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49. From the wilderness – Part 1

The popping sound of a log breaking in the fire was the only sound that disturbed the peace; a last noisy revolt against the numbing, deafening sound of silence. Black night had settled down upon the Hall of Meduselde and upon the bedchamber of the king, and the darkness was all-consuming, save for the fire in the hearth that crackled and burned. A single source of light in the vast nothingness of night – but that fire would soon turn to mere embers before it too would sizzle out.

Fire, like hope, could not survive, after all, without being fed.

Éomer, son of Éomund, king of the Riddermark, sat in an old worn-out armchair front of the hearth in the bedchamber he had once shared with the woman he had called queen. It was late and it was dark, and yet he would not find sleep in the comfort of the bed he had once shared with the woman he had loved. (He couldn't even remember the last he had found sleep in that bed.) Instead, he seemed to have become one with the darkness itself around him. Staring at the fire before him, he did not bother to feed it any more wood, or to stoke the fire with a poker.

What point was there in wasting any more resources on a fire that was meant to burn out anyway?

Lost in thought, the king's gaze lost itself in the flames before him. Absent-mindedly, his fingers played around with the sword that lay sheathed and yet ready in his lap. In the many nights before, he had put his whetstone to it, to hone it to sharp, gleaming perfection – but what was one to do with a sword as sharp and ready as this one, but with no foe to fight in sight? Instead, with the flick of his hand, he sheathed and unsheathed the sword, again and again; and with every push and pull of the blade, the sound if it became a rhythm so loud it even drowned out the crackling of the fire.

The king was waiting.

A sudden sound from the other end of the room cut through the silence and just like that the numb but false peace was undone. Jumping up in a quick and fluid movement, the king was out of his chair and the sword out of its scabbard in the blink of an eye. With his back towards the fireplace, Éomer stared ahead into the shadows, expectant and ready, but the brightness of the flames behind him made it hard to make out anything in the blackness before him. And when the adrenaline of the first few seconds had passed, confusion took its place, and then, suspicion.

'Déor?', the king called out, his voice coloured with a thousand different emotions – caution, hope, disappointment, relief – but he kept it tightly under control. Assurances still had to be made before the chance of danger could be eliminated and a warrior could let down his guard. The king's grip on his sword tightened as he took one step towards the shadows, when –

'Who else?! Of course it's me.', the Marshall quipped back as he stepped out of the shadows and into he light of the dying fire. But in contrast to the sarcasm in his voice, there was now none of that usual jovial smirk to be found on his face. Instead, the knight looked weary and tired – as was to be expected of one who had travelled great distances and had laboured much and more under a task that had proved both honourable and shameful at the same time – but there was more to it, behind the spiteful words and that show of sarcasm, underneath the obvious exhaustion.

Lowering the sword, Éomer looked his old friend up and down, taking in his changed look. Hair dyed black, face clean-shaven and his clothes styled in the colours and fashion of the South. It was not a look he would ever have thought to see on one of his men, and to be honest, just now it had taken him more than just a moment to recognise the man he had once called his best friend. Surely, in that disguise not even a dead mother would have recognised her own son.

As expected, as demanded.

Sheathing his sword, Éomer could not quite hide the smirk as he comment dryly on the new look of his Marshall, and his words there were perhaps still coloured by the faults he could lay at the knight's feet, 'Now you really look like the court jester you've always been, Déor. Or should I rather say, Master Gwathren?'

'Very funny, you joker. Do I need to remind you that this was your idea?!', the Marshall spat back then, shrugging almost uncomfortably at the mention of the fake name he had taken on to complete his disguise, and the show of it would have been almost perfect, had it not been for the meticulous way in which the knight then secretly smoothened out the wrinkles in his fine, new clothes.

