitter truth she had been forced to swallow, the pain they had inflicted on each other, and on themselves. Lothíriel hissed in pain, although this time it was not one made of a physical nature. And she remembered as well the look on her king's face as he had chanced upon her and his best friend, seeing only what he wanted to see, and the memory of it alone would have been enough to make her sick to her stomach again (had she really been foolish enough to think she could ever forget that look?).

How could she bear to go back after this?

How could she even begin to put her life – their life – back together after this?

She knew, and she understood so with a brutal clarity, that he would never forgive her for this. No matter how many apologies she would utter, no matter how many silent nods he would bless her with, she knew in her heart that he would never truly forgive her for the treason she had committed in his eyes on this day here. And even if he were to pretend to forgive her – a lie that would rob him off his idea of an honest self (and yet another thing she had taken from him) – she knew his pride, his sense of integrity, his heart would never allow him to hold on to the charade for long.

And could she really live with a man that despised her for the wounds she had inflicted on his honour, the scars she had etched onto his sense of loyalty, the wounds she had branded into his soul? How could she bear to go back to a man that surely hated her in all but the name? And would it not be worse even than the weeks and weeks of silence as they lived past one another; sharing the same meals, sharing the same bed, sharing each other's bodies but never their souls? Weeks of passionless encounters; weeks of desperate love-making that could neither speak of love nor of the making of it; weeks of hungry embraces that yet never satisfied the yearning hungering in their guts? Weeks of –

Weeks?!

The queen's eyes snapped open in an instant, for a moment too stunned to think, still trying to process the line of thought her overwhelmed mind had been following here. For some reason (and a part of her mind knew very well the reason for it) it was in that precise moment that the queen remembered her mother, fair and fragile Lhinneth. The sweat upon her brow, the pallor of her skin, the hand that had been placed protectively upon her mother's belly not yet rounded with the secret she carried under her heart. Lothíriel had still been a child the very last time she had seen her mother in that delicate condition, and, in fact, it had been the first time she had been old enough to understand the delicate danger of it.

Don't fear for me, little swanling, her mother had calmed her down back then – the nickname she would come to hate so much later on when it would be used by her aunt Ivriniel to patronise and mock her, back then it had still been sweet and comforting to her when it had come from her mother's loving lips – new life never came easy into the world. It fights to live, and no fight is ever won without at least a few scars to show for it.

You're like a soldier then?, she remembered her younger self asking then with a childish forehead etched in deep, thoughtful frowns, and her mother who had only smiled that loving smile, as amused as she had been touched by her daughter's innocent reasoning, keeping her own thoughts and fears well to herself as she had allowed young Lothíriel to dwell on her simple truths and simple hope, Well, then, you'll be the bravest soldier of them yet!

And she remembered so well that her mother had only ever smiled, even then, even at the end of all things. She had smiled and smiled, not knowing (or, perhaps, who knew, perhaps, she had known all along?) that this would be her final fight. And when the battle had been lost in the end, everyone and everything else had been lost alongside it.

With a jolt the queen was torn out of her memories, at last realising, at last understanding, at last seeing what had been as crystal clear as the surface of the sea, if she had only been able to look past the mist of doubt and tragedy. With a quickly ungloved hand flying to her stomach – a gesture so similar to her mother's in her memory that it pained her almost physically – Lothíriel closed her eyes again and let go of the breath she hadn't known she had been holding in a deep and shaky sigh.

Have you dreamed of the river running yet?, she remembered the question of her lord father, always waiting there at the end of his many letters, a veiled meaning hidden behind vicious expectations and polite phrasing. Everyone growing up by the sea knew the meaning of that phrase, as water had always been life to them, and even so much as the promise of water might promise new life in return. Have you dreamed of water yet?, she recalled once more, the words burrowing itself into her heart, and out of the same dark, twisted depths her own words rose as an answer: I am not dreaming now, I am already drowning in the waters that surround me.

Why now?

Ulmo, save me!

Why now?!

In her heart joy and relief were now mingled with fear and grief, and regret most of all. Because while a part of her rejoiced that her prayers for a child had been answered at long last – and she did not doubt it at all, the distant Elvish blood in her keenly perceiving the truth of it – hoping against hope that it would be the solution to the troubles that had been plaguing her since the beginning of her marriage, she also knew that it could not simply untwist the vines distrust and miscommunication had twisted around this queen and her wayward king.

Perhaps Éomer would invite her back into the Golden Hall of Meduseld, if she were to present him with a possible heir under her breast? But he would take her back as her king only, not as her lord and husband, and whatever form of forgiveness she could hope for, would be tied to the child at best. If the child would even be enough, that is, a dark voice in the back of her mind whispered then, and the chill that went down her back had nothing to do with the white winds howling around her or the snow under her. Who was to say the mighty warrior-king of the Mark would not cling to his jealousy and give voice to it in wrathful words seeding doubts about the legitimacy of the child?

Almost as quickly as the thought had dared to come sneak into her mind, she rejected it again. The queen had come to know her king as a man of honour above all else, a man who would not stoop so low as to cast her and her child aside, even if jealous tongues were to whisper and hiss the name bastard.

