not a thing to do

And what remained was blackened wood, ashes and a cruel silence. And that smell: that pungent, penetrating stench of scorched flesh, sickeningly tangled with the reek of burned hair. It clung to the air, and to your memory, long after the flames had died.

"It is important that you see what we stand against," your father had said as you walked among the ruins together. "You must understand the burden, if lives are ever placed in your hands. And one day, you must answer better than we did here today."

As a girl, you only understood the horror of it.

But now, standing beneath the black smoke rising over Céolric's watchtower, with the bitter taste of death settling once more at the back of your throat, you understood the burden your father had spoken of: to arrive too late, to walk among ashes, to answer for the dead.

The ground beneath the watchpost was blackened where the fire had burned hottest. Near the foot of the hill lay a darkened mound half-consumed by flame: shapes barely recognizable as men; swords and shields scattered; armours, carrying the horse-emblems of the Riddermark, split and dented.

From his horse beside you, Éomer closed his eyes briefly and drew a breath, visibly clenching his jaw. You swallowed hard, unable to take your eyes away from the scene among the ashes and the pools of blood. Your horse shifted uneasily beneath you, ears flicking back. You rested a steadying hand against his neck, though your own heartbeat had begun to pound just as restlessly.

Something felt wrong in that silence.

No birds flew overhead. No distant calls carried by the wind across the plains. Even the wind seemed muted, the tree branches were unnaturally still, the tall grass stood unmoving around the ruined tower.

Ever watchful, you studied the tower in front.

It still stood, though barely. The wood was blackened and cracked, yet the structure endured, gaunt against the clear sky. Above it, a single black column of smoke twisted up slowly into the pale blue. The flames no longer burned, yet you both had seen that smoke from miles away, a menacing dark thread rising above the plains.

Strangely too visible.

"I do not like this," you said at last, eyes fixed upon the ruin. "Orcs do not burn with such care."

From his horse, Éomer looked at you, alarm building in him already. "What do you make of it?"

"I think it was meant to be seen," you answered, slow and cautious.

Your gaze swept over the surrounding empty land, urgently searching for any thing that might seem suspicious. Then, almost without meaning to, you glanced toward Éomer.

His keen eyes, awake and vigilant as always, were already on you.

"I sense a trap," you added quietly, barely above a whisper, so unbidden ears would not hear.

Immediately, Éomer shifted in his saddle, scanning the hills and rocks with renewed focus, the watchtower, the blackened ground beneath it, and the column of smoke above it. His hand settled upon the hilt of his sword restlessly while he searched for any hint of danger, a glint of iron, a moving shadow in the bushes.

He saw and heard nothing, but he knew better than not to trust the certainty in your voice, or the instinctive way your hand had already drifted toward the bow hanging at your saddle.

"You should leave, princess," he said firmly, though both of you already knew this battle against you was lost before it began. "Last warning."

A faint crease appeared between your brows. "You must have hit your head if you think I would turn my back now."

He nodded his head once, his eyes once again on the tower. "Then let us spring this trap."

Then, you felt a shift in the wind. Your eyes had come to fix upon a pile of rocks near the tower's base. There, where fallen beams and blackened stones tangled together, you found the slightest sliver of movement.

"Éomer," you warned, and the single word, spoken in a low and trembling voice, cut through the quietness.

There, among the ravage of wood and rock, two yellow eyes glinted, unblinking.

With trembling hands, you nocked an arrow and drew the string taut to your cheek, the feathers brushing lightly against your skin.

"Now?" Éomer asked in half a question, half impatience.

His sword was freed before the word had entirely left his mouth, drawn in one swift movement with the ease of a man of many battles.

You took a deep breath. Your gaze narrowed.

"Now."

Releasing the string, the arrow flew swift and true, and it struck clean between those watchful eyes.

Then came the thud of a falling body.

And the world erupted with noise.