Yes, it was my idea, Éomer thought then, but he swallowed the bitterness that sickened him at the thought.Ihave learned too much of the Southern wiles for my own good, was another thought that crept up from the back of his mind, but he shoved that one down too, and instead turned to the task at hand. Putting away his sword, the king addressed his Marshall once again, though there was no mocking amusement in his voice now, only determination, 'So, tell me – '

'Can we not do this in the morning, Éomer?', Déor whined with a groan then while his shoulders slumped and his whole figure seemed to shrink in on itself, 'I'm hungry and I'm tired. I've been on the road for days and I've hardly slept or – '

'No, we cannot do this in the morning!', the king repeated mockingly before turning serious once more, though the edge to his voice had not lessened even a bit; he was all commander and not friend as he continued, 'You're supposed to play the part of an Ithilian herald, Déor, or have you forgotten?! Don't you think it'd be a little bit suspicious if a king were to hold audience with a simple Southern errand boy?!'

The king had almost growled as he reminded his wayward companion of the ruse they had employed and how well it seemed to have worked this morning when the knight had returned from the South with a false name and a false guise; reminding him that even though people might have bought it then, people sure as hell would see through their game if they weren't being careful.

'Stick to the plan, Déor. No one can know you're back.'

'I'm aware of that. I know what's at stake here.', the Marshall grunted bitterly, avoiding his king's intense gaze as he protested no more then; instead, he awaited his king's command with the petulant scowl of a reprimanded child – or with the look of a man simply rendered impatient and sensitive by exhaustion. Frowning, Éomer felt some strange old emotion tugging at his heart, but even though he tried to ignore it, it was just no use in the end. Cursing silently, the king turned towards the crackling fire that seemed to burn unaffected in the hearth before him.

'There's some bread and cheese from dinner on the table over there. Help yourself.'

With his head snapping up to look at his king, it was clear that Déor was surprised, but he wisely chose not to question the gesture any further and instead simply accepted it (lest he would be told off again). And so the knight took the plate from the table and sat down in the chair in front of the fireplace; he ate quietly and quickly, knowing full well that his king was not an exceedingly patient man and that he was still on very thin ice here. Éomer had fallen quiet too – but then again he had always been a quiet man – and watched the fire, lost to his own thoughts. And so, both men remained in silence for a long while – Déor ate while Éomer thought.

More than a month had passed since the day of the snowstorm, more than a month since –

She's not dead, do you hear me?! She can't be – she promised …

Éomer's shoulders tensed as he tried to shut out the pain and to bring his thoughts in order.

After the king had returned that day of the snowstorm, the news of the queen's disappearance had spread like a wildfire in Edoras and then throughout all of the Riddermark. There wasn't much that could have been done about it; returning empty-handed and with a mare without its rider, it hadn't taken long for all kinds of theories to pop up and sprout like weed. And although Éomer had spun the tall tale that the queen must have simply gotten lost on a ride-out, some of the council members actually promoted the gossip that the queen must have run off at last (and good riddance, they thought, or so he could read in some of their faces). Others theorised that she might as well have been ambushed out there, accounting for her continued absence – and some of those came awfully close to the truth even. However, most were missing or simply fabricating key elements of the story here.

Some councillors were going so far as to gossip that it had to have been Dunlendings that had attacked the queen – and the councilman Lord Braenn had been chief amongst those who favoured that story and he was also the one who was pushing for a more aggressive advance on the Dunlendings because of it. And thus, the matter of war was broached again and again, but so far the king had still shirked away from making a decision. However, the reasoning for his stalling were much more complex than mere hesitation to engage in an all-out war with their old enemy.

Éomer knew that it hadn't been the Dunlendings who had attacked that day, but he needed time to figure out what exactly had happened to his wife and queen, who had ordered the hit on her and who would profit from it, and he needed to figure it out quickly. Those men in the snow were paid with Southern coin, though to find his wife in a storm like that had required help from inside of the Mark – which meant that there was a conspiracy of some sort going on, right under his nose.

But this was a secret only he and Déor knew about – not even the handmaidens, Aida and Madlen, had been told about it – and both men had kept quiet about the exact circumstances of the queen's disappearance for good reason. Éomer had known from the beginning that in this game of cat and mouse information was key. And so, on their way back, on that day of the snowstorm, both men had concocted a plan to gather just that.