Not even if there were a better bastard already at hand?, the cruel voice in the back of her mind snarled again, even more viciously this time, and the queen could not help but think of young Ætta and her baby boy Aldred in that moment. A bastard son born of the king, born of the Mark, with a truer blood than her child would ever have. My child will be no bastard, she tried to remind herself, trying to find the courage to pull her mind out of this downward spiral of doubts and fears, even while her own mind was working against her, feeding those very same doubts and fears.

No bastard in the queen's belly?, the vicious voice in the back of her mind hissed again (or perhaps it were the white winds of snow howling next to her ears), and this time there was a dark chuckle at the end that reminded her of her own lord father, or even worse, her late aunt Ivriniel, come back to haunt her with her mocking condescension, I wonder if your Horse-Lord will be as eager to listen to the truth after what he saw in the stables?

'No.'

The single word was pressed out through clenched teeth as Lothíriel opened her eyes with a flash, and with a strength she had not known she still had the queen forced herself to get up on her knees. Trembling from the chill of the winter storm and the ferocity of her feelings, the queen had to support herself with her hands on the snow, to keep herself from falling over, to keep herself from being swept away by the winds all around her, to keep herself from exploding from all the things she felt in that moment. Teeth clenched under the pressure, grinding, jaws set; hands that turned to fists, the snow that melted in the hollow of her palms, to become water once again.

There had always been power in water for her.

Rise with the tides!

'No. I will not give in to despair.', she hissed as she pushed herself off the ground with her palms, to sit back against the heels of her feet.

'I will not give in to doubt.', she growled, louder this time, as she forced herself up on her feet, to stand proud once more.

'I will not give in to fear.', she swore, not even the shadow of a tremble in her voice now, as she straightened her back, to rise her fullest height.

'I am Lothíriel, queen of the Riddermark, and I will weather this storm.', she promised to herself then, and to the very elements of nature as well, as it would seem, as not even the whitening winds around her could deter her from re-claiming her strength as the queen she was. And for a moment, indeed, as she breathed the fresh, cool air all around her, she felt as though the path before her were as clear to her as it had never been before. The secret she now carried under her heart had set the path for her, and it was on her now to find the courage to tread it.

Now, if only she knew where the fuck she actually was, then, surely, she could make –

All of the sudden then, the wild neighing of her mare pulled her out of her manically determined thoughts, and even though it took her a confused moment or two to process what was happening here, she understood quickly enough when her own ears picked up on the crunching sound of snow under heavy boots. Looking around her, she found it hard to make out anything through this wall of whiteness, but at last there came the dark shape of a person into focus.

At first, she thought it might be her lord and husband who had come after her – to take her back or to confront her – but as she called out to the shadow, she was not entirely sure wherein the reason for the shaking of her voice lay, relief or anxiety? Understandably, though, given the way they had parted. And even when he didn't respond to her calling out to him, she didn't think it odd or suspicious at first – although, her mare Cwén was whickering ever more wildly, chomping restlessly at the bit, and the hairs in the back of her neck stood up in a tension she as of yet could not quite place. But when the one shape split up to become three distinct shades of men, she understood at last what was happening here.

This was an ambush and she would be the victim of it.

Scrambling to figure out what to do, the queen who had turned to princess in her mental overload, felt the panic in her rising. There was a part of her that wanted nothing more in that moment than to tuck tail and run as far and wide and as fast as she possibly could. And yet, she stood her ground. She knew taking flight blindly would only lead her to walk straight into this trap. Showing fear only ever enticed the wolves of men further, and she'd had more than enough experience with these particular wolves of men.

Oh, yes, Ulmo save her, she had indeed.

So, instead of abandoning herself to the fear within, she strove to show strength without.

'I – I am Lothíriel Queen, wife of Éomer, Lord of the Mark. Great rewards shall await you, if you aid my safe return back to Edoras.', she spoke then at last, hoping against hope that her voice did not tremble as much as she feared it would, knowing that confidence would, surely, be the best option here, even if she felt anything but confident about the claims she made. After all, after the betrayal he believed to have received at her hands this morning, how confident could she really be that her king would still be glad to have her back, much less pay for her safe return with money that they did not have to spare? But Lothíriel forbade herself such thoughts, shaking her head, trying to rid herself of them, and instead intent on putting all of her focus on playing the self-assured queen with the calm authority that she needed – although she doubted much that her next words sounded as certain and strict as she would have hoped them to be, 'Hinder me, and it will go badly for you.'

For a moment then, after she had spoken, there was only silence. It seemed as though neither side even dared to breathe nor to move; both sides caught in a frayed balance, waiting for the other to make a decision. Around them all – woman, men, horse – the white winds howled, tearing at them from all sides, angrily beating against their resolve, laying them bare. But when it reached its crescendo at last, there was only silence, stretching out between them, with the knowledge of what had come to pass and what would inevitably follow only ever shades in the mist.

The eye of the storm.

And then the decision was made.

The sound of blades being pulled from scabbards tore through the howling of the winds – for indeed the winds had returned with a wrath only the gods could have conjured – and she knew it so well to be the sound of it, because she had spent enough evenings to the sound of a blade being sharpened to recognise the sound of it being unsheathed. The breath she hadn't known she had held was wrenched from her breast in a gasp of panic, but even as she staggered backwards blindly, she felt in her heart with a sudden clarity the resolve and fight to live – no matter the cost – because now, even though she might have lost all her hope of redemption, there was still something she had to live for.

