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It's been a while and I'm so sorry for the delay - I hope to avoid it in the future but, not gonna lie, life is hectic right now for me.

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47. Love is full of fear

'Why were ye with 'em?'

The question threw her quite off balance.

Night had just begun to settle around them, and while there were at least a few striking colours of the last bits of sunset still trying to cling to the world, the fireplace in the middle of the tent was the only really reliable light source left right now. The daughters of the Horse-Breaker had just left, to do Ulmo-knows-what, in the dark, at night, in the wilderness out there. All day long the two women had been hovering around her, as though to watch her – like the prisoner she still was, even as they called her a "guest" – even though their interactions could have been almost called "friendly" these last few days.

She should have known much quicker that there was something brewing.

But keeping up the front of the inconspicuous "guest" had been hard work, and that, coupled with the energy drained from her by the new life growing inside of her (a secret she had thought it best not to reveal out of fear that it might be used against her), had left her a lot less attentive than she usually would have been in such a situation. So, after black-haired Génnis had spent a suspiciously long amount of time re-dressing her wounds, and fire-haired Graina had thoroughly enjoyed the last hours of daylight to hone her twin hatchets to deadly perfection – as she always did, and with a malicious smirk at that – Lothíriel had just been glad to finally be able to relax now and to find some sleep at last … when the question from the Horse-Breaker came out of nowhere.

At first the question had confused her. After the initial shock of it had worn off, the queen had wondered what the wild man was asking about here. Was he referring to the men that had chased her through the snowstorm? Well, given the way the two of them had first met – and the sudden flash of his giant broadsword sailing through the air to impale her last attacker was an image still vivid in her mind – it should have been more than obvious why she had not been "with" them. So what was he getting at here? Her confusion must have spread out on her face like a wildfire because the Horse-Breaker addressed her once more, this time providing more background before he asked the same question yet again.

'Ye said ye're not one o' them Forgoil.', the wild man clarified then, and the way he emphasised the words not only reminded her sharply of the hatred between Rohirrim and Dunlendings but also of her own distinction she had made between her and her Northern people, and, most of all, of the possibility that this bear of a man might never have believed her evasive answers in the first place, and that now, at last, would be the moment her cover would be blown, 'So, why were ye with 'em?'

Goosebumps prickled her skin as she sucked in a breath. Fear froze her features even while she tried to school them into a neutral expression. The Horse-Breaker was watching her intently, as though trying to make sense of her; however, to the queen it seemed more like his sharp, brown eyes were trying to catch her off-guard and to sniff out a lie or a weakness – or perhaps even both. So, aware of the tension in the air between them, Lothíriel thought it would be best not to divulge too much information (the fear that he might try and ransom her, or worse, if he knew of her high and valuable station) and, rather than to lie outright (and to have her face betray her feelings of guilt and shame), to feed him half-truths instead.

'I was married … off to one of them. That's why I left my home to live with them. However, to many of them I am still a stranger, and are treated as such.', she spoke slowly then, a not so small amount of hesitation turning her words to sticky mud, and she could feel her inner reluctance playing a part in it – her reluctance to paint her husband and her Northern people in such an unfavourable light, and yet, she could not deny the truth that lay within the sharp edges of her words. No matter the feelings of affections and loyalty that had blossomed in the course of her first year of marriage, for the man she loved and the people she cherished, it did not change the facts of how she had been given away to a stranger-king from a stranger-land.

'Makes sense. Them Horse-lords always loved their horses more than anythin' – why not more than their women as well?', the wild man grunted contemptuously then, a grim smile stretching his features into a mask of malicious glee, as though he were happy to finally have a good stick to beat his enemies with. Although, knowing what she did of the Dunlendings, and given all the things she had learned since she had been with them, they really didn't need any more excuses or reasons to hate on the Rohirrim – although, as it would seem they gladly took whatever they could find to paint them as the snobbish, cruel oppressors they already saw them as. Lothíriel couldn't be quite sure, but she believed to have heard him mumble something along the lines of "damn Horse-lords bein' damn Horse-fuckers", but, of course, she was too well-bred and too well-mannered to admit that she had actually heard him say it.

