Lothíriel opened her eyes and looked at the dark wood that loomed above her. She couldn't quite place a finger on it, but there was something strange about that sight. She reached out her hand and tried to touch it, but her tired fingers only swam through the empty air and fell back down beside her, heavy as lead. She was sure that the top bunk that was occupied by Eydis had always been close enough for her to reach and even place her palm flat on the wooden surface. How come the bed is so far away now?

As Lothíriel creased her brow in concentration, she suddenly felt a sharp bolt of pain on the right side of her forehead. She tried to lift her hand and touch it, which required a surprising amount of energy as it seemed her hand had somehow been cast in iron while she was sleeping. After she finally managed to raise it from the soft blanket, she moved her fingers to where the pain came from. Instead of gently inspecting it with her fingertips though, she rammed her knuckles right onto it as her leaden hand suddenly became too heavy to operate. Lothíriel grunted feebly and turned slowly on her side.

"Méav! Þu eart wæccende!" she heard a voice call out from someplace close by, and saw a blurry mess of white skirts rush to her side. She felt herself being grabbed under the arms and pushed upwards to a sitting position, like a rag doll that weighed a thousand pounds. For a few more minutes, she remained like this, her mind and senses slowly crystallizing back to their normal function. Lothíriel eventually came to understand that she was not actually in her bed, and the out-of-reach wood she had been pondering at was actually the ceiling of the healing quarters, not the top bunk of her own claustrophobic sleeping space.

As soon as her senses had returned to normalcy, Torhild fetched her a cup of steaming hot tea, pungent with the smell of mint, nettle and other herbs. Lothíriel blew the rising steam away and softly slurped the hot liquid, which she found surprisingly soothing. The memories of the previous night started gradually coming back to her – the bleeding mother, the unmoving babe, the raging father. She felt her stomach churn as the vivid images of that stuffy firelit room flashed before her eyes. Back there, in the nerve-wrecking intensity of a situation where every second counted, emotions couldn't be allowed to cloud her mind and judgment. She had been taught during the course of her training as a healer that they only got in the way and rarely contributed to the outcome of the wounded and hurting. She had learned to lock them aside somewhere deep inside her, until sharp concentration and analysis of every possible action were the only things that occupied her mind. If she had allowed her emotions to seep through, she would never have been able to wield a knife and…

The woman was already dead, Lothíriel, she had to remind herself.

She took a gulp of the herb tea to calm her unsteady stomach. All of a sudden, she heard voices coming from the entrance to the sick hall. She tried to lean forward and see whether they were bringing in another patient, as the other sick beds had been empty that day, but she couldn't see past the linen curtain that had been drawn on her left to give her a bit of privacy. Swift steps echoed on the wooden floor, almost drowned out by a distressed flow of words from Torhild.

"Méav!"

It was King Éomer that emerged from behind the white curtain and abruptly stopped in his tracks when he saw her, causing Torhild, who had been trailing close behind, to bump into his arm. She did not look happy at all and resumed her unintelligible tirade that was so fast Lothíriel barely managed to catch one word. The King pursed his lips and grunted. "Enough," he stopped her, not entirely unkindly. Then he turned back to Lothíriel and said: "Torhild here is telling me you're not feeling well enough to see any visitors," he explained.

For a second, Lothíriel considered agreeing with Torhild and pretending she really was not well enough to speak, but she dismissed the thought immediately; she was seated quite comfortably on her bed and sipping a nice cup of tea, which probably didn't make her look like she was in any sort of discomfort. Torhild crossed her arms on her chest and was tapping her foot nervously on the floor.

"Actually, I'm feeling much better than in the morning," Lothíriel had to admit reluctantly. "It is fine, Torhild," she said to her with a reassuring smile.

Torhild looked her up and down doubtfully, but finally nodded and gave one last sour look to the King before she disappeared beyond the linen curtain again.

He grabbed a wooden chair that was resting against the wall and pulled it up to her bed. Lothíriel felt her heartbeat speed up significantly; she tried a few more sips of the tea, but this time it didn't seem to produce any soothing effect. Why did he come alone? He could have brought his sister or Uffe along, and yet it was just her and him in the long, narrow, empty hall. Not even a frequent drunk sleeping off a serious hangover could be found in one of the other sick beds to make the encounter feel less intimate to her. Lothíriel had managed to avoid the King for close on two weeks now, holed up in the small study from morning to evening, with the exception of their brief encounter in the stables. The fact that he had never sought her out himself only affirmed her belief that she had crossed too many lines on that Midsummer's eve and had misinterpreted his friendly demeanor to be much more than it actually was. She would give anything to be able to go back in time and undo all that had happened.

