It is common to all men,

who find themselves involved in some unexpected difficulty,

to exhale the first impulses of vexation in reproaches against those,

whose folly or wickedness have led to their embarrassment.

(Robert Peel, 1778 – 1850)

To remove his boot, Lothíriel had to cut it off with Ceorl’s help because Amrothos’s ankle had swollen considerably.  However – and not surprisingly - after that there was nothing much they could do but wait for somebody to arrive from the Golden Hall with a bier and carry the injured party back up the hill. Unfortunately the waiting had evolved into a trial of her patience.

She was quite glad that Amrothos had broken his fibula. Otherwise he would have jumped off the table he was lying on and gone for Captain Éofor’s throat by now. And she was equally glad that the man, though he had proved himself to be a rather spiteful character, had, so far, not attempted to hit her brother.

Lothíriel was sitting on a three-legged stool at Amrothos’s side and had to endure the two foes trading selected insults over her head. When it had been time to give out the attributes of reason and sanity, the Valar had obviously overlooked those two. Or maybe they had just overlooked men in general.

Her aunt Ivriniel had been right. She used to say that to quieten Amrothos, one had to resort to drastic methods – something like smothering him. It was not surprising her aunt should have known best as Lothíriel remembered having once overheard one of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting telling a courtier that when the Princess Ivriniel of Dol Amroth died, her vicious tongue would have to be killed separately.

And in regard to the captain - perhaps she’d better reconsider her decision to appoint him as her riding instructor. It would provide an opportunity to employ him in a useful manner despite his injury; however, she wasn’t so sure any more if she could bear him at regular intervals.

By now, Lothíriel was ready to forget her vocation as a healer and rip the tongues out of both squabblers’ mouths. And Ceorl was no less nerve-racking than those two. First, he had shooed Mistress Brictwen and the other women out of the taproom, which Lothíriel considered to be rather impolite. After all, the overwrought looking woman was the landlady of this establishment and friendly enough to shelter them for the time being. But ever since, the young man had used a torrent of words to try to persuade his Queen and his Marshal’s daughter to leave the drinking house. Lothíriel expected him to begin wringing his hands in desperation at any moment.

She was at the end of her tether and got up from her uncomfortable perch.

“Hold your tongues! All three of you!”

The men stared at her, very likely less intimidated by her authority than surprised that she had raised her voice. Or perhaps it had even temporarily slipped Amrothos’s and Éofor’s minds, while they were quarrelling so amiably, that she was still present.

Amrothos was the first to open his mouth again, but his sister waved him quiet before an actual word had the chance to emerge.

“Make a sound, Amrothos, and the treatment is going to be painful. Very painful.”

His mouth closed with an audible click of his teeth.

She turned to the standard-bearer. “Ceorl, stop whining. No matter what you say, I am staying with my brother.” From the corner of her eye she caught the smug grin of the other Rohír. “I really do not know what that inane grin of yours is all about, Captain Éofor, but right now you are as dispensable as haemorrhoids. Have you not somewhere else to be?”

The man looked at her slightly bemused, probably having no idea what haemorrhoids were, although for a rider, particularly, they could become quite constraining. Not to mention painful.

Amrothos dared a gurgling laugh. He had been the brother of a healer long enough to pick up one or other terms of her craft.

The Captain of the Royal Guard overcame his befuddlement and tried hard to change his expression to what he probably considered an engaging smile. Lothíriel decided that he’d better practise in front of a mirror - he still looked much too complacent for her taste.

“As long as Éomer King stays in Edoras the duty of the Royal Guard is mostly confined to dull routine anyway,” he explained and raised his sword hand in a meaningful gesture. “And with my injured hand . . .”

“One reason I applied that stiff bandage is that you will be able to attend to the lighter of your duties.” Lothíriel didn’t even bother to hide her growing vexation with the man. “Try to make yourself useful and thereby justify being fed.”

Ceorl’s eyebrows bumped together above the bridge of his nose and he made a hasty retreat out of the line of fire.

“But I am attending to my duty right now,” Éofor assured his queen, all affable courtesy.

“You see it as your duty to attempt to bridge the time we are waiting for the bier, by acting as a jester?” Lothíriel asked, politely interested and earning herself a cheering hoot from Amrothos. Or perhaps it was a sound of pain. She usually did not agree with giving spirits to wounded men before their treatment but maybe she could make an exception and ask Mistress Brictwen for some brandy.