And it was that momentary tuning out of the man opposite her that caught her off-guard then.

'So, is that why ye ran away?', the wild man went on to ask then; his eyes tightened in confusion, as though he were trying to decipher the mystery her being presented to him.

'What makes you think I ran away?', she countered reflexively, a part of her chafing against the insinuation that she had tucked tail and run – even though that's exactly what she did.

'I'm a hunter, remember? I know the look o' prey on the run when I see it.', the Horse-Breaker quipped back then, his eyes suddenly gleaming bright with malicious glee, and there was just something in the way he phrased his words that had shivers run down her spine. Heat crept up her neck and even though she hoped for her next exclamation to sound affronted by his tasteless choice of words, she feared it sounded just as small and unsure as she felt.

What was she afraid of here exactly?

The men that had chased her or the man in front of her?

'Well, I was being chased – '

'Not talkin' 'bout them cut-throats. Was talkin' 'bout before that.', the Horse-Breaker interrupted her then and not for the first time did she wonder for how long exactly that bear of a man must have watched her back then, that day in the snowstorm, before he had intervened. It was a disturbing thought. Did he wait, so he could see what she would do, how well she would fare against her attackers? What had he been waiting for? What had he been hoping to see? A shiver ran down her spine. A very disturbing thought indeed.

'So, is that the reason ye ran away? Yer man wasn' good t' ye? Is that it?', the Horse-Breaker kept on talking then, unaware of her inner turmoil, unaware of just how raw a nerve he was hitting with his words here. Closing her eyes, Lothíriel took a deep breath, as if to brace herself against the tidal wave of memories that came crashing down upon her. Images flashed before her inner eye – images of green eyes tightened in anger, tightened in pain – and the agony of it threatened to flood the whole of her mind; so much so that his next question took her quite by surprise, 'Or is it 'cos o' the bairn?'

Her eyes flew open.

For a moment, Lothíriel wondered if the Horse-Breaker had actually asked what she believed she had heard him utter just now, or if she was just imagining things. After all, her wounds had not yet fully healed and she had been through enough in the last few weeks alone for it to mess with her head. But no, by the open and curious expression spread out on his face she knew instantly that the question had truly been spoken out loud – and now stood between them in a silence that held a thousand answers and one.

Startled as she was, though, in her there was the initial instinct to deny the frighteningly accurate predictions of the wild man, but then her hand was already flying to her belly, still flat and unassuming – and she knew the Horse-Breaker had seen it. It was a motherly reflex she seemed to have developed the moment she had learned of her condition, to protect that new life growing inside of her – and yet, even though she had worked hard to keep her current physical situation a secret, she found herself meeting his gaze head-on now – not with fear but with resolve – and doing away with all pretence.

'How did you know?', she asked, surprised at how calm her own voice sounded. As things stood, she should have been terrified at the idea that the man who held her captive knew of her greatest weakness, her greatest vulnerability, but instead she felt only intrigued at the implications behind it. How long have you known?, would have been a much more accurate question in that moment. It had taken her weeks to recognise the signs of her body for what they were, and she could not for the life of her wrap her mind around the fact that this bear of a man before her seemed to have taken one good look at her and seen right through her, knowing straight away.

'I'm Gunnar Garthson, Father t' Many Daugh'ers. Trust me, I know the look o' a lass in fawn 'fore she's big with it.', the Horse-Breaker laughed then, with a good-natured wink thrown her way for good measure that would have surely rendered her speechless, if she hadn't been at a loss for words already, confirming her suspicions that he had known all along. What else did he know? The disturbing question burrowed its way right from the back of her mind to her forefront while she held the wild man's gaze, and the look in his eyes – a look he held just a fraction too long, but not long enough to be sure – made the hairs in the back of her neck stand up.