With an instinct still new to her, one of her hands flew to her belly, still hiding the secret she now carried under her heart, while the other hand stretched out towards the three shadowy figures slowly but surely closing in on her. Above all else, she knew she wanted to protect the unborn child within her. Not because it was the heir she had prayed for, for so many weeks and months, but because it was hers and because it was good, the only good think to come out of all of this … and because it was the child of the man she loved.

There was a soothing strength flooding her as she allowed herself to think these words for the very first time, and even though she had forbidden herself the very thought of it for so long, a part of her must have always felt – even if not outright known – in her that they were the truth. Now, she knew; now at last she understood the feelings that had been slowly but surely building up inside of her; now at last she had the strength to accept that it was what it was.

Love.

Not the pure and simple love, perhaps, that the bards sang of, but it was love all the same. Twisted and strong, like the roots of a tree buried deep within her heart. And while it might have taken a long time for that tree to take root and to blossom, she knew for her husband the seed of that tree had been there all along, flowering and growing long before either one of them had even been aware of it. And she also knew that no matter how strong or old that tree in her heart might be, no matter how withered by weathering storms it had become during that first tumultuous year of their marriage, to have it uprooted now by the crude swing of a sword, would surely kill the tree and the man it belonged to.

I can't lose you, he had confessed to her in the dark once.

You won't lose me, she had comforted him with her promise in the dark then.

She had made a promise, and she intended to fucking keep it.

As the three men stepped into focus then, their faces still obscured by the hoods of their dark capes pulled low, the queen felt the dagger her brother had bestowed upon her as her parting gift all those months ago become a heavy weight on her belt. However, even though her fingers itched to grab hold of it, even if only to have a weapon in her hand and to ease the feeling of helplessness with anything really at this point, she withstood the impulse with the last bits of common sense and reason she had left. She knew she was no trained fighter, and she understood perfectly that even that little dagger would not help her put up much of a fight against three opponents with longswords at the ready, who seemed to have at least some skill with the blade.

Quite the contrary; if anything, it was a sure-fire way to get herself killed.

So, rather than going for the simplest and most foolish choice of action, the queen instead opted for a safer and much more tactical strategy. She knew that her mare Cwén, who was by now chomping at the bit with quite some agitation, neighing frantically and throwing her head back and forth, was by far a much more successful deterrent than her aimless brandishing of a dagger ever would. (Of course, she would much rather prefer simply jumping on the back of her mare, and ride off, but she was not a total fool, and she knew perfectly well that it would be akin to suicide to try and mount her mare in the agitated condition the beast was in.) She knew that as long as she stuck close to the agitated horse that the three men would not dare to come too close.

So, that's what she did.

Whenever the mare moved, so did she. Of course, she meticulously made sure to always keep the frantic beast between herself and the men, and, surprisingly enough, her plan seemed to be rather successful, as the men might have tried to advance whenever they perceived an opening, but whenever the mare reared up in wrath, the men stepped back in fright, rightfully hesitant. Her plan worked so well in fact that there was even the hope in her, at least for a moment, that they might very well lose interest in her altogether, as they had probably expected her to be an easy victim, instead of one presenting them with such difficulty.

Indeed, she noticed their hesitation regarding the horse; and it wasn't long before it got her thinking. Because she realised that while the three men were actively trying to advance on the animal, so as to slip past it and to get to her, they did not harm the mare, making her wonder, naturally, at the implications of it. It was in that moment then that she remembered, as if she had heard it in a dream, long ago, the words of her own husband that he had used once to describe the most important tenet of the faith of Béma.

The Rohirrim do not harm horses; it is sacrilege to us.

Her thoughts came to a standstill as the realisation made her freeze in shock and her eyes widen.

They are –

But then the first arrow flew past her ear and she knew she had hoped for too much.

She had not noticed one of the men carrying a crossbow when they had first stepped into her field of vision before, but then again, with the snowflakes whirling all around them and the howling of the winds tearing at them, it was easy to overlook such details, especially if one were untrained in the art of war like her. This, of course, presented the whole situation in a completely different light, and she decided that she would rather take her chances with her crazed mare than be at the receiving end of one of their arrows. Therefore, she did not hesitate as she addressed her mare with the words she knew would get through to the fair beast at last.

'Cwén. Lasto beth nîn. Buio!'

As soon as she had said those words, an immediate change came over the mare. Although there was still tension and anxiety palpable, the horse had stopped its pacing and its rearing, and instead moved to allow her better access. It was a clear invitation, and one the queen was only too happy to accept. However, just in the moment when she had managed to put her left foot in the stirrup, ready to pull herself up into the saddle by holding on to the saddle horn, a swishing sound echoed through the air, and then a sudden jolt went through the mare, followed by a terrible shriek; and when Cwén reared up then, Lothíriel was effectively and quite unceremoniously thrown off and onto her back.

Momentarily numbed by her hard fall, the queen was slow to process what had just happened, and she was even slower to react to it. But as she saw her mare rear up, again and again, standing on its hind legs, only to stomp back onto the ground, head shaking wildly, whickering madly, her eyes found the source of her agitation, and she understood with a sudden terror that it were not sounds of aggression but sounds of pain. There in the mare's right shoulder blade, protruding horrifically, stuck the ugly, black shaft of an arrow.