Belatedly she realized that the Captain was replying to her gibe.

“. . . and as such it is my duty to shield our Queen from any threat or importunities.”

“Very commendable.” She inclined her head in mocking grace. “But I have my doubts that I am in imminent danger here, in the middle of a fortified city.” 

“The danger you are exposed to here is not of the physical but rather of the moral kind,” Éofor informed her. His eyes glowed with uncalled-for triumph.

“How dare you!” Amrothos hissed so vigorously that Lothíriel put her hand on his shoulder because she feared he would try to get up from the table after all. And Ceorl also uttered some warning noise.

Lothíriel looked briefly disconcerted. “Not that I think it pertains to you at all,” she addressed the captain, “but why should my morals be in danger?”

“You really do not have the slightest inkling what this place is, do you?” The Rohír smiled with something resembling genuine amusement.

“Lýcð, Þū dwæser!” Ceorl snapped at him.

“I do not know what you just said, but I second that,” Amrothos chipped in.

“I intend to learn Rohirric, you should think about following suit,” his sister advised him. “You will have plenty of time while your fibula mends.” She caught a glance from Merewyn. The girl was perched on a chair next to the door, looking rather discontented, even miserable.

“Are you not well, Merewyn?” her queen asked her solicitously. After all, Amrothos had been exceedingly rude to her.

Lord Elfhelm’s daughter levelled her gaze at her queen, appearing more apprehensive than one would have ever thought possible.

“I think I know where we are,” she said so softly that it was almost a whisper. “My mother will not be happy and nor will my father. I should not be here.”

“A fault confessed is half redressed,” Amrothos remarked with false cheerfulness.

“Why should your parents be unhappy about you being here with us?” Lothíriel asked. Over the last days she had received the impression that Lady Cynewyn was not precisely enthused about her daughter’s infatuation with Amrothos and had tried to keep her away from him.

“Not about being with you, my Lady,” Merewyn sighed resignedly. “If my mother learns that I have been to this place she will think of some really awful penance.”

Lothíriel frowned. “Do you not think you are exaggerating, Merewyn? It is not that reprehensible to sojourn in a drinking house. You are not even drinking anything.”

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about the reaction of the men to this exchange was peculiar. She had the feeling that she was just contributing to the general entertainment, that even Amrothos had resigned himself to some sort of grudging amusement. She tapped her foot. The only thing worse than being made fun of, was not being sure if one was being made fun of.

“Merewyn, what is wrong with this place?” Lothíriel asked in a tone that didn’t permit any prevarication.

The girl squirmed. “It is the . . . loose women,” she finally said in a fairly loud whisper.

“Loose women?” her queen repeated bemused, looking around. Slowly the pieces came together, forming an overall picture. The shabby drinking house; women who slept in the middle of a day; the bizarre behaviour of the men . . . and, of the women when one thought about it. ”Mistress Brictwen and those two tavern wenches are considered to be loose women?” She turned to her brother. “Does that mean this is a brothel?”

“Sweet Elbereth, Lothíriel!” Amrothos groaned. “I am certain you could have phrased that with a bit more delicacy.”

“Since when do you concern yourself with delicacy?” she shot back. When he didn’t respond, she asked again, “Well, is this a brothel?”

“Yes,” her brother answered with yet another groan not caused by his poor physical condition. “I am surprised that term is part of your word stock.”

“My vocabulary is quite substantial and I prefer to call a rose a rose.” She sat down on the wooden stool again. “And I was beginning to wonder what was wrong with you lot. Most misunderstandings could be avoided if people would break with the annoying habit of beating about the bush.” She arranged the split skirt of her riding gown around her legs, blithely indifferent to Amrothos’s exasperated expression or to the odd stares she was receiving from the two riders.

“You do not appear overly discomposed about this revelation,” Éofor remarked with a certain disappointment in his voice.

“No, I am not,” his queen stated matter-of-factly. Why should she be discomposed? She was a wedded woman and nothing about this house was contagious. She turned toward the young girl. “Do not worry too much, Merewyn. I will explain to your mother how you came to be here. After all, I have been with you as your chaperone.”

Amrothos heaved a truly fatalistic sigh. “And I suppose you will explain it to Éomer also. The question is: before or after he kills me.”

