The Hunting Trip
Chapter 35: Potent Weapons

Éowyn was tired, and hungry. Her body ached with the tension and stress forced upon her by the physical battle she had fought. Fought and lost. The outcome had been discouraging. As a result, she was frightened and angered and uncertain of what she might do. But she was also determined. There was fight left in her, and she intended not to relinquish it. She surveyed her mind, searching for resources, for clever retreats. She would not be so easily extinguished as to lay down her determination when so much was at stake.

However, it could not be helped that frustration abounded. There was nothing they might call upon for their rescue, nothing to free her of her bonds. She had no weapon, no knife, no bow. Her eyes moved about to find something that might offer her an advantage, but she found nothing. All about her were raw implements, each on its own innocuous and plain. None were readily of hazard save the weapons these people carried upon their persons. But she knew not to let what was physically apparent sway her heart. Memory of her old weapons masters and the hard lessons they had taught prevailed. Time and time again they had hammered into her head to think as a warrior. "Be resourceful," they had said. "Keep a clever mind," they had intoned. And the fundamental drill was laid. "Never allow surrender to be your final step in the warring process." With these countless recitations so smoothed by rote recall, she had seen learned the core of military thinking. In combat one might utilize nearly anything as a weapon if the situation were dire enough.

There was so much she might do, though she could do nothing in her present state. Bound and gagged and held under the tight scrutiny of a dozen or more pairs of eyes, she was bereft of any form of freedom. If only her hands could be untied.

She assessed her own form while she struggled to loosen the ropes that held her hands. Though she was not a large woman, Éowyn was stronger than one might thing. Long years of training had given her the advantage of deceptive strength, speed and maneuverability. That she was with child seemed hardly relevant when compared to the muscle memory and uncanny skills achieved in the training halls at Edoras. Judging herself, she knew was capable. Her pregnancy was in its beginning stages, and while she felt the telltale symptoms of her gravid state, they bore no outward hindrance to her activities. She had to be wary though. She knew a wrong blow could do harm. But she also knew actions not taken would garner only death.

Refocused, she found herself surrounded with a wealth of potential tools. Rocks, branches, sticks, rope, blankets, fire, logs, boiling water. All could be employed to her advantage. There were also tools in abundance that might be used against the heart. She glanced about the gathering at the clusters of small family units congregating about various fires. Many drowsed, embraced in each others arms, comforted by the companionship of loved ones nearby. They had no idea how vulnerable they were.

With her own strength alone, she knew she easily had the skills necessary to apprehend one of the boys or a woman. And yes, if need be, she could even call upon the abduction of one of the small children if she had to. Though she was repulsed by the thought, she knew desperation bred terrifying ramifications. She could not hold qualms in her need to find freedom. She only regretted she had not fought with the same savage disregard earlier. However, she knew why she had not. It was not within her nature to think it. Such thoughts would not normally be a part of her make. Now, given the cold heart and blatant cruelty she found within the true leader of these people, she decided no measure taken toward her safety could be wrong.

Ultimately what she desired was freedom. To get away would be the simplest solution, though she deemed it the hardest thing to achieve. As much as she watched the camp, she too saw they watched her. No adult eye had refrained from matching her stare as she had roamed the camp with her own secreted glances. It was as if they all stood guard over her, spelling one another from time to time with sleep. And that made it impossible to do anything, either to free herself, defend herself, or to wreak harm of any sort. However she refused to believe that the end of her opportunities was before her. Mistakes would be made, even with witchery afoot. And yet should the opportunity arise, Éowyn wondered if she truly could take it. Could she run? There was Legolas to consider and she could not just desert him to the witch's madness. And knowing that, she thought that if escape could not be found for them both, and Mattias too, this would be a fight to the death.

As if she were assessing her strengths and weaknesses, Éowyn studied everything, including her companions. Mattias sat on the opposite side of the fire, his head bowed to his chest and his knees drawn forward. His arms were fastened behind him, just as hers were, and a gag was tied harshly about his mouth. But his posture is what she noticed. Like one wounded and drawing back from the pain, his repose, appearing like a tight ball, seemed to comfort him in the personal embrace the position drew. He gently rocked himself, and she was saddened by the motion. She could see he was struck with grief, the burden of emotional pain weighing heavily upon him. Éowyn would console him if she could. However gagged and bound herself, there was little she could readily offer.