"Éothain came to me this morning and told me what has happened in the night," the King said with a frown on his face. "I have ordered Lord Deorwine locked up in the dungeon for the night, until he stopped raging and trying to fight everyone around. Now, he's just drowning himself in ale."

Lothíriel felt her stomach tighten. She thought talking to him about that kiss would be bad enough, but this was infinitely worse.

"I am very sorry to hear that, your grace." What else is there to say?

"He has been telling everyone that you killed his wife and child," he sighed and looked at her uncertainly.

Lothíriel couldn't believe her ears. "Killed them?"

"Éothain was in the room shortly after they had taken Deorwine away. He was rather… unsettled by the sight."

"You can't believe that, your grace," Lothíriel objected, shocked to hear she had been accused of such a horrible thing by more than just the mourning father-to-be. "Speak to Torhild or Eydis if you must, they were there and saw it all."

"Why did you…" he seemed to be looking for the right words. "Why did you cut her open like that?"

The way he phrased it made it sound so horrible, she almost began to doubt herself for a minute. "I have only attempted to save the babe, your grace," she tried to explain. "The mother was already dead at that point. I swear, I would never do them any harm on purpose."

He eyed her intensely for a moment, then finally said: "Torhild has said the same thing. I just wanted to hear it from you too, that's all."

Lothíriel nodded quietly, breathing a sigh of relief. Thank the Valar. For a while she saw herself being carried down to the dungeon straight from her sick bed.

"He has done that to you?" he asked and suddenly reached out his hand to brush his fingers softly around the bruise on her forehead. Lothíriel's heartbeat resonated in her ears so loudly she almost couldn't hear his next words. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you."

Lothíriel was suddenly overcome by a feeling of deep awe and respect for this man; he bore so much responsibility on his shoulders already, and yet here he was, worrying over a healer's minor head injury. Her heart leapt in her chest at the thought of him caring enough for her well-being to come see her in person and profess his discontent at not being able to keep her from harm, ridiculous as it was. However, she knew by now he treated every little matter laid before him with the same dutiful regard. Though she would never admit it out loud, deep down, she felt a degree of regret that she had never been capable of such strength of character; she would never be good enough for him, healer, princess, or otherwise.

"You couldn't possibly know, your grace," she shook her head with an involuntary smile, unable to meet his gaze.

"Anyway, I will speak with Deorwine at once and put this matter to rest," the King said resolutely, pulling his fingers away from where they had been touching her. Don't! Lothíriel almost blurted out and had to mentally stop herself from grabbing his hand. "Now, there is one more thing I wish to speak to you about, Méav."

"Yes, your grace?"

"Why have you been avoiding me?"

The tea Lothíriel had sipped at went down the wrong pipe and caused an awkward coughing fit. Why was she even surprised at the question? She had been bracing herself for this encounter for many days and she knew just how straightforward he could be. With dismay, she realized this was no longer the time for the Gondorian way – to pretend she didn't know what he's talking about, or to pretend she was so drunk she didn't remember any of it, or to simply pretend she's too weak and drowsy to talk any more. A Rohirric question demanded a Rohirric answer, and maybe it was better that way.

Lothíriel wiped the tears brought on by the sudden cough and said quietly: "I was ashamed by my behavior during the Midsummer's eve celebration, your grace."

He only raised his eyebrows and eyed her in silence, which made Lothíriel wonder whether she had misjudged the situation after all. I should have just pretended not to remember any of it, she thought miserably. I was so drunk it would be very hard not to believe that. "I apologize for speaking so bluntly, your grace," she quickly added, hoping to ease the tension.

"Don't apologize," he shook his head. "I just… I did not expect to get a straightforward answer from you so easily."

"Maybe Rohan has left its mark on me at last," Lothíriel replied, smiling despite her discomfort. "Actually, I have to say that in the last few weeks I have-"

"Ashamed?" he cut her off, incredulous. "Ashamed of what?"

There goes my attempt to divert the conversation.

"Do you… not remember, your grace?" Lothíriel asked carefully. She knew he himself had been drinking the entire evening; she remembered the whiff of strong ale on his lips. Could it be that he didn't recall any of it?

