Twilight of the Gods

EDORAS


It was already light when she woke, a pallid, cold light that told her that it was still early morning. The sun could not have risen for long. For a moment Lothíriel contemplated turning on her other side to try and fall asleep again, but as soon as she closed her eyes, she knew that it was hopeless. She was far too awake already.

Thinking of Éomer and asking herself how he would like a relaxed start into the day after the strenuous afternoon, she turned her head with suggestive smile. It faded when she saw the empty space next to her. He was not there. Where was he? Uncomprehending, Lothíriel stretched out her hand to touch the sheet where her husband should by all rights have lain. It was cold; and undisturbed. He had not been here at all last night. Valar, what had happened? They could not still be talking, could they?

Frowning, Lothíriel sat up and placed her feet on the ground, not bothering to feel for her shoes because the tiles were warm where the sunlight fell on them. She stood up and held her breath, listening for any sounds that would give her an idea Éomer's whereabouts. Utter silence answered her. Slowly and inwardly asking herself whether she might still be dreaming, she passed through the chamber, vainly looking for telltale signs, then opened the door to stick her head out into the corridor.

Still nothing. No voices, no sounds. All were still sleeping. But where was Éomer? What could he be doing at this hour? Was he at the stables, perhaps? Once during the last summer, she remembered an occasion where her proud king had been sleeping in an empty stall next to his precious steed, because Firefoot had been tormented by a colic. Could Firefoot be ill?

The thought of putting on a robe before she stepped out never entered her head as Lothíriel moved silently through the dormant hall and opened the door to the throne room. Usually the rusty hinges screamed and creaked whenever put to work, but today, they performed flawlessly and opened without noise. A few more steps into the middle. She came to a halt in front of the fireplace. An unpleasant odour of cold ash hung in the air. Turning towards the throne and the banners behind it, Lothíriel pivoted once more, with her nightgown billowing in the slight flux of air, but again, there was nothing to be seen. Or heard. From out of nowhere, a cold draft hit her naked skin.

Suddenly, her heartbeat accelerated, throbbing so hard it felt as if it would burst the top of her skull. It was too silent! There were no birds singing outside. No creaking of the ancient wood Meduseld was built of. No wind, and up here on the lonely hill in the central plains, the wind never stopped! Something was wrong, very wrong! An icy shiver climbed up her spine and nestled inside her stomach, causing her flesh to crawl.

"Éomer?"

She did not like the sound of her voice at all: shrill, on the edge of panic. And what was worse was that there was no echo, no reflection of the sound from the high ceiling and pillars. It sounded strangely flat. Dead. Altogether false. Subconsciously, Lothíriel's hands went down to cradle her lower belly protectively. It felt to her as if she could feel her child turn ceaselessly in her womb, equally tormented by the dreadful silence around her... the silence of a tomb.

"Éomer, where are you?" Even more scared now. She whirled around again, anxiety threatening to overwhelm her. "Anyone? Can anybody hear me?"

Nothing. And just when Lothíriel thought the relentless drumming of her heart would cause her to faint, she noticed the smell. A sickening, sweet odour, getting thicker and riper with each step that she took towards the door. There were no door wardens guarding it. Where were the doorwardens? Where was everybody? Like in a trance, she slowly stretched out her arm. The wood somehow felt false, too. How could this be? And should she really go out and...

The door opened before the thought was finished, and the stench assaulted her with sickening, nauseating power, but the view that was granted to her eyes stunned her even more: They were all here. All of Edoras citizens, more than she had ever seen assembled in one place except for her wedding day. All standing silently on the steep slope, their eyes transfixed towards the west, oblivious to her presence. To her right, at the corner of the dais, she finally detected Éomer, adorned in full mail and armour for a purpose she could not guess, the arm with his drawn sword hanging loosely by his side, but he, too, stared mesmerised into the same direction, not taking notice of her presence. From somewhere behind the mountains, a low grumble began to rise now like the thunder of a very distant storm. Lothíriel followed his gaze... and froze.


------------------------


NORTHERN ITHILIEN


Aragorn ineffectively tried to avoid being invited to sleep in one of the huts. Ridon humbly offered his home again, and his wife lit a candle and then scurried out of the single room a moment later. It would have been rude to reject the offer, and with a sigh the king entered through the low door. Ridon was gone a second later. The hut was built out of raw wood on a sandy ground with two simple beds of the same quality. Some baskets in one corner completed the poor furniture.

The king extinguished the candlelight with his fingers, took off his weapons and laid down. He forced his eyes shut, but in the darkness the stench of damp clothes, old leather, musty soil, and straw grew stronger by the minute. The hut was narrow, had no windows, and the roof seemed to be right above his head. Aragorn felt the walls around him like a close confinement. His heart beat faster, and suddenly the ill memory of shackles around his wrists grew so intense he could not stand it any longer. It was useless; he found no rest. Finally he got up, and left the hut to inhale the clear night's air. Wiping his face with both hands he all too vividly remembered his captivity one and a half years ago. For almost three months he had been caged in a small dungeon cell and forced to work in the mine of Deromonor.