And then it was gone, as quickly as it seemed to have come over him.

'Génnis told me. Her eagle eye doesn' miss a thing.', the wild man conceded then, an almost sheepish smile peaking out from behind that thick, black beard, and if she hadn't been born and bred a lady of the Southern courts, a politician through and through in all but the sex, than she might have been fooled to believe that he was as docile as he pretended himself to be. But no, there was a deliberate note in that tame smile, a note meant to belie the ferocious and cunning nature of a seasoned hunter. A trap was being set here, and she knew it well, and it was only a matter of time before either of them was ready to spring it and to take the bait.

She knew she should never have lowered her guard with this family of three.

She knew she should have been wary of the black-haired daughter's healing touch – and sharp eyes.

She knew she should have known something was up.

'So, is that why ye ran?', the Horse-Breaker asked once more then, and this time there was no ambiguity in his tone; he was calm, patient even, his voice as slow and dark and comforting as the world at night under a moonlit sky. Perhaps the challenge in his words she had imagined earlier had only been in her head? Perhaps that new-found tenderness in his words was meant to lull her into a false sense of security (as if she hadn't already fallen for that)? Or perhaps there was an honest albeit rough and dirty hand here, reaching out towards her with an open palm, not to take but to give – to give, despite the hand he wanted to reach out to that was wrapped up in a glove made of silk and secrecy, and curled up in a tight fist?

'It's more complicated than that.', the queen spoke then, her answer deliberate in its vagueness, because although she was more or less referring to the mess she had left behind in the wake of her disappearance, the wild man in front of her, naturally, took it to refer to the matter at hand.

'Ah, usually is, innit?', the Horse-Breaker commented then as he clicked his tongue with a good-natured wink of one of his black eyes, but the gleam of mischievous fun soon vanished from his gaze once he directed it towards things that lay in the past, and yet seemed to weigh on him still, 'I get it, ye know? Cubs have a way o' changin' things. 'Fore my daugh'ers, I was a different man too. 'Fore them, I loved nothin' more than t' fight an' drink an' hunt – an' not just for prey o' the wild, if ye take my meanin'.'

The little chuckle that intercut his tale was a heart-felt little thing, but ultimately short-lived. When he spoke once more, his voice sounded bitter and his eyes seemed haunted, 'But after, after I held 'em in my hands, I didn' care for any o' that anymore. I wanted t' watch 'em grow up, I wanted t' watch 'em grow wild – nothin' more, nothin' less. When I held 'em in my hands for the first time, I learned what fear was. Fear that I'd never watch 'em grow up an' grow wild. But that's not what I should've been afraid of.'

'What then?', the queen asked with bated breath, as she had been sucked into his telling of his tale and now felt as though a mystery of life were to be revealed to her, and perhaps, it really was. Under the blankets one of her hands found her belly, still flat and unassuming – and now she no longer feared to give in to that motherly reflex – and to her old fears new fears now joined company with, 'What is it that you should have feared instead?'

'I should've feared for 'em t' turn out just like me.', the Horse-Breaker answered then with an intensity in his gaze that held her captive, and there was a haunting expression in his gaze that made her catch her breath. In the back of her mind, she could hear her aunt laughing, and her father chuckling, and the imagined sound was so unfamiliar, so spiteful and so full of hate, that it almost kept her from hearing the rest of the wild man's words of warning, 'I should've feared for 'em t' follow in my footsteps. I should've feared for 'em t' repeat all o' my mistakes an' call 'em wisdom. I should've feared – '

And here Gunnar Garthson stopped, his last sentence coming to nothing, as though all the words had failed him. But there was no need to finish, no need to speak it out loud. Lothíriel already knew what he had wanted to say, or at least she believed that she did, for it had been her fear as well. Ever since she had learned of the new life growing inside of her, fear had been a near constant in her heart, and in her head, slowly but surely chipping away at her common sense and reason – and chipping away at her reason for returning as well.