"I remember, Méav," the King smirked. "I'm sorry to hear you felt it was so shameful you had to hide away for a fortnight."

Oh lord. It had to be the Rohirric way or no way; like an arrow being pulled out of a pierced shoulder. The faster it was done, the less pain it caused in the long term.

"If you remember, then you must understand why I feel ashamed." It took a lot of effort, but Lothíriel managed to look him straight in the eyes. He didn't seem to be taking her seriously; there was an unusually playful grin on his features. "I did not hold my liquor well and I shouldn't have… shouldn't have done that."

"Kissed me, you mean?"

Lothíriel had a strong feeling of déjà vu. This wasn't the first time that the King seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her discomfort. The more he grinned at her words, the more determined she grew not to give him the satisfaction. It is just words, Lothíriel; say them all and say them true, and then they will become powerless.

"Yes, I am ashamed that I acted inappropriately and kissed you, yes," she blurted out, a little less nonchalantly than she had planned. "I wish I could go back in time and undo it, but I can't, so I beg you, your grace, to just forget it ever happened."

His grin had slowly faded away while she had been speaking. When she had finished, he stood up from his chair and moved over to sit at her side on the sick bed without a word. Lothíriel's heartbeat sped up again, so much so that it made her wonder whether it was loud enough for him to hear.

He eyed her for a while before he spoke again. "I see two problems with your reasoning," he sighed. "First, no matter how much you wish for it, you can't travel back in time. And second, I do not wish to forget it happened."

Before she could react, he continued: "I do however have a solution to propose."

Lothíriel barely had time to think 'What solution?' before he grabbed her face in his palms and gently placed his lips on hers. It was a short fleeting kiss without great depth or passion, and yet she felt as though she would melt under the touch of his warm calloused hands on her cheeks. She would never have pulled away if he wasn't the first one to do so.

Just as he opened his eyes to look at her again, swift steps started echoing from behind the drawn curtain.

"Now we're even, so there's no need for you to feel ashamed anymore," he half-whispered and stood up from her bed with a grin, so quickly she barely had time to process what had happened. A few moments later, the curtain was drawn back and Torhild appeared from behind it. There was no need for words this time; the look in her eyes was internationally recognizable – it was time to leave, and she wouldn't have it any other way, King or no.

"Well, Méav, I believe I have to leave you to your rest now," the King gave her a small bow and a long meaningful look before he turned and walked away. Torhild watched him all the way until he exited the long hall, and a few moments after, seemingly suspecting he might return as soon as she turned her back to the door. When she looked back at Lothíriel, she fussed about how flushed and dizzy she looked, making her drink up the remainder of the tea and lie down again to rest, totally oblivious to the real cause of her symptoms. Lothíriel was happy to comply and pretend to sleep, at least for the afternoon.

ooOOoo

"Hurry up if you want to get any riding done before supper," Uffe called out impatiently from the entrance of the stables, sitting comfortably atop his chestnut stallion. Lothíriel finished fastening the hood around her chin and quickly climbed on Elfflaed's back, a skill she had finally learned - if not mastered - in the past couple of weeks.

They have exited the stables together and made their way across the large horse enclosure that spread beneath the foot of the hill Edoras sat upon. Normally, any riding they did was within this limited space, as Lothíriel still wasn't quite sure enough on horseback to cover any major distances. She was making a slow progress nonetheless – she was finally able to mount Elfflaed without assistance and could manage at least a fast paced trot. It was most certainly no amazing feat, but considering she could barely stay on top of her mare while Uffe was pulling her by the reins at a speed no greater than his human step a few weeks ago, Lothíriel considered it a success.

Today, she convinced Uffe to finally leave the city behind and take a ride on the other side of the hill, beyond the gates and towards the Snowbourne river. He was reluctant at first.

"You want to go riding outside of the enclosure?" he crossed his arms on his chest and raised one doubtful eyebrow.

"I want to clear my head outside of the city, at least for a bit," she explained.

"Is this about Lord Deorwine?"

Lothíriel sighed. "You know the things he has been saying about me to anyone who cares to listen."

"Most people don't, Méav," Uffe said reassuringly, but it did little to lift Lothíriel's spirits.

"Still… can you indulge me today? Please?"

"Alright," he acquiesced with a sigh. "But I will hear no complaining on the way."

