no living man am i!

Edoras has no dungeons to speak of. The justice of the Mark is not one which calls for long imprisonment; it is, in the main, swift and permanent. But there are rooms strong enough to hold a prisoner for a time, and it is to one of these rooms - one of the few stone buildings in the city, near the walls - that she goes. There is blood still on her gown, drying to black, but she holds herself as tall and as proud as ever, and her bearing does not permit anyone to comment on her dishevelment or the fact that her eyes are red with weeping.

The tears that she has shed were not, of course, for the man who lies bloody and dead in the high hall: for that, she rejoices. But no joy, no freedom, comes without cost. It is no small thing, after all, to kill an advisor trusted of the King; it is a graver crime still to do so in the King's own hall. There is no question of the penalty.

There is also no question that she cannot allow it. A part of her is certain that it is her doing that the visitor killed Gríma at all, that it is at her urging, whether she had calculated on it or no; that she has brought him to this pass, and now must either save him or perish with him as a co-conspirator.

But a greater drive still is the simpler, more certain one: whether it was by her behest or not, he has done her and her people a great service. She cannot claim, with any honesty, that she has not considered it herself. She cannot lie to herself, say that she has not felt her hands itch for a blade, that at times she has not withdrawn from Gríma's presence for the simple reason that she did not trust herself to keep her hands from his throat. His death is a blessing - to her, to the Mark, to Théoden King, though he may not yet fully understand it. She is indebted to his killer, and she will not shirk it. She cannot let him die.

Her defence was impulsive, and ill-considered. She does not think, not for a moment, that Théoden believed her - if he had, would he have pleaded so for her to change her story, pleaded and wept and shouted? But she has her own advantages, and chief among them is that her uncle, too, is sensible of his debts; and that he loves her, and will not call her a liar before all the court. No matter whether she is one.

It is for that which she has wept, knowing how she has hurt him at the last - that the very thing which she has so long sought to avoid, the very fear that kept her from killing Gríma herself, has come to pass. He is King, and no matter how he may have been enfeebled in body or in mind, he knows his duty. He cannot be seen to spare justice against his kinsmen. He cannot be seen to waive the law - but neither, in the end, can he waive kin-right. And as she would not budge, will not budge, cannot budge...

None of them have a choice, now. There is only one way forward, and it is the way that leads to the room where the prisoner is kept. She does not have the keys to the door; she has none of the keys which, until lately, were always at her belt. She must wait, her face a mask, for one of the four spearmen at the door to open it. She steps inside, and the door is closed behind her, and the darkness - lit only by the small slits of windows - falls. As her eyes adjust, she can see Aleifr only as a darker shadow among the shadows, cannot find his eyes when she searches for them - but she searches for them, all the same.

"Are you hurt?" It is easier to think of such simple, ordinary things than the enormity of what has happened.