"The good news, Sire, is that I daresay you will live." 

For Elfwine, who had just spent a long and fearful night being subjected to all the various indignities of the healing arts - including being made to vomit up what had once been a perfectly good dinner - this pronouncement brought both relief and a tinge of exasperation. Exchanging a look of consternation with Lothíriel, he began to shrug back into his embroidered surcoat and cloak. The jeweled baldric he also re-fastened across his chest, the scarlet red of its topaz stones now returned as if nothing had ever happened. 

"And the bad news?"

Héostor, Edoras' chief physician, indicated the bowl where the wine from Elfwine's goblet had been poured out. One of the old healer's apprentices had previously been fussing over both it and the leftover food from Elfwine's plate. 

"The evidence is clear; there was indeed poison in your wine. Wolf's-Bane, otherwise known as aconite, if I'm not mistaken. If you had drunk of it, there would have been no help for you. Aconite is one of the more deadly poisons known to Men, and has no known cure." Seeing the looks on Elfwine and Lothíriel's faces, Héostor was quick to add "Signs would have arisen within two to six hours of having tasted the Wolf's-Bane, and it has been nearly twelve. Rest assured that you are out of harm's way, my lord." 

With a sigh, Lothíriel laid a hand on Elfwine's arm and squeezed. She had been by Elfwine's side throughout the entire night, just as sleepless and anxious as her son if not more. Outside dawn was breaking over Edoras, but the glow from the embers of the royal chamber's hearth revealed dark circles beneath Lothíriel's eyes. Her graying hair was escaping from the plaits beneath her circlet, and new worry lines furrowed the dowager queen's brow. Those lines only deepened as Lothíriel voiced the question which had been gnawing away at her all night. 

"Master Héostor, you said that the signs of aconite poisoning can include numbness in the hands and feet, weakness of the limbs, and mortal interruptions to the heart's rhythm? Does that not describe almost perfectly the condition in which you treated Éomer before his death...?" 

A pall of horrified realization descended upon the room even as Héostor considered Lothíriel's words. Elfwine was the first to react. Grey-faced and wide-eyed, he staggered and had to take a seat on the trunk at the foot of his bed. 

"It cannot be...Mother...you think that Father was murdered?!"

Lothíriel's throat tightened and her eyes watered, but she nodded. "Your father was not young, but he was strong and fit. I have always felt a wrongness in his having departed this world before his time. Now I know why. Somehow I know it in my heart; there was aconite in his morning meal before we rode out together...for the last time." 

"There is only one way to know for certain..." said Héostor, not without a note of reluctance. His bloodshot gaze flickered toward the window, the view from which overlooked the walls of the city and the royal burial mounds beyond. 

"No," growled Elfwine. "Absolutely not. I will not have my father's tomb disturbed, now or ever."

Lothíriel spoke pleadingly to the old healer. "You tended to Éomer on his deathbed, Héostor. Can you say beyond shade of doubt that his death was not caused by poisoning?"

Héostor thought for a minute. Then he shook his head. "I cannot swear to it that King Éomer died by Wolf's-Bane...but the symptoms certainly do align, uncannily so. If you want my opinion as a physician-"

"I do," Elfwine interrupted. Having recovered from the initial shock of such musings, Elfwine now stared down Héostor with a searing intensity. "You have treated my family for longer than I have been alive, old friend. I trust your conclusions in this matter above all else. Now please, be blunt and honest...do you believe that my father was likely poisoned?" 

Wringing his hands - gnarled and peppered with liver spots - Héostor stood remembering and considering for many long moments. Finally, he looked Elfwine straight in the eye and nodded. 

"Yes, Sire, I do. As you say, I was your father's physician for much of his adult life, and few men his age could have boasted better health. For Lord Éomer to have died in such an abrupt way with no previous warnings...such tragedies do happen, but they are incredibly rare. No, I think it far more likely that it was treachery which slew the mighty Lord of the Mark." 

Elfwine had thrown open the doors to his chambers and was storming down the hall like a hurricane before Héostor even finished speaking. Lothíriel followed fast on his heels, as did Héostor with the fateful wine goblet in hand. When the three of them blew through the Golden Hall the lords and ladies who had heard of trouble and gathered in the Meduseld the night before spun round in alarm. 

"Sire?!" Haleth, Elfwine's long-time mentor and Third Marshal called out in concern. "What has happened?" 