… 'So, you know what you need to do?', the king had asked his Marshall back then, after he had explained the essence of their plan, but the king had not been able to bring himself to look at his knight; instead, he had busied himself with washing the blood of the mare's hide with handfuls of snow – to eliminate all evidence that spoke of more than just "disappearance".

'Yes, I understand.', the knight had responded then with a defeated sigh, and although there had been determination in his voice, to see this thing through to the end, as it was a service he felt he owed to his oldest friend and his king, there had also been disillusionment in his tone. It was this lack of hope, this lack of faith in their plan to bring about anything more than vengeance – rather than hope for a sign of life to be worth fighting for – that had compelled the Marshall to speak up then. A lone voice of doubt against the wailing winds of almost mad-like resolve.

'Éomer, you that know that even if we catch the bastards responsible for this, there is no guarantee that it will bring her back to – ', the knight had started with caution then, but one look from his king had been enough to shut him up. It had remained unspoken between them, but it had been clear to the king that the knight had already given up on finding the queen alive. It was a lack of faith the king had not been able to forgive and that had driven an even bigger wedge between the old friends – but in that moment, both men had ignored it and instead turned their focus upon the task ahead…

Upon their return Déor had been sent into exile – or at least, that was the official version, and people were only too eager to believe it. (The two of them had made a great show out of it on their way to the stables, and there was hardly any acting necessary for the king to blame the knight for the disappearance of his queen.) In truth, ever since the day of the snowstorm, Déor had been covertly making inquiries regarding the disappearance of the queen. Travelling between Edoras and Gondor, the Marshall had secretly gathered information with the help of the few true friends they had down in the South – and then some.

Words had been exchanged in hushed whispers that spoke of conspiracy and plotting.

Conclusions had been drawn.

A trap had been set up.

And the long wait had begun.

It was only this morning that Déor had returned; not as himself, but as a herald of his sister's household in Ithilien. It was a disguise Éomer had insisted upon, pointing out, gloating, that his old friend would make for a better spy than a knight. And although Déor had been clearly offended by the comment, he had simply swallowed it and gone through with the plan. And so, this morning, when he had arrived, he had introduced himself with a deep bow as Master Gwathren, handed the king some letters from his sister and then had allowed others to lead him to the servants' quarters.

With a twist to his lips that could have almost been called a smile Éomer noted that so far the plan had worked surprisingly well, as the people around them had bought the disguise of Master Gwathren without question or suspicion. In fact, they had hardly spared him another glance, but that was probably because to them he was just some random Southerner. In that regard, Éomer could not help the sense of accomplishment that had filled him that morning; but that feeling of satisfaction had quickly been overshadowed by frustration – because that his plan worked had also meant that he would have to wait for the silencing cover of night before he would get any real answers.

Now, however, the wait was over at long last.

'So, tell me then.', the king spoke then to the fire but the knight understood straight away that the period of grace was over. Chewing up the last piece of cheese, Déor put away the plate of food, dusted off the crumbs of bread he had carelessly left on his fine, new clothes. And when he was ready to tell his tale, he told it to the flames – there was just something that compelled him to not meet his old friend's gaze, though he could not rightly say what it was exactly. Shame, perhaps, for having to engage in such dishonourable business? Or guilt, for how well he had fit into his new role? It didn't matter in the end; his king had given him an order and he had fulfilled it dutifully as the soldier he was.

His king had given him an order now too – no matter how civil his voice had tried to sound – and Déor complied with just the same sense of duty.

'It all worked out fine. I got to Ithilien undetected.', the Marshall explained in a nutshell, deciding quickly, after remembering the harshness of the road and the loneliness he had felt while travelling it on his own, and the difficulties he had faced trying to enter a foreign realm unnoticed, that his king would probably not care for such details. The matter of the success or failure of the mission was all Éomer really cared about, and yet, Déor could not quite bite back a remark about the one thing that had given him the most headache during this assignment, 'Your sister was quite surprised to see me … '

'How did she receive the news?'

