The Hunting Trip
Chapter 32: Small Triumphs

Things were not going so well for Gimli and he was disappointed, especially after he had done much to bolster himself with reasoning to drive past his discomforts. For all that he had convinced himself to keep moving forward, his body could not keep up with his minds staunch demand. His intentions were good, but that was not enough; the events of the day were catching up with him, and the normally fearsome strength and stamina of the Dwarf were beginning to flag.

That was not to say that Gimli had failed entirely. To an outside observer he persevered valiantly, hedging back his pain and continually moving even when it was apparent he should collapse with exhaustion. It was Gimli who perceived the letdown.

"They need me, and I fail them," he scolded in a weary voice, no longer caring that he was speaking aloud for no one else's ears but his own.

It was the pain and fatigue that were pulling him down, confounded by an ache in his skull that made him feel as if iron spikes were piercing it. At one point, when a wave of nausea had struck, he had actually ceased for the sole purpose of regaining himself. But only a brief minute later had he pushed on, refusing even that small bit of rest. It vexed him to think he was succumbing to weakness.

His foot throbbed mercilessly, and he had stopped attempting to put any weight upon it hours earlier. His makeshift crutch was crude and bothersome, and the chafing on the hollow of his arm and at his shoulder stung harshly despite all he did to pad them. It was his head, though, that was the most bothersome. The ache Gimli knew he could take, for he was a Dwarf of stern stuff; he had suffered blows to the head in the past and never had he let them overwhelm him. He also knew the signs of concussion and he thought he had passed well enough over that territory. He needed not dwell there. He had thought he merely suffered a minor trauma to the skull. But that was before the dizziness and nausea struck him. With their arrival he began to have doubts. They stymied his actions, and his thoughts were growing fuzzy with them. If this continued, he was not sure he could go much further.

But then hope shined upon him, and he found that he might survive. There was a new sound. It was. . .

Voices!

A new round of dizziness hit him, but not due to the ache in his head. It was more for the ecstasy of hearing human noises than for the wavering madness his head was forcing upon him. A grin pulled upon the corners of the Dwarf's mouth as he turned his head from side to side to find the source of the spoken noise.

The sound was distant, as if some ways off, diminishing within the darkness like a vaporous cloud. Still it was encouragement, and he pressed on through the endless black, letting the small whispers guide him like a seeing friend. He nearly stumbled in his next steps, forgetting to adjust himself with the crutch. Righting his wobbling balance, he straightened, halberd in one hand and the crutch in the other. He awkwardly edged forward with very small shuffling steps followed by more very small shuffling steps. As he had gone on, the ground had been growing uneven, sloping, and rocky. This troubled him greatly, for his struggle was enough already to make progress a difficult thing. Yet the voices were sufficient inspiration to urge him onward, and Gimli thought momentarily that if he had needed to, he might crawl on hands and knees to reach them. It amused him to imagine it, but in truth it was only a passing thought, just fleeting enough to distract him from the painful tedium of moving. Because of this, he was paying little notice to his other senses, not heeding the change in pitch within the echoes.

Suddenly, his head collided with something hard. Fortunate it was that his steps had been small, for had he been moving with anything of speed, the contact might have rendered him unconscious. As it was, it only caused him pain, and he stumbled backwards with the suddenness of the blow. A loud groan emitted from his throat, and once released, he bit it back. He knew not if the voices were friendly. And so he sucked in the throbbing misery the clout had delivered, feeling a lump begin to swell at his brow. Accompanying the pain was a world gone topsy-turvy with the rise of new dizziness. He blinked his eyes incessantly, pushing it back. I will not have come so far only to lose my gain because I am a Dwarf without the sense to get through the dark!

Hunching forward with head bowed to quell the swirling madness, he glanced up. Until that moment, there would have been nothing to see, only pure blackness as light did not live in these buried spaces. But in this stooped position he saw it. There before him was the beckoning lure of a dim beacon.

Had he been standing this way before, he might have noticed the small contrast in the shadows. As he studied it, he began to see. A ledge jutted out, projecting into the main tunnel of his walkway. The heavy rock was directly at his sight line, and it acted as a support, a crossbeam of sorts to that of the tapering cavern. Had his senses been intact, his steps been firmer, he might have noticed the pending obstruction. But seeing that his pace had dwindled to inch-by-inch progress, with little noise being mustered from it, there were no echoes to pinpoint the narrowing of the hollow. This was sore news to the Dwarf. It proved to him just how miserable his condition really was.