At first, it had been fear for the safety of her unborn child; fear of anything that might be a threat to its safety – the cut-throats that had attacked her that day in the snowstorm, the strangers that held her captive as their "guest". However, slowly but surely that fear had grown into something else as well; fear for the life that child growing inside of her was going to live. Because, even if it would not be branded a bastard – and she an adulterous whore – for the way in which she had left Edoras that day of the snowstorm, for the rumours a certain knight's favours had elicited, what kind of life would this child have?

Lothíriel remembered her own childhood, the way she had grown up, the way she had been made to grow up – the expectations she had been made to adhere to, the ambitions she had been made to follow, the rules and tricks and things she had been made to learn. She even remembered the childhood that had been stolen from her in favour of the lady she had been made to become. And she still remembered the dreams she had been made to give up, the heart she had been made to lock away. She remembered it all with a chill that went right through bone and marrow.

Was that the life she envisioned for any child of hers? To follow in her footsteps? Because what other life could she offer, marked as she was by the life she had lived? And was that not what she feared most? That she would ruin this little innocent thing that was growing inside of her? That with every day that she would raise this child in this world that had been shaped by greed and ambition, by duty and expectation – a world she had been made to grow up in, a world she, too, had helped shape in such a way by adhering to its rigid rules – that it would harden into a person that thought only of duty and not desire, that thought only of expectation and not excitement?

There was a part of her that feared nothing more than that this child would turn out just like her.

'Don' be afraid o' yer fears, girl.', the wild man spoke then, his voice sounding as though it came from far off, a faint echo almost that yet managed to cut through the fog of her angst-ridden thoughts spiralling out of control, 'Fear can have its uses. It keeps us down-t'-earth … an' our heads out o' the clouds. It reminds us that we aren' the gods an' monster we've come t' see ourselves as.'

'But our fears also keep us from moving forward.', Lothíriel protested then, the words barely more than a heaving sigh, and once she had breathed out the first few of them, she couldn't stop the rest from spilling out, like a damned wave that had finally broken the dam that had kept it from flooding the land that lay barren and broken beyond it, 'Our fears keep us from going where we need to go, they keep us from doing what we need to do, they keep us from – '

'Is that what ye want t' do? Leave? An' where is it that ye want t' go exactly?', the Horse-Breaker cut her off then, and even though there was a smirk just barely hidden under that fierce black beard, there was an almost menacing quality to it, and she understood its nature well enough. So, she kept her mouth shut, so as to not betray the secrets she still managed to cling to – and when the wild man before her shook his head then, with the smirk softening into a sad, little smile, it seemed a motion of amused defeat, and even, strangely enough, something like fatherly concern, 'I think ye're still runnin', fairge cailin, an' I fear ye'll always be runnin'. The question's just: whether towards or from somethin' … '

The Horse-Breaker gazed at her with expectant eyes, as though a few words of crude wisdom were all it took for her to spill the mysteries she hugged close to her heart. But Lothíriel remained silent, her eyes the only thing she would allow to give voice to her thoughts. She was sure he could read the defiance in the blue depths of her eyes. She was sure he could read the confirmation in her grey gaze. She was sure he could read the despair underneath it all. But whatever he saw hidden in her expression, it did not elicit his usual amusement, but rather understanding … and something like reassurance.

'Ye could stay here … until ye figure it out … perhaps even after that … ', the wild man offered then, slowly, quietly, almost shyly, and for a moment she wasn't sure if he had really said what she thought she had heard him say – but no, as she held his open gaze, there could be absolutely no mistaking what he had just offered. And even if she had never felt a father's love before, she still recognised the unfamiliar beats of it – and she saw it now in the black eyes of the wild man before her; a quiet admission, a tentative offer, a hand reaching out towards her in a gesture of lending aid and support.