From the shadows among the tall grass, from the hollows behind the rocks, from within the watchtower itself, there burst a savage roar, harsh and guttural, and dark figures came forth.

Orcs; a dozen of them at least, and then more, spilled down the slope of the hill like blood from an open wound, crawling and leaping with their rusted blades raised, their yellow eyes alight with loathing.

Éomer answered with a yell of his own, fierce and loud, charging uphill without fear. The stallion, already wild with the heat of battle, drove straight into the swarm of craetures, his hooves striking sparks from the stone. Éomer's sword, swift and deadly, met the first orc with a single clean blow that rung in the air.

You followed close behind on your horse, keeping to the sidelines of the battle while your bow sang again and again. One arrow struck clean through an orc's throat, sending it choking into the dirt. Another flew and felled another, releasing a horrible shriek and yet, even as more bodies dropped, the rest kept coming with an answering scream.

They crashed around Éomer like a dark wave. Firefoot reared violently, striking out with his forelegs so that one orc was crushed between his weight and the stone. In the midst of them Éomer fought like a storm breaking across the plains, his blade bright as lightning, cutting, turning, striking again.

Still, the orcs pressed closer.

And, through the chaos, you noticed one of them slip unseen behind Éomer. The creature sneaked between the others, curved blade lifted toward Éomer's back.

You saw it, though Éomer did not, and your heart sped up with fear; without a second thought, you drew once more and loosed an arrow that flew right past Éomer's shoulder, so close that he could almost feel it against his temple, before burying itself deep into the chest of the orc behind him. The monster staggered, weapon falling from its grasp, and collapsed onto the ground.

Only then did Éomer realize how near death had come.

For the briefest instant his eyes found yours across the chaos. He sent you a single, quick nod and, just as fast, rode back into the midst of the battle.

The clash of battle carried on around the ruined watchtower.

Near the tower, one of the orcs hurled itself toward your horse with a snarl. Your mount lashed out instinctively, shaking off the creature hard enough to throw it aside, but at the same time another pair of grimy hands seized your ankle. You were dragged down from the saddle with vile violence, and the ground slammed into you hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Before you could recover, the orc was already upon you, its foul breath close to your face as it tried to drive a jagged knife, slick with dried blood, downward to your chest.

Catching its wrist with both hands, you struggled against the creature's weight as the blade trembled inches above you. A sudden anger surged through you and, with a violent twist and a maddened yell, you threw the orc off balance and rolled against it, so that the creature was trapped now beneath you.

In one swift movement you drew a dagger from your belt and dragged it across the creature's throat. A wet choking sound followed. The orc collapsed beneath you, twitching before finally lying still, marking the end of a life that had known nothing but killing.

You remained crouched over the body, your chest rising heavily as you tried to steady your breathing, your trembling hands and dress stained with blood. You had tended wounded men before, but had never watched a life leave a body beneath your own hand.

Around you, the land begun to quiet; the battle slowly sunk back into silence. You lifted your head, searching the battlefield. Dead bodies covered the slope of the hill.

"Éomer!" you called, your breath coarse in your throat.

Firefoot neighed near the ruined watchtower, wild-eyed and his hooves stamping against the earth. You felt a terrible dread when you did not see his rider upon him.

"Over here!"

Relief struck you, untangling the tight knot in your chest. He had dismounted at some point during the chaos, when the horde of orcs had come too close around the horse.

He crossed the distance toward you in a few long strides and caught hold of your arm, swiftly helping you upright. His eyes swept over you quickly, seeking.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice a fraction softer than usual, tinged with a note of urgency that lifted it slightly above his familiar steadiness, as his eyes found a cut across your palm.

You shook your head, and your own eyes had already begun searching him in return for any trace of injury. Only when you glanced down, you noticed the cut upon your hand, and with it, the way Éomer's fingers were firmly wrapped around your forearm.

