Chapter Text
Lothíriel grew very still.
There was a body a few paces away. A man she had spoken to earlier. She had even meant to learn his name.
It all seemed terribly unfair now.
This was supposed to be just a nice few hours by the waterfall.
Her breath was coming too fast. Too shallow. Her fingers trembled, and though she noticed it, she could not stop them. The sounds around her: snorting horses, shifting mail, men speaking in low voices, seemed to come from a long way off.
Someone had draped a cloak around her shoulders; she clutched it, her knuckles white, as if the wool might hold her together. She sat a little apart from the site, although she didn’t remember how exactly she got there.
A shadow passed and returned, again and again, as Éomer took upon himself to guard the princess while his men secured the meadow. He was pacing the grass between Lothíriel and the pool convinced his body was shielding her view of the carnage. In reality, all he managed was to draw her eyes back towards the dead body every time she dared to look up.
Men pouring water to wash blood from the stones, picking glass from the grass and at last dragging the body behind a boulder for further examination, leaving behind the trail of fresh blood. The sight hit her like a blow once again. Then one of the men almost slipped on the wet grass, and for some reason that tiny, ordinary motion made everything much worse.
Her breath caught again, sharp and painful. The air refused to come. Her hands shook violently now, not even holding the cloak any longer. She had done that. She had killed him.
And he had meant to kill Éomer.
Her vision blurred, the world narrowing to soundless panic until Éomer’s shadow fell across her once again and his hand touched hers.
His voice, when it came, was low and gentler than she expected.
“Lothíriel. Look at me. It’s over. You’re safe.”
She couldn’t answer and just blinked at him, desperate to find any hint of shock to match her own, at least a tiny bit of panic, or even mild surprise. Nothing.
Ironic, really, that the man who’d just been attacked was perfectly composed, while the one who’d done the saving couldn’t seem to breathe.
Then again, Éomer was a warrior, and warriors tended to treat blood and death the way most people treated mud on their boots: unpleasant, but inevitable. It shouldn’t have disturbed her, but somehow it did. There was something horrifying about that kind of calm, the sort that only came from long familiarity or, possibly, from being slightly terrifying. The man could look at a corpse and mentally file it under “Trewsday.”
In the books, this was exactly the moment right before the heroine fainted. Which, to Lothíriel’s deep irritation, was beginning to sound like an increasingly reasonable option.
Éomer looked down at her hands, then crouched down—careful, as though she might bolt like a spooked filly.
“You don’t have to speak. Just breathe. There’s no shame in it—”
His voice was warm. Steady. She hated that it almost undid her. She swallowed and managed the smallest of nods. Then she saw it: the red stain on his tunic.
“You’re bleeding,” she blurted.
He glanced down and gave a grim half-smile. “It’s cider, and not even the good one.”
A breathless sound escaped her, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. Her shoulders sagged, trembling, as she pressed her hand to her eyes trying to hide from everything.
Éomer glanced back over his shoulder, at Firefoot and his riders. Then turned back to her, clearly coming to some internal decision.
“You’re in no shape to ride on your own right now—”
That woke her up!
For some reason (and clearly influenced by far too many tales that used this exact line) she caught herself imagining what it would be like to ride with him, and promptly decided it would be catastrophic.
“If you so much as suggest we share a horse I will rather walk the rest of the way barefoot.”
Which was not, strictly speaking, true. She couldn’t feel her knees. But it came out louder than she intended. A few heads turned. She didn’t care.
Éomer blinked at her, visibly taken aback.
Which was exactly the moment narrator chose to explain why one-horse trope simply didn’t work.
Firstly, you see, Lothíriel knew how to ride, and preferred her own horse, thank you very much. She liked knowing which ear twitched before a stumble, which snort meant “rabbit” and which meant “certain death.” She liked reins in her own hands and her seat on a saddle that did not contain a man at all, let alone one wearing armor.
Also, one never quite knew what sharing a horse meant in Rohan. Thus far, the Rohirrim had displayed a number of entirely unexpected cultural behaviors related to horses. Who knows what sort of social contract she would be signing by agreeing to share a saddle? She had just survived an ambush. She did not need to become betrothed by mistake.