He looked up, and their eyes met. Briefly she saw the misery of his soul. The anguish was deep. He tried to smile, a small change in his eyes reflecting that gesture, and she thought it a brave front, admirable that he should be trying to raise her spirits.

They shared the same plight, though in some ways she thought his worse. For her, she could excuse away the villainy as some perverted corruption perpetrated by strangers. They knew naught of her, and she knew little more of them, and so it was easy to hate them without apology. But for Mattias it was different. He had believed in these people, and now he found them to be betrayers. Worse still, his trust had been bankrupted by something so base as desire.

She returned the gesture of friendliness to him with a nod of her head. It was all she could give him, though she thought more might be needed for consolation. And yet in studying him what she read in his posture, his demeanor, his expression, told her he might be served better with some personal introspection. The wound he had suffered to his soul had been a cold blow, dealt by the hand of those he had felt his most intimate companions. Recovery would not come easily and trust would be a difficult thing for him to regain. Given this knowledge, that he had allowed Éowyn into his confidence at all was miraculous.

He looked away a second later, as if he recognized the scrutiny with which she placed upon him and he had decided that he no longer wished her to pry. It helped their situation none that he was also physically handicapped by an arrow wound to the shoulder. He was torn in both body and soul, and though he bravely held a strong front, Éowyn knew he was shattered by the betrayal his mother and brothers had laid upon him. She could only imagine that his heart must be shredded.

New motion in the camp caught Éowyn's attention. Simultaneous activity made her head flip from side to side. Men were up, tools were drawn, several stepped into the forest swallowed up by the shadows beyond the ring of campfires. Many of the women leapt into activity. They began folding their bedrolls, returning their shawls to their wastes. Foodstuffs were re-wrapped and shoved into pockets. Cooking tools were nested and secreted into their packs. The tapping of axes could be heard. Vaguely she thought she might know what was happening, and it was a worrisome discovery.

The woman quickly dipped her eyes, gazing down on the still form of Legolas. He had made no attempt at movement since the cuivëar had been induced, and the sudden motion did nothing to draw him from his daze. She thought that a good thing though in truth his appearance was disquieting. In reality he appeared to be teetering toward death. Subtle changes had taken place in his physical form as he lay before her, and they were telling to her of the seriousness of his injury. His complexion was paler than before while dark circles beneath his eyes were beginning to grow visible. His coloring was ghostly, even with the glow of the fire radiating nearby. She was frightened by the prospect that he might grow more grave, for there was little she could do to quell the tide of his illness. Even in the Houses of Healing, at this point, vigil would be the only thing she could offer, for beyond medicating the Elf, there was nothing else anyone could do but wait. Yet what worried her most was her part in his condition. Had her administering of cuivëar induced this turn in his health?

Her heart mourned as her inspection followed more closely the subtle rise and fall of Legolas' chest in slow, deep breaths, the subtle movement of his eyes fixedly staring at a distant point in space, and the infinitely small curves of both smiles and frowns that took possession of his facial features in the depth of his dreams. Even with these clues pointing to encouraging healthfulness, he looked ill. Deathly even, and were he mortal, Éowyn would know immediately from his appearance that he were in a critical state.

Looking at the sudden activity before her, a panicky tremor sent her body into small shudders with the realization that came. Legolas was in no condition to be moved. Yet her mind told her this was exactly what was intended of them to move onward toward that place the old woman deemed their sanctuary. It was a refuge that, for the last several days, had served as Éowyn's rugged home.