Lothíriel was prepared to strike that compromise, and so they left the enclosure and started their climb uphill. As soon as they reached the city streets, Lothíriel grabbed her hood and pulled it down lower still – they were taking the roundabout way, avoiding the narrow crowded streets in the very center, yet she could never be sure where exactly Lord Deorwine would show up this time around. Most of the time, he kept to the market square's alehouse, sitting outside on one of the benches with an ever-present drink in his hand, his mind clouded more often than not. It was said that his steps took him to that alehouse right after he was released from the dungeon the day after it had happened, and he rarely left the comfort of its strong, freshly brewed drink ever since. Lady Éowyn told her that his friends had been trying to help, welcoming him to their homes for supper and letting him sleep off his drunkenness at their hearth to help him forget the emptiness of his own home, but it seemed to have little effect. Every morning his legs took him to the same sun-lit bench in the busy market square again and again.

Lord Deorwine frightened Lothíriel. Whenever he caught a glimpse of her in public, he showered her with curses and shouts of "Killer!" and "Murderer!" until she disappeared from his view, drawing curious glances from the passers-by. He had been telling everyone around him that she was the cause of his family's unfortunate demise and soon, she noticed other strangers watching her and whispering in their ears as she was passing them by.

"Méav, you know almost nobody believes those stories," Uffe said to her once they emerged from the row of houses on the other side of the hill and started trotting downhill toward the gate. "Torhild was there too and saw it happen. She is with you all the way."

"Some people still believe it."

"Peasants," Uffe waved it off. "They'll believe down is up and night is day if a lord proclaimed it convincingly enough."

"Maybe you're right," Lothíriel nodded, unconvinced. Uffe was still young and as cocksure as the heir to a lord's title could be. She was not quite confident enough to dismiss such notions being said about her in public, peasant or no. "It's just that it frightens me, that's all."

"There's no need to worry, Méav. My father spoke with Éomer-King yesterday, and he asked us to make sure you are kept safe in his absence."

Lothíriel felt her heartbeat quicken at the mention of the King's name. "That's very thoughtful of him," she smiled absent-mindedly, pleased to hear that he cared enough to personally arrange for her safety. "What do you mean, in his absence?"

"He will be leaving for Minas Tirith soon, to bring King Théoden's remains back for his funeral."

"Oh, I hadn't heard."

"Well, that's the official reason, anyway," Uffe smirked. Sometimes he seemed more fond of gossip than housewives crowding the marketplace.

"What's the unofficial reason then?" Lothíriel asked with a grin.

"You know my father is in the King's council. Apparently, they have been trying to find him a queen to secure an heir for the Riddermark, preferably one from Gondor to further strengthen our alliance," he explained. "It seems there will be many eligible ladies flocking to Minas Tirith to greet our envoy. And who knows, he might come back with one of them on his arm, or so the councilors have pleaded with him," he chuckled.

Lothíriel's improving humor dissipated abruptly. Of course, it shouldn't come as a surprise that the King would be looking for a suitable bride soon; it was the way of the world for kings to marry princesses and ladies, regardless of a few kisses with a healer along the way. Her mood soured even more when she imagined the abominable Lady Erthil or her likes riding smugly through the city gates beside the King. Lothíriel often wondered whether the outcome of her infatuation would have seemed less grim if she was still a princess, a perfect match for Éomer-King; yet she always came to the same conclusion in the end. If she was still in Dol Amroth now, she would undoubtedly be among the ladies flocking around the fresh eligible King, though more on her father's insistence than her own volition, for sure. He would be yet another stranger she would be paraded for like a piece of currency, and she knew she would hate him for it. Whether she would ever grow fond of him were they betrothed and wed, she couldn't say; she had always been very persistent when it came to defying her father's wishes and commands. Besides, you would already have been wed to that old sack of shit, she thought bitterly. The notion of Éomer as King of Rohan had never even crossed anyone's mind at the time the Lord of Pelargir triumphed as the highest bidder for the hand of Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. Her father readily sealed the deal and she was nearly made ready to be shipped upriver, small part of a large cargo to be sold and distributed through the prosperous port city, in exchange for… For what exactly? She didn't even know, nor did she care to find out.

Remembering that insufferable lord, of an age with her own father, convinced her once again that she had made the right choice to leave the court of Dol Amroth for good. This was the path she had chosen, and it was the path she had to keep treading; there was no turning back.

"Éomer-King will have plenty to choose from, I'm sure," Lothíriel said, feigning nonchalance with a smirk. "The ladies of Gondor smell eligible noblemen from miles away."