However, the queen had little time for pity for her mare in that moment, nor for revenge neither it would seem. With eyes widened in alarm, Lothíriel was forced to roll to the side and out of the way of the stomping hooves of the crazed animal, scrambling to get back up on her feet. Entirely taken over by panic and pain, the mare probably wasn't even aware of the fact that it had very nearly trampled its own rider, and the queen knew that in this condition her once so loyal companion could prove to be as much of a danger to her than to the men that had come to kill her.

About this fact there could be no doubts whatsoever.

Still, despite it all, when the first of the three men decided to come charge at her – now that the mare seemed sufficiently distracted so as to be conveniently eliminated – Lothíriel's first impulse was to draw her brother's dagger from her belt and to swing it at the man, to have him back off from her and her mare. Because, crazed horse or not, she was still the fucking queen of the Riddermark and that was still her fucking mare that they had the fucking gall to shoot at!

The first swing she took at the man was neither graceful nor powerful, but as the man had not expected her to come at him swinging a blade at all, it was at least effective enough to have him jump back in a motion of caution. Of course, that first move of defence was nothing more than a sheer stroke of luck, and she knew well that it would only be a matter of time until that luck would run out. She was no fighter and they were three of them; and where each of them held a long and shiny blade, hers was a mere dagger, fancy rather than useful.

Nevertheless, she was determined not to give up so easily.

She owed that to the child she carried.

She owed that to the man she loved.

And most of all, she fucking owed that to herself.

With her fingers gripping the hilt of the dagger tighter, the queen stepped to the side, evading (surprisingly enough, most of all for her) the first swing of a sword – not by the grace of any combat training, mind you, but rather with the instinctual sense of movement relentlessly trained into a dancer like her. Not that it would do her much good in the long run, she mused bitterly, but for now – and between that and the wildly kicking horse at her side – it would serve her well enough.

Speaking of the wildly kicking horse – it was in that moment that her mare Cwén decided to rear up again, and the danger of being very nearly struck by two volatile hooves had the three men shrink back in fright for a moment. With a grim smile tucking at the corners of her mouth, the queen decided not to look that particular gift horse in the fucking mouth; if it helped to keep these cut-throats at bay, she wasn't one to stop her mare from running wild here. Although, of course, she knew that this was a stand-off that offered only momentary respite; she knew it would only be a matter of time before they would gain the upper hand, and when that would inevitably happen, she knew it would mean death for her as well as for her mare.

I can't let that happen.

I made a promise.

Gritting her teeth, Lothíriel fortified her stance, remembering what little her brother Amrothos had tried to teach her once about close-combat fighting (before he had inevitably given up such hopeless pursuits, bored, and had instead turned to more liquid and more enjoyable company of more questionable repute). With one arm holding out the sharpened blade of the dagger as a warning, ready to strike, she held up the other elbow as her shield in case of an attack; she knew it would do little in the way of defence if an actual blow with a sword were to hit her – but better her arm than her neck, she thought.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her mare rear up, again and again, but other than making sure not to get hit by one of those kicking hooves herself, she did not have the time to check up on her animal companion any further, even as her heart bled for it. Tucked away in an aching, traumatised part of her heart was the sight of blood gushing onto snow, marring the white of it with an ugly red – she was sure, however, that the shrieks of pain would never leave her again for the rest of her life.

However long that might be.

An attack from the side pulled her out of her anxious thoughts then and the queen was able to jump out of its path just in time for it to miss taking out her eye. And, of course, calm and calculated common sense would have demanded her to keep her cool; instead, like an impulsive and panicking fool, she found herself trying to get her attacker to back off again by taking her own swing at him. However, in doing so, she lost her footing in the snow for just a moment – a distraction for which she was about to pay dearly.

She never even saw the sword coming, not even a flash of it out of the corner of her eye, before the blade hit her, cutting from her left shoulder blade all the way down to her lower back. With a cry of anguish strangled in her throat she stumbled blindly forward, trying to regain her balance, trying to see through the tears of pain, all the while swinging aimlessly at the three shadows dancing all around her. Shock made her movements slow and at the same time erratic, and the feeling of the cold against the burning, red wound at her back, bleeding through her torn clothes, overwhelmed her quickly.

She had known what it was to be afraid for her life before, and she realised quickly that her thinking was rapidly shutting down and panic was taking over. Now, she knew that to go crazy with fear now would be nothing short of a death sentence, and the only thing that could save her now, was to keep a cool head – but the pain in her back was killing her and her hands would just not stop shaking and her thoughts would not stop spiralling. In her mind, images were chasing each other: a horse bleeding in the snow, shrieking with fear, shrieking among the flames, running towards her; men with swords, red dulling the reflection, laughing as they slashed and cut and grabbed and butchered.

Before her eyes the world blurred into a shapeless nightmare of shades and white terror, but she could no longer say if it was the pain in her back blinding her or the tears streaming down her cheeks. Panic made her world spin, and every sound became a dull, throbbing pain in her ear. Around her the white, howling winds were beating down on her, tearing at her clothes as if to rip away the very last shreds of protection she might have, but the shaking that was wrecking her body had little to do with the cold gnawing away at her.

