Ouch. Fuck. Ouch. Ouch!

Lydia had to bite her tongue to keep the stream of swearing at bay, clutching the rim of Firefoot's saddle until her knuckles turned white, to divert her attention from the stinging bolts of pain that shot through her butt and groins at every impact of his hoofs with the ground. 'Saddle sores' was her unfortunate diagnosis, a term she had never come across in her few years as a nurse in a big hospital. A common enough occurrence in Middle Earth, apparently - the Rohirrim were equipped with a soothing salve she had been rubbing on her bum at every opportunity, even a special pillow she could sit on to soften the blows, but they produced little effect. By evening, she was either numb or so tender she had to sit cross-legged by the fire just to avoid touching her thighs together.

It was the third day of their journey on horseback, and once the novelty of it wore off within a few hours of leaving Pelargir behind, Lydia found their progress incredibly monotonous. Even the closeness of Éomer behind her, or his arm wrapped securely around her waist, had somehow lost their appeal in the mixture of pain on her butt, her fear of falling off the horse at any sudden jolt, and her increasing exhaustion.

"Worry not, princess - we will arrive in Minas Tirith tomorrow. You will rest better in the palace," Éomer offered her words of encouragement when he heard her hiss in pain for the millionth time.

It was probably the first thing he had said to her that day; Lydia had discovered that he preferred riding in silence. She had made a few attempts to strike up a polite conversation to make their closeness feel less awkward, but he'd answered in clipped monosyllables until she gave up. Not only was he more quiet on the horse; the talkative, witty Éomer that had taken her by surprise during the dead of night on the ship also seemed to have disappeared, much to her disappointment. The nice, quiet moments under the stars were replaced by a camp full of men they were constantly surrounded by, and in their presence, Éomer was distant again—silent, formal, and frustratingly unreadable.

"My lady?"

Nolwenn's voice broke in from behind, a sound that forced Lydia to grunt and inadvertently roll her eyes. "I have made you herb tea. Please, drink."

Lydia grabbed the cup begrudgingly and took one reluctant sip before placing it on the ground again. Nolwenn didn't budge and just stood above her, her eyes clearly telling her she should have drunk more.

"I worry this illness of yours isn't getting much better, my lady," she shook her head and knelt down to observe her face, then raised her hand to touch Lydia's forehead, a movement she had repeated at least a thousand times since they had left Pelargir.

Lydia flinched from her touch, lips pursed in frustration. "I don't have a fever," she hissed and stood up to create some distance from her overly concerned handmaiden.

She's just being nice, Lydia. It's her job to fuss over you, she reminded herself over and over, but the words weren't enough to tame the irritation that twisted her insides whenever Nolwenn was in her vicinity, which was pretty much always. She was there from the moment Lydia opened her eyes, offering her tea, dressing her and braiding her hair; she forced her to eat despite her increasing aversion to the constant dry bread, smoked ham and the occasional unidentifiable broth. In the evenings, when Lydia finally hoped to go inside her tent and be alone for five seconds, Nolwenn always insisted on going with her, in case her 'illness' got worse during the night.

Everything had begun to weigh on Lydia so much more on the road, her distress only exacerbated by the boredom of slow-paced travel with nothing to occupy her mind. Coupled with Nolwenn's constant supervision, and Éomer's sudden shift to a detached commander that barely paid her any attention at all, she was left annoyed at everyone and everything around her.

And then there were the dreams. The worst of all.

Dreams of home, her real home. They always started out so nicely, like warm memories that were tucked away somewhere deep in her subconscious, only to be pulled out and fondly remembered in the mists of slumber. Her childhood friends huddled together on the sofa for a movie night when they were twelve; a holiday by the sea in Italy years ago, when she got sick from stuffing her face with too much fried seafood; the party her grandma had organized when she graduated college, with her homemade cake filled with gummy bears and chocolate-covered bananas, a weird recipe of her own creation, but one that Lydia had adored nonetheless.

She always felt so content and happy, but something invariably shifted as the dreams progressed, and an inexplicable sense of dread and anxiety spread inside her every single time, like something was lurking in the shadows, watching her. And then came the voice - familiar somehow, but also hard to pinpoint - that resonated within her dreams with no apparent source, always saying the same thing over and over: You must miss your home. Tell me what you know.