Still, there was the light to consider, and the sound of voices was still there, and if anything, he could ignore for a time longer his own aches and shortcomings for the benefit of these positives. The end was ahead.

Sound was tinny and flat in the narrowing space, and from surveying what lay ahead, he could judge the reason. The passage beyond the lintel curved upward at a sharp incline and the path was littered with boulders and rocks of all shapes and sizes. The passage closed in on itself, like a chute, and it was perhaps a full length of thirty feet. It was not a far journey, but his assessment of the precarious path made Gimli feel trepidation for what lay ahead. The route looked tenuous and uncertain, as if it had been cleared by a seismic shift. It did not look stable. Further, it could only be traversed by climbing.

There was barely any light and that did not help the situation. He felt a stab of surprise in realizing the world had grown dark in his absence. No moonlight brightened the space beyond, and Gimli suspected the clearing past the cave's exit was shrouded by trees and more rock. But it was a way out. He could not help but see the positive in the situation.

By now, hunched down and looking up at the opening, the voices were as close as they could be before he attempted his climb. While small, he recognized them for their timbre to be that of a male and female. They seemed not to be aware of his nearness, for they were completely absorbed with themselves. He could hear now the words, and it seemed an argument was afoot.

"Drink!"

"You are out to drown me! I have had enough!"

"You have not. Now drink!"

"Ai! Leave me! You vex me!"

"I care little for your ire. What concerns me is calling an end to this early affliction."

"And I have told you that the pains have stopped!"

"They can be subtle. They were for my wife in the beginning. I would rather err on the side of caution."

"Enough of this, I say. I am the healer here. I will say when it is enough."

"And . . ."

"It is enough."

"Why is it that all healers deny their own needs? Is it a requirement of the field? Or have I only been unlucky enough to be blessed with poor examples? It seems as a group you bear plentiful compassion for others but none for yourselves. Why is that? Is it spent by the time it is required for you?"

"I do not need this."

"And I am telling you that you will drink this, or I will force it upon you."

"Very well! I shall drink, if for no other reason than to quiet your tongue."

"If you drank sufficient amounts of water, as you are required, my tongue would not need quieting."

"I drink tea."

"Leaf or herbal?"

"Leaf."

"Rubbish. My wife always drank herbal when she was with child. Her midwife said there were better properties to be found in the herbs. They told her she might as well drink nothing if she did not drink that or water!"

"I begin to hate your wife! And I have never even met her! And I hate her midwife more! Leaf tea is liquid!"

"It does nothing to help your body. Water. That is what you should be drinking."

"Ha! And what would you know? I suppose you think a tankard of ale is a meal."

"Isn't it?"

It was enough for Gimli. He cared not for the argument, for it did not affect him. What he ascertained from his eavesdropping was that the words were mild scoffs, companionable jabs, easily said with a scowl and a grin, and Gimli surmised the speakers might be friendly.

"Hello!" Gimli called out with his loud booming voice. "Can you hear me?"

A soft rumble followed. Pebbles and stones trickled down on from the path above him, and he hesitated, for his voice had seemed to perpetrate the shower of stone.

"Did you hear something?"

"What?"

"I thought I heard a voice."

"Hush then! We do not want anyone to find us! Should we flee?"

That was not a good turn for the conversation. Gimli had to do something, for he did not want the owners of the voices to desert him in his need. He tried again, this time his hands cupped to his mouth to guard the echoes. Knowing the others were wary of his presence, he also changed his tact. His cry became a plea. "Help me!"

Still, loose rubble tumbled from the entrance.

"There it is again! Did you hear it?"

"I am frightened. We should run from here!"

"I am going to look about."

"Nay! Do not leave me!"

"Stay put. I shall not be gone long."