Aragorn's hands clasped the upper fence in front of him.

His attempts to escape had failed and he had bitterly paid for it. Finally his fate had rested on the shoulders of a ten-year-old boy who had never before left the castle.

The king's grip went so tight he felt splinters penetrating his palms. The memory of sending this boy on a mission was even worse than the captivity itself. Still he considered it an irresponsible act to have exploited a child that way. But he had had no other options. He would not have been able to escape alone. The guards had watched him closely and not taken off his shackles.

But the boy had survived and even brought back the King of Rohan and Faramir. Without them Aragorn's fate would had been fulfilled in that castle.

The king overlooked the starlit settlement.

The ride back from Deromonor to Minas Tirith had proved to be even stranger than travelling with four Hobbits. First Vlohiri had been shy and hardly spoke a word, but the joy of leaving the dreadful castle for the White City had finally taken him over. He grew bolder by the day. He was interested in everything and asked the soldiers as well as Aragorn a thousand questions per minute, after the king had encouraged him to feed his curiosity. Vlohiri was like a seedling that grew rapidly in the warmth of care. It had been a pleasure to answer his questions for the boy seemed to cherish every detail and did not forget it. But he had shied away from Faramir, would not even want to talk to him. Aragorn had noticed how sad the prince was and had tried to tease Vlohiri that Faramir were much more educated than the king himself, but the boy had made it clear by his reserved behaviour that he would not take the offer. Vlohiri had looked forward to the meeting with Queen Arwen and had sunk to his knees upon seeing her. She had thanked him for his help, and after that afternoon Vlohiri had been in a kind of trance for a whole day.

Aragorn smiled upon the picture in his mind how Vlohiri had stared at his wife with so much admiration and awe that she had finally frowned and asked him if he was not feeling well.

But life in the palace was different from that at Deromonor like the sun from the moon. The boy had found it hard to adept to a lifestyle where he was no longer a servant who ran the building for errands, but a member of the royal family who had his own servant. Without his tasks he had felt useless and had grown unhappy for Aragorn had not had the time to take care of his education as frequently as he wished to. Aragorn had to reign over the kingdom, and many decisions had been delayed due to his absence. When Faramir had taken the boy out into the gardens of the White City to tell him about its history and the stewards, who had ruled Gondor until the king had returned, Vlohiri's shyness had ebbed away slowly, and he had been seen with the prince more often. Finally Faramir had asked for the allowance to educate Vlohiri in his house. Aragorn had been reluctant to let the boy go, but since he knew that the prince would take good care of Vlohiri he had agreed. The boy had accepted the decision that the Prince of Ithilien would teach him to read and write and to let him learn the lore of Gondor, but the boy as well as the ruler were not completely happy with the solution. They talked alone about it, and Aragorn had to admit that he would not have sent him away if Vlohiri had contradicted. But the boy had made friends with the prince, and so the parting had not been too sad, at least not for the boy. Aragorn had promised to visit him, and the king was sure that Faramir would take the young lad with him whenever he came to the palace. Still Aragorn had hardly been able to hide his sorrow to let the boy go.

The king still pondered over his decision, though it had seemed right at that time.

"Is anything wrong, sire?" Halamin asked getting closer with a torch in his hand. Aragorn woke from his musing and forced himself to open his hands. The guard gazed at the splinters and the marks the raw wood had left on the king's palms. He frowned sympathetically. "Can I be a help in any way?"

Aragorn exhaled looking down on his hands.

"No, I do not think that there is any help for me." The guard nodded curtly. The king sensed his hesitation to retreat and asked: "Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?"

Halamin looked up to his ruler, who seemed to be in a sad mood. The soldier would not want to sound insubordinate and searched for the right words. When they came he seemed to walk a thin line.

"My lord, I know I have no right to speak to you like this, but..." He inhaled deeply, but before he could continue with his plea the king raised his right hand slightly to quieten him down.

"There is no need to worry about Hilberon's doing today. I did not intend to punish him. Though he should follow orders and not his ideas."

"Agreed." With a curt bow Halamin was about to retreat when the king added,

"But sometimes orders restrict a noble heart too much." A pause followed when Aragorn's thoughts returned to Vlohiri. Without the boy's ignorance of prohibitions the King of Gondor would not be able to watch the starlit night. Inhaling deeply he glanced at Halamin. "You are a good friend to him, Halamin. So tell him that I do not intend to lift the duty of serving the Royal Guard from him. I will think about it again if he rides up to a host of Haradrim with the same intention." A smile tugged at his lips, and Halamin was relieved.

"Very well, my lord, I think he will understand."