(At this Lothíriel’s gaze flicked to Éomer. She suspected he might already be considering how absurdly wrong this could go.)
Lastly, there was that thing called a pommel. The question of where exactly a second person was meant to sit in these situations remained unanswered by most poets, bards or even saddlers. In front of it? Behind it? On top of it?
Let us assume, charitably, that the man offering a ride was a gentleman and gave up the saddle. Fine. Now the woman was expected to steer while the gentleman attempted not to fall off the back, not hold on too tightly, and not get tossed into a ditch. This requires balance, optimism, and a high tolerance for being rhythmically flung skyward. Not to mention you shouldn’t put any significant weight behind horse’s 18th vertebra, which ultimately brings us back to the ominous pommel question…
Now, for the sake of the story let’s put the pommel and vertebrae behind us and simply pretend everything fits where it should.
If the horse was galloping (as it almost always was in such tales, because a shared ride is never undertaken at a sensible pace), the whole arrangement turns into an experiment possibly ending with concussion. With every stride, the rear rider is thrown downward, then upward, then reminded that romance is less about roses and more about physics.
There was even a story going round that Legolas, who had famously ridden all sorts of strange beasts during the War, once cracked two ribs after attempting to share a horse with Gimli. The dwarf had slipped, the elf had tried to catch him, and the resulting tangle had left the horse traumatized, Gimli winded, and Legolas underneath the dwarf, pondering when exactly things had gone wrong.
Back in the real world, Éomer gave her a long, unreadable look. And then, a small shake of his head, more baffled than offended.
“Make a camp,” he said quietly to his men. “We’re staying the night.”
No protest. No insistence. No tragic back-mounted gallop into the sunset.
As it turned out, Éomer, King of Rohan, had never meant for her to share his horse. He had seen a woman trembling after seeing death up close, and simply thought to let her rest.
He lingered for a heartbeat, eyes meeting hers one last time. Then, walking towards his men, he muttered to himself, as if the thought had simply slipped past his defenses: “the books you read—”
And somehow, Lothíriel suspected he wasn’t really asking her.
There were several reasons Éomer chose to spend the night in Brego’s meadow.
The first and most reasonable one was light paranoia: the kind that creeps in shortly after someone tries to kill you. A healthy sort of feeling that says, “Before we ride back through that nice dark valley, perhaps we should make sure there isn’t another would-be assassin hiding behind the next rock.”
The second reason was Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, who, although alive, was currently in no condition to ride and yet entirely too proud to admit it. She had also (and very loudly) refused to share a horse with him.
Which was awkward, since Éomer had never actually offered.
He considered clarifying this, briefly. Then he remembered how discussions with the princess tended to go when she was upset. If he had learnt anything over the weeks of their acquaintance, it was that one must know when to choose his battles.
So Éomer didn’t comment on her strange horse-sharing ideas, nor did he send to Underharrow for a carriage she wouldn’t use anyway due to “reasons”. Or as Berenas put it: “She’d sooner limp back on foot than let anyone say she was sent back in carriage for being frightened.”
Of course, the most important of Éomer’s reasons to stay were political implications, for they were great. This close after the war Éomer needed to take the full control over the situation and for that he needed time. Time to think, and to think well before the word about the attack reached Harrowdale.
In the end, Éomer announced to make camp for “strategic reasons.” This sounded commanding, reasonable, and (most importantly) nonnegotiable.
It also allowed the princess to preserve her dignity (an endangered species if ever there was one) and given him much-needed time.
The meadow, for all its recent grim associations, was a good campsite: level ground, clean water, and enough moonlight to see by at night. The place was also the most defensible place in Harrowdale aside from Dunharrow. And this time, Éomer actually checked that he knew everyone in his company for making the same mistake twice in one day would be atrocious. Someone roasted the last of the venison. And as the light turned the grass to copper it gave the whole place an oddly peaceful look.
Lothíriel was now seated by the fire on the western side of the meadow, hopefully far away from any deadly rocks and any possibly triggering views. Still pale as chalk with hair coming loose from its braids. His squire gave her a cup of something hot and most likely strong. She was holding it with both hands as if it might keep her upright. She suddenly looked painfully young and fragile just then.
Entirely unsuitable to be part of anything like this.
The thought struck him before he could help it.