Lydia invariably woke up as soon as the voice filled her ears and disrupted the coziness of her dreamlike memories, her breath quickened and heart beating like crazy. The feeling of disorientation that followed - the uncertainty when she transitioned back to wakefulness, trying to distinguish what was real, actually real, and what she was only seeing in her head - was almost worse than the nightmares. And so, Lydia hadn't spent nearly as much time sleeping as she should, her slumber nervous and interrupted at night, so much so that she often found herself dozing off during the day. By the campfire, surrounded by others. She slept better that way.

"Maybe you should go lie down, my lady," Nolwenn suggested quietly. "We have a bit of time before we have to continue riding."

"No," Lydia blurted out louder than she had intended. "No sleeping. And no lying down. I've been doing nothing but sit or lie for the past three days."

Enough fussing. Enough pity. I need five freaking minutes for myself. Lydia stood up abruptly, her mind made up. "I will take a walk," she said and started marching briskly away from the campfires that the men were huddled by for warmth.

Nolwenn scrambled to her feet and trailed after her. "My lady, I don't know whether that is such a good idea. You should-"

"No, you should stop telling me what to do," Lydia turned around with her finger pointed at Nolwenn's chest, ready to explode. "I will take a walk, and you will leave me alone."

She decided to ignore her handmaiden's offended expression and strutted off, fuming, even if slightly remorseful. You were rude. She was trying to be nice. Lydia sometimes despised the voice of her own conscience. Whatever. I can deal with it later.

"Where do you think you're going, princess?"

Éomer's voice had stopped her in her tracks just as she was about to leave the party behind and step onto the wide road that stretched ahead.

"I'm taking a walk," Lydia said curtly, her tone harsher than she had intended.

"A walk?" he raised his eyebrows. "Alone?"

"Yes, alone."

"No," he shook his head without hesitation. "I can't allow you to walk alone in this place. The roads are too dangerous."

"Allow me?" Lydia bristled immediately. The word rubbed her already infuriated mind the wrong way. You basically ignore me for three whole days, and now you suddenly care?

Éomer sighed and softened his stony features a little. The faintest hint of a smile played on his lips.

"I didn't… It came out the wrong way. I am responsible for your safety, princess - you have a father and three brothers that have made me swear an oath to protect you. I would be woefully outnumbered if they decided to have my head, should anything happen to you."

Lydia regarded him for a moment, her anger slowly cooling off, disarmed by his self-deprecating jest. "What could possibly happen to me? I won't go far, I promise."

"We cannot take any risks. Not in these dark times. Not this close to Mordor."

Lydia was ready to protest some more, but his eyes seemed filled with genuine concern. Mordor. Maybe he's right. You don't know this place or what might be lurking along the way. The thought made Lydia shudder.

"I just… I just wanted to be left alone for a minute or two," she shrugged dejectedly, reluctantly coming to terms with the fact that she'd have to turn around like a dog with its tail between its legs, and face Nolwenn again after her outburst.

Éomer opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, a large raindrop splashed on his cheek, making him flinch and look up at the sky. It was only early afternoon, but the dark clouds that had gathered overhead cast a deep grey gloominess over them, as if the sun had already begun to set beyond the horizon. Lydia could hear more raindrops start to softly fall on the grass beneath her feet. A thunder rumbled somewhere far off in the distance.

"You may get your wish, princess," Éomer said after he had wiped his cheek. "Looks like you may spend the rest of today in your tent, alone."

Lydia only grunted in response. No. Not alone. Nolwenn will be there right along with me, no doubt.

ooOOoo

"Lyddie? Hello?"

The voice had called her three times by now, completely disregarding Lydia's attempts to ignore it. She had been buried in her textbook for who knows how long, stuck on 'Cardiac Arrhythmias: ECG Interpretation and Emergency Response', trying to make sense of the jagged spikes and flatlines that accompanied this never-ending chapter.

"I'm trying to concentrate," she muttered back, not bothering to lift her eyes from page 342.

