The Day the Horse-Lord wed the Lady of the Seas

by Magdalenara

After the War of the Ring, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth finds herself at the reveicing end of the search for peace and prosperity by being used as a pawn in an alliance made between kings and princes. Married to the King of the Riddermark she must navigate being a stranger in a strange land, being a queen to a king, and to learn to live and love with a man she hardly knows.

42. Chapter 42

Hello my lovelies!

I am back and as I promised one chapter per month, I shall deliver it now!

YoungSkywalker: Another shout-out because this Déor-Éomer chapter shall be dedicated to you!

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42. Am I my Brother's fucking Keeper?

After his queen had long fled the scene of this crime, her king was still standing where she had left him. Éomer had not looked up when she had left in a hurry, his wounded pride and anger simply had not allowed for him to watch her leave; or perhaps, it had been quite another emotion that had made it hard for him to watch her go – to let her go – but he felt already too wounded by the whole affair to even consider admitting to even more vulnerability here.

He had not looked up but he wished that he had.

The sheets white as snow.

Éomer ground his teeth together, his jaws set tight as he cursed under his breath. At his sides his hands, balled to fists, clenched even tighter together as he fought will all his might against the thought that wanted to worm its way into his mind – but, perhaps it wasn't even a thought at all, perhaps it was all feeling and not reason at all? How else could one explain the voice that whispered inside his mind, and the aching of his heart ready to agree with it?

You were wrong to let her go.

The shifts white as snow.

Another silent curse escaped his lips, set into a line as thin and sharp as the blade of his sword hanging low on his hip. That was the foolish heart in him talking, he knew it well. That part of him that had made a fool of himself while trying to win the heart of a woman who simply would not (or could not?) love him in return. That part of him that would have been ready to forgive her for all her treasons (in time). That part of him that had suffered the loss of his own honour with the dreamy expression of a fool in love. That part of him that had wanted to look up, if only out of hope that she would return to him.

I would lay down my crown and my throne and my fucking kingdom at your feet, if you asked it of me!, the words raced through his head then in a bitter memory, and he remembered also the fervent declaration he had made back then in defiance of her callousness and betrayal, I love you, for Béma's fucking sake, and call me crazy, before today I thought you might love me too.

(A declaration of love his desperate beating heart was still clinging to, despite all.)

The sheets white as snow.

What a fool he had been.

What a fool he still was.

He knew she wouldn't return though – he had experienced her desperate determination first-hand when she had distanced herself from him before. He knew he had lost her long ago. He knew he had lost her the moment the two of them had set foot in the South. Whoever she had been with him before, that woman had vanished behind a mask of another person, and after all the revelations and treachery, he had not known the woman anymore that had stood before him then. Whoever had returned with him North, was not the woman he had married; instead there had stood a siren, beckoning him to her, luring him in with her sweet song, only to drown him all the same. Or, perhaps, that was who she had always been at heart. And, perhaps, he had always been too blind to see that.

Too blinded by love.

The shifts white as snow.

A groaning sound to his feet snapped him out of his maelstrom of darkening thoughts then, and just like that, Éomer king was reminded of the man still lying at his feet. Déor was still on the ground, still wound into a tight ball of flesh to be able to deal with the pain. That sucker-punch from before must have really knocked him out good, the king thought then slightly detached (well, maybe, not quite as detached, as he could not deny the malicious sense of glee that tugged at the corners of his consciousness at the sight of the man, who had been his best friend, doubling over in pain like a worm at his feet). Or, perhaps, it had been the kick to the ribs after that one very well-landed punch that had given the rider the rest?

However, whatever it was that had the Second Marshall of the Mark writhing and groaning and suffering in pain, even if Éomer had wanted nothing more than to gloat, the anger in him simply wouldn't let him. Joy had been snuffed out in him like a candle in a storm, leaving not even the green fire of vindictiveness to take delight in the other man's pain. In him there was only room for anger now, and he knew exactly where to direct that vengeful feeling in him. To him, down there on the ground, between the stalls of the stables hosting the finest horses of the Riddermark, lay the man that had become the symbol of all of his misery, the man that, in his eyes, had taken it all from him.

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

The Marshall that had betrayed his King.

The friend that had gone behind his comrade's back.

The brother that had spit on all the ties that bound them.

'Get up, Déor.', Éomer snarled then as he gave a small but firm kick to the man's sides, not enough to cause more serious damage (although a darker part of him surely revelled in yet another moan of pain from the man's lips), but severe enough to have the man roll over on his back with – perhaps – a little more force than was really necessary. And when the king crouched before him then, to grab him by the collar of his jerkin, he saw that his sucker-punch from earlier had indeed managed to break his best friend's nose. It had happened before in their long years of friendship, as the rider just never knew when to keep his foul mouth shut and the king had, admittedly, a short temper; this time, however, it was not the usual bruises of their usual brotherly scuffles, and he was sure to put enough menace behind it to have the words get through to the man, 'We're not fucking done here.'

Still coughing hard from the last kick, and gasping for air, the other man took a moment to process the words he had just heard, but when they finally sunk in and his eyes widened in alarm, Éomer was pleased to see that his former friend had the good sense to show the appropriate amount of fear at the threat he had promised – and he gave him credit for that at least. However, the king was less pleased as the rider shook his head in denial then and had the fucking audacity to refute him further, 'I'm not gonna fight you, Éomer. We don't have time for that – '

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'I said, get up, you coward.', the king growled then as he wrenched his former friend up from the ground, only to push him against one of the beams of the stables, feeling a grim satisfaction as the other man gasped in pain once more when his back collided with the hard, wooden structure, 'I will not have my honour sullied even further by you by beating up a man lying at my feet.'

'Your honour?!', Déor snapped back at him then, after he had caught his breath again, and it was the first time since he had been knocked out by the sucker punch earlier that the man actually seemed to remember that he was a rider and a knight and that cowering before another – even if that be his lord and king – had never suited his daredevil sense of self; it was time to take the offensive, 'Is that all you care about, brother?!'

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'What would you know about honour, you fucking man-whore?!', Éomer roared back then, and it was clear as he tightened his grip on the other man's collar that he had taken the bait that had been so very obviously dangled in front of him (like a carrot meant to agitate a horse), and perhaps it were not even the words itself that ignited his fury so ferociously then but the easiness with which he had fallen for the other man's tricks. It reminded him, frustratingly, just how well the other man knew him, and it reminded him once more, painfully, just how hard his betrayal had hit precisely because of that.

'You drink and you laugh and you fuck your way through everybody's life as if no rules applied to you!', Éomer continued with the same kind of fury, if not more, and now there was as much water as there was fire in his words, because even though this fight was about the woman caught between the two of them, it was also about so much more. A friendship that had always been tested by two conflicting sets of morals. A friendship that had always been burdened by rank and responsibility and expectation, and the rejection of both in favour of life lived in service of enjoyment. Perhaps there was even some jealousy – not with regard to a woman but with regard to a life unlived.