------------------------


EDORAS


He woke with a start, not knowing what had caused him to surface from the black, bottomless pit he had finally fallen into after an eternity of lying awake and staring at the ceiling with his mind racing. Lothíriel had already been asleep when he had finally sneaked into the chamber in the dark after a long, private talk he had with Gamling following Erkenbrand's retreat. The marshal had righteously felt beat after the ride that lay behind him, and when the rain had abated, both he and his captain had bade them an early good night and gone down the path to the inn where the rest of their comrades were spending the night.

For a moment, Éomer continued to lie on his back, unmoving. Tasting the atmosphere. And even if he could not put his finger on what it was that had woken him, his instincts were crying out. Something was wrong. He opened his eyes to the moving pattern of moonlight and shadow on the ceiling, breathing silently through his mouth and rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers to chase the last remainders of sleep away. Listening. Straining his ears for anything out of the ordinary. Muffled noises, screams, footsteps... anything that would not belong into Meduseld at the dead of night. Still intently listening, he turned his head to the left to see whether his wife had likewise been woken by the strange atmosphere... and looked at blank white sheets. Lothíriel was not there.

His heart jumping into his throat, Éomer turned with a jolt and saw her standing motionlessly at the window, the silken, blue night-gown flowing over her delicate frame like water, shimmering in the pale moonlight under the veil of raven-black hair. A brief moment of relief washed over him, but the very distinct notion that something was off would not cease. What was she doing there in the middle of the night? What was she looking at? He sat up.

"Lothíriel?" The sound of his own loud voice startled him, and he lowered it to a whisper. "What are you doing?"

She did not respond. He tried it a little louder.

"Lothíriel?"

Nothing. A cold feeling beginning to spread in his stomach. She had to have heard him. Why was she ignoring him? He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Lothíriel, what is wrong?"

Now even the air seemed frozen. With a growing feeling of foreboding, Éomer came to his feet. He had to be dreaming. This could not be reality, even if the cool tiles beneath his bare feet said something else. He swallowed and stepped up behind his still unmoving wife, grasping her shoulder to turn her around to face him.

"Lothíriel?"

She would not let herself be turned! Rigid like a marble statue and just as unyielding, his wife stood rooted to the ground. Not turning her head, not answering, not acknowledging his presence by the slightest sign. The sight of her inanimate face chased a chill down Éomer's spine. Lothíriel's eyes were open, but there was no life in them. She was not even blinking as she continued to stare out of the window towards the mountains, in a trance. Reflexively, Éomer followed her gaze towards the snow-capped summits. They looked eerily silver-blue in the moonlight, unreal, and there was mist rising from the meadows below, but otherwise, there was nothing to be seen, no matter how hard he looked. He took another step forth that brought him in front of his wife. "What is there?"

"It is coming..." Her voice seemed to come from a distant place and trailed off, blown away by the breeze that blew through the open window, her eyes looking through him as she raised her hand. "There..."


------------------------


The horizon turned red. At first Lothíriel knew not what to make of it. It was but a dark red line that covered the horizon from one edge to the other, like a strange shadow. Then it began to rise, and she recognised the motion, the sparkling reflection of its moving surface. It was a wave. A single red wave rolling their way, still leagues away in the distance... but moving steadily, and oh so fast towards them, ascending into the pale morning sky as it did so... bringing with it the stench of decay. A tidal wave of blood.


------------------------


It was too much for him. Too much to see her like this, entranced, unresponsive, staring at something that was not there. Was she possessed? What was wrong with her? Right there and then, Éomer decided he had enough as he seized Lothíriel's shoulders and shook her, frantic to wake her from this eerie state.

"Lothíriel, wake up!"

Dark eyes stared through him as if he weren’t there, devoid of expression. Empty. Without thinking twice, he lifted her up and started towards the door, yelling for their healer...


------------------------


The sky was a red, moving, reflecting wall, dwarfing the mountains. Dwarfing even Edoras as it rolled towards them, still rising. None of the mesmerised onlookers turned to flee, because they all understood instinctively that there was no escape from it. The wave would crush them, and who would still be alive after it had tumbled down on them would drown in the ocean of blood. The sweet, coppery odour was overpowering now, and over the growing roar Lothíriel heard for a moment the horses screaming in the stables. They were wild with terror, not as hypnotised as the men and women around her, who craned their necks back to stare at the frothing crest of the red wall as it blotted out the sun ...


------------------------



"Yálanda! Gamling!" Éomer raced through the corridor, his inanimate wife in his arms, his heart racing. He had never thought he could be this afraid. "Help us!"



------------------------

The wave smashed Edoras like the foot of a giant, the impact shaking the lonely hill to its very core. Such must have been the flood that brought the end of Numénor, Lothíriel thought numbly as she watched the red flood churn up the hill, while the plains the Golden Hall commanded had already vanished under the frothing liquid. This time, the Valar had chosen to destroy Edoras. Its people had angered the ancient gods, and now their doom was upon them.