"I am well," you answered, yet your voice came thinner than usual, and Éomer noticed your fingers had not yet unclenched from the dagger. Only after assuring yourself he still stood whole before you, you added more quietly, "We are both well."

Your looked over the battlefield. You swallowed hard at the sight of the fallen orcs around you; at the smell of blood and rust, even stronger than before; at the devastation that covered the land, now threatening to spread to every corner of the Mark.

"I do not know what they were waiting for," you said, unease creeping back in, "but I do not like it."

Éomer followed your gaze, fists closing tightly.

Neither did he.

"We should go, princess," he said, turning back toward the horses. "Fenmark lies nearest. We shall find an inn there for the night."

You two had spent hours riding when a faint glow appeared ahead, low and scattered upon the plains. It was the lanterns of the town of Fenmark, coming into view with the first glistening stars of the night. Above, dusk tinted the sky in a hue of amber and blue, and the full moon slowly emerged from behind the clouds, glinting pale white.

By the time Éomer and you finally rode to the town gates, night had settled fully over the plains of the Mark.

Two guards stood watch, with spears in hand and square shoulders. Their eyes grew larger upon the riders approaching from the eastern road, lingering upon the smears of blood staining Éomer's armour and your dress.

One of them straightened immediately in recognition of the Marshal. "My lord."

Éomer gave only a short nod as you passed through the gates.

The streets beyond were crowded, which was strange for such a small town. Sometimes, people moving along the edges of the street suddenly stilled as you two rode by, their lowered voices dropping into uneasy silence, watching you prudently. In the houses, lanterns were lit, but the windows remained shut tight.

The inn was easy enough to find. It was the only place with real light spilling out onto the street.

When you stepped into the inn, heat and smoke wrapped around you, as well as the rumble of voices kept deliberately low. The common hall was overflowing with people. Travelers filled every table and corner, some half-asleep, others clutching mugs or eating their meal. Everyone kept casting wary glances toward the windows or the door.

Too many people and so much silence.

Conversations faltered when the two travellers entered, mud clinging to your clothes, blood still visible on Éomer's armour, your hand loosely wrapped in cloth where the Orc blade had caught your skin. You both drew too much attention.

Along the walls, families huddled together, children were wrapped in blankets, bundles and sacks piled at their feet, packed in haste. You knew the look of them well enough: people who had fled quickly, carrying only what their hands could hold and what fear allowed them to save.

Moving between tables, a young woman with rolled sleeves and a smudged apron balanced plates and mugs, her eyes heavy and sunken with exhaustion.

Behind the counter stood the innkeeper, an aged man with a grey beard and tired eyes. He noticed first Éomer's sword as you approached him, then lifted his gaze quickly in recognition. He bowed his head at once.

"My lord," he greeted.

"You have room?" Éomer asked plainly.

The man hesitated. "Barely." He looked toward the crowded hall behind you. "Folk have been arriving from the eastern towns for days now. Whole homesteads emptied, the smallest villages gone quiet. Every bed in Fenmark's near taken. I've but one room left!" He lowered his voice slightly then, leaning his elbows onto the counter. "Rumours about orcs scare people like that."

You could feel Éomer stiffen beside you.

"One room?" he repeated, and though he remained controlled, there was something in his tone that made the one room sound far more frightening than a battlefield.

The innkeeper nodded. "If that won't do, there's always space by the hearth in the common room. Floor's dry, at least," he offered carefully.

You turned to Éomer then. "Perhaps that would be the best op-"

"We will take the room," Éomer cut in, already reaching for the pouch at his belt.

You shot him an annoyed look. He met it briefly, unbothered, then looked away.

"You need rest," he stated, placing several coins upon the counter without looking at you. "And a proper bed."

You narrowed your eyes at your travelling companion while the innkeeper quietly swept the coins from the counter.

His reasoning was honorable enough, and the certainty in his voice left very little room for argument, which was precisely what upset you, but you accepted it anyway because the idea of a somewhat comfortable bed sounded too appealing after two nights sleeping on the ground.