After pondering everything with Éothain, Éomer decided to send one scout (trusted, silent, and probably regretting his luck) to inform Mistress Hildwyn that the king and company would not return to Underharrow tonight. He was also instructed to, under no circumstances, mention the true reason. This also entirely eliminated the option to send the princess back in a carriage, for delivering her back to Underharrow in her current state would certainly raise some questions.
Questions he didn’t know how to answer anymore.
Truth was he had his suspicion about the culprit in Edoras way before they even arrived to Underharrow, but the recent attack upended the theory he’s been building entirely.
The Traditionalist faction already hated his alliance with Gondor, and the idea of Lothíriel being a part of some deal he made with Imrahil earlier that summer and sitting anywhere near Meduseld’s throne room made them itch.
But ordering this?
Éomer was the last heir of Éorl the Young. His sister was marrying the Steward of Gondor. The last thing traditionalist wanted would be his sister (or worse, her future children with Faramir) on the throne of Rohan.
Until now, Éomer was sure Aldric or Herewald were behind this sabotage and was just waiting to find some more solid proof here. To be honest, he even looked forward to catching them at it. But this attack just didn’t make sense at all, as killing him would threaten the very continuity they claimed to protect.
If ever there was a time for uncertainty (and a touch of anxiety) it was now. And Éomer, who preferred his enemies on the open field, found that deeply unsettling.
A little bit later, Éomer sat near the fire. It had burned down to that steady, companionable glow that makes people either philosophical or foolish. Sometimes both at once. As his men had settled into their watches, the night hushed save for the occasional snort of a horse or the jingle of mail.
Next to him, Lothíriel had been quiet for a long while. Then she stirred.
“I owe you an apology,” she began, eyes fixed on the flames. “For earlier. I… said some things when I wasn’t quite myself.”
Éomer looked up from cleaning his sword, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You mean about walking barefoot across Harrowdale?”
“Among other things. I overreacted. I thought you were going to—” She paused, swallowed, then continued with great dignity, “It’s possible I was influenced by a… book. Similar incidents were always described way differently. Less grim, more heroic. There was always rain before something happened.”
Éomer raised an eyebrow. “Rain?”
“It adds atmosphere,” she said gravely.
He glanced at the clear night sky. “We can wait, if you’d like.”
That earned the smallest laugh from her, followed by a hiccup. He allowed himself a brief satisfaction, she wasn’t dwelling on her panic momentarily.
After a moment, Éomer tilted his head, curious and teasing. “Which academic text was that, if I may ask?”
Lothíriel froze. “Ah. It’s… rather obscure. Histories of the Third Age, I believe.”
He frowned thoughtfully. “Is that the book Éowyn lent you? I don’t think I’ve heard of it.”
He didn’t mention that he knew exactly what she had been reading. After all, the book would still be somewhere on the ground close to the waterfall had he not discreetly put it inside her bag.
“It’s very rare,” she said quickly. “It’s… extremely detailed. Footnotes. Very dry.”
“I’ve no problem with dry,” Éomer said. “I rather enjoy thoroughness.”
“Yes,” she said, eyes flicking anywhere but him, “thoroughness is… important.”
He smiled faintly. “Then I would be happy to read it. The book clearly left an impression on you. One can never know when it might be useful.”
He suppressed a chuckle at the thought of Thorion, the overdramatic romance hero, striding about in his imaginary heroics. Quietly, he enjoyed the shift in her mood—light, focused on the ridiculous rather than her earlier fears.
Lothíriel coughed in a way that could almost pass for agreement.
“You seem concerned. Do you think I might misunderstand the book?”
“Oh—no, no, I just…” she flailed slightly. “You’ll find it perfectly… instructive.”
“I see,” he nodded. “Then I ought to borrow it from Éowyn. She mentioned bringing a few books from Gondor.”
The look on her face suggested that she would rather see the entire royal library spontaneously combust.
“Some customs,” she managed, “are best experienced firsthand.”
“You mean field research?”
“Yes!” she said too brightly. “Field research. Precisely that.”
Éomer gave her a considering look and decided to keep his opinion of Thorion to himself.
Meanwhile, Lothíriel quietly prayed Éowyn never told him the book in question was The Curse of the Secret Valley.