People screamed and fought to rise from the brutal current that threw them against rock or the huts, tearing everything down that stood in its way. Already, the wooden ruins of the Rohirrim capital crashed against the bottom of the dais, the blood rising faster than any flood she had ever seen. Oblivious to her imminent death, Lothíriel turned Éomer. He was close now, his expression that of a shattered man as he looked upon his drowning kinsmen.

"You brought it about yourself," she heard her own voice say with cold finality. He turned his head to look at her. "This is your punishment."

For an endless moment, they stared at each other, and she saw dawning comprehension in his defeated eyes. Then the flood reached Meduseld, and everything turned red...


------------------------


A crimson rivulet ran down from Lothíriel's nose, down to her lips, colouring them red, her eyes staring unblinking into the void. The sight froze the king to the core.

"Yálanda!"

Up ahead, the door to the healer's room. Almost there! Squeezing each ounce of strength he had left into his legs, Éomer sped up... and suddenly noticed a movement! Lothíriel's head had turned just the slightest bit to look at him, her stare no longer empty. It stopped him dead in his tracks, and for a moment, relief was so great it was almost painful - until he noticed the icy chill in her eyes.

"Lothíriel?"

"The slaughterers shall be slaughtered..."

Dark eyes stabbed against his, their expression hard and unforgiving, so utterly unlike Lothíriel that Éomer almost dropped her in shock. Her voice was clear and firm, its tone that of a judge passing his verdict. There were no emotions in the words that she spoke, neither satisfaction nor compassion. For a moment, it deemed Éomer as if a higher force had abducted his wife's body to utilise it for its errand, to look at him and to speak to him through her mouth, and he could not for the life of him move.

Up ahead, the healer's door opened and a question was shouted his way, but the King of Rohan heard it not. The hard stare stayed on him for a moment longer, freezing him to the core. Then, suddenly, she blinked, the cruel expression gone as if he had been imagining it, and the dark eyes rolled back into Lothíriel's head until only the whites could be seen. The body in his arms slackened ...



------------------------


ITHILIEN


In the settlements further south and west they heard the peasants' stories about something wild attacking their cattle. Aside from the obvious fear these people had, no tracks could be found, and the men told the king that the attacks had stopped one cycle of the moon ago. The beast had not been spotted a single time, but every villager had a picture in his mind that was crueller than the one before. The description of the dead pigs and calves resembled those of Tesestras, but in most cases the animals had been stolen and not ripped apart in the fence. Aragorn heard from a very upset trader that two of his horses had been taken within weeks though he had watched them carefully. At the time one horse was stolen he had been distracted by other sounds, and the king was about to believe that the horse-thieves his men and he had encountered were collecting all steeds in eastern Ithilien. The king's concerns that the rumours bore some truth had been right, and he fell silent during the last two days of their ride.


"Thieves and beasts," Fáred growled when they rode on in the morning's mist. "And no one has seen naught.&"

Tarés looked grim when he nodded.

"And we come up with naught! No beast to follow, no thief to..." He interrupted himself hastily for the king was too close by. Lowering his voice he continued, "Well, we cannot set out guards everywhere to find this... thing, if it even exists. Perhaps it's just a bigger wolf. That's not unheard of."

"Aye, I agree." Fáred stared at the king's back. "And the thieves we know. We just have to get there and get our horses back." The captain waited for a reprimand, but Aragorn did not seem to be listening at all to the conversation behind him. Dumarin rode closer to Fáred's left side and followed his captain's gaze. They both let their horses fall back while Tarés rode on straight.

"What do you think comes out of this?" Dumarin asked lowly.

Fáred eyed him cautiously.

"What do you mean?"

Dumarin snorted.

"There has to be a decision to make, has it not? What is your opinion?"

"Mine is not asked." He nodded with his chin to Aragorn. "It is his to decide what the army will do." But Dumarin knew the tone well. Fáred was still angry, and it did not take him long to utter his doubts. "I knew what the steward would have done," he hissed, and his beard trembled. "But the King of Gondor will not follow those great footsteps. He has not done so when two traitors had to be sentenced, and he will not do it now with these horse-thieves. I can tell you that much."

"So you do not think that the people in the east will cross the border?"

Fáred's voice was rancorous toward the king, but still low.

"There is no strength left in them to stand a single fight! They are but thieves! They have moved here to steal from our honest kinsmen! Could be that they brought in that... beast, whatever it might be. Perhaps they want the villagers to flee and leave everything behind! Who knows what these boorish people are up to! To end this threat it would be the best to throw them back further east, to vanquish them once and for good, but..." He made a gesture with his hand and exhaled."He won't, Dumarin, he won't."