"Fine," you finally agreed.

"Right then," the innkeeper muttered. "Stable's around back, I'll have hot water brought up."

You closed the door behind you, shutting out the noise of the common hall below. Finally, silence settled heavily around. The room was small, though clean enough by the standards of weary travellers. An oil lamp burned low upon a crooked wooden table, and a couple more candles were lit, the amber light flickering softly. The glow cast a warm but dim shadow over the corners of the room, leaving a faint scent of smoke and old pine resin.

Éomer stopped short, his whole body going tense in an instant.

"Oh..." The word escaped him quietly, though not quietly enough to conceal the alarm within it.

Against the far wall stood one single narrow bed, neatly made beneath the dim light. One thick wool blanket was folded carefully across its foot, and beside it, there was a stool and small table bearing a basin and a pitcher of water. Nothing more.

Éomer visibly struggled to remain composed, his shoulders tensed, every inch of him suddenly turned rigid as stone. Meanwhile, you placed your bow against the wall, pressing your lips together against the laughter thretening to escape.

"I thought..." He cleared his throat once, still staring at the bed as if it had personally attacked him. "I understood there would be two beds."

You let your travelling pack slide down your shoulders onto the floor, and a faint snort slipped free before you could stop it.

"Yes," you replied, unable to keep the reproach from your tone. "That is what I tried to tell you before you interrupted me." Crossing your arms, you turned to him. "Which was rude, by the way."

"I suppose..." He hesitated, trying hard to think of the most optimal solution to the predicament. "We were fortunate enough to find a room at all. We should make the most of it."

It was Éomer who turned away first, facing the wall as he began unfastening the leather straps and buckles of his armour piece by piece. Behind him, you quietly did the same, standing back to back in the narrow room.

Neither of you spoke as you undressed carefully, each movement measured and quiet. Weapons were set neatly aside, boots unlaced, cloaks folded, belt buckles loosened, and each small sound seemed strangely loud within the stillness of the candlelit space.

You slipped from your travel-worn overdress, stained with mud and streaked with blood. Beneath it you wore a white linen chemise, simple and soft, and thankfully clean enough to sleep in.

Behind you came the sound of steel armour being lowered carefully onto the wooden floor piece by piece.

Suddenly, a sharp breath escaped Éomer. Not loud, barely more than a restrained wince, but you heard it and had to deliberately stop yourself from looking behind you.

"Are you alright?" you asked, concern slipping out before you could think to hide it.

Éomer did not turn. "It is only a scratch."

"You are wounded? And you thought not to mention it?"

You turned instinctively toward him then, intending to scold him further at first, only to stop yourself at the last moment, your eyes dropping quickly to the floor before they could linger where they should not.

His armour lay scattered across the floorboards beside him, along with the bloodstained shirt he had discarded moments before, leaving him only in his dark trousers, hanging loose at his waist. Bare broad shoulders caught the warm glow of the flame, marked here and there by old scars and faint freckles.

For a fleeting moment, you forgot entirely what you had meant to say. Éomer noticed your silence and glanced back over his shoulder.

"It is nothing," he insisted, though the strain in his voice betrayed him.

You ignored his words entirely and crossed the short distance toward him at once, your face hardened with determination.

"Turn around, Éomer."

He hesitated, perhaps out of pride, perhaps out of stubbornness. Or perhaps because the air between the two already felt a bit too tight.

He muttered your name, trying to protest again.

"Éomer," you repeated firmly, standing closer now. "Turn. Around."

For a second he remained still, jaw clenched. Then, with a brief sigh of resignation, he relented and turned to face you.

He looked at you first and then, almost boyishly, his gaze turned away the moment yours fell upon his body.

The wound stretched along the right side of his chest, a nasty gash where an orc blade had slipped beneath a broken strap of his armour plate. Blood still flowed slowly from it, staining his skin.

You frowned, concern and irritation rising together upon your face.