Her mind turned to the haven where she found comfort. Henneth-Annün was a strategic hold. Faramir had regaled her with tales of its benefits and key points toward the cause of his people. Many years had it stood as one of Gondor's hidden treasures. It was a clever fortress, a clandestine citadel where operatives could maintain control over lands that were ripped from their authority. Many a hard battle had been plotted within those stone walls, their success due in part to the virtue of anonymity that Henneth-Annün maintained. Never had the identities of those in concealment there been revealed. They were safely hidden. Further, this cave, their hold, served as a cache for military might. Though small, it could hold a score or more of men within its hidden chamber, even greater numbers still when the tunnels were combined. It was a residence of pride, and one of the things that stirred Éowyn most was the knowledge that it had served as place of history. A tingle of excitement coursed through her whenever she neared it, for it was a reminder to her that so many great men, her husband among them, had conceived and won battles from that secret locale. Never had it been infiltrated or discovered by enemy scouts in the past. Never! Yet somehow the old woman knew of it. How? How?

Still, like the weapons she was mentally tallying, she counted the old woman's limited knowledge as a positive point. So it seemed, there were some things even Bregus did not know. Among them was the fact that no ranger forces currently resided in Henneth-Annün. How the old woman's foresight could know one thing but not another was beyond Éowyn, just as the Romany's firsthand knowledge of the very existence of their cave was a mystery. Still, it gave her an advantage if she could wield it, for the old woman feared the idea of soldiers. That had been revealed to her by Mattias. How she might use this, there was no telling. But, like the branches, sticks, rope and blankets, it was an instrument in which Éowyn might find power, and in her mind she would hoard it away for later employ.

Since becoming a prisoner much of her time had been spent watching the old woman. In between her observations of the Romany people and what might be roaming in Mattias' thoughts, Éowyn's attentions had not been idle. She had seen much of Bregus' actions. They were disturbing. Outside of the continuous touch of her people, she saw the old woman coveted their actions carefully. Bregus' hawk-like observance of her people was likened in Éowyn's mind to that of a bird watching over her eggs. The old woman seemed determined to scrutinize their activities carefully, as if she was uncertain the validity of her touch still held. It was a small victory Éowyn felt Mattias had scored, for if the old woman doubted her power, this too might be a weapon.

Éowyn watched as the old woman brewed the serum. A whole ritual was borne of it, like something of religious purpose. A circle had been drawn around her ring of fire with the base of the highly carved and inscribed walking stick Bregus used. Then brief stops were made at each quadrant of the circle while some kind of prayer was muttered. When complete, the process of brewing began, but even then there was the calling of incantations as the pot began to smolder. Fascinated, Éowyn had wondered at the potion being brewed. It changed much over the time of its making, and with each addition of an ingredient or each utterance of words, the state of the liquid changed again. It had gone from a muddy water color to one of cream, to one of bubbling madness and steam suddenly elicited, to the color of burgundy. It was frightening in fact. While Éowyn had made a small practice of herb study and healing, never before had she seen such manipulation. And never had she seen such results. That the witch intended to feed this concoction to Legolas made Éowyn all the more nervous. Bregus had said it would be a sleeping potion. She did not say it was so tedious to create. The exercise of the medicine's preparation made Éowyn wonder at its benefits. Surely there were easier brews to make that could give the same results. That is, if the results sought were ones of narcotic effect.

But this was not the thing that garnered Éowyn's full focus. Bregus' attributes were varied. She obviously had skills as an apothecary. But more than that, she was sharp and clever when she spoke, always wary and fixed in her goal. She proved herself of sound mind whenever she came near the Rohirric woman. However, it was Éowyn's observance of Bregus that told her, when the old woman was alone, this consideration of sanity might be false. Then she did not act like one caught in thought. Instead the old woman had appeared as if she were holding private conversation with herself. Madness, Éowyn had originally thought. Delusions. On further observance, however, she wondered if perhaps there was something else compelling the old woman's mind.

Éowyn, in her time, had come across more than a few people whose minds had been bent. War was heinous upon innocents. It was a pathetic deliverer of unwitting harm, and a layer of doom that paves a path of death wherever it travels. There had been many who did not hold up well to the pressures such a deed could rile. After the War of the Ring and the calm of restoration had begun, her time in the House of Healing had not been idle. There were those who had been injured in the war and Éowyn had done her part to try to heal their ills. But physical wounds and wounds to the psyche were far different in the ways they were cured. Long after the ward had been cleared of those whose bodies had been harmed, those patients whose minds had been damaged remained. She had observed then the directions some of these pitiful folk had displayed in their mental battles. Conversations with the self were not uncommon with them. Often it was as if they played two sides to their own argument. They would fight with themselves, whispering arguments and counter arguments to their own claim. Or they would babble incoherently. Or they would speak not at all. But never would they converse as Bregus did.