The male voice was commanding, and the female seemed respectful of that authority, at least enough so as not to argue. Gimli felt assured by that, for with their bickering ways it could be different. But apparently they at least each held belief in one another. They were somewhat reminiscent of long-time companions. Surely a pair like this would try to help him. A small smile crept upon the Dwarf's face then, for he knew they reminded him of Legolas and himself. It was a fleeting moment of musing though, for nearly instantly he was gripped by his fears, a reminder of apprehensions left unresolved. The thought of the Elf and what he might be enduring brought an ache to the Dwarf's chest and he could not help but be flooded with a wave of new worries.

Yet Gimli's mind did not have long to dwell on that thought either, for excitement immediately rounded on him. He could hear footsteps approaching, and wary though he was by the precarious state of the entrance overhead, he knew that he did not wish to miss the opportunity for rescue. Further words might well endanger the opening. Minute reverberations stirred it enough to cause what could be collapse, but there appeared no other choice. No other resource for escape presented itself to Gimli, and it was either call or climb. Given that just standing was difficult, the idea of climbing a wall of rubble seemed nigh impossible to the Dwarf. Therefore, calling was the answer.

Despite his decision, Gimli felt great trepidation for the idea of speaking out. He had seen the effect of cave-ins before in his past, and he had no desire to be at the heart of one. No other options were offered however. Grimacing and hunching as if to compensate for a shower of boulders, meekly he found his voice.

"Here . . . Can you hear me?" he called quietly. He immediately followed his actions by ducking his head into his chest and raising his halberd and crutch to crisscross over his skull. He stood this way, cowering, yet insolent enough to remain upright, ready for the assaulting barrage of stone he felt sure might rush down. Yet to Gimli's surprise, nothing came. Not even a pebble.

Gimli harrumphed, pleased that he had succeeded in duping the wall. Of course the wall was an inanimate object and incapable of being duped, but still there was small pleasure to be had in holding the tumble of rocks at bay. However, Gimlis triumph was actually a small thing, for no one came to his call as he had hoped they would. The pleasant feeling of superiority was only a vague flirtation. And the situation was worsening. The footsteps from above, only moments before so near, were now moving away.

He grimaced, scowling at this bad turn. His heart thumped loudly in his chest, realization dawning on him that his call was not enough. And yet the thought of losing this contact was enough to allay his nervous fears. He would have to attempt the cry again, only louder.

However, Gimli was not a fool. A precautionary mind took command. This time he hobbled into what he considered a safer place, a corner if one could call it that. To his thinking, if he was to be swept away, at least the rocks would not collapse upon him directly. Assuring himself of his position, he prepared his body like he had before. Hands raised to mouth in order to clip his voice and direct it specifically to the opening, he called out, "Here! I am here! Please help me!"

This too had not been a demonstrative exclamation. It was more like the voice given in a speaking tone. It was louder than the previous call had been, however.

As before, there was no effect on the wall, and the Dwarf began to feel he might have a gauge on what was and what was not a compromising volume. Further there was progress, for the voices spoke again.

"No, not there. It was in this direction."

"I thought I had told you to stay in one place."

"And if I had you would have missed the sound entirely. It was over here."

"Did it sound as a voice to you?"

"I could not tell."

Ai! Gimli thought. They still have not heard my words. I must make my voice louder or else they will think I am nothing but a trapped animal.

"It is nothing but a trapped animal."

Curses! Gimli thought. They have affirmed it! I must somehow let them know I am not raccoon. . .

"It sounded like a mountain cat."

. . . Or a mountain cat, Gimli thought as a small smile bent over his lips. The comment, misguided though it was, was at least flattering, even if the Dwarf would have preferred not to have been mistaken at all.

Very well then, he thought. He would try again, though he was certain he was tempting fate's ire by doing so.

It was not such a far thing, in Gimlis mind, to believe the rock could indeed have thoughts of its own. That it was toying with him was not such a preposterous notion, for Dwarves often spoke of stone as if it lived and breathed. This stone might be friendly or cruel; he did not know. Yet it had shown him nothing so far that could exclude malice from its intent. And for that the goal could very well be tto lure him into a state of comfort. Then, he conjectured, the rock would most certainly collapse in upon him. Clever rock!

Yet he would not act the mouse. A mountain cat was the picture he had of himself and he intended to model the ferocity of that beast.