"Treachery!" roared Elfwine, and so startled were the Rohirrim nobles that they shrank back from their young king's wrath. "Treachery and murder!" 

"Murder, my lord?! Of whom?" Haleth had to jog to keep up, but he hurried to follow after Elfwine, Lothíriel, and Héostor as they swept from the hall.

Elfwine scarcely so much as shortened his stride, even as he shouted back to Haleth. "My father! No natural death was his, and the same villains who killed my father tried to repeat their treason again last night. There was poison in my wine!" 

Having come at once in answer to their king's wrath, they were joined by several of Meduseld's Royal Guards. Six fully armed Rohirrim fell in step behind Haleth and Héostor, and together they made a fearsome entourage as Elfwine led the way down into the lower level of the Golden Hall. Lothíriel did not need to ask Elfwine where they were going; she knew as soon as they turned the first corner of the winding stairs. The familiar smell of baking bread filled the stairwell. The sun was barely risen, and already the Golden Hall's cooks were hard at work preparing the day's menu. 

"Ceorl!!"

Word had no doubt already spread from the serving girls of the previous nights' panic. Ceorl, the Golden Hall's chief cook, was waiting for them with wringing hands and knocking knees. Even the poor man's prodigious gut quivered as he edged out from around the counter. 

"Sire, I swear, I had no-"

Elfwine was not interested in excuses at the moment. Golden beard bristling fiercely, he beckoned the Royal Guards into the kitchen behind him. 

"I want every member of the kitchen staff here before me, now!" 

Haleth and his men needed only a minute to round up every cook, butler, and serving maid. The nervous crowd was assembled before Elfwine and Lothíriel, one of the cooks still white to the elbows with flour from the day's baking. They glanced nervously at each other, the Royal Guards, and their royal family. 

"Last night, I was served a goblet of poisoned wine." Elfwine's words were terse, smoldering with barely restrained emotion. This pronouncement brought gasps from the servings maids and gaping stares from the cooks. "Only by my mother's sharp wits and the foresight of a friend do I stand before you now. I was spared...but it is now apparent that my father - your king! - was not so lucky."  

"What?" Ceorl cried out, wringing his apron so tightly that the thing seemed likely to rip. "But Sire, your father died while out ri-"

"My father was murdered!" thundered Elfwine. "Master Héostor can attest to it! Éomer Éadig, hero of the War of the Ring, slain by the lingering bite of Wolf's-Bane! And the culprit last night attempted to repeat their treachery a second time! By the blood of Eorl, I will have answers!!" 

Lothíriel was of half a mind to attempt to calm Elfwine, so incensed was he becoming. She was hardly calm herself though either. She looked to Ceorl. "The names of every person to have touched our food and drink before it was served to us. Quickly now!" 

"I prepared the food, Your Grace," said Goldhild, the next most senior cook after Ceorl. "But I swear on my life, not a thing went into the dishes besides a light sprinkle of sage." 

"And the wine? Who poured it out?" Elfwine demanded. 

Derwine, the butler, nervously raised his hand. "I did, Sire. I can fetch you the cask though, and am equally prepared to swear that there is nothing in it besides 1329 Edhellond red. One of the cellar's best vintages, it is." 

"Haleth, escort Derwine to the wine cellars to retrieve the cask," said Lothíriel tersely. 

"Yes Your Grace." 

As Haleth and Derwine left toward the back of the kitchens, Elfwine turned the force of his attention upon the serving maids. The group of girls quailed; a stark contrast to the usual giggles and blushes at chancing to meet their handsome young king's eye. 

"You there, come forward." Elfwine pointed out the maid who had brought he and Lothíriel their meal the night before. 

The girl - a pretty lass with enormous, teary eyes and red-blonde hair - inched forward. 

"What is your name?" asked Elfwine, none too gently. 

"Laedwyn, Sire," she stammered. "Please my lord, I would never try to poison you, nor any of the House of Eorl!" 

"Then how, Laedwyn, do you propose the Wolf's-Bane managed to find its way into my cup between the cask and the table?" 

"I...I don't know! The plates and cups were set upon the table there by the door, where I always collect food to be taken up to the hall. Nothing seemed out of place, so I took the tray and brought it all to you and Queen Lothíriel!" Laedwyn sniffled piteously, her face half-buried in her hands. "Please Sire, I-" 

Elfwine was back onto Ceorl, who shrank beneath the glower which Elfwine pinned on him. "And tell me, Ceorl, how long has it been the habit of the kitchens to leave food destined for the royal table unattended out in the open??" 