And it made her wonder …

She had asked him again and again why he had saved her, back then, that day in the snowstorm, but he would always make a joke of it. However, she had gathered enough from the way he was looking at her – at her eyes and her hair – that he was very much looking at her with the eyes of a father still mourning for the loss of a most beloved child, and seeing in her the daughter he had lost. And while a part of her – the part of the unloved daughter forever looking for a father's love – had been most touched by this sentiment, another part of her – the part of the lady of the Southern courts, whose sense of self-worth had been slowly but surely eroded by years and years of manipulation and intrigue, whose self-image had been distorted by all the things she had been made to do – had been almost haunted by the things he believed to see in her.

And it was the latter part of her that stared at the wild man now in shocked disbelief.

'Ye could stop runnin' … '

In the silence that stretched out between them, Lothíriel could feel the hairs in the back of her neck stand up. In the silence that stretched out between them, Lothíriel could hear the old monster of self-loathing rear its ugly head in the distance. In the silence that stretched out between them, Lothíriel remembered the last time a man – tough on the outside, soft on the inside – had held out his hand to her, and how devastating the fall-out had been, once that man had realised that his hopes and help for her had been in vain.

'You don't know me.', the queen stated then at last, once the initial shock of his offer had slowly but surely worn off, and yet she was still shaken by the contradicting emotions the wild man's words had made to boil over, and one could just see that – in her forehead etched in frowns, in her eyes tightened in painful disbelief, in the words she heaved out, almost as if they were a sigh, almost as if they cost her to utter them aloud, almost as if they betrayed the true meaning buried under them … that tried to claw its way free.

But wild man before her would not see that. He could not see that. The way he saw her was still coloured by the way he wanted to see her. A broken bird whose wings he wanted to mend. A weathered kid he wanted to shelter. An orphaned cub he wanted to raise as his own. Again and again he seemed to forget the manner in which they had met. She had been running, yes, but she had left footprints of blood in her wake. And yes, even if she were a bird, broken and weathered and all but orphaned, she was a bird of prey still, as all swans were.

But still – he could not see that. He would not see that.

A father, after all, could not look upon the world with any eyes other than those of a father.

Before, she had been broken by seeing the disappointment in a father's eyes.

Now, however, it would be hope in a father's eyes that would serve to break her.

'Don' need t' know ye t' see that ye're in dire need o' fuckin' help.', the wild man protested then, apparently picking up an entirely different message from her words, but one she was only too glad he chose to follow with regards to their argument. Because the irritated tone in his voice made it easier for her to tap into her own frustration, choosing to focus on the anger she felt over yet another man who would set his hopes on her – yet another man who tried to see in her what she could not see herself – rather than to wallow in the shameful fear she felt, fearing, no, knowing that she could never live up to that hope. It was yet another pedestal she was put on here, a mountain amassed of another person's hopes projected onto her – but what they didn't see, what they wouldn't see, was that a mountain was yet another cliff to fall from and yet another abyss around it to fall into.

In her mind she took a step back, closer towards that imaginary edge, feeling the cold air of the foreshadowed free-fall cut into her heels. But rather than fall straightaway, she dug in her imaginary heels, turned towards her opponent, like an animal very much cornered, baring her teeth, ready to push back, with everything she got – and then some.

'And how the fuck would you know that?! You sit here with your crude words and your cheaply earned peasant wisdoms, as though you were not exactly the kind of savage you play at being! What would you know about it?! You don't know shit about me! You don't know shit about anything!', she snapped back then, and by now the shock of his offer, and the hope he had heaved onto her along with it, had long turned to defiant anger; a defence mechanism, no more, and one she had deployed so very often before, to shield herself from the inevitable rejection once the person reaching out to her learned who she really were underneath the image of the damsel in distress. In the past year, she had let that mask slip, for the sake of her foolish heart and the sweet man who had taken hold of it – it was a decision she had dearly paid for.

In the here and now, the Horse-Breaker only frowned.