Hilberon, close behind the two men, felt the urge to defend the king and his decision to come, but he lacked the words and knew from experience that Fáred would never let go of his point of view, even with the right arguments at hand. Only the king ruled over Fáred's actions, and, as Hilberon had seen himself, even this did not work all the time.

Hilberon thought about the journey they had accomplished. He had made mistakes so his narration to his father would not be as shining as he had hoped it would be, but he had learnt a lot and shot a doe, which was, in his eyes, something he would stress. It still made him proud, at least in this case, that he had not disappointed the king. The forests of Ithilien in their splendour still lingered before his inner eye. There would be a lot to tell about those forests, the lights, the smells, and the sounds. He wished the king would say that they had to ride out tomorrow again. Then he called himself foolish. The king would be happy to return to the White City and his wife. If there was any living being in Gondor that could make the stern looking king happy it had to be the sight of his beautiful wife. Queen Arwen was even more beautiful than the forests he had looked on, and for a moment he recalled her face. During the coronation many of the Elves had been present, and they all had looked fair and untouched by age, but Arwen had been shining like a crystal.

But Hilberon also wondered about the ruler's actions during the ride and had to admit that Aragorn did not resemble the man he had imagined. All the kingly attitudes were amiss. Aragorn neither wore royal clothes nor slept in a tent. Wherever the group had gone to the king went first, he had never sent Fáred and his men as a vanguard. He did not even want to be called by his given name and title! Hilberon frowned and intended to take this subject to his father since he did not know whom else to talk to. Softly he started to hum, could not even recall who had taught him the tune, but it lighted his mood.

When they crossed the Rammas' great gate Tarés was relieved more than he could tell. He had been worried since the incident with the horse-thieves that some of them would return to avenge their dead companion. Halamin had thought the same, but their wish to stay close by the king was impossible to attain. Aragorn had made it clear without words that he did not need the soldiers to ride with him; that he never wanted them to be at his side. Tarés had hardly slept to be up and close to the king if an attack would occur. Fortunately, the ride back had been uneventful aside from the pig-breeder, who had talked too loud and too much, regardless the diminishing interest of the listeners.

Looking at the riders ahead of him, Tarés recalled the day when the news of the king's abduction had reached Minas Tirith. It had shocked the citizens. Tarés had been in the palace and present the day the king had ridden out for a hunt with only three men he knew well. Tarés' friends had shaken their heads in disbelief, but more because of the ruler's unusual behaviour than out of worry. The war had been over and the first six months of Aragorn's reign had passed without alarming incidents from the eastern and southern borders. So the soldiers as well as the people had relaxed and gone about their businesses. But after the king had been reported missing for more than a week the unrest had grown. Lady Arwen had kept her head high and taken over the royal duties without delay, but fear had spread like wildfire that the King of Gondor might have been killed. Tarés had heard those fearful whispers when he returned from the northern lands after a useless search for the king. The long weeks of waiting had begun and every rumour he had heard had been more terrible than the one before. The city's inhabitants had lost their faith in the strength of their king, and despair had gripped their hearts. Winter's arrival had drowned the last hopes for a safe return, and Tarés had seen many women weeping on the streets. Then, all of a sudden, Aragorn, Éomer, and Faramir with their soldiers had ridden up the first ring of the White City, and all who set eyes on the group had been stunned before they had been able to cheer.

Tarés exhaled, let his gaze wander over the plain before him. In the distance the shining white walls could already be seen. His memories still lingered on the day of Aragorn's return to the palace.

The soldier had been standing at the palace's gates, and it had been his greatest pleasure to welcome his ruler back and to open them up for him. But Tarés' smile was lost in the shock upon seeing into Aragorn's face. The king had been a mere shadow of his former self, and though he was smiling and seemed happy to be home, the months he had been away had taken something from him. Tarés had steadied himself to not let show what he felt, but in his heart he had prayed for the king. In the weeks to come the Royal Couple had only shown themselves on important events like the spring festivities. Aragorn had looked healthier then, and Tarés had sworn to himself that he would accompany the king on his next ride. He had been with the king at Edoras for the marriage of Lothíriel of Dol Amroth to the King of Rohan, and he had stayed at Aragorn's side when he had ridden out at the end of summer to look over the harvest and decide how many wagons with food supplies would be sent to help the Rohirrim. Now, again, Tarés felt the strain end. He hoped the king would not decide to ride out tomorrow again.


------------------------



EDORAS


It seemed like ages to Éomer before the healer finally came out of the royal bedchamber where she had treated the queen. Dressed in a simple woollen tunic and leggings he had quickly grasped before Yálanda had chased him out of the room, he had been pacing the corridor restlessly, hating to be shut out when he was being consumed by a deep fear for his wife. Every now and then, Maia, his wife's maid she had brought with her from Dol Amroth, had left the chamber for various errands, and he had been able to get a brief question in, but all in all, he knew very little of Lothíriel's state as the sun rose over Meduseld.