Ceorl's flabby face flushed purple, and he let out a frightened squeak. "But Sire! No one comes and goes from these kitchens except those already granted entrance to the Golden Hall!" 

"THAT IS NOT AN EXCUSE!!" 

This time Elfwine's roar rang so loud off the walls as to leave an echo. Derwine - who had been halfway back into the room with Haleth on his heels - fumbled and nearly dropped the cask which he carried. 

"Derwine, bring that here and open it," said Lothíriel. 

Not eager to provoke any greater wrath, Derwine hurried to do as Lothíriel had bid him. Setting the cask on the counter, the butler levered the cork out with a pocket knife. As soon as it was opened, the musky scent of red wine permeated the air around the cask. 

"My cup was not poisoned, and so the entire cask cannot have been either," Lothíriel reasoned. "Still, we must be sure..." 

Angry though he was, Elfwine was still quick to catch Lothíriel's intent when she nodded at the jeweled baldric across his chest. The kitchen staff hurried to clear out of Elfwine's path as he approached the open cask. 

"The stones in the belt will reveal if there is poison here," explained Lothíriel in answer to Haleth's subtly questioning glance. 

Taking the open cask in his hands, Elfwine held the hole directly below the baldric's glittering gems. With the scent of the wine easily detected even ten paces away where Lothíriel stood, the invaluable topaz stones could not fail to reveal the presence of poison. The kitchen staff all stood stock-still and tense, hardly daring to breathe. 

After several long moments, Elfwine turned back to face them. The topaz remained unchanged, blood red. 

"My lord..." Derwine failed to hide the faintest note of misgiving as he spoke. 

Elfwine would not be second-guessed, least of all by a butler. With a sharp glare, he beckoned Héostor forward.

"Héostor, the goblet." 

Gnarled hands shaking ever so slightly - from unease or fatigue who could say? - the old physician offered Elfwine the goblet filled with poisoned wine. Taking the cup in hand, Elfwine swished its contents once...twice...before bringing it to rest before him. 

"Sire, Master Héostor is a fine physician to be sure, but perhaps there has been some-" 

"Quiet." Haleth cut Derwine off abruptly. Derwine opened his mouth to protest, but a sudden gasp from Goldhild stole everyone's attention. The cook stood with her hands clapped to her mouth, eyes wide as she stared at the baldric across Elfwine's chest. 

Sure enough, just as they had done the night before, the stones were beginning to change. It was faint at first, but little by little a pale, milky sheen began to leech the redness of the topaz. Elfwine and Lothíriel met one another's eye. If any part of their long, anxious vigil had begun to feel unreal in the morning light, there could be no denying it now. When Elfwine at last set the goblet down upon the counter with a heavy 'thunk', the topaz stones across his heart had gone almost entirely white. 

"Now that you have all seen proof that your young, foolish king is not a delusional liar, I will have answers." Elfwine spoke calmly, but in a dangerous monotone that commanded utter obedience. "Ceorl." 

"Yes Sire?" the head cook squeaked. 

"The names and positions of every last soul who has come and gone from these kitchens since this time yesterday." 

Ceorl paused to wipe his profusely sweating brow. "Erm...well...let me see now. There was Fenor, the butcher. He brought two legs of lamb yesterday morning. Then there was-"

"I sincerely hope someone is writing this all down," said Lothíriel casually. Derwine nearly fell over himself in a scramble to find a scrap of parchment and stick of charcoal. He quickly began scribbling, with Haleth leaning ominously over his shoulder to check. 

"Then came the girls from the hen houses with their daily basket of eggs," continued Ceorl. "Beyrith and Somerwyn, I think their names are. But they're only children, Sire." 

"Write them down anyways," said Elfwine. 

"Then there was Fululf and Aldblod, the millers, with the monthly delivery of flour. And Wídfara - forgetful girl - who left her cloak here after her last turn serving the tables and had to come back for it. Who else, let me think..." 

"What about Dagmar, the rag-hag?" Laedwyn spoke up in a tiny, quavering voice. 

"Tsk." Goldhild made a disapproving noise in the back of her throat. "Now listen here girl, you shouldn't call poor old Dagmar that. She does the best work she can for the only living she has. You best hope that you never find yourself in such a state, with no children, no husband, and no living kin to care for you." 