He did not growl in rage or scoff affronted, or showed any other sign of confusion or exasperation. He only frowned; dark clouds etched into his forehead, two bushy eyebrows that met in defiance of the words she had hurled against him. But other than that he remained silent, giving her no other reason or excuse to take issue with him or to latch onto. And somehow – that infuriated her even more. That he would remain calm and collected, his face barely more than an impassive mask while she was visibly enraged, like an animal that was backed into a corner, thrashing wildly about, snapping even at the hand that would care for it.

But perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps it wasn't him at all that she was angry at. Perhaps it was herself she was angriest at. Because she had allowed him to back her into such a corner. Because she had let slip more than she could have afforded already. Because she, as a trained lady of the Southern courts, had failed to keep her cool while the black-bearded wild man before her appeared entirely composed.

You miscalculated, Lothíriel, and it will cost you dearly.

It was the memory of her father's vicious gloating that broke the damn and loosened her tongue.

She might as well have thrown a dagger at the fierce and fearsome father-figure before her.

But for all the good it did her, she might as well have aimed at herself.

Her aim had always been off.

'You don't know me.', she reiterated, and even though her words were meant to emphasise her enraged statement from before, she could not help the tightness of her throat or the tears that had her choked up, that had her voice waver. Gone was the anger from before, that anger that had feigned power to her, and in its stead only despair now stood, and underneath it – fear. Fear of being found out – not just who she was, but what she was beneath it all. That fear gripped her so tightly, her voice resounded barely above a hoarse whisper as she added, 'You don't know the things I've done … '

'Yeah?', the Horse-Breaker cut in then, and it was the first time he actually interrupted her long and breathless tirade, and while he almost seemed to smirk at first, there was a certain wild menace to its tone that sent shivers down her back. And then the smirk was gone, replaced by lips pressed together in such a thin line, she could barely see them beneath his fierce and fearsome black beard.

'D'ye kill people? Men? Women? Little ones?', he shot back, and his question managed to cut so thoroughly through her thinly veiled attempt at scaring him off that she didn't even dare to open her mouth to answer – he could read the answer in her burning face already. His eyes were almost black now as they fixed her, and yet, his gaze seemed to be about a thousand miles away.

'I did. I've killed people. Lots o' 'em.', he continued then, his voice at first only a flat line, and yet, even that toneless voice belied the broiling emotion underneath all its enforced impassiveness. Lothíriel could understand the impulse; she herself had often forced herself to give off an air of unaffected composure while she had been very much affected by what she had tried to deny with words and expression.

'Yeah, I killed people. Good people. Bad people.', he went on to say then, and now there was some emotion in his voice, and then some – although it was probably not an emotion any sane or decent person would understand. He smiled. The queen understood that weak smile that peeked out from underneath his black beard; it was not a smirk, not one of amusement, except if one were to find amusement in the bitter irony of such hollow, moral categories as "good" and "bad". But then, that smiled waned, and in its stead only bitterness and regret remained, 'People I hated … and people I loved.'

In the silence that followed, and that stretched out between them – not like an abyss, but like yet another cord of connection – it was left unsaid, and yet deeply understood and felt, that he referred to the death of his beloved daughter, Gillain Blackhooves. And although she initially wondered at the tone of regret and guilt in his voice – how could he have been to blame for her death, if it had been the Rohirrim who had been the cause of it? – it didn't take long for her to understand the impulse of it. After all, was there not a part of her as well that blamed herself for the death of her friends, and the cover-up that followed after it?

The Horse-Breaker for his part seemed only too glad to move on, eager to shift the focus back to her.

'Does it make me a bad person that I killed people? Does it make ye a good person that ye didn'? Only the gods know for sure, an' they sure as hell don't care enough t' punish us for it.', the wild man concluded then, and even though a part of her twitched back from his words, appalled at the blatant expression of blasphemy he dared to utter here, another part of her could not but feel strangely comforted by it. His words were strangely comforting – as words relativising things perceived as good or evil so often were.