Ultimately, it was a jealousy the king rejected; he had long accepted the life he had as the lot he had been given, determined to live it in service of his country, his people and his beliefs. And yet, he could not but begrudge the freedoms he had been forced to give up, or the frustration he felt at watching another man daring to live his life as he pleased, without any regard to laws or loyalties. And what was more, to do as he pleased, to act as his impulses told him (and not his head or the dusty words of dusty men dictated) – even at the cost of his best friend.

There seemed truly nothing holy to the unrepentant sinner.

And there seemed truly no forgiveness left in the fool who had turned a blind eye – again and again and again.

Not until he had become blind completely.

Until he had been forced to open his eyes.

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'But not today, Déor. Today you crossed some fucking line, friend.', Éomer went on with a voice that was barely above a snarl, and if the low growl coming from somewhere deep and dark within him had not been enough to imprint the severity of the situation on the rider, then surely the grim smile showing of his bone-white canines would be, 'Today you dared to make a grab at my – '

'It's not like that!', the rider tried to counter, tried to defend himself, but his king simply wouldn't let him – he was done hearing everybody else's excuses.

'You want to insult me further by lying to me?! Or are you seriously trying to tell me you haven't been coveting my wife and queen for months now, and laughed behind my back while doing it?', the king snapped back then, effectively shutting up his former best friend. And when Déor didn't answer with one of his usual, insubordinate comebacks, unwilling to lie in this regard at least, Éomer came to his own conclusions. Pushing the rider away from him, having the man's back crash hard against the wooden beam, the king turned away in disgust as the other man, defeated by his own shameful truths, sank to the floor. And when the rider did find his voice again, to seemingly defend his actions, it was thick with shame and perhaps another emotion the king was just not ready to accept yet.

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'I will not deny that I yearned for her, in a way. I had never met anyone quite like her – a lady of the Southern courts – and I was in awe of her. I am not ashamed to admit that.', Déor whispered then, and the anguish was palpable in his tone, and perhaps it was that innate anguish he felt that made him pause then, as though it were too hard for him to speak of the way in which he felt for the queen. Éomer, for his part, still wouldn't look at him, not ready to listen to another man wax poetically about the way in which they desired his wife.

'But you're wrong to think that I laughed at you.', the rider went on to say then, and now there was a shift in his voice; it sounded stronger, earnest, pleading even, and the king knew, he just knew from the tone in his voice that his former best friend was looking at him now – those green eyes beggars, begging pardon on bended knees – though there was some fire still left in those words, 'But you're wrong to think that I laughed at you. Do you really think I wanted this? Do you really think I wanted to wake up one day and long for another man's wife – let alone that of my friend's, my brother's, my king's? Do you really think I didn't wake up every day wishing it wasn't so? Do you really think I don't know that she will never see me the way she sees you?'

Éomer, still refusing to turn around, was seething with anger at this point, or perhaps more than anger, it was frustration – he was burning with it, burning with desperate yearning to believe the words and yet unwilling to believe them. The unbridgeable distance king and queen had so carefully crafted over the last few weeks made it hard for him to remember the way in which his queen had looked upon him once, the emotion ready in her eyes, even if it had not been ready on her tongue just yet – but he had felt it from her nonetheless.

Words can lie where eyes cannot.

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'Yes, I pined for her … but that's all it's ever been, Éomer. You have to believe me.', Déor, meanwhile, finished his plea for his king's forgiveness, and it was just something in the seemingly honest way in which the rider had phrased his words that rubbed the king the wrong way, because however "little" the rider painted his advances and actions towards the king's queen, for the king it had been "more" than he could bear. And the king held nothing back as he turned around to face the pitiful figure of his former best friend sitting at his feet, to give him a fucking piece of his own.

'I know what I saw.', the warrior-king growled then, and the menace and meaning behind his words was unmistakable. A knight that dared to flirt and dance with his queen in front of their king. A knight that dared to croon songs and recite poems like a love-struck Southern bard to his queen in front of their king, in front of their whole court, in the midst of the hallowed halls of power. A knight that dared to lay a hand in care upon the queen's mare that her king had gifted to her as a marriage gift. And it was that gesture most of all, and the implicit meaning that lay behind it, that infuriated the king, as it stood symbolically for the insubordinate and sacrilegious liberties the knight had taken with regard to the king and his queen, and the king could not but draw a line from it back to the affront he believed to have witnessed in the stables, 'She was in your arms and – '

'The fuck you think you saw?!', Déor snapped back then, and it was the first time since the beginning of their talk that the rider lost his cool, but it appeared emblematic for the change that seemed to go through the rider then. Apparently, the stubbornness of his best friend to see any reason other than his own was apparently enough to have the knight even forget the way in which he dared to speak to his king then, all codes of conduct between a king and his subject forgotten in favour of a friend speaking his mind to another friend, 'You saw another man comforting your wife … because you're too fucking stupid to do that yourself!'

The reaction of the king was immediate. With a snarl of anger that sounded closer to that of a rabid dog than a man of flesh and blood, Éomer rushed forward with just one step, lunging for the knight and wrenching him up, only to then push him against the wooden beam again in one swift, brutal motion, ready to choke the life out of the man he had once called brother. But Déor was so done at this point, too done to care any longer about what his king might do to him in his moment of wrath, done with cowering in shame, done with grovelling at his best friend's feet – done with admitting to wrongs when, in his eyes at least, he thought himself not the only one committing wrongs here.

'And that's what this is really about, isn't it? Your wife seeking comfort elsewhere?', the rider choked out then, and under the pressure of his king's hand around his throat he could barely get the words out but he spoke them nonetheless, and although there was no smirk on his lips or wink in his eyes, the king still could not but interpret the words as signifiers of the man's smugness, even if they sought to show nothing but the man's understandings of the intricacy of the situation, 'I understand that must sting.'

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'You don't understand a fucking thing, Déor.', the king growled then, the pressure of his hands around his former best friend's throat increasing just a little bit more, but the threat of those hands could no longer scare the rider. Nay, if anything the gaze of the other man seemed to soften somewhat, as though he had the audacity to pity his lord and king for the only possible reaction his mind and heart and upbringing would allow him in such a situation – like a wild animal cornered and trapped, leaving only the flight into attack in order to survive the trap he had allowed himself to wander into.

'Don't I?', the knight countered then, his voice as soft as his gaze as he withstood his king's angry stare, covering his king's wrists with his own hands, to loosen the grip somewhat, as though to show him that it was alright, and yet there were still some bitter truths spoken, even with that charming tone smoothing them out, like a ragged rock robbed of its rugged edges over time, 'I understand that you're choking your wife with your jealousy and your pride and your stubbornness. I understand that you're deaf to all reasoning not dictated by dusty, old, empty phrases of honour. I understand that you would rather lead us all into another season of carnage just to satisfy your imaged need for vengeance and justice than to even entertain the very idea of giving in and accepting any terms of peace.'