Bregus' madness, if that is what it was, was unique from anything Éowyn had ever seen. The old woman conversed with herself, but not like those in the ward at the House of Healing. Bregus spoke as if she truly were answering a question, or responding to a comment. Unlike the mentally crippled fellows in the city whose thoughts buzzed by them mindlessly, Bregus' conversation seemed calm, controlled andthoughtful. It was as if the old woman were truly holding a real conversation. Further, her eyes held steady on the space before her, as if she were making eye contact with a companion. Not so with the madmen Éowyn had observed. That lot had eyes that danced and darted about, as though their speech were directed to an ever-moving tormentor. Bregus resembled nothing of this.

Footsteps approached. The old woman neared, and a man Éowyn did not know followed in her tracks. She knelt on the other side of Legolas and the man came about where Éowyn sat and nudged her to move aside that he might squat. Hands tied behind her back, her balance was off and she nearly toppled. Yet Éowyn managed to scoot around, shuffling back so she held place directly near Legolas' head. She could see everything from this perspective.

The old woman reached into her pocket and pulled out a small vial. A jewel-colored elixir glowed within the bottle as she held it up to catch the reflection of the flames in the firelight. A small cork stopper held the potion within the jar and with a deft shrug, Bregus pulled it free with her teeth. She nodded to the man who then lightly lifted the Elf's head that she might force the liquid down Legolas' throat. Éowyn immediately protested, not wishing Legolas harm either from the motion created or the medicine being dosed. Her muffled voice could only call out a stop. Yet it was done. The reaction was sudden. Bregus dribbled only a few drops into the Elf's mouth before Legolas' consciousness was restored. A gag reaction came and he coughed in a sputter of choking spasms that must have wreaked agonizing pain for the jarring they carried. Éowyn cried out again as Legolas winced through his sputtering, though Bregus ignored both of them and their disruption. Running crooked fingers down the Elf's face, her fingertips brushed eyelids suddenly alive and creased with his hurt. Instantly, however, with the utterance of words, the golden-haired Elf ceased his hacking convulsion.

"Sov tu numatari," she whispered. Legolas paused, a slow moan escaping him as if it were a remnant of his previous agony. Then he sighed and immediately his eyes closed with smoothly shuttered lids while the old woman's fingers continued their downward trail over his face.

Éowyn's eyes widened in amazement, shock and fear. Never had she seen a medicine take effect so quickly. But her fright was not limited to the action of the Romany's motion over the Elf. Bregus looked up, and her gaze was caught by Éowyn's eye. The old woman smiled malevolently, stirring a tremor of fear in the Rohirric woman. Bregus glanced at the man who was acting as her aide, and without words he turned then, rising and taking three long strides only to then crouch next to Mattias.

The old woman's son glowered dangerously at this tribal member, eyeing him warily while attempting to shift away. Immediately the old woman was there, the stopper again released. It was clear her intentions, though Mattias showed equal purpose to fight the ministration. No words were said, only actions taken. Mattias kicked out, bucking his legs and rolling his body, but tied as he was, there was little he could do to overwhelm the force upon him. The aide pressed his forearm to Mattias' body, quashing him into the dirt while his other hand came up and crushed his head to lay still. And then the gag was yanked aside though Mattias lips became resolutely sealed, refusing entrance to the vial. Bregus' hand over his nose forced his lips to part, though cleverly Mattias tried to release only a mere fraction of his mouth. Bregus anticipated as much and with the slit entrance she pried the bottle into the opening and poured the liquid contents into his mouth. All the while he fought, his head shaking from side to side, his legs kicking at nothing. It was a useless objection. The jewel-colored concentrate made its target. Most drizzled down his cheek but some landed in his throat, and like the Elf he sputtered a fit of coughing when it came into contact with his gullet.

A bellow of rage poured from his lungs, and he cried out a piteous wails, "No, Mother! Please! Do not do this!"