"You are unbelievably foolish," you scolded him at once, the frustration in your voice doing little to hide the worry beneath it. "You have been riding for hours with this!"

Éomer glanced down as though only now remembering the injury existed, then shrugged. "I have had worse."

"That does not make it more sensible," you retorted.

"It is fine," he insisted once again, already walking away toward the basin of water as though the matter was settled.

You watched in disbelief as he grabbed a cloth, dipped it carelessly into the water, and proceeded to press it against the wound with all the delicacy of a soldier scrubbing mud from his boots.

"Éomer, nonono..." You hurried toward him. "You will have it infected, you foolish brute!"

Éomer shot you an offended look over his shoulder. "Would you stop calling me foolish?"

"Then stop behaving like it," you snapped back, reaching forward and taking the cloth swiftly from his hands before he could protest any further.

For a moment you defiantly held his gaze, unmoving as you looked up at the man towering above, neither willing to yield an inch, caught in that familiar battle neither of you ever seemed to win.

Then, quieter now, though no less firm, you demanded, "Sit down."

"I can handle a cut just fine," he replied impassively.

You did not respond immediately, but the irritation in your expression faded, replaced by something softer.

"I do not fully understand what is happening," you admitted in almost a whisper. "But I know the Mark cannot afford to lose you, Éomer."

Those words struck deeper than either of you intended, and whatever argument he had prepared dissolved before it ever reached his tongue.

He tilted his head with curiosity and looked down at you properly then, finding, beneath that relentless determination you always carried, something else flashing in your eyes, something like genuine concern, and perhaps a taint of fear you denied yourself to accept.

Slowly, he sighed, and begrudgingly sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders dropping in surrender. The movement alone made him take a sharp breath, one hand instinctively moving to his chest before quickly letting it fall away, hoping you had not noticed.

Of course, you did notice, but said nothing of it. Instead, you gave him the smallest nod of approval before turning toward the basin. You washed your hands thoroughly with soap, changing the water afterward for fresh, clean water from the pitcher. Dipping the cloth into the clean water, you added a little soap, wrung it out and returned to him.

You paused at first, then pressed the cloth gently against the gash on his chest, carefully brushing off blood and grime. Once the angry gash was fully revealed, you leaned back slightly, studying it through squinted eyes.

"Just a scratch, you said?" you exclaimed, incredulous. "Éomer, you stubborn foo-"

He shot you a warning look that cut you off immediately, and you bit back a smirk while reaching for your pack. From within it, you retrieved a small leather pouch filled with dried herbs. After crushing them between your fingers, you mixed them with a few drops of water until it formed a thick paste that gave off an earthy, faintly citrus aroma.

Carefully, you applied it to the wound, Éomer inhaled sharply. The sting bit hard at first, though it faded soon, replaced by a cooling sensation that eased the burning heat of the cut and the tension in his shoulders.

"This needs stitches," you declared after another look at the wound. "Or it will worsen before we get back to Edoras."

Before he could say a word, you took a long needle from the pouch. It gllistened under the candlelight. Éomer raised an eyebrow, becoming restless. It was not unfamiliar, nor to any man of battle, but it was certainly not welcome.

He watched attentively as you held the needle above the flame until it glowed faintly red, then threaded it with deep concentration. When you turned back to him, needle in hand, he visibly tensed.

"Are you... certain you know how to use that?"

A faint smirk tugged at your mouth. "It cannot be much different from stitching up a horse, right?"

A short breath of laughter escaped him, tension easing a fraction from his back.

You knelt beside him on the bed, and for the first time that night a trace of hesitation flickered across your face. Your free hand settled briefly upon his shoulder, steadying yourself as much as him.

Éomer forced his gaze away as the needle got closer to his skin. First to the wall, then the ceiling, the window, the lamp. Anywhere that was not you.

The first pinch of the needle through skin drew a breath through his teeth, his shoulders stiffening beneath your touch, a deep crease forming between his brows.