'Ah, now you're showing your true colours. It wasn't enough to merely raise doubts in the council, was it? A traitor as well as a wife-stealer?', Éomer wondered quietly then, a manic smile playing around his lips, showing teeth more than any real mirth, but even though his hands slipped from the other man's throat, it showed disgust more than it showed mercy, 'Well, I guess it figures. You've always lived according to your own rules. What honour could any king ever expect from such a man?'

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'The wise man bends, the fool breaks, as the poets say.', Déor countered in a quipping manner as he readjusted the collar of his jerkin, now free again of any kingly hands threatening to choke the life out of him; and yet, despite the good-humoured tone with which he ignored the venomous remark regarding his non-existent honour, there was grim knowledge behind it and no small amount of bitterness, 'And nothing breaks a man quite like honour.'

'Not that you would know much about honour, eh, Déor?', the king snarled viciously then as he slowly but surely stepped away, as though to bring distance between himself and the other man, as though the more distance lay between them, the less he would have felt his sense of honour threatened by the so-called knight, 'Save your pitiful poetry for the women, I have no use for it. And the Riddermark has even less use for a rider without honour or loyalty.'

And at that the king turned around, not even bothering to look at his former friend anymore, and the gesture and words were more than clear in their meaning, and the king's word was the law in matters such as these: the Riddermark would no longer be a safe haven for the wayward knight, forcing him out of the homeland he had known since birth, never to return under pain of death. It was clear to both men in that moment that for a rider such a life as an outcast held little mercy, and even death would be a preferable fate. But true to his nature, Déor forwent the idea of honour quickly enough in pursuit of other goals – or, perhaps, he simply hoped his king spoke only in anger and not in earnest?

'Éomer, please, we don't have time for this! While we bicker here amongst ourselves, the storm outside is getting worse – and who knows what else rides in this storm? The queen – your wife – is out there right now!', Déor spoke then with a renewed sense of urgency in his voice – although, it might have been simply annoyance as well – with which he painted the picture of the many dangers lying in wait for the queen. And, to the king's credit, there was a moment of hesitation, as he stilled in his movements, jaws tight, shoulders tense, as he weighed the words the knight had spoken. But while the king's heart bled tears of blood, the fire in his veins burned even hotter, burning all other emotions, all other ties that bound him, down to ash and bone, until there was only the warrior in him left. And it was the warrior that responded then; not the king or the husband – it was the warrior.

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'Go on then. Run after your ladylove.', the warrior-king mocked quietly then, but even though there was no roar in his voice, anger and malice seeped through every pore as he spoke, and when he threw a look over his shoulder, to emphasise his point, the cruel smirk curling his lips was cold enough to have Aulë's smithy freeze over, 'You needn't bother coming back after this. If you do … well, it's probably best if you don't. The last thing I need is your blood on my hands.'

'Éomer, please … don't send me from your side.', the rider pleaded once more, although this time, it sounded less like the other man was appealing to the king's common sense and more like he was appealing to his lord's mercy, as though the severity of the situation and the honesty of the king's threat became real to him at last, 'We have been friends ever since we have been boys too green to hold a sword. Closer than friends even. Brothers in all but the name. Would you really strike down your brother?'

'Brothers, huh?', the king repeated then, as though the very word was now leaving a bad taste in his mouth, and as he halted in his steps, to turn back around fully, the smirk on his lips took on an even more menacing note, emphasised even further by the sword hanging low on his hip that he was slowing drawing from its scabbard, 'So, tell me, brother, what kind of friend steals another man's wife?'

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'I already told you, Éomer, I'm not gonna fight you.', Déor repeated once more, adamant on de-escalating the situation before it got even more out of hand, and perhaps that's why he raised his arms then, as the ultimate sign of pacification, or why he would slowly step away from the beam, to allow himself some more room to back away into the far end of the stables.

'Well, too bad.', the warrior-king snarled then, a wicked grin on his lips as he twirled the blade in his hand, but there was nothing playful about that gesture because it was done with a deadly weapon in hand, 'Twice I gave you the chance to run. Now your king commands you to fight.'

'You just cast me out, Éomer, remember?', Déor protested meekly then, but although a weak smile curled his mouth into a wry line, it was clear that there was no real mirth in that facial change, and if that hadn't been telling enough, seeing him retreat, step after careful step, to bring some much-needed distance between them, really drove the dire nature of the situation home at last, 'You're no longer my king and I need no longer follow your command.'

'You leave it to me then? To decide your fate?', the king asked then as he continued to advance on his former best friend; the smile on his lips turned vicious and he had stopped playing around with his sword by then, and it was clear that there was no real question hiding behind the taunt of his words, and when he spoke once more, there was a sense of finality to his voice and words that would have sent chills down anybody's backs, 'Fine. I'll strike you down where you stand.'

'You would strike down an unarmed man?', the rider asked then, and there was a tone of utter shock and disgust to his voice that, however, quickly turned to anger and spite, and as he stopped in his retreat and allowed his arms to fall to his side again, it became clear that the time of diplomacy was over, 'And yet you would accuse me of dishonour?!'

In the aftermath of the rider's remark, several things happened. At first, Éomer only smiled, but by the way his jaws clenched at that and the way his eyes tightened in response, it was clear that the words hit a sensitive spot and managed to make more than just a chink in his armour of honour. And when that smiled eventually faded, and he rose to his fullest height again, to stand tall and straight and full of the self-righteous pride of an angry warrior, he threw away the prized sword with a flick of his wrist, as if the blade meant nothing to him, making it clear that the king would not allow anything – absolutely anything – to come between him and his rage.

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

When the fight started, it was at first only a matter of sizing up one's opponent, to gauge the fighting moves the other one was most likely going for, to check for any weaknesses that might promote victory already in advance. But it was clear that both men could not merely dance around one another forever with fists held up high but without engaging, and so it was only a matter of time before either one of them would make the first move to tip over these dangerous scales of balance.

Éomer, of course, was the first to try and get a hit in. Reminiscent of the first brutal punch that had sent Déor to the floor before, gasping in pain, the king tried to land another, similarly brutal blow, but this time the rider was ready for it. Ducking easily enough, Déor simply slipped under the arm of the king before using the momentum of his turn to land a swing of his own, hitting his lord right between the fourth and fifth rib with a left-hand hook, but even though the king gasped in audible pain, the air driven out of his lungs by sheer anguished force, he could call himself lucky it had not been a right-hand hook – because if it had been, those ribs would have been surely broken now.

But Éomer recovered quickly enough with the determination of an angry man, and so he was quick to attack again. Again and again the king would try to lunge at the rider, but the other man held up his defences well enough. It was unclear what angered the king more in that moment: that the rider was not the easy target he had thought (and perhaps hoped) he would be or that the other man was merely defending himself and not even giving the king the satisfaction of a real fight.

Soon enough, exhaustion forced the king to take a break, and as Éomer stood there, hunched over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, the wary gazes of both men met and they understood very well how they both expected this fighting dance to play out. Déor, obviously, hoped to evade his friend long enough for the king to tire himself out, so that he could come to his senses again; Éomer, however, knew that the rider could not dodge a real fight forever, as there was still some fight left in the king and it was only a matter of time before he would land a good hit.