"You need to eat something," the voice was persistent, commanding, yet also gentle, with a dash of concern. "Your brain will work better after a short break, trust me."

Lydia sighed and snapped the book shut, finally looking up at the woman standing above her with a steaming bowl in her hand. She froze for a moment, a sarcastic retort faltering between her teeth.

"Mum?"

"What?" her mother raised an uncertain eyebrow. "You're looking at me as if you've seen a ghost, Lyddie."

Mum. Why did that word feel so strange on her tongue? The inexplicable feeling that gave her pause was gone in an instant, like a distant memory she couldn't quite materialize in her mind's eye. And so, she just shrugged it off, grabbed the bowl from her hand and seated herself more comfortably on the sofa. Probably just pre-exam jitters.

Her mum was right, as always - Lydia already felt the tense muscles on the nape of her neck relax once the book was shut, and the aroma that spread from the bowl made her feel warm and cozy. It was her favourite comfort food - steamed dumplings filled with thick plum jam, topped with a generous amount of melted butter and ground poppy seeds. A recipe inherited from her mum's Eastern European babushka, passed down from one generation to the next, if her own grandma's stories were to be believed. Lydia sunk her teeth into the soft dough and savoured the tart taste of the jam on her tongue.

She turned back to her mother to thank her for the meal, but the face looking back at her was someone else.

A man. Smiling, but without warmth.

Old, extremely old, with long flowing hair and a sharp nose, his cold eyes buried beneath his thick eyebrows.

She knew him.

A sudden dread squeezed her stomach with a tightening grip, beads of cold sweat popping up on the small of her back. What's going on? Is this another dream? Lydia was confused, and scared, and all she could bring herself to do was sit frozen to the spot, the piece of the dumpling she had bitten off still inside her mouth, unmoving.

Saruman.

She was sure of it.

"I can give all of this back to you," his voice resonated inside her mind like rumbling thunder, deep and ominous. "You need only tell me what you know."

Suddenly, the fear was too much to handle; it was irrational, subconscious, inexplicable; like an instinct that told her she should run, get away from him, and not say a single word. Lydia let the bowl fall on the floor, and barely heard it shatter to pieces as she quickly darted away from him, tears streaming down her face.

No, not tears.

She stopped herself, and had to blink a few times to adjust her eyes to the darkness around her. The rain was pouring hard, like a wall of water all around her, streaming down her face and dampening her disheveled hair.

It was a dream; she was back in the reality she remembered, among the tents on the road, with only a few dim flames flickering inside them; otherwise, the world was pitch-black and eerily quiet. I must have been sleep-walking. It was only a dream, a nightmare, none of it was real - her mum had been dead for close on five years now, and the dumpling recipe was gone along with her. Lydia had never bothered to learn it, one of her life's biggest regrets. She tried to wipe her eyes to get rid of the tears, or the raindrops - she wasn't quite sure - but it proved impossible. The storm was raging so hard she was soaked to the bone in a matter of minutes.

Worse than that, the intuitive dread caused by the wizard's uninvited appearance in her dream refused to leave her body, despite her feeble attempts to convince herself that it was a product of her imagination, that regular dreams could be in fact that vivid. Paired with the creepy darkness and sounds of thunder all around her, she was gripped by an impulse to dart inside one of the tents. Not her own, no; a different one, where she hoped to find some solace, some piece of human connection she had come to miss in the last few days.

Lydia didn't even stop to ponder whether he was asleep or not, and slowly pulled open one of the flaps of his tent. She found him kneeling by the small brazier inside, sharpening his sword with a focused look on his face. Éomer stood up abruptly when he heard the shuffle of her wet skirt on the ground, and looked ready to point his weapon at her, a warrior's instinct; but he stopped himself halfway when he saw her.

"Lothíriel?" he half-whispered, eyes wide, and cleared his throat. "What are you doing here?"

"Sorry for barging in like this," she blurted out. "I, uhm… I guess I just wanted to talk to you."