Almost jumping at the old woman in his anxiety, Éomer cut off her path, not caring what Yálanda thought of his manners.

"How is she? What is wrong with her?"

"Easy, young king, easy!" The ancient, wrinkled face turned towards him as the healer grasped his hand to squeeze it reassuringly. Under other circumstances, Éomer would have felt embarrassed or angry over being spoken to like a small child, but right now he was too worried to care. "Your wife is resting now, sire. As far as I can see - and I have examined her quite extensively - there is nothing seriously wrong with the queen. She claims to have a severe headache and feels a bit weak, but apart from that I found nothing wrong with her. It must be her delicate condition. Some women suffer from that during their pregnancy. It is nothing unusual."

"Nothing unusual?" Éomer shouted, hardly able to believe his ears. He ripped his hands out of the woman's clutch and took a quick step back to glower in disbelief at the old healer from his superior height. "She fell into a trance in the middle of the night! She sleepwalked and hardly reacted to being spoken to, and when she did, it was something very disturbing and blood came out of her nose! She fainted! How can this be normal, woman? Tell me!"

"No need to shout at me, my lord," Yálanda objected indignantly, the grey eyes unflinching under his angry stare. "I understand you are worried, and I understand that what you experienced was rather unsettling, but again I assure you that a condition of sleepwalking is nothing uncommon or even dangerous. Look, the pregnancy has left the queen in a very emotional state, and it is quite natural for her to take matters to heart she would otherwise not have thought twice about. Her mind is filled with new impressions, and she cannot just shut them out at night." Her eyes narrowed. "Mayhap your wife overheard something yesterday that could have troubled her? Have you, perchance, told her anything that might have been too much for her to hear in her current condition? I heard there had been an unexpected council with the Lord Erkenbrand..."

Éomer felt heat creep into his face.

"It could be," he muttered then, his bad conscience clearly showing. Oh, why had he allowed Lothíriel to attend their council? Had he been utterly mad? He swallowed and cast down his eyes, anger changing to guilt. " But it was her own wish. I thought not-"

The woman shook her head.

"No, of course you thought it could not harm her, and how should you not, if the only woman you had ever known in this regard had been your strong sister. Your wife, however, is not so strong, sire. You cannot let her know the things you discussed with Éowyn. You understand that now, don't you, my lad? But do not needlessly torment yourself. No further harm has been done, and if she stays in bed today and rests, the queen will be well again quite soon, you'll see. Now, I would have liked for her to rest right now, but she insisted on seeing you before she took the potion. Just remember, be gentle with her. She can use no further excitement today. And don't stay for too long, either. She needs the rest."

"Aye..." He nodded obediently, anxious to see his wife and willing to do anything the old woman demanded from him even if she would command him to walk on his hands and knees. Without further ado, he burst into the bedchamber.



------------------------



She felt frozen despite the heavy blankets the healer had given her to wrap herself into. Bodily and emotionally wrought out, despite the strengthening potions the woman had made her drink. The whole chamber still smelled of them despite the open window, and from the other side of the door, she could hear her husband's muffled voice. Somewhere behind her eyes, her head was throbbing like a rotting tooth, but the pain paled in comparison to the emotional distress she was in as the door opened and Éomer stormed into the chamber, his face a mask of worry that only added to Lothíriel's toil. Her poor husband. Since yesterday afternoon, his world had crumbled and been turned upside down, and now even she contributed to his torment. How much she hated herself for her weakness! And how much she loathed the fact that she would worsen his ordeal by what she was about to tell him!

"Lothíriel! Sweetness!" Her sight clearly distraught him, and the missing night's sleep showed clearly on his face, even when she fought to show him a slight, encouraging smile as proof of how much better she felt already. But of course, the attempt was idle. The mask of worry did not lift from his face as he sat down on the edge of the bed, taking her into his strong arms and gently pulling her to his chest. "You scared me."

She closed her eyes and allowed herself to revel for a moment in the comfort he provided, answering his embrace and burying her face against his shoulder. Her eyes stung and there seemed to be a lump stuck in her throat, caused by the knowledge of what she would have to do. What she would have to tell him. Would he look at her like this ever again? So lovingly, so concerned for her well-being; after he had heard her out? She needed his comfort now more than ever, but the danger of losing it was undeniably there. Somehow, she could not see him taking well what she was about to reveal to him. He was a man who stood firmly in the world he could see and touch, not in the elven world of enigmas and mysteries, notions, sensations and hidden meanings. Finally, after another long moment of shared closeness and comfort, Éomer pulled away to look at her, his fingers carefully smoothing back a strand of black hair behind her ear.

"You are still so pale..."

She caught his hand.

"Éomer... it means nothing. Do not worry overmuch for me. My face may be still white, but I am already much better." This time, she knew she had managed that smile, for he returned it, however weakly. Oh, how much she loved him! How much she wanted not to do this! Curse Erkenbrand! Curse the Dunlendings! And curse her elvish blood!