She was going into shock.

Lothíriel realised that fact with an almost dispassionate amount of clarity, while at the same time another part of her mind was going into overdrive. In her breast her heart beat ever more violently, almost painfully so, as though knowing that the end was nigh, and yet still beating on desperately, foolishly clinging to life. Her breathing quickened, short gulps and gasps that did little to give her the air she needed; she was hyperventilating at that point, feeling dizzy from more than just the blood loss.

Perhaps she would pass out before the end.

Perhaps that would be a mercy.

Next to her, she was vaguely aware of her mare Cwén rearing up again, throwing its head wildly back and forth, whickering madly, and it was as if the loyal beast sensed her own pain, sharing it as they both shared a wound by their attackers. At this rate, she'll bleed out soon enough, the queen thought then, and the thought was so detached from her own shell-shocked body and mind that she wasn't even sure anymore if she meant the horse or herself.

Will they bury us together, in a burial mound in the Barrowfield before the gates of Edoras?, she wondered bitterly then, remembering with an almost manic fascination the time her king had told her of the Rohirrim custom of burying horse and rider together, always together, as they were bonded, even in death. Her desperate, distraught mind, unhinged by pain and hopelessness, was darting from thought to thought, like a dying leaf caught in a gust of wind, racing towards the eye of the storm.

No, they mustn't put me in the ground.

I am of the sea, and to the sea I must return.

A boat, a boat will be waiting for me.

The tides are already calling … already calling … the tides are calling …

The tides ….

The tides …

Rise with the tides!

With the words of her ancient house echoing in her head, Lothíriel was shaken out of her stupor at long last – or had that sound actually been the wild whickering of her mare Cwén, rearing up in alarm, a sound of warning above all else, or had it even been the sound of a blade whirling through the air? Whatever it had been in the end that had made her snap out of her shell-shocked state, it happened at just the right fucking time.

Because no sooner had her eyes regained their focus – no sooner had her muscles started to listen to her command again – than she already saw the bright, sharp sword coming her way. Instinctively she raised her left arm – the only shield she had, albeit one made of nothing but flesh and clothes – to parry the blow, and when that blade hit her, she could have sworn it cut through her flesh, right down to the very bone.

It all happened very quickly then – although in her adrenaline-fuelled state of mind, it seemed to happen in slow-motion. The sword that slashed her arm open hit her with such a momentum that it knocked her straight to the ground. With a gasp of air she crashed onto the snow, and even if she had wanted to scream out in agony, she would not have been able to, as the moment her back – still bleeding profusely from the wound she had received earlier – collided with the ground, the air was driven out of her with such a force that she could hardly breathe.

Gasping desperately for air– like a fish wrenched from the sea, left to squirm and flail on land, left to die a wretched death – Lothíriel scrambled to get back up again. The last thing she wanted was to be cut down as she was lying at their feet. But even as she saw her attackers advance on her again, swords raised, ready for the strike … even as she grasped for her brother's dagger, that must have slipped for her hand as she had hit the ground before, she knew it would not do much to prevent the inevitable from happening.

Red marred the white pureness all around her, her blood staining the snow, her life flowing out of her – the sight made her feel sick to her stomach. Is that what it had felt like for her friends, that dreadful night in the City of Men? The thought made her tremble, and once it had taken hold inside of her head, she could not un-think it. She had always thought that she would be able to meet death with a brave face at least (even if not with real courage), but never would she have thought it to be like this. Unable to move, sick with fear, awaiting the end with no more fight left in her, and yet, in that moment she would have endured anything to be able to go on living – for herself, for the life she carried within, and for the man she loved.

But there was simply nothing she could do.

She had fought and she had lost.

'You traitorous bitch, this is how we deal with enemies of the Mark!', a cruel, bitter voice snarled then, cutting, even through the snow storm around them, but she was way past feeling hurt by its bite at this point.

Her eyes closed as a sword rushed towards her.

I can't lose you, he had begged her in the dark.

You won't lose me, she had lied to him in the dark.

But the dreaded blow of the blade never came. Instead, lo and behold! a shadow darkened the sky for a moment, and then frantic whickering broke the silence of her last hour, and when her eyes snapped open at that, they widened at the scene that unfolded before her. In front of her stood the massive shape of her mare Cwén, and Lothíriel knew, she just knew that her loyal companion must have jumped between her and her attackers at the very last second, ready to defend its mistress at any cost.

The agitated horse with the queenly name reared up again, standing up on its hind legs, kicking out her forelegs in a series of frenetic movements that had the three attackers jump back in fright – though not all three of them were as quick in their reflexes as they should have been. The man closest to her – whose blade still glistened with the red of her blood – had only time enough to raise both his arms in an instinctive motion of self-defence before two hooves came crashing down upon him with a cracking sound as loud as thunder itself. Fatally struck, the lifeless body sagged to the ground, only to twitch around there in a puddle of blood and brains for a few more seconds, before it stilled at long last … with a sense of foreboding fatality.