The fighting did not cease and Bregus' voice came louder as she uttered the remainder of the spell. "Sov tu numatari."

The resistance was gone. Mattias' body went limp and he laid back into the ground, his legs falling slowly to one side as his arched back sagged into the earth. The aide rose, stepping back, and Bregus was left for the moment to sit alone at her son's side.

The old woman's back was to Éowyn, but the young woman would not dare dodge her eyes from the sight of Bregus. Bregus' head bowed as a small shuddering movement shook the old woman's shoulders. A tentative hand reached out as if to touch her son, and then it drew back. A moment more passed, quiet but for the beating of Éowyn's heart and the sniffling sighs of the old woman bent over her prey.

The solitude dragged on, choking from Éowyn the repressed sobs that swelled in her own throat. She sat, squirming, left with nothing but fear for what was to come. Her heart was pounding recklessly in her chest, and a scream of terror lodged itself in her throat waiting for the opportunity to peal. In her mind she knew she was next, and she knew she dared not succumb to this evil drink. Her only means of escape depended upon it, and her head raced to find a means to overcome the danger. The mental tally of implements she had been subjectively collecting flashed before her as she gulped in her fears, her breathing suddenly rushed. Branches, sticks, rope, blankets, water, rocks. At the moment, none of these things were accessible to her as her freedom was limited to the small motion she could make with her body. She had nothing with which to fight. But her body had been in this list as well, as were witch's fears and short knowledge.

And then Bregus turned. Wet eyes blinked back tears in the old eyes, and then the menace returned. Cold apathy came into black eyes, and the old woman stood. The vial again she held up.

Éowyn's eyes widened. She began to push herself back, squirming away from Legolas so she might have room to fight. Within an instant, the man was on her, his hand pressing into her sternum, pinning her in place. Like a repeat of Mattias' actions, the fight ensued. She twisted and writhed beneath him, kicking and butting him with all of her body. The blows came hard and her flexibility was good. Her range of motion landed swift kicks time and time again. But he did not waver and his strength was greater. He crawled upon her, his weight pressed into hers, and the rage and fear became too much, the feeling of violation too great to bear. She screamed out her terror, her fury, her hate. It was a bleary vocalization of her rage, wordlessly expressed, though loud and unrelenting. The night absorbed the sound and then it swallowed it again as the cloth was ripped away from Éowyn's face. Fast and furious came the vial, the dark liquid drained in that single plunge, and through her venomous cry the taste of the rich medicine bathed her tongue. Tears fell from her eyes as she fought, coughing on the bitter taste and the gag reflex it employed. Looking up she saw the cool and cruelly stoic features of the witch, watching her.

A cragged hand reached up to rake fingers over her face, and Éowyn knew with the next words her ability to fight would be gone. Her breath came in pants, moans of terror balanced on the edge of each gasp. She reached into her mind to find solution. The void wrought by her nemesis lay exposed before her. The fingers came closer. The warmth at the tips radiated lightly above her skin. Words were all that need be said to make it complete. The simple exhale of sound and it was done. A burning tenderness where callused fingertips kissed her fair skin made her shiver for the discomfort it suddenly brought, and then the incantation began.

"Sov t "

"I can stop the soldiers' attack!"

The old woman stopped. Frozen. Words fixed to her lips. Nostrils flared and eyes narrowed. Her hand remained paused over Éowyn's face.

"There are no soldiers," the old woman hissed, her head cocked, eyes sharp as if registering every nuance of Éowyn's response by the abruptness of this retort.

Éowyn's panting breath came in quick gasps. Her eyes never left the hand balanced above her. Her reply was said in a gulp without any hesitance. Words spilled from her lips like an exodus, believability brought on by her panic which made it seem all the more real. It was real, her fear, and she knew it qualified her to say nearly anything if it would halt the process before her. "There are! They wait in the hold! They will attack when the password is not uttered at the entrance per the schedule!"

The old woman's head tilted again, as if unable to believe. Then she narrowed her eyes and sniped out, "Lies! There is no reason for me to believe you!" The hand resumed its place, the pressure of its touch burning Éowyn's skin. The beginnings of the incantation formed on the elder's lips.