"My head is aching, but Yálanda is certain that there is nothing else wrong with me. Your son - or your daughter - is still well, my king. Would you like to wish your child a good morning?" She moved his hand down to her lower belly and let it rest there. For a moment, they both remained silent, and Éomer's gaze glided over her silken gown to the position of their hands, lovingly caressing the slight curve underneath and finally showing the first honest smile she had seen from him for almost a day. It did not take long, however, for him to look up again with that concerned expression again. The night's events had been too unsettling for him to be easily forgotten.

"Last night... I knew not what to do. You wouldn't wake up. I was afraid I had done damage by shaking you. I thought I hurt you, and when that blood came out of your nose..." he stopped and stared, for there were still a few drops of it visible on her gown. The sight froze him. All of a sudden, Lothíriel felt an overwhelming love for this man, so powerful it ached as she pulled him closer.

"It is nothing," she breathed into his ear, kissing his cheek. "My nose has always bled easily, it is nothing that should alarm you. Do not worry for me, my great warrior." Smoothing a strand of his long, fair hair out of his face, she inhaled deeply. She would have to begin sooner or later, and if she waited much longer, she knew that she would never be able to summon the necessary courage. Inwardly bracing for whatever reaction would await her, Lothíriel let go of her husband and leant back into the thick pillows, the seriousness of her expression an indication to Éomer of what was to come. "There is, however, something that we must talk about..."

Lines appeared on his forehead as he looked up and studied her face, the worry deepening again after a brief moment of relief.

"Your dream?"Her expression told him that he was right. "You remember it, then?"

"It was no ... dream, Éomer," she hesitantly began and stared at the blanket on her legs, her heart beating furiously. It was still early, at most an hour after dawn, almost as in her vision. The sheer thought still sickened her. "No normal dream, at least." Another deep breath to collect her courage, and then she looked him squarely in the face. "It was a vision." She could see the word getting stuck in his throat. Saw him tense.

"A... vision?" Clearly he had not expected that and was caught off-guard, it was easy to see. "Of what?"

"Of Rohan's end." There now, it was out. She held her breath - and felt a sharp sting when she detected a notion of growing consternation in her husband's eyes. They narrowed, and it was obvious that he knew not how to take what his wife was telling him. What was he thinking? That she had hurt her head worse than she was willing to admit? That she was talking nonsense, still under the influence of her horrible nightmare? It was disturbing how his eyes were all surface all of a sudden. They wouldn't let her in anymore. For the life of her, she could not tell what he was thinking. So she told him. Of the wave. The people's death-cries. The horrible feeling of foreboding and impending doom. And she ended with the one conclusion that could be drawn from it.

"Éomer, if you seek to exact your revenge on the Dunlendings, if you follow the marshal's request... something terrible will happen to Rohan. I know it."

His expression froze, and the silence between them turned chilly. From one second to the next, an unbearable tension filled the room.

"You - you eavesdropped on us?"

She could tell that she had committed an unforgivable breach of trust in his eyes. There was no way of denying it. His suddenly estranged expression hurt her more than she could say as he back away, but she could not afford let him intimidate her now. This was too important. For the good of the Mark, and for the good of all the innocent women and children whose lives were at stake, she had to convince him. So she took a deep breath and answered to his accusation best as she could. Following intuition, her feelings, not reason.

" I had to." How was she supposed to make him understand what her feelings in this matter were? Her fingers were tying the blanket into knots without her being aware of it as the king suddenly stood up and took a few paces back to bring some space between himself and his seemingly unstable wife. "Éomer... these are my people, too. I care for them as much as you! The Mark is my home now. It is the land our child will grow up in. I need to know what its future will look like, and if possible and necessary, I want to have a hand in its future, too!"

He was still looking at her as if he was having trouble coming to terms with what she had done, as he turned around at the foot-end of the bed. Shaking his head in utter disbelief.

"I would have told you! All you had to do was ask, not acting out some lie to me and then sneak back, as if you didn't trust me! Do you honestly believe I would have kept what we were discussing at that council a secret to my own wife, to the woman I am ruling this land together with? Do you have so little faith in me?"

She raised her eyebrows.

" You would have told me about your plans to eradicate an entire people? Really?"

"By removing you from the council, I intended to spare you from having to hear about the possible purpose of the captives the enemy took, but since you seem to be more concerned about our foes' well-being: There are no such plans as of yet." Anger and disappointment swung in his voice, and he still appeared to be stunned from hearing her confession. "You are getting ahead of yourself and worry about things that have in no way been decided yet! And worse yet, you accuse me of things I haven't even decided upon!"

"But Erkenbrand..."