The Horse-Breaker – perhaps sensing that she seemed to have had a change of heart – gave her a final push to open up. Shaking his head, as if to repel all the things she were going to say, he leaned forward then and – and he placed his hand on hers, his huge paw covering the delicate back of her hand in whole, and when he spoke then, his eyes fixed her with an almost pleading gaze.

'So, tell me 'bout the terrible things ye done … and lemme decide for myself.'

Lothíriel considered the picture of his hand on hers for a long moment; his hand on her was rough and coarse, but it was warm and comforting as well, and even though every sense of propriety and self-preservation was screaming at her not to take the bait, she gave in anyway. She did not pull her hand away. The ways of the lady, the ways of the politician, had hurt the happiness of the woman in her in the past, ruining every chance she had with the man she loved – so why should she listen to its call now? And so, it was the woman in her – and not the lady or the politician – that chose to speak, chose to unburden herself, and to seek the relief of condemnation or absolution for the sins she had committed in her eyes and the eyes of the world.

'I … I ruined the life of the man I love. I betrayed him. I manipulated him. I … I broke him. And I did it all for myself, so I could get what I wanted! And not once did I care who got hurt in the process – because I didn't want to care, because I couldn't allow myself to care, or else I wouldn't have been able to do it!', she confessed then, and while at first she had been hesitant to disclose the truth of it, she soon enough heaved it all out in a heavy sigh, and once she had started, she could not stop the words from flowing, 'But I didn't know – '

'Didn't know what? That ye betrayed him? Or that ye'd get caught?', the Horse-Breaker interjected then, cutting her off, and even though he had interrupted her, his questions had not been asked with a sense of judgement or doubt – only with a sense of confusion and curiosity, the innate desire to understand. The queen, however, was momentarily thrown off nonetheless by his questioning, taking a long moment to think it over in her mind, but, ultimately, her answer had been clear before he had even asked.

'No, I knew that I was betraying him, I've know that from the very beginning. And I knew it was only a matter of time until he would find out – even if I tried not to think about that.', she started then, her answer now a lot more quiet and reserved than before – a quiet admission of a truth she had tried to ignore for too long, but an admission she knew was necessary, 'No, I knew what I was doing while I was doing it. But … I didn't know what it would do to me … to do that to him. I didn't know that I loved him. I didn't know until it was too late.'

In the aftermath of her confession, the silence that stretched out between them seemed all-encompassing and oppressive, even if it should have felt freeing to unburden herself like this. But the truth, after all, held little comfort, if there were no way to change the unbearable nature of things. All it was, was a bitter reminder of the mistakes she had made, of the life she had ruined, of the love she had damaged. No words could fill the hole such knowledge had punched into her heart, having the muscle beat in tune with a hollow rhythm only.

Perhaps the wild man in front of her knew that.

Perhaps as he looked at her, he saw right through her.

Perhaps that's why he didn't speak at first, why didn't speak for quite a while.

But, perhaps, that was also the reason, he chose to speak again then.

'So, that's why ye ran, innit?', the Horse-Breaker asked then, his brown eyes softening as they gazed upon her, and she wasn't quite sure what emotion his look truly held – sympathy or pity? – but whatever it was, it made her look away as she pulled her hand out of his paw's reach. Some emotions were simply felt too deeply to be so close to another human being. And she could feel it now, that deep emotion having her all choked up, and she could not even nod, and she definitely didn't trust her voice to speak. There was something oddly wet and bothersome on her cheeks, but she felt too tired to brush it away. And as she looked down on her own hands, lying uselessly in her lap, she saw drop after drop drip down on it, shaping a lake of salt and water on the folded flesh of her fingers.

Saltwater had always made her feel strong.

Now it only served to dry up even more of her skin.

Soon it would crack open, and blood would spill forth.

Saltwater only ever begets saltwater.