And when the king pushed himself up again, to stand straight and tall once more, he could see it in the eyes of the other man that he had not expected him to try and come at him again, and it was that very uncertainty in the other man's eyes, that lent Éomer the decisive advantage here. When Déor tried to dodge his right hook this time by slipping out underneath his arm again, the king simply used his elbow to land a simple but brutal blow to the other man's back of the head that made the rider stumble for a few feet. And when the rider, still stunned from the bow, turned around in a movement still hazy and unfocused, the king's right hook connected so forcefully with the other man's jaw that it knocked the rider clean off his feet and sent blood (and at least one tooth) flying from his mouth.

However, when Éomer moved to try and lunge at his former best friend again, the rider, still lying on the floor, simply used a kick from his strong legs to keep the king at a considerable distance and to have him stumbling back a good few feet, and coughing and gasping for air in return. And by the time the king had recovered from the forceful kick, Déor was back on his feet again, fists up, and now it was clear that the other man was truly ready to fight. No more defensive evasions, no more letting his lord and king merely tire himself out. One could just see it sparkling in the rider's eyes, the thought and the challenge that went through his head.

If his lord and king wanted a fight, he would damn well give him one.

And then they were at it again.

The king launched a series of hooks, trying to catch the rider off guard, but Déor was now fully engaged and ready, and he not only successfully blocked and parried his lord's blows with ease but he also got in a few serious punches himself. When they broke apart next, they were both hunched over, hands on their knees, trying to catch their breaths, eyeing each other more than a little warily, both silently wondering how much longer the other could go before giving up, both silently wondering how much longer they themselves could go on before giving up.

When they went in for a third round, the exhaustion radiating from them both became more than palpable: their hooks became sloppy, their swings that missed more often than they hit, their defences that became weaker than weak. At that point, it was merely determination and anger that kept them on their feet (as their bodies were surely screaming to just be able to collapse right then and there, weary as they both were) and above all else, their limbs intertwined in a twisted wrestling pose, meant to make the opponent fall to the ground, but in the end, they both brought each other down. It wasn't clear who tripped whom, or who gave the final push, but when one of them lost his balance and fell at last, he simply pulled the other along with him.

For a moment then, they simply lay there; limbs still entangled, trying to catch their breaths, utterly exhausted. It seemed a thoroughly pitiful affair when they did try to re-kindle their fight – tired arms that simply wouldn't land a serious punch (but managed to hurt the already bruised bodies nonetheless), tired legs that just couldn't be lifted for the life of them. And yet, they still wouldn't let go of each other, and one couldn't be sure what it was that made them cling to each other still: rage and resentment or despair and hope for a victory that didn't necessitate a defeat? They had been friends for as long as they could remember, and such a connection was not so easily severed after all. Therefore, bitterly, stubbornly, they wrestled with each other still, and, in the same breath, with the conflicting emotions that made them hold on to each other.

It was in that moment of utter exasperation and exhaustion, when it became clear that bodily strength alone would not be enough to decide the outcome of this fight, that Éomer (currently having the upper hand), in a move as dishonourable as it was desperately furious, reached for his sword – but to what end? To strike down his former best friend? Or simply to use the sharp end of the blade pressed against the other man's neck to emphasise that he had truly and utterly lost more than just this one battle between them?

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

Afterwards neither of the two men would have been able to state with absolute certainty to what end the king had reached for his sword in that moment; the outcome of it, however, was clear without a doubt. As Éomer moved the sword towards the man lying beneath him, Déor, true to his wily, survivalist nature, instinctively kneed the king between the legs, to have him double over in pain and sink to the floor, all the while dropping the sword that could have possibly cut the last bonds of friendship between them.

However, coincidentally, it was another blade then that ultimately decided the fate of this fight – if not more. Because no sooner had Éomer dropped to the ground in anguish than the rider already pounced on him again with the last of his strength. Out of impulse, Déor raised a dagger – one he had kept hidden and lied about earlier – just as the king was scrambling for his sword, but the rider was quicker. With the fine and sharp blade of the dagger pressed to his throat, Éomer's hand stilled and he was forced to look up into the face of the man he had once thought a brother more than a friend even. But the king, rather than feeling threatened or scared for his life even, only laughed a grim laugh, before baring his throat to the gods, allowing for the wayward knight to take the dishonourable chance to go ahead and kill his lord and king – if he so wished.

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'I might have known you'd deceive me even in this. So, go on then. Finish it.', Éomer king spat out then, cold fury turning his taunting words to steel, staring up into the other man's eyes with wild and grim defiance – staring but not seeing – and it seemed as though the king was too far gone to care at this point, too heart-broken and betrayed to give a fuck about anything anymore, accepting his assumed fate about as humbly as any proud warrior would.

But Déor never dealt the killing blow. Instead the rider's face scrunched up into a mask of nothing short of pain before it turned into quite another colour of anguish, one painted by bitter understanding and shame for the things he now saw that he had broken, seemingly beyond repair. And moving to crouch before his king, the knight simply turned the blade over in his hand before offering the hilt to him in an unmistakable gesture.

'You still won't understand, will you, brother?'

A moment of hesitation passed, and then Éomer took the blade at last; and when he did, Déor simply moved to sit next to him, lazily wiping away the blood from his nose and mouth running down his chin, as though what had just happened were the most trivial thing in the world and not a hair breadth's away from a fucking catastrophe. It was clear though that the rider was trying to give his king the space he needed to have the confusion and shock wear off, and when it did, Éomer simply sat up and sat next to his former best friend as well.

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

For a moment then both men were quiet as they absent-mindedly took inventory of the wounds they had dealt each other. Split lips, broken noses, eyes already starting to swell shut and that would surely sport a blackened shadow in the coming days; bruised knuckles, bloodied knuckles, little blood spatters all over their rumpled and torn clothes. Honestly, they both looked like a fucking mess, and they both probably felt even worse than they looked, and yet, even after they had checked up on their injuries and their terrible state of appearance in a strangely detached manner, neither of them spoke a word at first.

Éomer, for his part, silently regarded the dagger in his hands, turning the matter over and over in his thoughts just as he was turning the blade over and over in his hands – and it was Déor who broke the silence at last, 'Are you ready to talk now, Éomer, or would you rather prefer we continue this fool's play and keep trying to kill each other and waste even more precious time? Time we should be using to try and find the queen in this storm!'

Éomer didn't answer at first; he didn't say a word. Quietly he continued to regard the dagger in his hands, as if he hadn't heard the rider at all, but, of course, he had heard every word of what the other man had said. The mention of his queen had led to a wild beating in his heart, a longing to rush out to save her, but in his head it propelled him to ask questions he had thought he no longer cared to have answered.

He had always been a man of action, but in this he felt afraid to act.