"He wants me to punish our enemies as hard as possible, aye. He's pressuring me and I understand why, but if you had been listening more keenly, you should have noticed that I delayed my judgement even though we are hard-pressed for time! It should have told you something about me, my queen. I am not a man who will sentence a people to annihilation on the spur of a moment. I am a warrior, not a slaughterer... nor an Orc! I am aware of my responsibilities, and the way other people look upon Rohan is one of them."

She remained silent at that, at the same time feeling a twinge of relief and somehow being bothered by his choice of words.

"Like I said, I have not yet decided ... but I will have to eventually, and before long, too. The marshal was right at least in one regard: We cannot afford to wait much longer. If everything goes as expected, Elfhelm and his éored will arrive here by tomorrow evening, and I will hear his opinion, too. Then we will hold a second council, and only then shall I decide how we react to the provocation."

Lothíriel's usually delicately swung lips formed a straight, bloodless line at that.

You cannot tell me that you are not leaning towards accepting his suggestion, Éomer!" she claimed, raising her voice and even surprising herself by that. "It is written all over your face!"

"And what do you want to hear from me, Lothíriel? What do you expect me to do?" Frustrated, Éomer exhaled noisily through his nose and leant over the foot-end, his hands resting on the wood. "We did not force them to attack us! We had peace with them for almost two years, we even gave them food when they came asking for our help, although we could hardly afford to do so at the time! And yet they repay us by training for war, by raiding our villages and killing and abducting our kinsmen for Eru-knows what purpose! What else should I offer them other than retribution, Lothíriel? A place in Meduseld? A throne at my side? The entire Westmark with all that's in it? Tell me, for I do not know what you want to hear!" His fingers were clutching the wooden railing so fiercely now that his knuckles turned white, when suddenly, the door opened and let in a very distraught, angry healer.

"My lord, have I not specifically told you..."

"You will leave this chamber at once, Yálanda,"Éomer pressed in a dark voice without taking his eyes of his wife. "This is between the queen and me." A moment of silence. No footsteps. No movement. His head snapped around. Had everyone gone mad today that they thought they had to object to his orders? "Move it, woman!"

Usually, it was the healer who barked at people. Once she got angry, no one dared to resist her. Usually, her knowledge and wisdom and greater age lent her all the authority and respect she needed in her dealings with the Edoras court, but never had a king, neither Éomer or his predecessor, shouted at her like that. Intimidated and indignant, she moved back, but - upon summoning what was left of her courage - turned around once more before she left to say: "You would be well-counselled to remember what I told you, Sire! If you continue to speak to the queen in this fashion, you may jeopardise the child after all!" Another glance at the young king's furious expression was all that it took to finally convince her to leave. Again, there was silence in the chamber, but it was clear to both present parties that it would erupt into another heated discussion momentarily. Both combatants were merely rearranging their weapons for the next round.

It was Éomer who spoke first, his voice lowered as he heeded the healer's advice, but nonetheless dripping intensity, his hands still on the foot-end of the bed and his words acid.

"Tell me, Lothíriel What shall I do? What would the Queen of Rohan do if it were her decision? Reward the filth for that heinous attack? Our people may have difficulties understanding that."

"You are being overly dramatic, my lord," Lothíriel, to her dismay, heard herself saying. Valar, what had gotten into her to speak with her husband like that? And Éomer did not like her tone, the sparkle in his narrowed eyes told her that very clearly. The Lothíriel she had been until the evening before, the gentle, if slightly emotional young woman, had been replaced by the Queen of Rohan, a woman she had not known so far. A determined, unafraid woman with an iron will and a firm idea in her head of what was right and what was wrong. Somehow, from the inside, the younger woman watched in awe as the new Lothíriel dared to oppose the king himself."Of course you should not reward them! But you should also not punish the innocent for the sins of a few."

"The sins of a few?" All good intentions not to shout at his ill wife were a long-gone memory all of a sudden. "You call a host of two hundred warriors 'a few'? Two hundred of them who meticulously worked out that plan over weeks, if not months, for it to be so efficient! This was no spontaneous action, brought about by a sudden fit of hunger! They had been planning to hit us the hardest they could for a long time! Will you not see that? How can you expect me to be merciful and simply forget?" He fought for breath and glared at her, until the built up tension became too great and he spun away, taking a few paces towards the window, fists clenched and in desperate need to unleash some of the accumulated frustration and anger. Her suggestion was preposterous! How could she not see that herself? He spun again to add: "People would spit into my face for that! I would be disgraced! I would lose face, and rightly so!"

She swallowed, somehow incredibly disappointed. Feeling hollow inside. Empty and saddened. It all culminated in one last sentence, for she had no other words left, and her voice sounded hoarse and throaty when she said:

"And this would be your greatest fear, sire?"

It was the final touch. The worst she could have possibly said. Éomer's expression turned to stone. It took the last remainders of his restraint to clamp his teeth down and turn on his heels to leave the chamber, throwing the door behind him that the thunder reverberated through the Golden Hall...