Now practiced in the skill, he prepared his body once again for the call. Raising hands to lips he spoke again, this time only modestly louder. "Help me, please! I am not a trapped animal."

This time the rocks did not tease. A shower of small stones rained down on the Dwarf, and Gimli winced in anticipation of the onslaught. But that was all that came, and whether it was his voice or the noise of shifting earth that found him his rescuers, he could not say. All Gimli knew was that the two voices were coming. It had worked.

"Over here! It was a voice! It came from over here!"

"Did you hear what it said?"

"He said Help! Oh, Faramir, please hurry!"

In that instant the Dwarf forgot himself. "Faramir?" he exclaimed, surprised to hear the name. Only he realized, after the fact, that he had said it aloud. Aloud and too loud. With immediate regret he cringed for the noise echoed profusely within the tunnel chamber.

And then the wall began to groan.

Small pebbles began to tumble. Without conscious thought for the matter, Gimli began to hobble back, his terror of the danger whipping him. He stumbled out of his corner, thoughts of escape the only thing guiding him. Survival instinct kicked in, and he immediately relinquished the tender treatment he had been giving his injured foot in order that he may run. The world was about to come crashing down, and it mattered not that momentary pain might meet it. And so he turned to make his escape. Unfortunately, in the madness of the situation, he had forgotten the layout of his route. The shelf that marked entrance into this shaft had not moved. It was where it had been before, directly at a height with his brow. However, the light was still dim and a dust was gathering over his sight, so there was nothing visual that could aid him. And of course this time his movements were not slow and staggered. This time he was moving with all the speed his pained Dwarven body could muster. Better. He moved with all the speed of a fleeing mountain cat. Or raccoon. Or mouse. So when the blow came to his head, it was not a light tap to the brow as it had been before. This time he hit the wall full force.

Pain emanated from all his body, but most distinctly his head. Dizziness worked over him, his mind losing all perspective of up or down. Swirling chaos and sound erupted and sparkling lights exploded into his vision. And then everything ceased. The Dwarfs legs collapsed beneath him with a will not his own. Sound no longer carried on the air, becoming only a piercing ring in his ears. Dust permeated through his lungs. Rocks rolled past him. But it was all in slow motion as what he perceived the cataclysmic ending of his life came to be. One strange little thought entered his thoughts before oblivion took him. It was actually an amusing little thing to consider, especially when one might realize these could be his last thoughts.

Strange. That was not Éowyns voice. Then who was that speaking? Ai, Faramir had better be careful. Éowyn will grow jealous if she thinks he wanders the woods with another.

And then that was it. There was nothing more to think.

****

"She is coming," Éowyn whispered, gazing up from her ministrations to Mattias wound.

The Romany man turned his eyes in the direction of his mother, then looked away again, disgrace and disgust clearly painting his features. Éowyn felt a pang of sympathy for the man, though she truly could not understand what drove his actions. Surely the elder did not hold all these people in thrall, and clearly she did not hold Mattias.

The old woman drew near, her steps slow, each one seemingly considered for its place before the next one fell. The heavy walking stick in her hand made a soft thumping noise each time it met the ground. It marked the tedious pace of the womans tread. Éowyn knew there was nothing within Bregus urging her to hasten forward for the sake of the Elf (though Eowyn felt she had clearly explained the danger in the situation). Yet the old woman had also been sent on task to find remedy for her son. In that, the Rohirric woman could not understand Bregus slow steps.

"I see you have solved your problem without my aid," the old woman mocked as she nodded toward Legolas and his sleeping state. Chuckling softly, she dropped a satchel of leaves into Éowyns lap. Éowyn noted that there was nothing within them that could be construed as a healing agent for the Elf. There were herbs that could help Mattias, though.

"What of Legolas," Éowyn asked, ignoring the comment. "What can you offer him?"

The old woman gave a twisted smile. "I found chokecherry."

"Chokecherry? The leaves of that plant contain cyanide. Are you planning on poisoning him?" Éowyn countered.

"You know your remedies," Bregus said, a mysterious smile turning her lips. "But not fully. Chokecherry bark, when used in proper amounts, may render one into a state of sleep."

"It is a remedy for colds," Éowyn said in a chiding voice. She was not pleased with the old womans solution. The elixir the elder would make was a weak offering to a severe injury. "And if not handled correctly it can be either a poison or a useless medicine. And even if you prepare it correctly, it will likely only make him drowsy."