It was all the comment the king was giving with regard to the account of the knight, but as Déor dared to take a peek at his old friend, from out of the corner of his eyes, he saw that the crowned warrior was frowning, and the Marshall could understand some feelings of concern clouding the king's forehead, after all, so much of his plan had depended on his sister's cooperation and contribution. But of course, as she was his sister, the king had nothing to fear.

'Well, she seemed … upset?', Déor answered more or less truthfully, and the king did not miss the intentional way in which the knight sugar-coated the words. Apparently, it had been more than just finery that the Marshall had picked up on his mission to the South, though his sly sense of humour had not changed one bit, and one could just hear the shadow of a smirk as he added, 'I believe she meant to express her … ah, displeasure in her letters?'

Aye, she did that, and then some, Éomer thought as he remembered reading the letters Déor had handed to him this morning. He remembered the shaky nature of her handwriting, indicating just how agitated she must have been when she had written those letters. And if that hadn't been sign enough for her obvious anger, then the words she had hurled against him through those wobbly lines had been clear enough. Béma save him!, he thought then with a smile, the South had apparently not softened his sister's rough edges – and secretly the king hoped that it never would.

'But she agreed to help?', Éomer countered then, and the question was answer enough for Déor, showing him that the king felt the need to make sure, an insecurity born out of his doubts and worries for the success of their plan. One would have almost been tempted towards feelings of pity, but the knight knew better than to pity his king. For a start, the knight knew his king would not appreciate such feelings in the least, and secondly, the single-minded disregard the king had shown for anything and anyone that did not serve his plan had somewhat triggered a certain level of pettiness in the knight that would not have allowed him to feel any such emotion to begin with.

But regardless of his own feelings of bitterness, the knight still felt bound by a sense of loyalty that had less to do with duty and more to do with the deep bonds of old friendship – and, perhaps, guilt and shame as well. Therefore, Déor did not hesitate to deliver the good news that he had brought with him from the South, 'She did that, alright. And she got right to it. She even employed the help of her newest lady friend to lay a trap. By the way, Lady Saelwen sends her regards.'

Éomer didn't respond at first; he only frowned. He couldn't remember his little sister, the Shieldmaiden of Rohan, to ever entertain or bear the company of a lady friend. (Except that one; Lothíriel had always been the exception.) And he could even less imagine his little sister to team up with someone like the Lady Saelwen. The memory of the mocking smiles and taunting japes of the dark-skinned lady infuriated him still, and he could not bring in line that image he had of her with that of friend who would help in times of need. But then again, Lothíriel had spoken of her as one of the few true friends she had ever had, even if she did not trust her.

But when have you ever trusted anyone, my love?

'It worked then? The trap, I mean. They figured out the head behind the plot?'

'Yes, it worked.', Déor answered after a long pause, and, when he turned his head then towards his king for the first time since he had sat down in front of the fireplace, his emerald eyes tightened as they watched him for his reaction for the next words, 'You were right.'

The reaction was immediate. Éomer didn't respond with words, but his whole posture made it clear that he was pleased. To have his suspicions thus confirmed was an oddly satisfying feeling and he allowed it to lift his mood for just a moment before he turned to the task at hand again. Knowing who ordered the hit on his queen was one thing after all, knowing that the man had paid for it was quite another thing. But then again – it had been more than just one man who had ruined the life of his beloved queen, and her king sought to find retribution for all the wrongs she had endured.

'What about the other thing?', Éomer asked then, a question spoken towards the flames, but it was the man next to him that answered it.

'The three brothers were hesitant at first, but in the end they cared more about their sister than they ever did about their father. The youngest brother in particular seemed positively thrilled at my proposition. I believe he meant to settle some unresolved business with his old man.', Déor explained matter-of-factly before his face turned into a grimace made of confused amusement and disgust, and he added with an uncomfortable smile, 'There's something … seriously wrong with that family.'