"You are alright," you whispered, as if speaking any louder might somehow worsen the pain, and continued with the second stitch without a pause. And the third.

He endured it in silence for the most part, though the occasional winces betrayed him, and once or twice, when the needle bit deeper than before, his hand lightly squeezed around your knee without him seeming to notice. You felt the pressure, the roughness of his calloused hand against your knee through the thin linen of your chemise, and for one dangerous instant your own concentration faltered.

But you did not mention it, you only steadied your hands and your focus and continued.

"I had to learn young," you said softly, trying to take his mind off the pain. "Stitching wounds, setting bones, cleaning burns..." Your hands stopped for a second, you closed your eyes in anger, then returned to the task after taking a deep breath. "Someone always ends up mending what war should never have broken in the first place."

Éomer's gaze drifted back toward you at that.

"Someone has to make sure there is something left to mend," he answered.

The words settled heavily between you.

"And throw lives aside on the way. I know what you would name that: necessary losses," you spat back bitterly.

For a moment, Éomer did not answer.

The light from the flame flickered across his face, catching the strong line of his jaw as it clenched.

"You speak as if I do not count the dead. As if I do not carry the weight of their deaths." He sounded heavy and raw, almost fragile.

You stilled completely at that, forgetting for a moment the stitching.

Éomer's eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond the room itself now, distant and dark in a way you had never seen before.

"When villages burn, I see them after the flames too," he continued, exhaustion threaded beneath his voice. "I know the names of the men I send east and do not see return. I remember them. Every one of them." He took a shaky breath. "I am the one who has to tell their wives, their mothers..." His eyes closed with a pain that did not come from the wound.

You watched him then under a different light, and for the first time since meeting him, you did not see the stubborness or the pride, nor the drawn sword or the quick temper, but the burden those carried. Here he was, bleeding under your hands, yet it was his words that made him more vulnerable than ever in your eyes.

And suddenly you felt ashamed of how easily you had mistaken his service for carelessness. So, unable to answer, you simply returned to mending his wound and the silence returned, heavier than before.

Somewhere along the way, Éomer stopped trying to look away and instead he found himself watching you. Watching the cautious precision of your fingers; the relentless intensity in your eyes; the faint crease between your brows, the way your lips pressed together as you concentrated; the frustrated little sighs you'd make under your breath after a difficult stitch. And that playful strand of hair that had escaped your braid and was now brushing against his shoulder lightly as you leaned in.

He could not say when the pain faded into something distant, still there, but unimportant, and instead he became painfully aware of your free hand spreading warmth against his skin, your breath brushing his chest, and the unbearable closeness of your body in the candlelit quiet.

Finally, you tied off the last stitch, your fingers working swiftly. When the knot held firm, you cleaned the remaining blood and leaned back slightly to inspect your work.

"There." A small, satisfied smile appeared upon your lips. "Better!"

"It feels better," he admitted, his voice low and roughened.

When you lifted your gaze to answer him, you could not find your words, realizing how close you had drifted to eachother, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body despite the cooling night air creeping in through the shutters. One of your hands still rested on his shoulder, while the other lingered near the fresh stitches upon his strong chest, your fingertips merely brushing his skin.

The candlelight flickered across Éomer's face, shining in his eyes, and the green of them seemed darker, wholly fixed upon you, and ablaze with something different. Gone was that familiar edge of challenge you had grown used to, the irritation, the stubborn pride. What looked back at you now was gentler, warmer, and inviting enough to unsettle you entirely.

"Thank you," he said quietly. And the way he said those simple words made your heartbeat stumble against your ribs.

"Any time..." You swallowed quickly and forcing composure, sat back just enough to breathe properly again. "You behaved far better than a horse. Unexpectedly."

A chuckle escaped him, low and warm, the sound rumbling from deep within his chest, where your hand was still touching him.

Quickly, you pulled it away.