“Do not dramatize, Amrothos,” Lothíriel dismissed his lament. “Why should Éomer be upset with you?”

“Perhaps because he will find his wife in a dubious establishment, and that it is all through her brother’s fault?” Éofor suggested gloatingly.

That man was a menace and in her vocabulary there were plenty of other apt epithets she could give him. But she confined herself to a false smile. “I am quite sure my husband will be even more upset when he learns about a certain bet circulating within the ranks of his guard. Do you care very much for your position, Captain Éofor?”

“Ha!” was all Ceorl said but it sounded very gleeful.

The other Rohír just stared at his queen like a cornered boar, which couldn’t quite accept that it had been hunted down. But then he surrendered – for the time being – with a snorting laugh. “My Lady, you have a cutting edge to your tongue that makes any dagger appear dull in comparison.”

“Good, then we have reached finally an understanding.” Her tone was soft and frosty.

A movement in the back of the taproom caught her attention. She saw the landlady – or whatever she was called – stepping hesitantly out of the shadow of a doorway. The woman had dressed, and was now wearing a dark gown with close-fitting sleeves and a modest neckline. A cord instead of a girdle was wrapped around her hips and her hair was tidily braided in a single plait hanging down her back. Her garb was perfectly prudent and indistinguishable from the clothing Lothíriel had seen worn by the other women of Edoras. She wouldn’t have attracted her attention had she passed her in the city, unlike – for example – Lady Cuillwen. Both her brother and her husband had shared a relationship with that woman, who could only be described as highly visible. However, although that voluptuous widow had never minded showing what she’d got and had been liberal with her affections, none of the gossip Lothíriel had heard about the lady had ever referred to her as being a loose woman. That left the question – what exactly was a loose woman? And why weren’t there any loose men?

“My Lady Queen,” Brictwen addressed her cautiously. “Is there really nothing I can do?” She watched the two riders as if she expected them to banish her again from her own premises, whilst they in return simply disregarded her.

“No, many thanks, Mistress Brictwen,” Lothíriel replied amiably. She wondered if the men also behaved in this disregardful manner when they came here to make use of the services offered. “I expect help to arrive from the hall at any moment. We will not cause you inconvenience for much longer.”

Her prediction seemed to be immediately confirmed. Footsteps announced the impending arrival of several other people. But to Lothíriel’s surprise the two men entering the dim taproom were not from Meduseld but were the healers of Edoras, who she had seen during the ‘behourd’ taking care of the injured combatants and who Éomer still hadn’t bothered to introduce to her. Therefore, she was slightly taken aback that they had been sent to aid them.

The one she knew had to be Master Ærwin was, by Rohirric standards, a short and portly figure. And if the tightness of his calf-length tunic was an indication, then he had gained some weight lately. An amazing fact considering the food shortage Rohan had suffered over the previous winter. The top of his head was bald and as if he tried to make up for this deficiency, he had grown a very bushy beard. The remainder of his hair was worn in a thin braid down from his neck. His sole greeting to those assembled in the taproom was a scowl, which did nothing for his sagging features.

The man who accompanied him, carrying a large leather satchel, was young, perhaps Ceorl’s age. He was tall and wiry, with his thick, dark blond hair cut relatively short and although Lothíriel couldn’t be sure in the rather dim lighting conditions, she thought that his eyes were brown. That was something of a rarity amongst the Rohirrim. On the 'wigræden' she had observed his pronounced limp, quite obviously not a temporary hindrance. The way he twisted his right foot outwards with every step she would have guessed that it was a disability he was born with or had acquired at a young age. He bowed his head before his queen in greeting.

“Ah, rescue draws nearer,” Éofor remarked at the sight of the two men.

There were more men outside the drinking house now, skulking in front of the door but not coming in. They were, to all appearances, riders of the guard. It seemed that their mishap had got around Edoras.

Lothíriel rose from her stool, awaiting the introductions. Ceorl took it upon him with the same ceremoniousness he had display in his function as the ‘ōretta’ of the ‘behourd’.

“My Lady Queen, meet Master Ærwin. He has been a healer in Edoras for longer than most can remember.”

“Master Ærwin.” Lothíriel inclined her head.