"But she's so grim and unkept..." whispered one of the other serving girls. "I would never be so unwashed, even if I were a beggar like her." 

"Enough." It took only a single word from Elfwine to bring the whispers to an abrupt halt. "This Dagmar, what work does she do here? And how often?" 

"She takes the soiled dish-clothes, pot-holders, and aprons and washes them, Sire," said Ceorl. "Once a week she comes by, to return the clean cloths and gather the dirty. Ordinarily we would pay the serving girls to do it, but as Goldhild said, Dagmar is a beggar with no other means of earning coin." 

Elfwine chewed the edge of his mustache, frowning. "I do not like the notion of singling out a luckless old woman for the offense of being distasteful. Unless you have more names to give me though, Ceorl, we will begin our investigation with this Dagmar."  

When Ceorl shook his head, Elfwine turned to Haleth. "You and four men will accompany me out into the city. I want to find each of these people on the list where they live. In the meantime, no one from these kitchens is to leave the Golden Hall. Go about your day's work, but if you find need of something from beyond the Hall, you will tell one of the Royal Guards, who will send a runner for it. Is that understood?" Everyone nodded, and Elfwine added "I hope it is also understood how severe the consequences will be for all involved if another such incident comes from this kitchen?" Again, fervent nods all around. 

Haleth dipped in a quick bow. When he and Elfwine drew closer together at the kitchen door though, he spoke in a voice low enough that only Elfwine and Lothíriel heard him. 

"Lord Elfwine...perhaps it would be wise to appoint tasters to sample every dish from the kitchens before it is brought upstairs? Until the poisoner is caught, how can either you or the queen trust what is set before you?" 

Only now, after the decisive words and actions of his previous wrath, did Elfwine balk. It was not unheard of; in the waning years of the kingdom of Númenor, when the days were beginning to grow sour and the crown wary, royal tasters had been used to guard against poisoning attempts. Never before had the Kings of the Mark used such methods though. To Elfwine, it seemed uncomfortably like placing the value of the life of another beneath his own. But then, was it any different to command Royal Guards? After all, the Rohirrim who guarded the Golden Hall did so fully prepared to die for their kings and queens in time of need. A taster was not a Rider though; more likely than not the task would fall to someone least able to refuse it, like a servant or a page. 

Elfwine was a king though, and bore a responsibility to his people. With no heirs of his own yet, the line of Eorl would end with him if he were to die. After Lothíriel, who would Rohan look to for leadership? Elboron was of the blood of the Mark through Éowyn, but he had his own life and responsibilities in Gondor. Could Elfwine possibly justify letting others risk their lives for him on a daily basis, if it meant protecting the all-important bloodline of the Kings of the Mark? 

Not for the first time or the last, Elfwine wished his father was still alive. Éomer would know what to do, what a horselord of Rohan should do. He wished Eldarion was here; who else would better understand the position he now found himself in? Elfwine also wished Almárëa was here...she who always seemed to have all the answers, or at least the confidence to pretend she did.  What would Eldarion, Elboron, Éowyn, Almárëa, or any of them do, were they in his place?

Elfwine made his decision, and shook his head. 

"It would be wise, Haleth, but it is also not the way of Rohan. I will not hide behind others. Someone in this city wants me dead...wanted my father dead before me. Let vengeance and justice be done upon them, and let it be done today." 

Haleth bowed before him. "Sire." 

"Mother," Elfwine spoke to Lothíriel. "Such is my choice, but you might still consider-"

With a bittersweet smile, Lothíriel raised a hand to silence him. "My choice is the same as yours." She reached out and squeezed his arm, and Elfwine kissed Lothíriel's brow before turning to leave with Haleth and the guards. 

"Elfwine?" Lothíriel called after him. 

"Yes?" 

"When you find the traitor, bring them before me. I want to look them in the eye and know what manner of person could steal the life of Éomer Éadig." 

Elfwine bowed to his mother.  "I will." 

OoOoO

Ordinarily, the sight of Elfwine the Fair out and about would be cause for cheery waves and shouts of greeting from all sides. It would have taken a fool though not to realize that the king was in no mood for such pleasantries that morning. Folk watched uncertainly as Elfwine - the leather grip of his battle axe looming behind one shoulder - swept down the steps from Meduseld with an armed guard of five Riders around him. Some in Edoras had heard of a commotion in the Golden Hall the night before, but none could say exactly what had occurred. Fewer still could explain the grim expression darkening their lord's normally cheery face. However long the years that passed between then and the War of the Ring, the folk of Rohan still recognized trouble when they saw it. They gave Elfwine and his men a wide berth as they passed through the city. 