Éomer's gaze dropped briefly away from yours, and for the first time since you had known him, he really looked uncertain of how to hold himself.

You looked away just as fast. Standing quickly, you busied yourself packing your pouch and cleaning the needle and bloodstained cloth simply to have something to do. Éomer stayed sat at the edge of the bed, forearms resting loosely upon his knees and hands clasped together, lost in thought.

An awkward silence filled the room now.

You cleared your throat softly as you carefully folded the stained cloth once over itself, the blood still not fully gone.

"Well," you said at last, a little too brisk to be natural. Your eyes flicked toward the bed, then away to the cloth again. "We should sleep. It has been a long day."

Éomer did not answer immediately, the idea seemed to sit poorly with him. He looked briefly at you, then down to the floor.

Standing up, he grunted "I will take the floor."

You rolled your eyes. Of course he would offer that, and it irritated you.

"You will not," you stated.

He turned to you, brows drawing together. "It is no trouble, really."

"Do not be absurd, Éomer!" you replied, a bit more heated than intended. Then you added a tad softer, "You are tired, you are injured, and already insufferable when well-rested. If you spend the night on the hard cold floor, you shall be even worse company tomorrow, and I assure you I have little patience left to spare."

Despite himself, the corner of Éomer's mouth twitched into the shadow of an amused smile. His eyes followed your movements around the room while you packed whatyou wouldn't need for the night, though he looked away quickly when you glanced back at him, turning his head to look toward the bed once more instead.

"We could take turns, half the night each," you offered, hoping that would settle the matter.

"No," he shook his head firmly. His posture straightened, that soldier's honour rising in him. "You have not slept properly lately and there is still a two days' ride back to Edoras ahead of us. I could endure it, but you need rest tonight."

Somewhere below came the muffled sound of laughter from the inn's common hall. Up here the air felt thick and uncomfortable, charged with that one solution that both of you knew was inevitable, but neither wanted to acknowledge.

"Fine," you groaned. "We can share the bed."

Then you grew unusually quiet. For all the amusement you had found in the situation moments before, the reality of it settled awkwardly in the pit of your stomach now that the words had been spoken out loud and hung in the air.

The idea seemed to catch him off guard. He rubbed a hand once across the back of his neck. "That is not appropriate…"

You sent him an annoyed look. "We are not in Meduseld."

"Right…" He sighed, standing by the bed and looking at it as though it was far more dangerous than any orc ambush. "We shall remain on our sides, I will not move."

"I was not planning to climb on top of you," you muttered sarcastically, already moving to the opposite side of the bed and missing entirely the way the tips of his ears turned faintly red.

He allowed you to lie down first, leaving you to find a proper position. Pulling the blanket up to your chin, you lay still as a statue at the edge of your chosen half, arms folded tightly across your chest.

Soon after, candles and lamp were extinguished, darkness settled in the room, and you felt the mattress dip slightly as Éomer settled beside you. He turned onto his side, careful not to cross the invisible line between him and you, facing away from you, so deliberate that it seemed he was measuring the short space between you. You noticed the tension beneath Éomer's carefully controlled posture, the way his shoulders remained too straight, as though discipline alone held him together.

Finally you turned on your side as well, your back facing his and your eyes wide open in the darkness, trying to ignore the presence of him and the warmth radiating from his bare torso.

After a long while, his voice rose slightly into the dark.

"I will try not to snore like a troll tonight."

A laugh flowed out from you, loud and warm, and something in his body finally relaxed at the sound.

Despite the bed, sleep did not find you easily that night. Something had changed.

And also, Éomer still snored like a troll.

I'M BACK! I am so sorry for the long break, I went through a terrible writer's block, but I tried to compensate y'all with a longer chapter. I hope the wait was worth it!!! I'm so thrilled to write more! Hope I'll see you in the comments, and thank you so much to those of you who remain here <3

Next Chapter (coming soon) >

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