The old womans eyes turned on Legolas. "He drowses already. I would judge him not in need of my medicine at all. You should not scoff at my solution."

Éowyn looked down upon the face of the Elf. His eyes were unfixed, lost, dull, yet there was a spark of life in them. He looked as he did in dreams, only somehow worsened, as if there was no rest in his present state. Yet it freed him from the anguish, for clearly the tears were gone and the symptoms of pain were no longer present. Still, small agony continued for the Elf, even as he was. Despite the evidence that there was a place in his mind where he roamed, she could see a haunted pain glimmer in his eye. But what he felt she was certain came from within him and not from the torment of his physical condition. Weighing the two, she was unsure which was worse. She did not want to harm Legolas further, and she assured herself again that the mental anguish of inflicting cuivëar was less than the pain of his bodys state. "He had it within himself to reach a meditative state. I only guided him to it. I know not how long it will last. He will need something else to dull the pain should he awaken," Éowyn explained, hoping to evoke some kind of sympathy from the elder.

"My medicine will soothe him should he need it and he will sleep. It has properties that exceed those you may know," Bregus answered, her tone kinder, as if dropping pretense and understanding for the moment Éowyns worries. "Do you need my aid to see to what I have provided for Mattias?"

Éowyns eyes dipped to the parcel of herbs, then up to Mattias face. His expression was also much changed in those brief moments, though he only made sidelong glances in his mother's direction. He appeared eager and yet saddened, as if finding something redeeming in his mothers turn to small sympathies while also hardened enough that he appeared not to believe the truth in it. Éowyn decided she could tend him on her own, so tenuous did his mood appear. "I can manage this," she said as she began to unwrap the loose bindings to Mattias wound.

The elder continued to stare, gazing hard upon the pair. Mattias eyes turned to the old womans face while Éowyn looked the other way, making a show of tending the wound. She noticed the silent passing of emotions between mother and son and felt embarrassed for her presence at the rather intimate exchange, like she was invading a private moment. It seemed to be guided by something of heartbreak and yet love. But it was fleeting for clearly, Mattias emotions had not softened, and if anything he appeared further angered by his mother. And confused as if he were horribly stalled by an indecision only he knew. Éowyn glanced back at the old woman and repeated, "I can manage this."

Bregus broke her solemn stare, and turned her attention elsewhere. She sauntered to a group of woman who were tending to the children, the ladies feeding and playing with them. The women and the witch spoke for a moment before a few in the gathering stepped over to a pile of provisions. Éowyn would have stopped watching then, certain the elder was preparing the medicine she would make for Legolas. However, she noticed something odd in the exchange. The old woman repeatedly touched the other women. At first it seemed merely a gesture of friendly conversation, but after a few minutes it became apparent the old woman intended to touch all of the women in some casual way. And even more odd was the reaction of the women, for they swayed slightly at the touch, even freezing slightly in their motions, before reviving themselves and returning to normal activity.

"What is she doing?" Éowyn asked Mattias, nodding in Bregus direction.

The man glanced in his mother's direction, then frowned. "She is casting her spell upon them. She does it nearly every night now."

"Spell? What spell?"

"The one that binds them to her. It is in the touch that she does this," he shrugged.

"I am sorry then," she said, sensing his misery. Then, brightening slightly, she declared, "She does not hold you though."

"She does not," Mattias confirmed with a bitter voice.

Gently she asked, "May I ask how it is you are free of her?"

Mattias shrugged. It appeared he did not wish to talk on the subject. "I do not know," he quietly confessed before turning his body away.

It was a sore subject, yet one that might help them. Taking a different tact, she pressed the topic, wary of his hurt. "Your wife is also free of your mother's spell, is she not?"

"She is free," the man acknowledged.

"Where is she now?"

"She should be with your husband. I was to join them."

"You did not."

Mattias sighed deeply. "Is it not clear to you that I am a hostage also?"

Éowyn frowned, irritated by his foul mood. "Yes I see that. It is also clear to me that you are a leader to these people. They look to you for guidance."