“My Lady Queen.” The man appeared to have to force himself to make a remotely polite greeting. “I have indeed been a healer for many years,” he confirmed the introductory words of the standard-bearer in an euphuistic manner. “Long enough to remember the last queen from Gondor.” He didn’t have to elaborate on what he had thought about Morwen of Lossarnach. His tone left no doubt of his poor opinion and it was also hinting that he didn’t expect to become more favourably impressed by the new queen.

The remark came close to an insult. It was an insult. And Lothíriel had a fairly good idea why Éomer had so far avoided introducing her to this man who had – by the way – a rather unhealthy complexion. He needed less food and ale and more exercise.

“Oh,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “You are so old that you knew the King’s grandmother?” And just in case he hadn’t understood the innuendo, she added, “The mother of Théoden King?”

The man clamped his mouth shut into a tight line. Just as well. His teeth weren’t an overly agreeable sight. Master Ærwin didn’t seem to believe in undue dental hygiene.

Ceorl coughed and went ahead with his introductions.

“And this is Master Goðhold. He not only patches up any injury, but he is also well informed in plantlore and knows how to brew a remedy against anything.”

Lothíriel heard the older healer mumble something under his breath but she ignored him and offered the younger man a genuine smile, which was returned after a moment of hesitation.

“My Lady Queen.” Goðhold bowed once more.

“It has come to my ears that there has been an accident resulting in a broken leg,” Ærwin announced ill-humouredly.

“Indeed,” Lothíriel answered. Her immediate dislike for this man notwithstanding, he was a fellow healer and they had to work together in harmony and mutual respect. “My brother Amrothos has broken his fibula.”

The man acted as if he hadn’t heard her words and stepped around her. He was about to palpate Amrothos’s exposed leg, but he was barred from doing so by a bark from the injured Prince.

“No!”

Ærwin recoiled and looked visibly annoyed at Amrothos.

“That hurts. Do not touch it unnecessarily,” the Prince ordered.

“I need to examine you, my Lord, so I can establish what your injury is.” The old healer had obvious difficulty in remaining polite.

“Then ask my sister. She has already examined me and will undoubtedly share her findings with you.”

This was not Amrothos’s day. His tone was getting more irritable with every word. He was in pain - not only from the broken bone - but also from his bruised ribs and the damage to his nose. Lothíriel was able to relate to his reluctance to have anybody else touch him, especially when it was not necessary.

“My brother has broken his right fibula, just above his ankle,” she addressed Master Ærwin in all friendliness. “The area around the fracture is swollen and, as you can see, is discoloured by a haematoma. But that is, of course, to be expected with this sort of injury. I palpated the leg before the swelling and I am certain that no damage has been done to the tissues and sinews connecting the bones. It is a clean fracture which requires the foot to be immobilized with a stiff bandage.”

“Nonsense,” the man contradicted rudely. “The bone is broken and needs to be splinted. I will do it right away. Goðhold,” he addressed his fellow healer. “Get some wood and cut some adequate cotters.”

The man was impossible. But they not only shared a craft, she was also his queen and therefore was expected to treat her subjects with caution and discernment.

“Master Ærwin,” she said patiently. “There is no need to apply a heavy splint to the injured limb. It would only constrict the entire leg and force my brother to spend the next six sennights lying flat on his back. I assure you, a stiff bandage will be sufficient. The bone will mend just as well and it will be much more comfortable for the patient.”

“What is this stiff bandage you are talking about all the time?” Ærwin demanded almost irascibly. If there was a Rohír who definitely needed to get used to the idea that there was now a queen and that one had to treat her with a modicum of civility, this was the one.

“Our Lady Queen is talking about this kind of brace.” Éofor decided to take a hand in the dispute and raised his arm with the, by now, completely hardened bond.

“What have you done with your splint?” the old healer growled and moved towards the Captain, quicker than one would have expected from a man with his paunch. The deepening red of his complexion began to worry Lothíriel.

“Our Lady Queen was so good as to replace it by this stiff bandage. It is - as she rightfully said – much more comfortable than the heavy splint you had burdened me with.” He held his arm directly in front of Ærwin’s face. “See? Dried egg white.” He knocked on his brace with his knuckles. “Perfectly hard and stiff. Great work by our Lady Queen.”

Under different circumstances Lothíriel might have believed that he only wanted to praise her, but not even she was of such a trusting nature. Éofor was doing his best – or rather his worst – to drive the irate healer up the wall.