Lothíriel gasped audibly at the horror she had just witnessed – though, perhaps, it might as well have been a sound of utter disbelief, or even simply an impulsive reaction of twisted relief. She had most certainly known horses to be a force to be reckoned with – mighty in their prowess, beautiful in their grace, dangerous in their moments of frenzy – but seeing it with her own eyes was something else altogether. A part of her felt most certainly shocked at the utter brutality of the scene, disgusted by it even, though another part of her could not deny the rush she also felt.

One does not simply mess with a fucking queen.

Grasping for her brother's dagger, and holding on to it for dear life, Lothíriel Queen forced herself back up on her feet; and even though the pain in her back and in her arm tore through her, and even though the blood loss made a feel dizzy and sick, she stood stall and she stood strong. Because even though she had been as surprised as her attackers by this sudden shift of power, she could not deny the thrill she felt at realising that, at least for a moment, the scales of balance seemed to have been tipped in her favour.

And in that moment – that fateful moment – she allowed herself the danger of hoping.

The sound of air being sliced by the speed of an unstoppable object sobered the high of that hope however, and when she followed the direction of that sound the next thing she saw was a second arrow burrowing itself into the neck of her mare Cwén, having the loyal beast rear up once more, though not in righteous rage this time but in agony and fright. The horse whickered wildly in shock, though the sound came off only as thin and weak, and when she saw blood spluttering from the animal's nostrils, it filled her with the dreadful realisation of what was happening before her eyes.

Her mare was dying.

'CWÉN!', she shouted in fright then, watching with dread as her wounded companion stopped its prancing, only to land back on its forelegs, now shaking under the pain, nearly collapsing under its own weight. But even as she saw its eyes threaten to roll back into its head, the white very nearly taking over the lively colour that had once spoken out of its gaze; even as she felt her own heart clench together with concern in a vice-like grip, she would not have been able to help her. Because just in that moment the two attackers that remained decided to go in for the kill.

Clutching her wounded arm to her breast, Lothíriel tried her best to swing her brother's dagger in front of her in a wide, half-circle motion, again and again, hoping it would be enough to at least hold them at bay long enough … long enough for what?! She had been so caught up by the thrilling hope of possible victory that she had momentarily forgotten that these men carried something more than just swords in their hands and something less than honour in their hearts – and now her loyal beast would pay the price for her foolishness, and so would she. No, she thought then, as the realisation slowly began to sink it, no one can save me now except myself.

'Cwén. Lasto beth nîn.', the queen spoke again through gritted teeth, and she didn't need to turn her head – and she wouldn't have been able to anyway as she was more than just kept busy with swinging her dagger in a last-ditch effort to try and keep their attackers at bay – and look over to her horse to know that the mare had heard her words. The bond between horse and rider was strong enough still for her to try trust that her loyal companion would heed the command of her voice forever and always.

'Buio, mellon-nîn.', Lothíriel added then, though this time the word sounded less like a command and more like a plea, or like a promise almost, an oath a rider made to their faithful steed, that this was less an act of obeisance and more an act of friendship, and that they would not ask more of the other than they were able to give. And then she sensed more than she saw as the mighty mare found the last of its strength, to rise to its full height once more, and then, for the last time, the queen of horses reared up in a terrible display of deterrence – forelegs that kicked every which way, head that was thrown from side to side, a sound of wild whickering that echoed off into the world of white.

It was sight truly worthy of a horse of the Rohirrim, and indeed, it was surely a sight that would have inspired a thousand and one epic poems and ballads, to be passed down from generation to generation, to forever praise the steadfast courage of a mare who was one of the Méaras in all but the name. It was a sight truly worthy of a queen of horses, and the queen witnessing it all could not help the hot tears that rolled down her cheeks even as her chest swelled with pride and gratefulness.

Indeed, it was a sight that had an effect on all that beheld it; but while it filled her with hope, it meant death and dread to the two attackers that remained. Falling back for several feet, the men eyed the prancing beast with wide-eyed terror, and it was an understandable reaction too – as they had witnessed their own comrade being struck down by those very same hooves before, and his body was not nearly cold enough to be forgotten already.

Well, Lothíriel, for her part, intended to put that distraction to good fucking use. Mindful of the kicking hooves herself, she rounded her mare to stand on its left side (with her left arm wounded and practically unusable, there was simply no other way), and when the right moment had come, and the loyal beast stood still for just a moment, the horse queen put her left boot in the stirrup and her right hand on the saddle horn and simply pulled herself up into the saddle with an effective albeit ungraceful swing. Her heart warmed with the memory of who it had been that had taught her to mount a horse so effortlessly, but she knew she could not waste any time on sentimentalism now. Clutching her wounded arm along with her brother's dagger to her chest, her right hand held the reins in an iron grip, and with a shouted command from her lips, the mare flew into a breathtakingly fast gallop.

'Noro lim, Cwén, noro lim!'

On and on they went, faster and faster. The landscape blew past both rider and horse in a blur of white. The howling of the winds pushed the swirling masses of snowflakes into her face, although – whether through the cold or the speed with which they moved along – the fluffy flakes felt more like crystals as they raked across her cheeks; the sleet so icy it burned her skin. The winds and the cold and the ice made her shut her eyes before long – but even if she had managed to keep them open, she would have been blind to the danger she had thought to have left well behind.