Éowyn shrieked out, shaking her head to jerk the hand away before magical words could be uttered, "I speak not lies! The soldiers are there and they await my return! You will die before you have taken three paces into that structure."

The hand was pulled away, and instead Éowyn felt strong fingers squeeze her jaw, pinching her mouth and forcing her to look into the sneering face of Bregus. "Tell me why I should believe you!"

Éowyn cried, her eyes searching the face above her, hoping to find something of compassion, "I I " she began, words failing her. The face of the witch was cold and ugly. She darted her eyes away, letting them fall briefly on her companion. She tried again. "Legolas he will be jarred in the skirmish. I do not want to see him harmed even further. . . And " She returned her eyes to the elder, seeing she was having no effect on the elder with this plea. It dawned on her then that the old woman would not believe anything so selfless. "I thought they might have come to my rescue by now. I can only guess that they have not realized my disappearance yet. But on your entry they will discover . . . Please! I do not want to fall unconscious! I may not be able to stop the harm! I might be mistaken . . . For the sake of my baby I wish not this harm!" Then her eyes flooded with tears, new worry overwhelming her. The words were her own, the fear hers. "What of my baby? The drug! What harm have you done to her with this dosing? What will become her?"

Bregus was slow to release her hand, the fingers opening one by one with the bruising sting left behind on traumatized flesh. The old woman laughed, mocking. "Why fear, child? I would do nothing to hurt your baby. I need it too desperately. It is but a simple remedy for illness, remember?"

Scolding eyes grazed the old woman before Éowyn turned them away.

"Tell me the password!" Bregus demanded, snapping Éowyn's head back again to gaze into that face.

Eye to eye they met, and this time Éowyn would not flinch. White fury raced her pulse, and bile burned in her chest while hatred smoldered in her eyes. "It is my voice for which they listen," she spat, the utterance a contrivance just as all the other words had been. But the lie had been convincing.

"So it will be then," she said, releasing Éowyn from her grip, her eyes hard upon the younger woman.

Immediately Éowyn turned her head away, letting her eyes fall upon Legolas and his still form. Hot tears poured from her eyes and her rage and fear blinded her while a soft sob was stifled within her chest. Her body shook with the repression of the emotions, but she had no other means of releasing her stresses. She would not acknowledge them to the old woman. Her tears flowed. She could not quell them. Their escape came of volition all their own. Yet, Éowyn would not give the elder the joy of watching them come. She refused to let Bregus observe the stain of those tears and so she kept her head turned as she resolutely willed them to stop.

The old woman spoke again. Bregus was not oblivious to her reaction, yet the elder did not press to see Éowyn's face then. "I will let the incantation pass," Bregus said, "though I may speak it later if you do not cooperate. You will guide us into the cave. That will be your task. I had thought before to use you as a hostage to get past the soldiers. You are much trouble when you are awake and I have had enough of your poisoning words. Yet I will spare you whilst the password is yet unsaid. However, know this: any trickery on your part and the Elf will be hurt. I will make him cry out in pain."

She was hauled upright then by the man who had held her down, and then dragged to lean against a tree. The gag was not refitted, though her bonds were rechecked. And then the man was gone, and she was left alone with her thoughts.

She watched then as two other men came near bearing thick branches, sticks, rope and blankets. They carefully laid them aside Legolas' supine form and began to construct an object. It took but a minute for Éowyn to recognize the instrument to complete the transport of the injured body. They crafted a litter.

Relieved that at least they would carry Legolas properly, she sighed. Were it she, she would not move him at all, not only because she did not want to see him further exposed to the witch's vile craft, but also because she could not ascertain the full extent of his injuries. Éowyn was not a healer. She did not have faith enough in her skills to know if there were other injuries to the Elf. Yet it seemed she had little choice. Legolas was to be moved, and so she watched as the carrier was constructed, careful to note its sturdiness and padding.