When they came to the washerwoman, Dagmar's home, Elfwine's anger was momentarily interrupted by a flash of pity. It was a truly a wretched hovel in which this Dagmar lived, alone and without any apparent friends or family. Closer inspection actually revealed the shack to be not a house, but a shed once owned by the smithy behind which it sat. A round stone well in the middle of the dirt yard served the blacksmith with water for tempering his work, and it was no doubt also the well which allowed Dagmar to make her living. Two half-moulted chickens pecked about in the dirt, and overhead a rooster crowed from the shed's shoddily thatched roof.  A maze of clotheslines picketed the path to the door, and Elfwine and his Riders had to duck around and under the many dishtowels, napkins, and aprons which hung there, half-dry in the morning air. 

At a nod from Elfwine, Haleth cleared his throat and banged three times loudly upon the door, making it rattle on its hinges. 

"Mistress Dagmar? Open up in the name of the king!" 

Their only answer was the crowing of the rooster and the shuffling feet of the blacksmith and his apprentices as they watched from their forge. Haleth knocked and called out again, louder this time. 

"Open up! King Elfwine would speak with you." 

Again there was no answer. Stepping back, Elfwine gave the order for Haleth and the other Riders to break the door open. So flimsy was the bolt and the wood around it, the door fell open with a crack on the first attempt. 

The inside of the washerwoman's hovel was as dingy and depressing as the outside. Grey, threadbare drapes kept most of the morning sunlight out. A few rickety pieces of furniture sat at odd angles around the single room, and the blankets on the bed were little more than sackcloth. It was at the foot of the bed where Dagmar sat, watching them with unnervingly pale eyes from behind a curtain of greasy white hair. Her shrunken frame and thin, parchment-like skin - through which spidery veins could be clearly seen - suggested either great age or great hardship. There was malice in her stare as she eyed Elfwine and his men, the potency of which seemed incongruous with a woman so old and frail. 

Haleth was the first to speak. "You did not grant your king entry when it was demanded. Why?" 

In a high, toneless voice that grated on the ears like steel on stone, Dagmar spoke. 

"I know why you are here, Elfwine, son of Éomer." 

"Do you?" Elfwine stepped forward, his face severe. "Then tell us." 

Remaining disrespectfully seated even with Elfwine standing directly before her, Dagmar curled her lip up at him. "You live, and so you seek the one who wanted  you dead. Well then, look no further; I am the one who poisoned your cup." 

Such a blunt admission of guilt from the first suspect visited caught just about everyone off guard. The Riders hesitated, uncertain. Were it any other person who had confessed thus to treason, they would surely have been on their knees with a sword to their throat in a matter of seconds. Such treatment of a four-foot tall, elderly woman ran counter to the chivalrous ways of the Rohirrim though. All looked to Elfwine for his reaction. 

Elfwine stood, eyes flashing and hands clenching, staring down at Dagmar. 

"Did you also poison my father?" he asked, equally blunt. 

"Yes." 

Ignoring the groans of dismay from the others, Elfwine's nostrils flared in pure anger. Still though, he made no move. Instead he asked only the one question which had tormented him all throughout the long, sleepless night. 

"...Why?" 

To everyone's surprise, sudden moisture brightened Dagmar's cloudy eyes, and she blinked furiously even as she continued to speak in her reedy monotone. "Because your father killed my son." 

"Liar!" Elfwine bellowed. "Not once in his life did my father ever raise a hand against his countrymen! Never!" 

"He did not have to. Lord Éomer, rabble-rousing malcontent that he was, planted the seeds of distrust in King Théoden's mind. Your arrogant father could not stand to see another higher in the king's favor than himself, and so he poisoned the Golden Hall against a wise, loyal man who wished only to serve his liege. Thanks to your house, my son was driven from Edoras and lost!"

The tale rang familiar in Elfwine's mind, and in the minds of all present. It was, after all, one of the more famous stories concerning Rohan from the War of the Ring (after the Battle of Helm's Deep and Pelennor Fields). Just about everyone had arrived at the same conclusion when Elfwine gasped in disbelief;

"Your son was Gríma Wormtongue!"