You don't know the half of it, the king thought grimly, working hard to suppress a manic chuckle as he remembered his very own experiences with this new part of his family that his marriage had brought with it. So, Fish stick, Beer belly and Slippery eel came through in the end?, Éomer thought sardonically then as he allowed the knight's words to sink in, but despite the remnants of his dislike for his wife's brothers that still churned in the pits of his stomach – and here he was thinking back to the youngest brother in particular, with his golden pirate tooth and cocksure attitude – he could not deny the great debt of gratitude he owed them.

Blood may be thicker than water … but love has always outweighed any and all loyalties, Éomer pondered thoughtfully then, before forcing his mind to focus back on the task at hand.

'What about Wingfoot? Did he agree to our demands?'

'The king in the South was saddened by our news but ultimately he was very accommodating.', Déor answered with a deep sigh. Éomer couldn't help but notice the fancy way with which the knight minced his words here but he also knew that the man in the chair next to him wasn't lying here. Mixed among Éowyn's letters had been one from his sword-brother Aragorn as well, and the letter from him had confirmed what the knight reported. And yet, Éomer needed to hear his friend say it for it to become true for him; he was one of the Eorlingas after all, and wisdom and truth was not something they kept alive through letters but through speaking it out loud, through living it.

And so, staring straight ahead into the flickering flames the king asked the question that had been plaguing him ever since he had sent his Marshall on his mission, to sate the vengeful hope that had been haunting him ever since the day his queen had been taken from him.

'So, it is done? All of it?'

'Yes, all of it.'

'The master conspirator is dead?'

'Yes, he's dead.', Déor answered after another long pause, and as he did so, he was squirming in his chair in front of the fire. Éomer suspected the knight was uncomfortable with the dark assignment he had been given, but perhaps it was even more than that. In the back of his mind there was a small but brutal memory that tugged at his consciousness, and even though he tried to fend it off, it overcame him all the same.

So, you don't think I'm a bad person for doing that?, his queen had asked him when she had told him of her desire and plan for vengeance – so full of spiteful pride, so full of trepidation, so full of a craving to be loved still … despite the monstrosity of her desires.

Good or bad is not the question. It's just like you said, love, war is war – it's not up to me to tell you which weapon to use, her king had responded, with a tenderness far from any morality or honour.

'You saw it?', Éomer asked then, trying as he might to pull himself out of his increasingly darkening thoughts, but the very question plunged him even deeper down a dark path. As he stared into the twitching flames, he imagined bodies twitching in pain and a deathly struggle; and the crackling of the fire became the screams and moans of the dead and dying. The king did not smile, but in his heart he wished darkly that he could have been there, to witness the death of the man who had taken his queen from him – just as that man had taken the lives of two other women before that.

'I swung the sword myself.', Déor answered after a long pause, and the king could practically feel the eyes of his old friend watching him carefully for his reaction – watching him, and knowing him.

I should have been the one to swing that sword, Éomer thought as his hands clenched to fists at his side, and he was sure his old friend could read his thoughts so well here – he could almost hear the way the knight clenched his jaws. (In truth, the knight would not have been able to meet his king's gaze, although the king could not have known the reason for it, and he never would know it.)

Oblivious to the tension in the room Éomer now smiled, and there was utter satisfaction in that smile.

'Did you get him to talk? Before you sent him to his grave? Did he give up the name of the Rohirrim liaison?'

'He talked, yes. You were right, Éomer.', Déor answered without missing a beat, and this time, there seemed to be genuine excitement in his voice as he spoke. Gone was the unwilling accomplice who had squirmed in discomfort at the shady way in which he had been made to do things; in his stead there now was an enthusiastic partner-in-crime – enthusiastic mostly because there had been no crime committed in the making of this justice. But then, as quickly as it had come upon him, that malicious glee turned to no small amount of disgust as he revealed the identity of the Rohirrim henchman, and he spat into the fire before him for good measure.