She neither saw nor heard the bolt before it bore itself into her left shoulder – like lightning that struck a tree to cleave it asunder – but the effect was immediate. She never screamed, she never even had the chance to. With a gasp of pain the air was driven out of her chest and for a moment the whole of her body tensed up in a motion of shock – before it went limp like a de-boned fish and she sagged over in her saddle. But even as her head swam with dizziness and her body hunched over in exhaustion and agony, so that her face was pressed into the mane of her mare, so that the reins slid from the grasp of her hand, she still noted with a surprising amount of detachment the precise moment she slipped from the back of her horse and fell.

I can't lose you.

You won't lose me.

The fall itself was a short-lived affair, and ended swiftly enough as she landed on the ground. Her landing, however, wasn't a simple thing. When she had crashed onto the white floor, she could have counted herself lucky for the soft snow that cushioned her fall somewhat, had it not been for the fact that the force of her fall and the impact on the ground had made her body roll on for several feet before she came to a standstill at last.

I can't lose you.

You won't lose me.

Now, lying there face-down in the snow, Lothíriel queen fought hard to catch her breath and, more importantly, she fought even harder to not lose consciousness. However, between the burning pain in her back, arm and shoulder and the cold biting through her clothes and flesh from below, she knew she was fighting a quickly losing battle. It was only a matter of time before the shock or the blood loss or the cold would have her pass out, and thus she found herself trying everything and all to remain conscious.

I can't lose you.

You won't lose me.

Her hands groped in search of her brother's dagger that had fallen off alongside her, and she crawled forward on the snow-covered ground even as her left arm and back and shoulder burned and bled from the effort it took. Calling out to her mare, that had ridden on for a while before it became aware of its rider's absence, the animal then neighed desperately in response, turning around and doubled back towards her. But even as the faithful beast sped back towards her, a part of her knew (Elvish blood bore Elvish gifts) that it would be too late.

I can't lose you.

You won't lose you.

Her mare Cwén was galloping towards her in full speed, her whickering a cry of yearning to help her, but just in the moment that the horse would have reached her, the shadowy figure of one of her attackers jumped right in front of her, brandishing his longsword in a manner so wild and wrathful that the loyal beast came to an abrupt halt in front of them, only to rear up in fright once more – and what else could one have expected from a horse not trained for battle? And even as the animal tried to fend off the blade being swung its way, Lothíriel could hear the crunching sound of snow under boots, and she knew the second attacker had returned, crossbow in hand, aimed at her mare, ready to put it to use for a third and final time.

'Cwén!', she shouted in warning then even as she knew that the horse would not be able to heed it in the midst of it all. But even as she realised the possible futility of her future actions, she was determined not to remain helpless and useless this time – she was determined not to let history repeat itself. In her mind's eye she saw the laughing faces of her friends twisted into pain and terror, gazes that widened in panic before they saw no more. In her mind's eye she saw the image of the burning horse that fateful night, heard the wild whickering piercing her heart, smelled the burned flesh turn her stomach.

No, I will never again stand idly by and watch others suffer.

As the second attacker stepped in front of her and aimed his weapon high, Lothíriel reacted instinctively. With a growl from a place so deep within she had not known she had it, the queen lying at his feet raised her brother's dagger and sank it deep down into her enemy's foot without mercy – piercing leather, skin, flesh and bone as it went – and twisting it for good measure.

The man screamed in agony, even as he let the bolt fly, but as she had anticipated – and hoped for – the arrow missed its deadly mark and instead only cut through the air before vanishing inside the wall of white winds around them. Understandably albeit brutishly predictably the man turned to her in his wrath now, and with a nasty kick to her head he exacted his revenge. But even as the queen felt the metallic taste of blood fill her mouth, she found grim satisfaction in the fact that it had been her hand holding the dagger that had saved her friend's life this time.

'Maetho, Cwén, maetho!', she shouted once more, filled with righteous anger, filled with a determination she had rarely known before – but had she had the grace to be kind with herself, then she would have known that it was the same kind of determination that would not let her allow her people to be led into war, not even if it meant breaking the heart of the man she loved. It was the determination of a queen that fiercely protected that which she loved and had learned to trust in the ones who loved her to protect her in return.

And her mare Cwén reared up then, one last time, in response to her words, but even as the loyal beast did so, the queen knew that it understood – and she knew it so well because at heart horse and rider were one. With a wild whickering then that echoed across the snowy plains, and resounded very much like a farewell in her heart, the animal stood up on its hind-legs, ready to defend its mistress at all costs.

The two attackers, momentarily distracted by the furious beast in front of them, forgot to keep their eyes on their target, and what a foolish mistake it had been. Wasting no second, Lothíriel lunged for her brother's dagger again, and with a fierce hiss she pulled it from her enemy's foot with one swift motion. The attacker screamed once more, even louder this time, but even though blood was gushing from his wound, marring the white snow at his feet, splattering onto the face of the woman he had come to kill, the man, predictably, turned to her to finish her once and for all.

Well, the queen was ready for him.

Using her ruined arm to push her body up with the last of her strength, Lothíriel used her right arm to swing it with just enough momentum to push the blade into her opponent's groin, and even though her ungloved fingers had long lost any feeling due to the biting cold, she did feel the soft flesh yield to the sharp cut and the torrent of red hot blood that followed it as she pulled out the knife with a wicked twist and brutal force. With a cry of anguish the man stumbled back then only to fall to the ground, and there he squirmed in pain, writhing in his own blood, colouring the white underneath with the red of his own.