He eyed her up and down, the bewilderment in his features slowly replaced by concern as he took in her soaking wet clothes and the dripping hair plastered on her face. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"

Lydia opened her mouth to speak, but then stopped herself. She did want to tell him, all of it - about the disquieting dreams that had been haunting her, about how Saruman, of all people, seemed to be speaking to her for God knows what reason. She had been so desperate to share this burden with someone, she didn't give a second thought to the fact that it could lead to her inadvertently revealing all about who she really was. At least not if Éomer was as perceptive as he seemed to be.

"No, uh… nothing has happened. Just a weird dream, that's all," she waved it off, her confidence faltering under his scrutinizing gaze. It had suddenly hit her that she was acting off again - barging in on him like this in the middle of the night, in his own tent, soaking wet and rambling. "You know what? Nevermind. I probably shouldn't be here."

"Well, you have certainly earned me a snide remark or two from Éothain when he finds out the Princess of Dol Amroth has visited my tent late at night," he said with the familiar grin that she hadn't seen since the ship.

Lydia felt her cheeks grow warm, and hoped the orange glow of the flames covered up the change in colour. "You're right. I should leave. Sorry."

She turned around and made for the exit, but only managed one step before he spoke up again.

"Lothíriel, wait. You can stay," he said quietly. The calmness in his voice had a soothing effect on Lydia's nerves; she could already feel the dreamy dread that had been clutching her stomach slowly loosening its grip. "Let me fetch you a blanket. You're trembling."

He pulled the light sheet of fabric from his makeshift bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. Lydia focused her eyes on the ground, trying not to look up at him; he seemed way too close, and she was suddenly overcome by an irrational fear that she may do something stupid, exacerbated by the fact that he had obviously lingered with his arms on her shoulders a moment too long. Maybe not so irrational.

Éomer seemed to have felt the same thing; he pulled his hands away quickly and almost jumped in an attempt to create a more respectful distance between them, and cleared his throat a few times too many.

"It seems I may have caused another scandal, huh?" Lydia joked to lighten the tense mood, tucking a few loose wet strands of hair behind her ear.

Éomer seemed grateful for the diversion, and chuckled softly as he replied: "At this point, I would expect no less of you, princess." Then, after a brief pause, he added: "Your sleep seems to be troubled lately."

He thought she wanted to talk about the weird dream she had mentioned, of course. Nope. Sorry Éomer, no talking of dreams tonight. I can't risk you leaving me stranded by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere if you found out I'm not the princess you're meant to bring home.

"It's just the long travel that's weighing on me, that's all. I'm sure I'll sleep better in Minas Tirith," she brushed it off, trying to come off as nonchalant as possible, but Éomer's studious gaze betrayed no hint of buying it. "Anyways, there's… there's something else I wanted to talk to you about. About the horses."

His face suddenly shifted to confusion, and he furrowed his eyebrows. "What of the horses?"

It was an abrupt change of topic, sure, but Lydia grasped at the opportunity to divert his attention away from her dreams as soon as the idea came to her. Well, now's as good a time as any to broach this subject. Her excuse of being too sick to ride on her own had worked for now, aided by the fact that she started to look like a walking corpse due to sleep deprivation, but the amount of raised eyebrows, sighs and curious glaces increased each morning when she claimed to still not feel well enough, and she knew it wouldn't hold up much longer.

"It's about my riding. I, uhm… I'm not ill, or dizzy. I don't actually know how to ride a horse. Like, at all."

Éomer stared at her dumbfounded for a moment. "But… what? What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said. I can't ride."

"That… doesn't make any sense. Nolwenn said you were a decent rider."

You won't make it easy on me, will you? Lydia sighed, rubbing the crease on her forehead.

"Look, I… something's happened to me, okay? I can't really explain it. All I know is that a couple days before you came to Dol Amroth, I woke up not… not quite myself. And that includes me not having the faintest idea how to ride a horse."

It wasn't the entire truth, far from it, but she hoped the broad strokes of her conundrum sounded honest enough to convince him. There really was no other explanation she could come up with for how she miraculously forgot a skill that Lothíriel had apparently mastered in her childhood; this would have to do.

"So… what? You have forgotten?" he asked, incredulous.

"Maybe. Something like that. I'm not sure," her voice trembled under his commanding presence. Éomer scoffed and shook his head, his scrutinizing eyes never straying from her face.