"Not all do," he said contritely, glancing to others in the crowd. She directed her eyes in the immediate direction his took and saw he was looking at his brothers.

The glance said so much about the source of his pain, and Éowyn wished there was something she might do to quell it. Then again she also knew she needed to find a means of escape. "Others would follow if you took command. Your brothers might too."

Mattias' eyes snapped with anger as he rounded on her. "Is this not enough to show you I have no control here?" he said indicating his wound. "What more would you have of me?"

Éowyn was not cowed by his foul temper, however. There was too much at stake for her to feel intimidation by one she perceived as an ally. Her nostrils flared as she gave her response. "I am sorry you were injured, and I feel wretched that such a grievous ill has befallen you for my sake. But if you should ask me, I would have you act your role."

Mattias bitterly turned away, sulkily saying. "I have no role. My mother has swept it away."

"For the sake of your people "

"Mother has threatened the lives of my people! Lady, do you not understand? She will destroy them all by turning them one upon another, just as she has my brothers and me. Perhaps there are some who are free from her, but they are just as much captive as am I. They see as well as I do. She will pit those loyal to her against those who are not. She maneuvers and controls everyone in this camp, even if they are not held in her spell. For years my wife had to deal with this blackmail and nearly failed. I now face the same. And fail. I fail. For the love of my people, my brothers, I dare not fight her."

"You give up too easily," Éowyn admonished. "Your wife did not."

"My wife's circumstances were different. Mother's plans have only just been revealed."

"I am sorry," Éowyn sighed. She could feel the regret within this Romany man and her heart was easily moved by his sorrow. But she thought too there was more to it than this. His pain came from something greater.

Bitterly Mattias muttered, "Is it any wonder then that Bregus wishes our passing? Is it any wonder that I have sent my wife away?"

This was the point of Éowyn's query, for she could not understand why Bregus could act as she did. "You are her son."

Mattias laughed then, but it was not with merry temperament with which he did so. "Clearly you have not considered the subject," Mattias chided. "Her intentions for me are worse than you might think."

Éowyn's face was a study of confusion. "I cannot imagine of what you might speak."

"I do not doubt that," he replied, his head lowering as if in shame. "Do not mistake her for a woman who cares for kin, my lady. She is not what you think. She does not put her children first. She does not care for her people's plight. Her concern is for herself alone and her intentions are vile."

Éowyn conceded his anguish but his words struck a chord. A pang of guilt laced through her for the parallel between herself and the old woman. Had not Éowyn only recently put her own well-being before the child she carried?

Yet that decision seemed a lifetime ago, and somehow she perceived Mattias was speaking of darker things than even the idea of aborting an unwanted child. "She seeks everlasting life and beauty. Her means of achieving this are through Legolas and myself. These are cruel intentions, I agree, but she has your position in control. Why would she want you dead?"

Mattias looked up then, and Éowyn could see the tears welling in his eyes. The corners of his mouth were torn down in anguish, and his voice was aquiver as he spoke. He said it in a whisper. "It is not my death she wants. It is my body."

"What?" This was a puzzlement to Éowyn. Stupefied by the admission, she could not understand what he meant. Surely he did not mean this in the way her mind tried to turn the information. "I I do not "

It appeared he could not stand to look at her further. Perhaps it was her innocence that turned his eyes away. Yet he interrupted her jagged reply, and when he did she realized how deeply his troubles went. "She would take me as her lover."

She gagged.

Just the words alone were enough to make Éowyn feel sickened. Expunged of moral thinking this was. Retracted into guileless shame the old woman must be. Repulsion shivered down her spine and the thought that there might be some parallel between the old woman and herself was immediately washed away. "H-how?"

One word was all he said. "Bäla." It was daunting enough to silence her for the moment as she thought on the situation. Legolas had called the same name.

Mattias continued. "It was to be your husband's fate, not mine. She had meant for him to take Bäla's place, but through my interference, he was allowed to escape. Unfortunately, I did not realize she had considered me his alternate. I stepped into Faramir's role without even realizing. I was a fool. I thought she might respect me. I thought I could control her. She is my mother, after all. What mother could . . . ?"