Éomer's smile grew grim and content, almost manic it seemed in the flickering light of the fire.

'He gave that son of a bitch up real quick. And he didn't need much convincing either.', Déor added then after a long moment, and one could just sense the utter contempt and loathing he felt for the man that had been executed, and for the traitor that had been found out. And most certainly that disgust extended towards the easiness with which the Southerner had revealed his Northern accomplice – after all, for a Northerner who regarded honour as the highest of virtues, such a breach of loyalty was considered most despicable (even if Déor himself had recently found himself in such a breach of loyalty). Éomer, for his part, could understand that sentiment very well, and it most certainly coloured the dismissive tone of his next comment.

'Southern honour, what'd you expect?!'

'I expect he didn't have much left to lose at that point, and I suspect he didn't want to be the only one to go down for this.', Déor responded without missing a beat then, and the way his eyes tightened as they watched his king's reaction emphasised that he did not quite share his king's dismissive attitude. For one thing, the knight knew that it was not a lack of honour that had compelled the man doomed to die to betray his accomplice's identity with such ease and such delight. It was vindictiveness, a last act of revenge from the grave, the last twist of the knife in the wound this conspiracy had caused.

And it was with that knowledge that the knight spoke up once more. And even though Déor tried to phrase his words with caution, knowing that the subject was still a sensitive one, he also knew he had to address the oliphaunt in the room – as he had not just delivered news ever since he had been back in the Riddermark, he had also picked up on some possibly quite worrisome news himself. Therefore, he spoke his words with caution but he spoke them all the same.

'I also guess he found some satisfaction in the fact that he got what he wanted in the end. After all, the queen is – '

'Thank you, Déor. That will be all.', Éomer cut him off quickly then before the knight could have finished what he had wanted to say, unwilling to hear him say it. Déor, for his part, although a bit taken aback by the suddenness with which the conversation had come to an abrupt halt, could ultimately understand the reasoning behind it. Even if his old friend was a king, he was still just a man who had lost the woman he loved.

Therefore, following the first impulse that was innate to every being who had lived in service to others their whole life, Déor got up without another word, intent to follow his king's orders without further protest or debate. However, the knight had not yet left the realm of light that the flickering flames of the fire threw far into the room when he halted abruptly, and as he stood there, he took pause for a moment to think. There, at the back of his mind, at the undertow of his heart, tugged a feeling that made it impossible for him to simply leave this room and his old friend in it behind.

Perhaps the king felt it too.

Perhaps that's why spoke up.

'Anything else?'

The question had been asked deliberately slow, as if it took an almost inhuman amount of effort to exude such a show of calm, and perhaps it did, because underneath that mask of false composure there brewed a storm, ready to set forth its bolts of lighting like the cracks of a whip. Déor knew it too, as he could sense the tension in the room, as if everything and all in the room were vibrating at the same frequency, and it all sprung forth from the figure of his king, still standing in front of the fireplace, back towards him, taut as a bowstring, head slightly turned to the side – like a predator almost, trying to sniff out a threat … or a possible prey.

And yet, the knight spoke, as he could not remain silent.

'Word has it, you're still looking for her?', Déor asked then, after a long pause, after he had tried to find the right words, after he had swallowed his trepidation and his hesitation, hoping to have his words not sound as small and intrusive as he feared them to be. He knew it was a delicate subject, and yet it was one he felt the need to address, not the least because of the strain it must have taken on his king's state of mind, and so he tried to approach the matter with as much caution and care as he could muster, 'One of the servants told me you still sent out an éored once a week to search for her – '

'What of it?', the king countered then, and even though his voice still sounded as eerily and consciously calm as before, there was now a new edge to it that could barely cover the dangerous undertone beneath it. It was clear that the conversation stood very much upon the edge of a knife here and that the king was but a wrong word away from losing his iron grip on that infamous temper of his – and the Marshall should have minded that before he decided to keep on digging his own grave here.