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'Why did you do it, Déor?', the king asked then, and at first there was a silence in which the rider had to wait for him to continue and to make sense of the thing he asked for, but then the king spoke on, and for the first time in a long, long while he gave himself permission to give voice to the bitter emotions he had forced himself to swallow for so long, and never before had they stood so clear and brutal between them as they did now, but truth, after all, was rarely an easy burden to bear or share.

'You could have had any woman in the Mark, any woman in the whole of fucking Middle Earth – why did you have to go for the one woman that I loved? You knew what I felt for her and yet you didn't care. You call me "brother" and yet you didn't give a fuck about me. So, tell me, brother, tell me why?'

And here he paused, as if to catch his breath, as if to pluck up the courage to ask, as if to prepare himself for whatever answer he would get – or, perhaps, he simply needed some more air to vent the bitter feelings of resentment he had held on for so long, because the king sure as hell held nothing back as he continued, 'And don't feed me that horse-shit about "how special she was" and that "you've never met a woman like her". Please, when we were down in the South for Wingfoot's ascent to the throne, you've bedded half the women of the Stone-City's court before the crown had even been placed on his damned head. You have met and known dozens of women like her. So, tell me the truth. You owe me that at least.'

For a long moment, Déor remained silent still. Staring straight ahead, it seemed as though the rider had not heard his king at all, but Éomer knew very well that the knight had heard every fucking word he had said and it was obvious that it had got to him. Good, the king thought then with no small amount of bitterness, he deserves to feel every bit as retched as he looks, and he deserves to feel every bit as retched as I feel. But, perhaps, more than wallowing in shame, the rider was mulling over the decision whether or not to be honest, and to give his king the answers he demanded, even if it might not be the answers he wanted to hear. It was a decision that, obviously, cost him a lot, but in the end, the decision was made, because, as it would seem, the knight had nothing left to lose at this point, not even his pride.

'You remember that day in February last year? When I had returned from a scouting mission in the Westfold? When you and I rode out together to have a sparring match at the Standing Stones near Edoras?', Déor asked then with a voice hoarse with an unfamiliar emotion, but even though the sudden and unexpected turn of the conversation had completely blind-sided the king, Éomer recovered quickly enough, his own pride, perhaps, not allowing him to show just how surprised he had been by the rider's unpredictable words. And even though Éomer knew exactly what day the rider was talking about here (as it had been one of the few mornings spent in retreat from his overbearing duties as king), he didn't acknowledge it with any word or action. Perhaps a part of him was too proud to give the knight the satisfaction of knowing that his king was actually deigning to listen to what he had to say, or perhaps the king was simply wondering where the fuck the other man was going with all of this?

'That morning you told me that your wife had seen you have one of your nightmares, and yet, instead of running away, she had comforted you.', the rider went on to say then, and only after he had swallowed past a lump in his throat, did he continue, 'I know I laughed it off at the time, but later … later I realised that I wanted that too. That acceptance. That connection. That companionship.'

Éomer said nothing, he sat in silence and he listened, but in his head thoughts began to form around memories of that day; the way his best friend had urged him to confide and trust in his new wife, if only to battle the demons of his fears and his loneliness, and a part of him began to wonder now how selfless those words of advice truly had been. Or had they been, in fact, not selfless at all but rather words reflective of the desires of his own restless heart, yearning for a comfort he could not have, and so, at least, hoping for his friend and king to have them if he could not? And Éomer wondered then, if it had been the other way around, would he have urged his friend and rider to open up to a kind and gentle heart, even if he himself had not been given the same chance?

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'I didn't understand it at the time but later I realised that I envied you in that moment. Or perhaps I have always envied you.', Déor went on to say then, and there was no small amount of bitterness colouring his voice and words there, and then, as he continued, he seemed to become more and more agitated, as though the words in his head had been a burden on his heart as well and it felt freeing to let them loose at last, 'Yes, ever since were were boys I envied you – the position you were born in, the titles you were given … and the love you had found – '

'I would have you know that it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows and that I never asked for – ', Éomer tried to throw in then, trying to defend himself against accusations he hadn't expected to be launched against him here; his sense of pride, his whole sense of self rebelling against the notion that he had been given anything in his life – as if they had been handed to him on a silver platter, when really he had worked hard for them – or that the things he had been given had been all blessings to begin with. Where the fuck had this conversation gone so very fucking wrong?! But the rider barely let him get a word in, as he was, by now talking himself into a veritable frenzy.

'I know. I know that. But it didn't change the fact that I thought you an ungrateful, privileged son of a bitch from time to time.', Déor countered then, his voice very much on the cusp of laughing – not out of mirth, mind you, but rather out of not knowing how else to ease the tension in him. Being honest, after all, was not any easy thing to do when your talking partner was your best friend and your lord and king all in the same person.

'And it didn't change the fact that when I compared myself to you that I found myself … lacking.', the rider's laugh slowly died away, but even though he seemed more serious now, there was still an edge to his voice akin to the teasing their bond of friendship had been used to, 'I know it might sound odd to you now – especially because there are some people who consider me the better horseman or swordsman – but compared to you I always felt smaller, lesser … and less deserving, less desirable even.'

Throwing a sour look at the knight next to him out of the corner of his eye, the king was not so sure if he were ready for any more honesty here, but the rider seemed wholly unaware of it, too caught up in the tale he spun of the pitiful smaller man trapped in the shadow of the bigger man, 'It's true, I've never lacked female attention, but that's not comparable to true companionship. To be seen, truly seen for who you are and not just what you are, and to not have that one person shy away from it but to embrace it with open arms? To be accepted? To be loved? I have wanted nothing more.'

'Nobody stopped you.', Éomer threw in quietly then, after a moment of silence had hung between them like a veil; a quiet protest made up of quiet anger simmering quietly beneath his calm and exhausted surface.

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'Yeah? Do you really believe any respectable woman would have wanted to be with a man like me?', the rider asked rhetorically then, a humourless laugh driven from his chest before he became serious again, and the severity with which he spoke shocked the king, perhaps, most of all, 'I know the reputation I have. I know why husbands all over the Mark curse my name, and I know why no parent would leave their unwed daughter alone with me. I'm not a total fool, and I'm no hypocrite. I know I earned my reputation, and I know it will never allow me to have the kind of companionship I would want to have.'

And then his mood turned even sourer, and it seemed as though a shadow of some darkness passed over his face as he spoke once more, 'And even if any woman were willing enough to ignore the reputation I have and the ruin it would surely mean for her reputation, are you really telling me that any of our Northern women would stand with a rider that cries in the dark when the nightmares come? Do you really think I drink and laugh and fuck just for the sake of it? I need to forget, I need to be able to sleep, I need to live. I know what is expected of a man in my position. You know it too.'

Déor had finished his explanation with a grim smile and as he fell silent for a moment, Éomer remained silent too, because he knew not what to counter, for he knew it to be true. They were both warriors who had seen war in their time, they had both known the cost of battle could be death and damage, but it was only later that they had begun to understand the true cost of war. The toll the blood and the horror and the fighting had taken on them, never to release them, an ever-present nightmare in the back of their minds; and at night, in the dark, the nightmares would scream back, an echo of terror, like an open wound that had festered and poisoned their minds, like an open wound that would never truly heal. They both knew each and every warrior carried it, and yet they carried it in silence, as they knew they were expected to.