"You don't believe me," she added after a moment of silence.

"I don't know what to think, princess."

"You have seen my attempts to get on your horse, right? The way I flinch at every jolt? Do I seem like an experienced horse rider to you?" Lydia asked, feeling an increasing desperation to make him understand that she would never reach Edoras on her own horse, whether he bought her explanation or not.

He seemed to be mulling over her words, his eyebrows contracted in concentration. Whatever was going through his mind, he seemed to have understood that she wouldn't divulge any more details, and he asked: "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Thank God. Lydia released the breath she had been unconsciously holding. "I didn't want to cause a scene. So I pretended to be dizzy."

Éomer's features softened all of a sudden and his mouth curved up in a grin, the thoughtful timber of his voice replaced by a more amused and playful one.

"And here I thought it was just an excuse to ride double with me, princess."

Wait… is he flirting with me?

And with that, he was back - the Éomer she had come to know at night, when everyone else around them was sleeping. The other Éomer; witty and joking, but not unkind, so easy to hang out with, unlike his daytime counterpart - the marshal shouting orders from the top of his stallion, the warrior ready to draw his sword at any sign of danger. Lydia tried to ignore the warm fuzzy feeling inside her stomach, and had to avert her eyes, for fear he might see something in them that she had no desire to make public.

"That's awfully presumptuous of you," she quipped back, failing to suppress a smirk.

"Maybe," he shrugged with a smile, and turned to poke the dying coals inside the brazier with a metal rod.

The silence that descended upon them was nice and soothing, not uncomfortable, and Lydia almost felt sorry to disturb it, but she had to ask; she was too intrigued.

"Why are you so different now?"

"Hm?" he looked up at her, the flames that began to dance in the brazier again casting a playful light on his face. "Different how?"

"I mean, at night," she explained. "You're different when you talk to me at night. I don't know, you… you talk more. And you joke."

Éomer chuckled under his breath before his features turned a shade more serious, his smile dimming down to a fraction of what it was before. "You really have to ask, princess?"

"Yeah," Lydia nodded, slightly confused. "I'm actually curious."

He studied her, as if trying to read between her words, then dropped his gaze back to the fire. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

"You are Théodred's betrothed, princess. Our nighttime talks are not exactly… well, they may raise some eyebrows."

"Oh," Lydia blinked. "But we're just talking."

A flicker crossed Éomer's face - something unreadable, but it passed before she could pinpoint it. "Just talking. Of course."

Éomer proceeded to poke the fire some more, clearly at a subconscious impulse to do something to fill the silence that followed; the flames would be dancing happily in the brazier even without his help. For a moment, Lydia struggled to formulate a response - suddenly, his words felt so loaded, and so unexpectedly honest. She knew exactly how she wanted to interpret them - that maybe she didn't leave him quite as unaffected as she had tried to convince herself; that maybe he felt the same warmth in his chest when he spoke to her. Then again, maybe this was all wishful thinking - she hadn't been in a state of mind to think rationally for a while now, and Lydia knew her mind was desperate to latch onto anything that felt real and tangible in this place. Maybe he was only trying to be polite, maybe...

Oh, screw this! Lydia had to stop her thoughts from spiralling further down that rabbit hole. You could be misinterpreting this one way or the other, so what's the point in tormenting yourself? You're not the timid princess everyone thinks you are. You used to know how to talk to men, Lydia.

And so, she took a deep breath and made herself look him in the eyes before she said, as steadily as she could: "But… I enjoy the talking. With you. I'd hate for it to stop." Then, after a pause: "Besides, I seem to sleep better afterwards."

At that, he finally stopped needlessly poking the fire and met her gaze, his eyes betraying a hint of surprise. His look lingered on her for a quiet moment, before his mouth curved up in the familiar grin again, to Lydia's unending relief.

"Well, then. We'd best keep talking, princess, if only for the good of your sleep."

ooOOoo

A/N: Hope you enjoyed this! Any feedback is much appreciated. Next chapter, they finally reach Minas Tirith - expect Denethor, Faramir, a lot of tension, and some dream-induced unraveling soon!