In the aftermath of it all, several things happened all at once. Her mare Cwén neighed even more wildly; the sound so loud and deafening it almost drowned out the howling of the winter storm. The other attacker, alarmed by the sound of his comrade screaming in pain, turned towards the noise – and even from her point of view down in the snow, she could see his eyes widening in shock as he witnessed his companion inexplicably but undeniably bleeding out on the white ground. His shock, however, turned to rage quickly enough, and with his nostrils flared and his jaws clenched together the man raised his sword to deal the death blow to her and –

All of the sudden then, a flash of steel flew through the air, and in the next second a long and massive but crude broadsword was stuck in her attacker's torso, cutting the man so deep that it was buried up to the hilt in the man's flesh. Her would-be killer, completely taken by surprise, still had his arm raised in the moment of attack, but other than a gurgling sound mixed with blood spluttering from his lips, there was simply nothing he could have offered in opposition to this ruthless and devious attack from ambush. And with his eyes rolling back into his head, the attacker simply sank to the ground.

Dead.

With a gasp that was as much surprise as it was relief, Lothíriel, however, had little time to count her blessings. Because while her mind was still racing to figure out where that broadsword had come from and who would have been able to throw such a bloody massive weapon – and with such ease and such precision no less – the figure of a man stepped into her field of vision that could not have been described with any words other than fierce and wild and frightening.

Instinctively, the queen's hand clutched her brother's dagger tighter, ready to defend herself even as she knew that it would be pointless; the wounds she had received and the blood loss that had followed had left her severely weakened, and the fight had given her the rest. That was not to say that she would have been foolish enough to think that she could have ever stood even the slightest of chances against such an opponent as she saw before her now.

The man was large, larger than any man she had ever seen. Clad all in black furs and with his black hair unkempt well past his shoulders, he looked more beast than man really as he stepped towards the person he had just killed with a single throw of his sword and simply wrenched the blade out of the body's flesh, without so much as flinching at the sights or sounds it caused.

Lothíriel flinched; her whole body wincing at the callousness of the action, and she could feel her stomach rebelling at the sights and at the sounds, though that might as well have simply been the shock of the whole situation unfolding before her. And as if in a trance she watched as that beast of a man advanced on her mare with three long, assertive steps, as though the kicking hooves of the prancing animal could not touch him. But before she could have raised her voice or her dagger in protest, the wild man simply reached out with his hand, almost as if to touch the horse, to have it calm down with gentle strokes.

She never saw what he did with his hand exactly; to her it looked as if his hand had formed a fist with which he simply pushed against her mare's muzzle, but for the effect it had, it might as well have been more than just that. When her animal companion reared up this time, it was neither in pain nor in rage but in simple, pure fright – and unlike before, no amount of loyalty or love would be able to master it this time. And with a heart breaking with sorrow and yet understanding, the queen watched as her mare simply turned on its heel then and vanished into the world of white with a wild neighing that sounded very much like a farewell and an apology to her – all rolled into one.

And then the wild man turned to her, and she saw now that his visage was even fiercer than the rest of him; while the lower half of his face was covered in a beard so black and thick it had to be tamed with no fewer than three braids, the rest of his face was covered in thin lines of blue tattoos. But even though Lothíriel could feel the tension wrecking her body, she held on to her brother's dagger with the fierce determination to not give up just yet. Or perhaps it was not determination at all but despair and panic instead – at least that would match the wild beating of her heart and the hopeless plea in her thoughts.

Don't kill me. I can't die yet. I made a promise.

But perhaps the words had not just been inside of her head but spoken out loud instead? Or why else would that beast of a man twist his face into a wide grin then that was all smug and predatory and showed teeth that surely had known the taste of blood before? And then the savage man had the audacity to crouch before her, as though she didn't hold a very sharp dagger in her hand, as though to signal her that it wouldn't do her much good anyway (and indeed, his own sword, used almost as if it were a cane he could casually lean on, showed her that she would not stand so much as a chance) – and he smiled still as he spoke, and not even that thick accent could hide the amusement and fascination in his words.

'Ah, an' what do we have here? One o' them Forgoil? With black hair?'

FUN FACT #1: Okay. Listen. Before you get out the pitchforks, angrily demanding for me to make this right and to write the fluff I've been promising you for n-th chapter now, let me tell you that a) chapter 43 will have some (angsty fluff) but b) chapter 42 will come before that. *ducks in fear and with a bad conscience* Please, don't burn me at the stakes!

FUN FACT #2: The identity of Lothíriel's attackers is a mystery - do you have any ideas?

FUN FACT # 3: So, that fight scene. Listen. Lothíriel is no fighter and I tried to show that what little she do in the way of defence would actually be realistic for a person with next-to-no fight training. Don't know if I succeeded. I don't feel particularly skilled at writing fight scenes. Do you think this one worked out well?

FUN FACT #4: And, yup. Lothíriel's pregnant. BOOM! *mic drop* Also, thanks so much to the reader R2_D2106 for giving me the idea to use "the dream of running water" as an indicator for a woman's pregnancy in the South. I hope I did it some justice here, mate?