'It's been more than a month now, Éomer, and still, there's been no sign of life from her.', Déor started out carefully then, and as his words reached out, like the whiskers of a cat trying to assess the danger of the situation, so did he dare to take a step forward, closer towards the fire and towards the man in front of it, half-cast in shadow and half-cast in flame. But the knight should have watched his step there, because his next words proved to be the tree root his own daring had grown and that he now proceeded to stumble on – and fall.

'Don't you think it'd be time to call off the – '

'Just because you gave up on her, doesn't mean I did too!', the king bellowed back then as he turned on the knight, his patience snapping at long last. And that should have shut up the Marshall for good, as the sight of a warrior capable of deeds of great violence panting with barely contained rage would have had everyone shrinking back in fear. But Déor, ignoring the warning signs (assessing them to be mere bluff), did try to speak up once more – whether it was out of defiance for the perceived unfairness of his king's quick judgement, or out of concern for an old friend who held on to the tiniest thread of hope here, not knowing that it might have become a rope tied around his neck.

'Éomer, listen – '

'That will be all, Déor. Thank you. You may leave now.', the king cut him off once more before he could have gotten any further in his plea, dismissing the words of concern or comfort just as he was dismissing the man who had wanted to speak them – and this time, the king's decision was absolute. And as the king turned his back on his old friend, and turned towards the dying fire instead, Déor knew that any more words would be futile at this point. And so, Déor hung his head low as he turned and left the way he had come, slinking back into the shadows and out of the royal bedchamber – to leave his friend and his king to his own dark thoughts.

The king had not looked back; he had not turned to watch his old friend go; he had remained steadfast like a stone in a river running – but as soon as the door to the chamber had clicked shut, the damn broke. With a push of his mighty arm, Éomer shoved the plate of food off the mantelpiece, and the crashing sound reflected at least some of the chaos still raging quietly within him. But that was all the indication the king ever gave to his inner turmoil, and afterwards, one would have been fooled to believe this outburst had been nothing but late-night illusion. And so, night draped itself across the room in silence once more, and the only sound to disturb it was the hissing and flickering of the waning flames.

Déor –

Closing his eyes for a moment, Éomer clenched his fists and took a deep breath to calm himself.

It had been good that Déor had been out of the way for a while, because even though he had come through as a friend, with his hidden services down in the South, the king had not yet forgiven his Marshall for the role he had played in creating the rift between king and queen, nor had he forgiven the role the knight had played in the unfolding events that had led to her eventual disappearance.

(In the back of his mind a voice reminded him that neither king nor queen had been innocent in this either and that the rift between them had been their own doing as well. But Éomer couldn't allow his thoughts to go down that road now; it would only paralyse him and turn him into a passive, regretting, self-loathing waste of a man. No, he needed to act, and for that, he needed to keep his mind on the goal here.)

But even more than the Marshall's selfish foolishness, that might have cost the king his queen, it was that the king just could not forgive the knight for giving up so damn easily on the queen they had set out to find. From the very beginning, even though he had helped his king with great fervour to uncover the conspiracy they had stumbled upon, Déor had acted as though all hope were already lost and the queen were dead. And he wasn't alone in that sentiment.

Because even though the king had taken great pains to conceal the blood and the wounds on the back of the queen's mare on their way back to Edoras, to maintain the version of events that the queen was merely lost out there – after weeks of no sign of life, people had quickly enough concluded that their queen was dead and gone.

If only he could move on so easily.

After weeks of no sign of life, it hadn't taken long for the council to start clamouring for him to make a decision – and not just on the subject of the peace treaty but on the delicate matter of the future of the House of Eorl itself. Because, as they put it, he was once more a king without a queen, and a king without an heir – and the council members soon enough tried to capitalise on that weakness. It didn't matter much that the king had continuously reminded them that he already had a queen with a child underway because the council in turn had not tired of reminding him that for all intents and purposes the queen was gone and the child with it. And, well, from there on out, it proved only a small step until they actually brought up his bastard son, Aldred, and the woman who had borne him.