It was too much and she could see he was breaking. Suddenly she felt she must act. She gathered him into a wholesome embrace pulling him to her as if in effort to break the terrible hurt in his cry. The surprise of the gesture stunned him, but he did not fight it. In brief seconds he came to rest into her hold, his tears matching hers as they dropped onto one another's shoulder. Sadly she said, "You still can control her. We may still win." The words came with a small, desperate sob.

"How?" he asked pathetically, stiffening slightly at her pronouncement.

She could not say the words. It hardened her heart to even think it, but she knew it had to be. Pulling away from him but looking deeply into his eyes, she simply said, "Legolas knew." Then she drew her eyes down to the Elf's boot, hoping Mattias might see the hint of a knife's hilt hidden there.

Apparently he did for he visibly blanched. "I I could not!" he whispered fiercely.

"Why not?" Éowyn replied, equally shocked by his resolve.

"She is my mother!"

"Did you not just tell me she is not as a normal mother would be? That her concerns are for herself alone, not her kin?"

"That does not mean she is not still mine to claim!"

Their words were hoarse utterances back and forth, barely said above a whisper, yet in her mind she was screaming her cause. "She would destroy everything you know and love. How can you give her your loyalty knowing that?"

"I do not know!" He collapsed. All his indecision seemed to pour out in that one desperate admission. "Despite all the harm she has wrought, I still love her! How can I help from feeling that? She is my mother!"

Confusing as it was, his voice was chock with emotion, and she could feel the heartbreak he felt in their utterance. Éowyn realized she could empathize, for his feelings they were the very things she had pondered in her own decision to keep her child. Her baby would love her. How could she not. Just as Éowyn could not help loving her child no matter how hard she might try to hold it back. There was a bond between a mother and her child, and no matter how dire the events or circumstances that guided their lives, the two could not be parted in their underlying commitment to one another. It was an unfathomable emotion. Love. Éowyn understood. Wretched as she might have been, Bregus somehow was still a mother to her sons. Tears reached Éowyn's eyes as the ache of the realization reached her heart. No matter how horrible the crimes, Mattias must love his mother. Were it Éowyn, would it not be the same? If her children stood accused of heinous acts, even if they were against her, she could never play executioner to them. Never! She understood Mattias plight. She could see his dilemma.

"I will do it alone then," she said, barely breathing but realizing this was what must be.

Mattias' eyes dropped. "I I will help where I may, but, please I do not think "

"Say no more," she murmured placing a hand to his lips.

"There must be something else," he said desperately, clutching at her fingers.

"She must be stopped. You need not aid me. I will find a way," Éowyn said with cold certainty, though she had no plan for how it might come to be.

"Stop who?" a male voice queried from behind her, and Mattias' head immediately shot around to catch sight of the speaker.

"You have heard of what we speak, Gordash. You have been listening in on our conversation," Mattias replied in a shaken voice, though he did not flinch from the accusatory way in which he delivered this statement. Behind the approaching man, Curtik also rose and drew near as Mattias continued. "And what you have not heard, that too you know. You too have seen the atrocities committed, my brother."

"I know nothing but that Mother tries to help us," Gordash said in a sniping voice.

Mattias scoffed. "Gordash! I know you are not so blind! Mother helps us? By killing a woman and an Elf? How will this help us?"

Curtik interjected, pushing ahead of Gordash and arguing, "She will be stronger for it. She can guard our fate better. She has the sight and has seen we would fail otherwise. We will be a more powerful tribe for what she does."

"She has swayed you then. You think not on your own. There is no proof of such things," Mattias said, dismissing both men with this assessment.

"No one sways me. I think on my own! She has not led us astray in the past," Gordash retorted, looking almost guilty.

Mattias then approached the large man, staring coldly. His voice was strong with conviction. "Oh? Then how is it I was shot by my brother with the urging of my mother?"

"That was an accident," Curtik muttered in a humble voice.

"And why is it my words do not rule this tribe when clearly I am the male elder?" Mattias countered.

Again the youngest son spoke and even Gordash blinked at the peculiarity of his abrupt reply. "You are not in your right mind," Curtik said defensively, nervously. "You are a danger in your current state. We had to hold you in check."

"How is it that I am still held hostage to her whims?" Mattias said, his eyes now traveling between his two brothers in search for answers.