“Master Ærwin,” she said with all the amiability she could muster – and that was actually more than she expected. “It is a simple but very effective method. Why not join me when I set the bone and apply the bandage to my brother’s leg, then you will see?”

The man stared at her, as if she were one of those creatures that crawled out from under a rock when you turned it over. There was no doubt that he believed it to be impossible that this wraithlike female in front of him, who his king - in a bout of mental derangement - had made his wife, had any idea what she was talking about. For the reason alone that she was a female.

“Egg white!” He obviously discarded the very idea. “Are we healers supposed to carry chickens around?” he mocked. “Or the riders, when they go out on the plains? Has everyone to take a hen with him in his saddlebag, in case one of them breaks a bone?”

“No, of course not.” Lothíriel fell habitually back in her healer’s way, which she had been taught at the Houses of Healing from the very first day of her apprenticeship. No matter how disconcerted or nervous you felt, you must never let it show. You had to soothe and you had to convince while wearing a mask of perfect composure. “But here in Edoras we have the good fortune to have chickens all over the place and therefore we can use this more convenient method without any effort. To the benefit of our patients.”

The entire stance of the man was one of disrespect and disregard. Sweet Elbereth, what an ass. Lothíriel was thoroughly proud of herself for staying so reasonable and calm. Not even the Warden would have faulted her if she had lost her patience.

Before the narrow-minded old healer had a chance to voice his contempt, a commotion outside the drinking house drew everybody’s attention. In the meantime, a small crowd had gathered in front of the open door, obviously riders and stable hands. All of them were men, probably because this was not a place where a respectable woman – no matter how nosey - would venture to come near. Nevertheless, those men appeared to be a quite nosey lot all on their own.

But now the onlookers retreated and then disappeared, obviously commanded by the deep, sonorous voice that was heard. From the corner of her eye Lothíriel could see Merewyn getting up from her seat and slumping all at the same moment. The girl had recognized her father’s voice.

But it was not the Marshal of the Eastfold who entered the shabby taproom and made it suddenly appear much smaller and much more crowded.

The King of Rohan graced the most unlikely place one would have expected him to be seen in the whole of his realm with his attendance. He ignored everybody present except his wife. He sought her gaze, his eyes so angry and intent that Lothíriel involuntarily swallowed. Amrothos’s apprehension seemed to prove true.

Éomer was upset.

She just couldn’t quite comprehend why. Granted, her being here in this neighbourhood was, perhaps, a bit awkward, but she could explain the circumstances which had led to this situation, easily.

She held his thunderous glare and sighed inwardly. Whether he would let her or not was an entirely different question. When Éomer was angry he was not the most reasonable man.

Éomer averted his gaze from his wife and flicked it over the other people present. It lingered for a heartbeat when it reached the captain of his guard and his eyes narrowed. Moving on, he gave the keeper of the drinking house a curt nod. “Brictwen.” It was only proper to greet the mistress of the house first, no matter her station – or her profession.

He stepped next to the table Amrothos was lying on. “Each time I set eyes on you, you look more wretched,” he addressed his bother-in-law.

“It appears that the rough climate in Rohan does not agree with me,” Amrothos answered with a grim sense of humour. Contrary to his earlier words and despite the harsh tone he didn’t really seem to expect any act of reprisal from Éomer. Of course not. For once he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“We need to take him to the Golden Hall so I can take care of his broken leg,” Lothíriel said, aware that she was stating the obvious. Éomer’s gaze swung back to her. It told her that he had quite a few things on his mind he wanted to discuss with his wife. But not here, and that was just as well with her.

In the past, arguments between Éomer and her had tended to become quite passionate and far-reaching, not something she necessarily wished to have an audience for.

Still without having muttered a single word to her, Éomer turned towards the door where his Marshal – after having dispersed the gathering outside – was making his entrance. He turned his mild gaze on his daughter.

“Merewyn, your mother is waiting for you.”

The girl gave a heart-rending moan, looking at her father pleadingly. It was quite obvious that she would have preferred to stay with him – and to receive the looming punishment from him.

Elfhelm neither changed his expression nor his tone. “You know the way.” Watching her reluctant retreat, he added, “Do not tarry.” He then gestured two sturdy adolescents with a bier, inside.