Éomer had always known that this little contingency plan would come back to bite them in the arse. Back then, of course, it had seemed treacherously logical. Or maybe it had only seemed logical because in desperate times even the most outrageous idea seemed sound and sane. Or perhaps it had only seemed logical … because of the person who had pitched the plan to him in the first place.

Uncertainty will breed doubt and chaos, his queen had spoken back then, with despair cloaked in wisdom, to convince him that waiting would ultimately lead to disappointment or worse. But certainty will give way to stability and growth, she had emphasised back then, with self-sacrifice served as duty – and he had been fooled enough to believe her words, and doomed them both.

Éomer hissed under his breath, a crude curse swallowed by the night, and he wasn't quite sure who he was cursing here exactly. Or perhaps that sound had just been the fire before him that had hissed in its struggle to not go out. And as the king looked down into the flames, he saw that they were dying slowly and he knew he should probably stoke it up some more before it would go out completely.

But, why bother?

Fire, like hope, could not survive, after all, without being fed.

And for how long could one cater to such a feeble fire before fuel ran out or the flames burnt the skin they were supposed to warm?

Éowyn had warned them of this.

Bastards do not make for good heirs, and in the light of the crown, many shadows wait.

After their return from the South the council had already proved to be a little too comfortable with the idea of accepting an illegitimate boy as his heir – and since the disappearance of the queen, the council members had become truly blatant in their request to settle the question of succession, and somehow they had zeroed in on his bastard boy being the best solution to this problem. To be perfectly frank, he had expected a little more resistance along the lines of propriety and honour, but, apparently, for these men the end truly justified the means.

The council would never just accept a bastard as a legitimate heir, the king had objected back then, honour-bond, when his queen had first offered him this thread of hope, unknowing that it would become a rope around their necks, and that the noose had tightened with every hour.

No? A son born of their own king, a boy born and bred of the Riddermark? Do you meant to say the council would reject him – in favour of what? The barren womb of a foreign mare? I'm starting to believe you don't know your own people half as well as you think, the queen had questioned then, with cool eyes that chose to see the people around her with their intentions and imperfections laid bare, eyes that also viewed herself in much the same unfavourable light.

They have always looked upon her with doubt and distrust, Éomer thought bitterly then, as he clenched his jaws and balled his fists.

What good does a mare unfit for breeding?, the councilmen had dared to spit into her face.

Don't be naive, Lothíriel, he is a man, and a king at that! If you cannot give him an heir, he will have to set you aside for another woman who can, her own damn father had hurled at her, without mercy and without a lie.

You are my queen, Lothíriel, my wife, and I would have no other beside you, Éomer had sworn back then with all the might of his honour, with all the might of his love for her, and it had been a promise he had held on – just as he had held on to her promise that he would not lose her. But how could he keep holding on to the hope of a promise that might have been bound to be broken? Indeed, how long could hope truly be held on to with no fuel to feed it?

A hissing sound drew the king's gaze to the fire before him once more, and he saw now that it had been reduced to barely more than a feeble little flame, fighting to burn, fighting to survive.

Fire, like hope, could not survive, after all, without being fed.

And after a long moment of contemplation, Éomer made a decision at last. With a sigh he took a small log and with it he stoked the fire before him to a bright flame once more.

FUN FACTS #1: So, regarding the delay of updates, I muss confess work has been draining me ever since school started again. It is pure chaos and I am fighting to hold on and to get through it until I can have my autumn vacation. Don't worry. The update schedule for the beginning of November will be met.

FUN FACT #2: As you can see, I split this chapter in two because it got too damn long and because I like the feeling of suspense this chapter right here is creating. Yes, I do like to feel evil sometimes, what of it? A girl sometimes just wants to have some fun. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

FUN FACT #3: *rubs hands* OK, time for the fan theories. HIT ME!

FUN FACT #4: Next chapter: reunion. Really. I am serious this time. No more dragging it out.