"It is as I said," the youngest brother answered. "You are not sane at the moment."

"Or perhaps it is because she deigns another fate for me?" Mattias said distastefully, nearly spitting out the hideous nature of his meaning with the taint of his words.

"Why would she choose something different for you?" sneered Curtik while Gordash looked on with a quizzical expression.

"What is it you mean, Mattias?" the larger man asked, seeming sympathetic.

"Her attentions are not moral, Brother," Mattias said in a pleading voice, now directed specifically at Gordash. His tone was seeking, sympathetic, kind. Éowyn could tell Mattias was trying to draw out the camaraderie of sibling love. And in observation she noted Mattias' resolve was becoming firm just as that of the older brother appeared to be falling apart. "She will sacrifice my soul, Gordash. She will take my body and make me into something depraved, not myself. Please. I only wish to be free. Do not let her do this to me."

"YOU ARE WRONG! IT WILL NOT BE! YOU CANNOT CONTINUE AS THE FAVORED ONE!" The words burst from Curtik, his rage explosive. Éowyn sprung back defensively, automatically falling into a crouch over Legolas, and suddenly very frightened by the younger brother's outburst.

Instantly, all the camp was about them and Bregus was stepping to the forefront. "That will be enough!" she exclaimed.

"DO NOT LET IT BE! DO NOT CHOOSE HIM! IT IS NOT FAIR! I HAVE WORKED SO HARD, MOTHER!" Curtik cried hysterically.

"That will be enough, Curtik!" Bregus screamed, and the words snapped the youngest back to something of reality. Shock was visible on his face for the rebuke, but almost immediately he blinked it back. His eyes were dazed, and whimpering sounds seemed to be emanating from him, but he appeared simultaneously to be attempting composure.

The old woman turned, her expression dark with anger. There was silence for a moment as she breathed, no one moving or speaking. Only the chirping of crickets was to be heard from the pitch of the forest. The fire crackled and popped, a log tumbling, and then she spoke with a calm that was frightening. "You have had too much freedom," she said. Éowyn felt dread rising up within herself as the old woman's attention went directly to her. "You inspire riot. I cannot have it. I will not allow it."

Then the elder turned to the men in the group, directing their actions almost without words. "Tie them up. Gag them. I will tolerate no more outbursts for what they stir."

The reaction was quick, and Éowyn thought perhaps the moment had grown suddenly desperate enough that she might act. In that she considered it might well be her last chance to do anything. She knew she needed to take command, though she was ill-prepared for confrontation. Yet . . .

So sudden did it all come. Her eyes told her actions and she knew Mattias saw it. He countered with his part. She dove for the knife in Legolas' boot while Mattias flung himself bodily at the nearest man. But the other Romanies saw their actions too and in the end Éowyn was simply not fast enough for their counter movements and Mattias was too weak. A set of strong hands grabbed her and yanked her back, tugging at her hair and snapping her head back before she could reach her goal. She cried out for the pain, but more so for the disappointment.

At the same moment, Gordash stooped down and retrieved the weapon, watching her with wary eyes as if he'd known all along the knife's presence, while Curtik turned on Mattias and struck him for little or no reason that Éowyn could perceive. Gordash tucked the blade into his sash as he watched her, his face a mask for what he truly felt, like that of so many others about her. Though she struggled, her arms were brutally held. Seconds later she was tied and a gag was shoved into her mouth.

She was helpless and spent, feeling tremendous weakness for the gloom of her situation, and for the first time she could not think of anything she might do to amend it. It bolstered her however to watch Mattias continue his fight and the absolute solidity of his resolve. It seemed he understood both their situation and what would be required for it to change. And though there was nothing within him that implied he would commit the act of betrayal against his mother, neither was there anything that said he would stop it. Further, it appeared he would actively make attempts to recruit others to their cause. His actions in aid had proven exactly that and it gave Éowyn a small thrill to see him fortified in his decision. His words were calmly biting as he said to Gordash, "Do you think still that it is I who struggles with sanity?"

The larger man merely looked down, refusing to make contact with the eyes of his brother, and Mattias smiled at Éowyn for the small victory he had struck. She smiled in answer, showing she was pleased. And then a gag was fitted to his mouth and he was silenced. Yet his words lingered.