Lothíriel was about to issue instructions to them, when she felt Éomer’s hand wrap around her arm just above her elbow. When she ignored the cue and opened her mouth, he squeezed. Hard. She flinched and slanted him a reproachful glance.

“Elfhelm,” her husband addressed his Marshal, “Please make certain that Prince Amrothos is taken safely to the Great Hall.” He turned to his captain and his standard-bearer. Éofor looked considerably less complacent at the moment, or at least he was smart enough to conceal his usual smugness. “You will report to me directly after you have left here.” That order was enough to prompt the riders to bid their farewell.

“My Lord King,” Ærwin rose to speak. “I feel I should set and splint Lord Amrothos’s leg at once.”

“That will not be necessary,” Éomer overruled his plea. “I am certain the Queen wishes to take care of her brother herself.”

While the second healer, Goðhold, acknowledged his king’s decision with a bow, Master Ærwin was about to protest.

“But my Lord King . . .”

Éomer quietened him with an upraised hand and Lothíriel saw how the face of the old man contorted in anger. She could even understand it to a certain degree. She was not overly happy about Éomer’s high-handed conduct herself.

“Perhaps . . .” she began but didn’t get the chance to repeat her proposal to the two healers to treat Amrothos jointly. Éomer again tightened the grip around her arm and yanked her towards the door.

“We are leaving now!” he ground out.

Not that she wouldn’t have gathered it by his action, as such.

But even as he half-dragged her out of the drinking house, his touch was surprisingly gentle, and Lothíriel found herself tripping along behind him, her gait forced into a half-run in order to keep up with his long strides.

“Éomer!” she protested. Slipping on the uneven path, she nearly fell. He steadied her and slowed down his pace. A little. “Why not throw me over your shoulder or put a chain around my neck so you can drag me behind you?”

“The idea has merit.”

“Would you have the goodness to explain to me why you are so upset?” she demanded breathlessly.

“No!”

“What?”

“I have no intention of having half of Edoras as witnesses when I explain to you why I am upset,” he growled, not looking at her.

“Why not?” she asked, a defensive note in her voice. “Do you not think that you dragging me around by my arm will give most onlookers a subtle hint that you somehow do not agree with me?”

His grip moved from above her elbow to her wrist and his gait slowed down to a sensible pace. But he stayed quiet and perhaps the innocent bystander might have assumed that King and Queen were just taking a stroll through the city. Well, innocent and shortsighted. Lothíriel slanted him a glance from the corner of her eye and saw a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“This is ridiculous,” she stated between clenched teeth but then remained silent. After all, she wasn’t interested either in creating a scene in public.

Finally they reached the high platform on which Meduseld stood, but Éomer didn’t let go of her hand. He led her up the high stairs and into the Hall. Not until they were a good couple of dozen steps inside did he set her free.

He turned to her, his eyes gleaming, his stare so forceful that is was only then that she realized she ought to have been grateful that he had abstained from voicing his displeasure on their way through the city. It could have become embarrassing.

“In the future you should consider thinking before you hurl yourself into a situation.”

“I never do anything without due thought,” she assured him.

“Those words, coming from your lips, strike terror in my soul.”

Lothíriel decided to annoy him and take it as a compliment. She smiled sweetly.

Éomer closed his eyes for a heartbeat, giving the impression that he had to summon all the self-control he possessed. “Just stay in the Hall for the rest of the day and do not go anywhere.”

With this gruff order he turned on his heel and left her standing in the middle of Meduseld. Lothíriel stared resentfully after him. Having outgrown the natural urges of any child to bite and kick her siblings occasionally at a rather early age, she had despised any needless display of violence ever since. That was until she had met a certain Rohirric warrior. Since then she had – on and off – needed to suppress a desire to hit said warrior over the head with something hard. Combined with this was the wish that she were strong enough that he would actually take notice when he was hit.

Wishful thinking, because the principle problem was not her lack of physical strength but rather a constant, much more dominant desire to kiss him – to begin with - instead.

She sighed. She had neither time to hit him nor to kiss him nor to ponder about her conflicting emotions. Amrothos would be brought to the hall at any moment. She needed to find Ælfgyth and prepare for her brother’s treatment.

It would be tonight when she dealt with Éomer.

TBC

Lýcð, Þū dwæser – Shut up, you fool.