Because heroes didn't cry.

Because heroes didn't break.

Because heroes didn't die.

Because –

'But she … ', the knight continued then all of the sudden, effectively pulling the king out of his own thoughts, and when he spoke now, there was a dreamy quality to his voice, as though in one who had seen the light after the longest night, 'She could see right through that, and she didn't care. The truth is … I did not long for her because she was beautiful or because she was a Southern novelty – I mean, she was all that, but it was more than that. I longed for her because to me she was comfort personified.'

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

Éomer swallowed hard at that, at the truth that wormed itself out of these words and into his heart. It was all true, and he knew it – because it had been just the same for him. In the end, it had been not been her beauty or her grace that had got to him in the end (although, he had undeniably fallen for her quiet charms and ethereal loveliness). It had been her unorthodox handling of his darkness that had truly manifested her place within his heart. That she would take one look at the warrior he was and see the broken man underneath, but rather than turn away in disgust, she had carefully stripped him off his armour – nightmare by nightmare, conversation by conversation, tenderness by tenderness – to take him into her arms.

Of course, it had also been her taking his armour from him that had made him vulnerable, and that had led to –

'How could any man in our situation not fall for that?', Déor started again then, and now one could just hear the tears he was trying to hold back, his gaze settled on a distant image in his mind, and it was too much, too raw, too close to what the king already knew in his heart to be true, 'How could a man catch a glimpse of the sun and not be blinded by it? How could – '

'So, that's why you tried to make a grab for my wife?', Éomer threw in then, only too eager to cut off the rider before the other man could wax any more poetically about his wife and queen to his king, only too eager to shut up the other man because of how his own heart reacted to it, remembering it all too well, remembering it with a vengeance that threatened to choke him, 'Because you wanted someone to hold your hand while you cried?! And because you were jealous of all the luck I've had in life?!'

Éomer knew he was cruel and even hypocritical here but he also knew that people that hurt others were usually the ones hurting the most, and there was no denying that he had been hurt, over and over again, and at this point, he had lost all other coping mechanisms except lashing out, and so, lash out he did, 'Is that what you're saying? Seriously, Déor, if this is supposed to be your grand explanation, then it is probably the worst excuse I have ever – '

'No, yes, maybe. I don't know.', Déor tried to counter then, only to falter soon after, and with hands rubbing over his face, a sigh of frustration was wrenched from his breast, although it was unclear whether that frustration was with his lord and king or with himself, 'I only know that I wanted what you had … but it was never my intent to take that from you. You have to believe me.'

And then he let his head hang low, and with his knees pulled up and his elbows resting on them, and his shoulders and whole body slightly hunched over, he truly seemed like a man utterly defeated and exhausted, and yet, there was defiance in him still, and, perhaps, even something akin to pride or honour, 'This was never supposed to be an excuse for my actions. You wanted to know why, now I've told you. And whatever you take from my words, at least know that whatever happened – or that you think, happened – the fault was with me … and not with her.'

Éomer looked away at that, a part of him not wanting to have the conversation circle back to his wife again; he wanted to hold on to his anger, not have it eased by remnants of his longing for her. The wound in his heart had not yet been scabbed over in the course of a single conversation and he feared it would only be torn open again now. But the rider seemed to have little care for his king's fragile feelings here, or perhaps, the knight knew quite well and only thought it best to be cruel here only to be kind?

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'You know that, right, Éomer?', the knight asked then, speaking once more when his king remained suspiciously silent, and perhaps the rider only understood too well the doubts the king was having over all this, and the horse-lord did not know what grated him more in that moment: that the rider's affections for his queen were so painfully palpable in his effort to try and shield her, or that the rider knew his king well enough to know what twisted web of delusions he might have spun around all of them.

'You know she was only looking for comfort, right? But she didn't want that comfort from me, she never did. She wanted it from you.', Déor all but whispered at this point, his voice fervent in his plea for understanding, or perhaps it was his own broken heart that had him so choked up.

Éomer closed his eyes for a second there, swallowing hard, hoping to swallow the lump in his throat and the conflicting emotions that went along with it, because the last thing he needed now in his anger was to hear of his queen's devotion to him. The last thing he wanted was to have the flame of his fury burned out by the water of the lingering feelings he may or may not have for her, even after all this. And yet, the rider just wouldn't shut up, twisting the knife as truly as if he had pushed it between his ribs.

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'Your wife loves you, Éomer, there can be no doubt about – '

'You don't know her like I do.', the pressed out between clenched teeth then, eyes snapping open in a flash of fury, eyes that stared ahead into the nothingness he felt lay ahead of him, after the light that had blinded him – staring but not seeing; and he was steadfast as he clung to the truth, as he saw it, not yet ready to accept that there were also other truths here, truths other than his own, and his words showed that too as he added, 'You don't know the treachery she is capable of.'

'Don't I?', was all the knight responded then, his question no more than the softest whisper, and the king hated it, hated that it was all it took for his carefully crafted walls to crumble and for his self-righteous anger to sway, and he hated to lose it, as it was all he believed he had left. The idea that nobody understood the pain he was going through, he had sulkily clung to that out of desperation, and now, to think that even that – that excuse for hatred – should be taken from him, it made him even more bitter, if that were even possible. Éomer wanted to hear no more, could bear to hear no more, and yet, Déor knew no mercy as he spoke on, his truth a knife stabbing into his king's heart, 'She told me. She told me all about it; all the ugly things she had to do, all the things she was forced to do, all the things she felt she had to do.'

The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets –

'No, you don't understand.', Éomer threw in then, a weak protest at best, no more than the bitter sulking of a bitter man, holding on to grudges if only for the sake of having anything to hold on to in the tumultuous storm raging inside of him. He was a warrior, after all, self-defence had always come easily to him, but surrender, surrender did not; and thus, with the stubbornness and temper innate to him, he insisted upon his simple truths, 'She betrayed me, again and again and – '

'Perhaps she did. Or perhaps that's just what you want to think. Perhaps that makes it easier. Forgiveness requires a sacrifice of pride after all, and we Rohirrim are nothing if not proud.', the rider mused quietly then, eyes that looked at a distant point far off, lost in thought, 'But even if it were true, who is the one betraying her now? She is your queen, Éomer, your wife. You told me she is the one woman you loved, and yet you sit here and sulk, while she is out there, facing this storm on her own. Éomer, she is yours to protect, the dangers she is facing – '

'Don't patronise me, Déor, I'm not in the fucking mood for it! And yes, she is my wife – mine, not yours – so stay the fuck out of it.', the king all but growled, and with a sigh of frustration he simply allowed himself to fall back then and to rest there on the ground of the stables, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to rein in his temper, as he tried to still his frantically beating heart, yet again threatening to take over his common sense, and one could just hear that as he spoke once more, 'I don't need you to tell me about the dangers she is in. You don't know the half of it.'