"Grima, son of Gálmód!" shrieked Dagmar. "Yes, he was mine! My son! He who brought me coin and kept me housed in warmth and comfort! He who provided for me after my husband's death! The kings of Rohan took everything from me when they banished him, and ever since I have lived lower than the most wretched of paupers!" Dagmar spat at Elfwine's feet, hatred rolling off her shrunken form in palpable waves. 

"But why now, after so many years?!" exclaimed Haleth, a hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. "And why Lord Elfwine too? You have murdered one king of Rohan, have you not had your fill of treachery!?" 

Trembling - from emotion or age or perhaps both - Dagmar sat back on the bed. "Éomer ruined my son and me along with him. Two lives, destroyed. I can be satisfied by no less in return." 

Elfwine, who had stood stock-still and silent while Dagmar ranted, frowned as a new question came to him. "Where did you get the aconite from? Wolf's-Bane does not grow in Rohan." 

Suddenly Dagmar, who moments ago had had plenty to say, became obstinately silent. Running short on restrain, Haleth drew his sword. 

"Answer King Elfwine, wretch!" 

Dagmar eyed Haleth's sword disdainfully. "Kill me then, Rider of Rohan. I welcome death." 

"If you do not answer the question," said Elfwine with deadly calm, "I will not kill you. Instead, I will see you locked away in the most foul dungeon I can find, there to rot in the dark and damp for the rest of your days." 

Dagmar laughed, a high, piping cackle that sent chills down Elfwine's spine. "They gave it to me, when they promised me vengeance. And not just against your house, O Elfwine the Fair. Vengeance against the house of he aided in supplanting my son, he who prodded Théoden to make war with Isenguard, he who now rules from the high seat in Gondor." Again Dagmar laughed, and this time the frightful sound seemed a peal of madness. "Even now, their plans to end the line of Telcontar are in motion. First Gondor's prince will die, then your cousin and his royal bride, and then the others, one by one. You may have escaped death, Elfwine, son of Éomer, but that only means you will learn too late of the doom of those you love. Do what you will, I have had my revenge."

"Take her away," said Elfwine, shuddering as he turned away. "She is mad, and I will hear no more." 

OoOoO

Less than an hour later, the court of Edoras stood assembled in the Golden Hall, grim and silent as they stared at the old woman before them. Dagmar stood before the dias, flanked by guards and staring vacant-eyed at the floor. Elfwine sat upon the throne, the crown of Rohan upon his head and steely authority in his eyes. The resolve with which he now addressed the hall stood in stark contrast to the conversation which he had had with his mother less than an hour before...

oOo

"What am I to do?" Elfwine had asked Lothíriel. "I will not have Father's death go un-avenged, but what kind of man would I be to behead a defeated, kneeling old woman?"

"This treachery cannot be unpunished," Lothíriel had said. "Old age does not grant a pardon for having murdered one king, and sought to kill another."

"Do I order the washerwoman's death then? By the laws of Rohan, it must be my hand that dispenses the sentence passed. And what will the people say when they see a king with an axe standing over her? Will they say it was justly done, or will the image of a young man killing an old woman linger longer than reason and justice?"

"Haleth could do it. He loved your father as much as you or I, and would gladly take the role of executioner from you, if asked."

"And then it will be said that 'Elfwine Éotan has a fair face, but no stomach for duty.' No, that cannot be either."

"Then what will you do?" Lothíriel had asked quietly. 

"...I do not know."

oOo

From the throne, Elfwine spoke to all gathered. 

"For the crime of High Treason on two accounts, I, King Elfwine of the Third Line of the House of Eorl, do now pass judgment on Dagmar, washerwoman and citizen of Rohan." The quill of a nearby scribe skittered across a roll of parchment, hurrying to take every word down. 

"Do you have any word to speak in your defense before your sentence is pronounced, Mistress Dagmar?" Lothíriel stared down from the dias at Dagmar, her voice cold and noble face colder. 

The old woman said nothing. 

"Very well," said Elfwine. "My judgment is this. You will be taken from Edoras by an armed guard. They will ride for three days north and east, past the Entwash and out into the vast wilderness of The Wold. There, far from any towns or settlements, they will leave you, with nothing save what you can carry in a single pack. No citizen of Rohan is to offer you food or shelter, if any should come across you in your exile. As your son was banished forthwith from the kingdom of Rohan, so too are you. Alone in the wilds, far from the warmth of fireside and friendship, you will live out the remainder of your days. I do not believe they will be long." 