'So, ye think ye can never return? That love couldn' forgive the evil ye've done?', the wild man continued then, choosing to ignore the silence on her part, perhaps taking it as her silent confirmation, perhaps taking it as a challenge to question her beliefs, perhaps straining against the very idea of it all – perhaps for reasons more personal than he would have let show at first. The usually so gruff voice sounded strangely comforting, and when he let out a heavy sigh then, it sounded strangely familiar, as though he understood perfectly well what pained her so, 'Lemme learn ye somethin', lass, when ye've lived as long as I have, an' when ye've seen an' done the things I've seen an' done, ye'll understand that there's really not much that love couldn' forgive.'

The queen spoke not a word.

The queen did not look up either.

And the queen most certainly did not jump up and storm out of the tent in protest (not that she could have, given her current weakened physical condition).

Staring at her hands, folded neatly in her lap, she watched, as if in a trance, the little teardrops of saltwater run down, ever down, only to disappear inside the hollow formed between her interlaced fingers. Strange, she thought, as though looking in from far away, as though this body weren't really hers, that the saltwater didn't crack open the dry skin and draw forth the blood that was still warm and alive underneath. The saltwater had just vanished, disappeared, lost itself in between fingers folded together – and in that space of touch between her fingers, there was no salt, no cold, no bitterness … only warmth, only connection.

The streaks her tears had left behind, had long dried by the time her mind caught up to the meaning of the wild man's words; and even though she did not have the words yet to respond to him, she had her eyes still, and when she looked up then, she let them do the talking. And she did not doubt for a second that the Horse-Breaker could read in her gaze the very same question he must have asked himself a thousand times, the very same question she, too, was asking herself.

Could love truly forgive the evil we have done?

There was an answer, buried somewhere deep in his eyes, but for her, her eyes only perceived the doubt that lingered in his gaze – a reflection of her own gaze, a memory of an old uncertainty. But that was all it was for him – a mere memory of doubt, and he was quick to dispel it. Reaching out then, that huge paw of his hand did not place itself on top of her folded fingers like before – nay, leaning forward slightly, to reach out to her all the way, his hand lay itself on her belly, still flat and unassuming, covering almost the whole of it. And, surely, he must have noticed the way she almost physically recoiled from him touch – not out of fright or disgust, but because the truth in his eyes, the conviction in his gaze, the comforting sympathy of his touch, was almost too much to bear.

There was no retreat possible, no shelter from his crude words of wisdom nor from the comfort of his all too human touch.

His eyes so brown they appeared black tore through any and all walls she had hoped to keep up still.

'Perhaps it's time for ye t' learn that as well – that love can forgive anythin' – an' t' learn it quickly … before another life's ruined because o' it.', the wild man murmured then, but given the intensity of his unwavering gaze, he might as well have shouted the words straight into her face. The reaction of shock to her system was the same, leaving her to suck in a desperate gulp of air. And even after he had pulled back his hand and allowed them to retreat back into the safety of their personal space, even after he had long left the tent, still, all she could do was stare in shock – breathless, trembling, shattering.

Of course, her fear-riddled, self-loathing mind had assumed that he had meant the life of the child growing inside of her.

It was much, much later that she realised that he might have actually meant her own life that she could end up ruining here.

FUN FACT #1: Don't wanna be that kind of fic writer but SERIOUSLY I have good reasons for my delay. I'm moving flats with my partner at the moment, report cards for school have to be written and I'm moving class rooms at school too. It's a lot, especially with some very demanding parents who want to disagree with my grading choices. Most of the time, I just want to sleep. So, sorry for the delay. Life has hit me full force this time. I vow to do better.

FUN FACT #2: See, peeps, I told ya there would be a decent father figure in here. Did I say it's the father figure we wanted? No, but it's the father figure Lothíriel deserves.

FUN FACT #3: Chapter #48 is the last one we'll spend with the Dunlendings. By chapter #49 we will be back on the Éomer-Lothíriel-track. How's that sound?