'Yeah?! Well, I know enough. I've seen and heard enough to be worried for the safety of my queen. The day you crowned her queen, I swore my loyalty to her as well. Yes, my loyalty! Laugh all you like, but this is no laughing matter!', the rider countered then with nothing short of a snarl when his king had not even attempted to hide that snort that sounded more like a grim, mocking laugh, taunting him for his choice of words there, and thus the knight did not exactly mince his words as he continued, 'You and I both know she's always had more enemies than allies, now even more so. A foreigner queen without backing – without an heir to secure her position – that dares to speak up in opposition!'

The shifts white as snow.

A sudden change went through the air then, almost like the tension before lightning struck and thunder roared – but only one of the two men seemed to be aware of it.

'Déor – ', the king tried to throw in then, his voice now all of the sudden clear of all mockery and bitterness, clear even of all anger; instead there was a new quality to it, one that spoke of revelations and hidden truths. But the rider did not hear his king, as he was, by now, talking himself into a veritable frenzy.

'And that idea with the bastard boy as heir – '

The sheets white as snow.

'Déor – '

'I know, I know … it wasn't your idea, but it has taken on a life of its own nonetheless.', the rider interrupted him once more, and as was to be expected, he completely misinterpreted the reason for the king's attempted and failed objection, and so he went on, blindly caught in his own train of thoughts, 'You know as well as I that half the council would only be too glad to take that bastard boy in exchange for a foreigner queen with nothing to show for it.'

The shifts white as snow.

'Déor – '

'I mean, If she had a babe of her own to show, things might be different, but as things stand, our cantankerous councillors are already eager enough to push her aside for a solution that was nothing but a make-shift solution at best and a problem-in-the-making at worst and – a-are you laughing right now?! Why in Béma's fucking name are you laughing?!'

And surely enough, there, lying on the ground next to him, Éomer king laughed – laughed as hard and as loud as he hadn't done in weeks, nay months, and he laughed so hard tears sprang into his eyes and he held his sides, hurting from all this laughter. The rider, meanwhile, looking over his shoulder, stared at his best friend as though he were a madman, and, perhaps, who knew? The many ups and downs of his life lately would surely have been enough to have the sanest man go mad. But no, there was reason to his madness, even if the irony of it all was nothing short of maddening.

The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts –

'She is already with child, Déor.', Éomer confessed then, after his breathing had calmed down enough from his fit of laughter, and the words were heaved out with the deepest sigh, as though spilling the secret, acknowledging it, had lifted an enormous burden off of him; and indeed, the softest of smiles on his lips spoke the truth of it, 'My queen is with child.'

For a very, very, very long time, the rider simply stared at his king with his mouth wide open, his jaw dropped in a motion nothing short of utter disbelief. Déor looked at his best friend as though he were speaking another language, as though the words were simply not able to pierce his understanding – but when they did at last, his reaction was as predictable as it was hilarious.

'SAY WHAT NOW?!', the knight all but shouted then while throwing up his hands in utter surprise and confusion, and the king had to keep from bursting out laughing all over again, although he could not quite fight against the smirk that curled at the corners of his lips. The king could not deny that he felt a manic sort of glee itching under his skin at the sight of the other man so utterly befuddled; a part of him was still angry with the rider, even though cautious joy was now mingled with that anger.

The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts –

'It's true. Her handmaidens all but ambushed me this morning, holding up white sheets and shifts right in front of my face, talking both at once, talking past each other – I mean, you know how they are!', Éomer began to explain then, feeling no pity towards the confused rider at his side trying to keep up with the news his lord and king was spilling fast as lightning here. He even took a moment to pause and take a breath, though it had less to do with further torturing the poor rider at his side, and a lot more to do with him needing a moment, too, to put it all into words.

Looking up at the ceiling of the stables then, he seemed entirely lost in the memory of that awkward talk he had been forced to have this morning, before he had even had his breakfast, his eyes drifting off into a distance, as though he were seeing it all displayed before his inner eyes again. And when he continued, his voice was calmer, lower, more direct, and even his eyes focused back on the rider as he spoke, 'It's why I went down to the stables this morning, to find her, to confront her about it, to figure out whether these whispers of a child – '

'Éomer, listen, before you accuse me of anything – ', Déor threw in quickly then, his tone more than just a little defensive and tense, as he came to the wrong conclusions regarding his king's words, and already he was raising his arms in a gesture of pacification, hoping it would calm and deflect the storm he was expecting his best friend to rage in about a few seconds, 'What you saw, it wasn't what you think! Believe me, I never touched her! That child is not my – '

'Will you never shut up, Déor?! I know it's not your child. It's – ', the king started then, his voice at first thick with his usual temper, but then it sounded choked, as though he couldn't quite bring himself to say the words yet, as though he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it yet, lest his words speaking it into existence might also curse the dream come true, to have it shatter. The gods could be cruel after all, and many a man had lost the happiness in the eve when before he had so rashly proclaimed to the heavens in the morning.

The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts –

'She must have already been pregnant when we left the South.', Éomer explained then with a thoughtful tone, and there was a momentary softness in his gaze as he remembered a certain midnight swim under the stars and the full moon at the beaches of a foreign land not so very long ago, a moment of sweet reconciliation between the lovers who had been at odds with one another, and he felt his heart soften, too, at the very memory of it.

But then his mood shifted again with a snort that sounded very much like a laugh and a sigh of frustration all rolled into one, and when he continued then, he sounded more amused than tense this time, and he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as if the ridiculousness of the whole affair were too much for him to handle, 'Trust me, her handmaidens were quite adamant about that fact; citing calender entries and lists they had been keeping count with, and given the amount of white bed sheets and shifts they practically shoved into my face, the two of them must have been collecting them for weeks – Béma, help me!, if I never have to hear talk of bed sheets and shifts ever again, it won't be fucking soon enough for – '

'So, if you knew that the child wasn't mine, they why the fuck would you almost run me through with that fucking sword of yours?!', Déor asked then, interrupting his king with little care for any manners or decorum, quite understandably annoyed and angered, but Éomer felt hardly stirred to pity here, 'Why the fuck would you beat the ever living shit out of me?!'

'Because my wife was in your arms, you fucking lecher! And because of all that other shit you've been doing – right in fucking front of me! What the fuck was I supposed to think?!', the king growled then, at first just as annoyed and angered as the knight, but as he continued then, all the while absent-mindedly rubbing his sore jaw – still sore from the fight – he sounded calmer albeit a little uncertain, as though unsure of the truth of his own words here, 'And I would never have used that sword, you know that. And also, if I recall correctly, you weren't the only getting the living shit beat out of – '

'What were you supposed to think?!', the rider laughed cynically then, the sound a manic and twisted echo of his usual good-natured sense of humour, before continuing with a calmer tone that, however, spoke more of bitterness and annoyance than real reconciliation here, 'How about talking it out first, like – you know – civilised people, you choleric son of a bitch.'