Glowering up at Elfwine in a last act defiance, Dagmar curled her lip. 

"Then I will go, to seek my death in the cruel emptiness of the world. But before I do, I leave you with a curse, Elfwine, son of Éomer. May your line end with you, even though you survive this day. May you remain unwed and childless even as your looks and vigor fade. May no maiden you meet henceforth look upon you with favor, and may-!"

A hood being dropped over Dagmar's head cut her speech abruptly short. Haleth, who had been responsible for the interruption, bowed to Elfwine and Lothíriel. 

"Permission to remove the prisoner from the hall, Sire?" 

Elfwine nodded, his face betraying no expression. Murmurs were already breaking out around Meduseld though. The Rohirrim were a superstitious folk, and curses did not sit well with them. Many watched with apprehension as Dagmar was led away, but just as many snuck furtive glances toward Elfwine on the throne. A sharp glare from Lothíriel silenced many of the whisperers, but the silence which filled the hall thereafter was deeply uncomfortable. 

"Ceorl, come forward." 

Wringing his apron in his hands, the Head Cook shuffled forward nervously. Sweat glistened on his brow. He immediately sank to his knees before the dias. 

"Although no deliberate intent has been determined upon your part, by your negligence my father was poisoned. If not for my mother and Gimli, Lord of the Glittering Caves, I would have shared my father's fate. I therefore dismiss you from my service." 

Ceorl hung his head, and though Elfwine did empathize with the man's disgrace, he was decided. A sharp stab of outraged disbelief still wracked him whenever he thought of his parents, enjoying their last breakfast together over a meal left unguarded and poisoned beneath the cooks' very noses. He looked to Goldhild, who stood nearby in the crowd. 

"Mistress Goldhild, you will now assume the role of Head Cook in the kitchens of the Golden Hall. I trust, under your careful supervision, that never again will the House of Eorl fall prey to treachery in such a manner." 

Goldhild sank into a deep bow. "You have my word of honour, Sire, never again."

"On your word be it, then. Ceorl, you may go." 

Pale faced, his chins quivering, Ceorl staggered to his feet and departed. Elfwine stood, and all bowed before him.

"I ride now to Minas Tirith," Elfwine announced, with a firmness that would brook no arguments. "I have much to discuss with our allies in the White City, and would see the ties between Rohan and Gondor reaffirmed in the wake of this dire revelation. In my absence, Queen Lothíriel will rule in my stead. Upon my return, there will be a great feast in honour of my father. Of all of you, and all the folk of Rohan, I ask only this; do not remember King Éomer Éadig for the manner of his death. Remember him for his life...remember the courage and valour he showed during the War of the Ring, the integrity he upheld as Third Marshal of the Riddermark to King Théoden, and the generosity he bestowed upon all his people as king. Remember King Éomer the Blessed, and honour him as the great man he was. Hail the victorious dead!" 

"Hail!" 

All gathered in the Golden Hall were swift and united in their cry. At last, Elfwine saw the pain he felt at the injustice of his father's death echoed in the faces of his kinsfolk. It was done though. All questions had been answered and riddles solved...save one. 

Turning to Lothíriel, Elfwine spoke in a low voice. 

"I am sorry to leave so soon after all this, Mother, but I cannot rest until I see that all is well in Gondor. Dagmar's words about the House of Telcontar may have been only the ramblings of an unhinged mind...but if not..." 

Lothíriel nodded. There was something unreadable in her expression as she gazed up at Elfwine though; some certain pride which went even beyond that of a mother for her child. 

"When will you leave?" 

"Within the hour. I will take Fulthain and Fasthelm with me, as well as thirty others. We do not know what if anything is amiss in Gondor, but I must travel with all speed and have no time nor patience to gather more Riders for the trip."

With time of the essence, Lothíriel and Elfwine took their leave of the court. Many would come to speak of that day in the Golden Hall. Some spoke of how the king had uncovered treachery and avenged his father. Others spoke of the supposed curse which now lingered over the Third Line of the House of Eorl. On one thing though, the folk of Rohan were in complete agreement; justice had been done. And beyond the walls of Edoras, beneath a mantle of snow-white simbelmynë, Éomer the Blessed slept in peace and honour forevermore. 

OoOoO