“Who would do this?” she asked, suddenly changing the topic, a shadow crossing her face as her earlier tension returned.
“Not the usual suspects we left in Edoras, if that is who you suggest,” Éomer said carefully. “They had no reason to try and kill me.”
“It must be Hildwyn!”
Éomer blinked. Hildwyn? That was… ambitious. And by ambitious he meant wildly wrong.
“She let the brigand join us at Underharrow. Nobody knew him,” Lothíriel said, voice rising slightly. “It’s obvious she had something to do with it!”
Éomer’s jaw set. She was shaken. Not thinking clearly. Of course. But also apparently consulting some other “academic text” looking for an easy villain rather than understanding the full danger. He kept his expression neutral, but inside he grew cold. Hildwyn had been Mistress of Harrowdale for years; loyal, clever, utterly dependable. For Lothíriel to accuse her of this, especially after her previous words against Cynegyth, was… frustrating.
“She’s not the enemy,” Éomer said at last, mildly offended on behalf of woman he knew his whole life. “She has no reason. Next time, maybe check the facts before jumping to conclusions.”
He frowned almost immediately, realizing too late how condescending that sounded. He didn’t soften it aloud.
Lothíriel’s shoulders sagged, and without another word she stormed toward the tent prepared for her. Éomer noticed a faint trickle of tears on her cheek, but he made a tactical decision to ignore it.
His gaze returned to the fire, the embers glowing steadily in the dark. He considered the problems ahead. A brigand camp he had to deal with tomorrow. Someone sabotaging him in his own council. Attempted regicide. And a princess who accused two women he knew from cradle of attempted murder in under two days.
Éomer thought back to the conversation with Éothain earlier, when they had gone over plans for brigands in Starkhorn. He wasn’t sure how much to tell the princess about tomorrow initially, but this last exchange only confirmed it was wiser to leave her, still too unsettled, out of the loop.
He only hoped she would understand.
The morning air was crisp, carrying a hint of dew and the faintly heroic scent of someone who had survived a day that might have ended as a particularly unpleasant chapter of a history book. Lothíriel rode beside Éomer in silence, which was either polite or mildly rude, she wasn’t quite sure which.
They reached the country yard of Underharrow without fanfare. Éomer guided her safely through the gates. Then, abruptly, he reined in his horse. “This is as far as I go,” he said.
Lothíriel blinked.
“And I have a business that needs to be dealt with. Immediately,” he added, tone leaving no room for discussion.
A flicker of offense stirred. He hadn’t told her anything about Dimholt and the findings there. (Well, he actually tried, but she was somehow distracted then.) She could blame only herself for that and then the attack happened. Her meltdown… She wanted to understand, to contribute, to prepare herself. And yet he’d kept her in the dark. Only asking her to delay any conversation with Hildwyn on the topic until he got a chance.
Éomer gave her one last look, then wheeled his horse and departed, his company vanishing down the road towards Starkhorn.
Lothíriel turned her gaze to the keep, still in the saddle, trying to decide whether she was more irritated or curious. This decision was immediately rendered irrelevant.
Thalwen, her mare, a horse of strong opinions, let out a sharp, cheerful neigh as they entered the yard. It was the kind of neigh that suggested not only recognition but also a running commentary on Lothíriel’s recent life choices, which she urgently needed to share.
Near the stairs to the keep stood another horse, head raised, ears pricked. Upon hearing Thalwen’s enthusiastic greeting, it responded with an equally enthusiastic neigh.
Lothíriel blinked and her stomach did an excited little flip noticing a white sock on its left hind. Recognition hit like a rotten fruit thrown from a cart. Thalwen knew this horse. Lothíriel knew him too.
And at that precise moment, Lothíriel realized with a pang of both delight and impending relief who had arrived. Also finally understood Éomer’s cryptic insistence that she surely wanted to return to Underharrow most eagerly. (Which—and this needs to be pointed out—is something Lothíriel would have understood if she hadn’t been too busy oogling him yesterday when he finally spoke about his findings in Dimholt.)
Without a second thought, she swung down from Thalwen and ran, boots thudding on stone. She was entirely aware of her dramatic entrance and that it might or might not cause some minor diplomatic complications. She also did not care.