'Oh, is that what we're doing here?!', Éomer snarled sardonically then as he sat up again, and now it was the rider's turn to sigh in frustration as he rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. And for a moment then both men sat together in silence, feeling a weight lifted off of them even as another weight came pressing down upon them like the winds upon the stables' roof.

'Éomer … ', Déor spoke then once more as he looked up at the ceiling with unsure eyes, and this time there was neither anger nor annoyance nor teasing in his voice; it sounded exhausted, worried, and the king understood the meaning of the warning perfectly well. He too heard the way the winds outside the stables picked up again, he too knew what it meant. He needed no reminder of the matter of the missing queen. He understood the danger implied in that tone only too well.

The sheets white as snow. The shifts white as snow. The sheets white as snow. The shifts –

'Yes, yes. I will go after her.', the king conceded then at long last with a sigh as deep as the depths of Helm's Deep itself, and as he let his head hang low, there was a sense of quiet acceptance in him, as though in one that started to see the follies of his ways, as though a part of him allowed itself to feel regret at the way things had played out between them, and even more so at the way things inevitably had to play out in the future.

They had been friends all their lives, and they had been friends, after all, long before he had been married, and such a connection was not so easily severed, not even by anger, not even by betrayal. And yet, the king felt, with the kind of grim determination that was innate to his character, that he needed to see this thing through to the end – now more than ever – and to make it clear, unmistakably, where things stood between them and that some broken things could not be mended, even if one wanted to. Sometimes to try and mend a broken thing would, unfortunately, only mean to be cut by its sharp edges and to bleed – to be bled dry – and there were enough vultures circling them already.

'This changes nothing, you know.', the king spoke then with a quiet tone in his voice, somewhere between sadness and steel, and with his jaws set, he would not look at the rider as he continued, hoping the other man would understand that this was a thing that simply needed to be done and that there was simply no way around it, for any one of them, 'As long as you're here, there will always be gossip.'

'I know.', Déor admitted quietly then, his voice barely above a whisper, and he sounded very much on the cusp of tears here, and that was understandable too, as this right here felt very much like the ending of their friendship. And yes, jealousy and desperate longing might have cracked the ties that bound them, but the ties would have to be cut, ultimately, for the careful eyes that watched them and for the gossip it would invite if they were to remain friends even after all that had passed between the three of them – the king, the queen and the knight torn between both.

How could they remain friends, how could they remain close, when the very presence of the other man would forever cast a shadow of doubt on the love the king had for his queen?

And the rider knew that, and understood it perfectly well, and perhaps the sadness that softened his voice then had less to do with his king sending him away and more to do with his friend and brother having to bow to the threat of rumours the knight's stay would inevitably stoke. Or perhaps it was simply the hopelessness of the whole situation and the way in which the other man had ultimately doomed their friendship – because even if the two friends would have been able to mend their broken bond, it had been the knight's actions that had made it impossible to remain as they had been all their life.

And one could just hear that as he spoke again, a sad smile barely able to lift the corners of his mouth, a smile that spoke of understanding and regret, and one that spoke of a bond of friendship that would endure in spirit even if it were forced to be severed, 'I understand. I will leave.'

And for a moment then both men remained silent once more, both lost in thought, both lost in emotion. They both understood very well the sacrifice the knight was making here for the greater good, for the sake of their friendship, for the sake of the queen they both loved in their very own way. And yet, that didn't make this any easier; knowing that they had no choice in this only made it all the harder. And if both men had tears in their eyes they wouldn't even let each other see, what of it? They were men still, they were not made of stone; they were made of flesh and bone and hearts that beat still.

It was Éomer then who broke the silence between them first, and it was not a sound of anger or sadness even, as one would have expected; it was a sound of laughter, deep and small and, in truth, no more than a blanket to cover what he really felt. And after he had wiped the tears in the corners of his eyes with an almost violent motion, the king all but jumped up then, dusting off his clothes and collecting his sword, as though trying to put this conversation and this confrontation behind him at last – as it seemed a thing too raw and intimate to handle anymore, and so he pushed it away, as he usually did, with his typical defence mechanisms.

'Yeah, you better. And you better be gone by the time I get back – or I won't be so lenient next time.', the king warned then, again, although this time there was no real fire and no real threat in those words, and the rider knew it – or why else would he resort to jokes again?

'When you get back?!', the rider countered then with his typically jolly and crooked smile, pretending the shine in his eyes were nothing but the twinkle of a cheeky wink, and when he jumped up as well, he was more than just ready to fall back into the good old banter their friendship had always breathed above all else, 'I'm coming with you, Éomer. You didn't really think there was the slightest chance I'd let you go on your own on this suicide mission, did you? I mean, have you seen the storm outside?! Someone needs to make sure that king and queen and heir get back safely.'

The sheets white as snow, Éomer thought then, as a strange, new beating took over his heart at the rider's words, the shifts white as snow.

'And who said, you could come, Déor?', the king joked then, and he had to fight hard against the smile that threatened to curl the corners of his lips. He had to give it to the other man: he truly never knew when to shut up; but now that trait no longer angered him so much as it amused him, and, perhaps, it was even a comfort to cover their melancholy with laughter, pretending, at least for a moment, that things were as they used to be, even if they knew that they never would be, ever again, 'And who said, I would need help?'

'Well, you got it brother, now and forever, whether you want it or not.', the rider countered then, and for a moment the cheeky smirk was replaced with a warm smile that spoke of the seriousness that underlay their playful words; but then it was gone as quickly as it had come, and one might have wondered if it had ever really been there in the first place, and indeed, when the knight continued to speak, there was only that good-natured teasing in his tone and nothing else, 'So, unless you're still planning on making good on that promise from earlier and running me through with that sword of yours, I am coming with you.'

'I'm still undecided on making good on that promise.', the king warned then as he slowly but surely walked backwards towards his own stall and his own horse, while Déor did the same, but, again, there was little threat in that warning. For now, it seemed, they had come to a compromise, a mutual understanding of sorts: for now they would work together, for the sake of their old friendship, to save the woman they both loved each in their very own way.

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FUN FACT #1: Please, please, please don't hunt me down. I know this isn't the fluff I promised. And chapter #43 won't be fluff either. BUT BY ALL THE GODS OF THE UNDERWORLD, I SWEAR CHAPTER #44 WILL BE ANGSTY AND FLUFF AND FULL OF LOVELY IMAGERY - AND IF IT'S THE LAST THING I'M DOING!

FUN FACT #2: This chapter was actually supposed to include a second scene but as my two boys were "talking" it out, I realised I just couldn't cut that "talk". They deserve this chapter.

FUN FACT #3: As you can see I am slowly but surely trying to crawl my way out of the mess I created with the Déor-Lothíriel-pregnancy-rumour-mill-storyline. It is a hot mess and I love that storyline but - not gonna lie - it creates a few difficulties that I have to work hard now to set right. I am working on it. Lemme know if it works!

FUN FACT #4: Next chapter next month. It'll feature Éomer and Déor in their Sherlock Holmes and Watson era as they try to track down Lothíriel!