Yet her thoughts raced ahead while she knew she was being watched. She had bought herself reprieve, though it was but a momentary thing. She must not hesitate to use it while she could. It broke her spirited soul to think on it, for she was torn by the thought all the while recognizing the truth that lay before her. She must flee. Without Legolas. Without Mattias. She must find a way to run. She knew this, though she could not know when the opportunity might present itself. Her heart ached with the thought, knowing she would be leaving Legolas behind in the act. He was helpless without her, and she despaired for that injustice. Further, she could not predict the old woman's reaction should she disappear. It might very well be that she would wreak harm upon the poor Elf, punishing him for Éowyn's betrayal. But she knew at least that the spell the elder planned, the one that would most likely take her life as well as the Elf's, could not be complete if Éowyn were not there. With her flight, she might save him. And her baby would live. And perhaps Mattias too. She saw quite clearly that she was the lynchpin to the old woman's plans.

And then Éowyn's attention was drawn away again. She realized the sudden reappearance of the old woman from behind, off to her side. She was not touched. Instead the old woman balanced just above her, inches away, the brush of an errant and brittle strand of hair falling to Éowyn's cheek. Whispered words came to her ears, the smell of Bregus' breath trailing the sound. "Have I made my actions clear to you? Do you understand that I would hurt him?"

Without turning her head, Éowyn nodded. Then more abrupt than the old woman's appearance, a woozy wave of unbalance suddenly washed over her. She began to speak, but her lips felt thick and her jaw seemed to be slowed by a sluggish languor. Warmth spread over her body like a heavy blanket, and her rigid muscles felt to go limp. Her head became very heavy in that moment, and her eyes grew unfocused, the lids drawing closed. She fought back, snapping her head aright, while she tried to find words to fit her discomfiture. "What is . . .?"

The old woman moved around to face her, laughing, and the sound of her cackling voice seemed to come from far away. "The potion takes effect. But have no fear for your child, my lady. As you said, it is but a simple remedy, made all the more potent with my use of herbs. That is all it is though, Lady Éowyn. Lady. That is who you are, are you not, dear Éowyn of no land? A mistress with soldiers at her call? Someone noble? I would have administered this medicine to you no matter what your words, but knowing you wield some power gives me ever more reason to do so. It will keep you from running, I think. Aren't I clever though? And it will keep you ever that much more vulnerable as a hostage should anyone endeavor your rescue. You are mine, and I intend very much to keep you with me. Your soldiers shall not make their rescue."

She was gone then, and Éowyn's head fell back, her body slumping over. The 'medicine', as Bregus called it, was indeed a potent thing.

It seemed but an instant passed when next she looked up to see Legolas being carefully lifted into the carrier, the old woman supervising the move. Blankets were bolstered about his body so that he was tightly secured to the frame and would not be jarred.

Seconds later, it seemed, she was hauled to her feet, her eyes opening when she had not realized they had closed. Strong hands held her up as her legs seemed incapable of the task on their own. Legolas was no longer in her sight, though by cocking her head she could see the movement of his litter being carried ahead in the wavering light of the moon in a cloudy sky overhead. A long line of people were before her, though she could not locate Mattias as her sight grew hazy again.

Her head rolled forward, weakness overwhelming her. Desperate tears flowed forth. She felt helpless sluggishness as her feet were dragged beneath her as they moved through the forest back along the path Éowyn had followed to get this far in her journey. Presumptively she realized they were traveling to Henneth-Annün. She also came to know that her hands had been untied and were slung over the shoulders of the men carrying her. Weakly she smirked. Was this not the wish she had had earlier? To be free that she might utilize those weapons her mind had fashioned? Now unfettered, she was helpless. Still, she made a mental note of this liberation that she might use it in her escape. In her heart though she despaired. She did not know how she might run if her faculties were so hugely impaired. She fought to regain sense of her body, plugging her heavy limbs beneath her, taking steps forward in hopes that the motion might burn the potion out of her system. Yet limply she hung, her head unable to raise from her chest and her spine listlessly dragging down to clamor disobediently into legs that staggered, then wobbled, then dragged across the trail. As her body withdrew, so did her mind.

Desolate despair drifted into her dreams as she fought passionately to remain sober and awake. I must not succumb. I must escape. No sleep. No sleep. . . Yet she could not keep the weariness from coming and taking her away to its void.

Romany translation:

"Sov tu numatari." - Rest you now.